End of a Call Girl

by William Campbell Gault

  “Your rates undoubtedly reflect the danger of that. What are your rates, Joe?”

  “A hundred a day, plus the swindle sheet.”

  “I’ll give you two hundred a day,” he said evenly, “and a guaranteed minimum of a thousand dollars.”

  I thought a moment. “And if I get in a jam, am I permitted to reveal the name of my client?”

  “Of course. I’ve nothing to hide.”

  “I shouldn’t do it,” I said, “even at that rate. But I will. I’ll start tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday. Aren’t you going to finish the weekend? We have room enough at the apartment.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but the weekend is already spoiled. Tom Talsman ruined it. I don’t suppose you know who he’s tied up with?”

  He shook his head.

  I said lightly, “And do you want to tell me why you’re paying to have the death of George Ryerson investigated?”

  “Because of Jean. I want you to investigate the possibility of my being involved, too. As objectively as though I weren’t paying you.”

  I smiled at him. “I intended to do just that.”

  He laughed. “You are a man, Joe Puma.” He beckoned to a waiter. “We’ll drink on that.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” I told him.

  The girls came back and I told Mary I planned on driving back to town tonight.

  “I’m staying over,” she said, “with Jean.”

  Jean looked quizzically at Jack Ross.

  Ross said warmly, “An excellent idea! I wish Joe would stay, too.”

  I stood up. “I might as well start now. I’ll keep in touch with you.” I looked at Mary. “Shall I phone you, next week?”

  She smiled. “Suit yourself. Is there any reason why you shouldn’t phone me?”

  “You’re so — emotionally erratic, I didn’t know if we were still friends.”

  She came over to kiss me. “We’re friends. Thanks for everything.”

  • • •

  I left them and went out across the flagstones to the gate and up the street to the motel. The manager told me it was rather late for check-out time, but since I was an old customer …

  I told him, “You can check Miss Cefalu out, too. She’ll be back for her clothes. She’s staying with friends in town here tonight.”

  His face was blandly cynical. “All right, Joe. Did you find Ross? Is he the man you were looking for?”

  “He’s the man. If I get any calls from Los Angeles, you can tell the caller I’m on the way back there now.”

  I was packed and gassed and on the road west ten minutes after that.

  The sun was low and in my eyes but soon the mountains blotted it and by the time I got to Riverside there was no glare, only the purple desert dusk.

  Living as I had lived for a day and a half was bad for my morale. It helped to remind me how many ways there were to achieve that kind of living in my trade. One of the reasons I’d avoided marriage up to now was the certainty of the economic pressure it would bring.

  The simple life was only appealing to simple people. Women weren’t that; they were complicated and compelling creatures and they loved to force the top financial potential from a man. In my line, that road was easiest when one began to cut ethical corners and milk all shady angles.

  Some of my contemporaries were doing very well supplying material to the filthy exposé magazines now enjoying a boom. They were selling out their clients. Others found blackmail a solid source of income.

  I had cut a few corners in my time, but they were legal corners, not moral. Acquiring friends like Jack Ross could tempt me to further cuts.

  Acquiring him as a client was much better for me ethically.

  Riverside was still hot, but the air grew chillier as I came closer to Los Angeles. The stars were blanked out now by the overcast. I had a feeling tomorrow would be a smoggy day.

  FIVE

  THE MORNING dawned gray and overcast with a tinge of smog. Outside the door of my little apartment, the Sunday Times waited fat, pompous and patient. With my coffee, I read that the funeral of George Ryerson would take place tomorrow and there would be a number of prominent mourners. If there is anything the local papers love, it is prominent mourners.

  I could assume the names had been clients of George’s; I couldn’t think of any other connection he could possibly have had with them. There were two famous cinema personalities, three TV lights and almost a dozen gentlemen listed as “sporting figures” or “restaurateurs.” In our American language, this translated as hoodlums.

  The mortuary was a house that often advertised “Complete Funerals From Seventy-Five Dollars” but I would bet a hundred to one that George Ryerson was not getting this blue-plate special. I decided the funeral would be a little too crowded for me.

  I showered and shaved and phoned Dora Diggert. “I suppose you think you’re through?” she asked petulantly.

  “I thought so. I found Jean and asked her to phone you. Has she?”

  “She certainly has not.”

  “I asked her to. And she said she might. She said she had a few things she wanted to tell you. From her tone, I gathered they weren’t things you’d be particularly happy to hear.”

  A silence, and then, “Is that Cefalu girl with her?” “What made you think she is?”

  “I’ve been trying to phone her and there’s no answer.

  She has a lot of influence with Jean and I humbled myself to the extent of trying to reach her.”

  “The Cefalu girl is with Miss Talsman,” I said. “And also, I think Miss Talsman and Ross are going to be married.”

  “Married — ?” Incredulity was in her voice. “Why not?”

  “He isn’t the kind who marries. Believe me, I know.”

  “You know him well?” I asked innocently.

  “Too well.” Another pause. “Puma, I’d pay five hundred dollars to get Jean out of the clutches of that man.”

  “That would require some strong-arm stuff, Mrs. Diggert, and I don’t handle that kind of assignment. Besides, I’m starting on another case today.”

  “I’ll bet. Puma, for five hundred dollars to the right people, I could probably have Ross run out of the state.”

  “To the wrong people, you mean. Mrs. Diggert, you’re mature enough to adjust to the inevitable, aren’t you? Jean Talsman’s found a home. That’s always better than a house.”

  “I don’t run a house, Dago. I run a service.” A horizontal escort service, I thought, but didn’t voice. I waited for her to say good-bye.

  Her phone said it with a sharp click.

  The manager at the motel had made out separate bills. I enclosed my own in the expense statement I made out for the account of Dora Diggert. It had been an easy two hundred I’d earned and I considered paying my own expenses but that would have been bad business.

  And where now? It was Sunday and the office of George Ryerson would not be open. It would probably be closed tomorrow, too, in memoriam.

  I looked up Rafferty in the phone book and found an Eileen. The address was in the west end of town, so I didn’t phone. I drove over.

  It was a triplex of varnished redwood on National Boulevard near the Santa Monica Airport. Across the street, there was a new housing area and all the owners were out working on their sprouting lawns, or putting up new fences or planting shrubs.

  The rear triplex was Eileen Rafferty’s and her door chime was four-tone. She came to the door wearing polished cotton ivy league slacks and a shirt with a button-down collar. But nobody would be likely to confuse her with a boy.

  Even in the gray morning overcast, her red hair glistened as she looked at me doubtfully and with no warmth.

  “Puma,” I said. “Joe. A private investigator, remember?”

  She nodded. “I was about to start breakfast. What’s on your mind?”

  “George Ryerson,” I told her. “I could run out and get some sweet rolls. Do you like sweet rolls?”

>   “I have some. Did you plan to eat with me?”

  I smiled my warmest smile. “If you insist.”

  She seemed to be trying to read my mind. She made no move or no comment.

  “I’ve been to Palm Springs,” I said. “I found Jean Talsman.”

  “Why should that interest me?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I was only making conversation. If you want me to leave, say the word.” She studied me. “Are you armed?” “Not on Sunday morning.”

  “Well, I suppose you’re harmless then.” She opened the door wider. “Come in.”

  I came into a small living room furnished in Early American, touched with pewter and brass. A huge hooked rug covered the floor and a planter separated the dining alcove from this room. I sat in the dining alcove.

  From the kitchenette, Eileen Rafferty asked, “Why are you interested in Mr. Ryerson’s death?”

  “Because the police seemed to think I was involved in it originally. In the event they return to that attitude, I’d like to give them somebody else to gnaw on.”

  She brought in a plate of sweet rolls and a percolator, which she set on the table. “How would I know anything about what happened to Mr. Ryerson?” She looked at me openly.

  “I have to start somewhere,” I explained. “There is always a possibility that you might have knowledge which you don’t realize is important.”

  She poured my coffee and sat down across from me. She seemed to be thinking. Then she asked, “Did you read the Times this morning?”

  I nodded.

  “Did you see the names of some of the people who are attending the funeral?” I nodded again.

  “You’re an investigator. You know the police records of some of those celebrities.”

  “I do. If any of them had a reason to dislike George, I can guess they’d be capable of resorting to the action that was finally taken. But I keep remembering that George grew agitated after my visit, that he broke that date for lunch after my visit. And he broke it undoubtedly because he had another date — with the killer.”

  “You can’t be sure of that,” she said.

  “Doesn’t he give reasons for breaking luncheon appointments?”

  “Usually. Not that day.” She paused. “Not to me, I mean.”

  “And he didn’t tell you who he was meeting?”

  She shook her head, her gaze meeting mine honestly. “And that’s strange, because he usually does.”

  I asked her, “Did a man named Tom Talsman ever visit the office?”

  She shook her head again.

  I sipped my coffee. I had a strong feeling that she was lying to me but who could take a feeling into court?

  The phone rang and she went to answer it. I heard her say, “I’m sorry; I have company. A Mr. Puma. I’ll call you back.” She hung up abruptly.

  When she sat down at the table again, she seemed perturbed. I said, “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything. A jealous boy friend?”

  “Something like that,” she said with a smile.

  Again, I was certain she was lying.

  I had no further questions for her; she had nothing to say to me. We sat in silence over our coffee. There was a definite possibility she could lead me to further knowledge, but I had no authority to get it out of her, and it seemed clear she wasn’t going to volunteer anything helpful.

  I finished my coffee and said, “It’s a dangerous game, withholding information about a murder. It can easily lead to disaster. I suppose you know that?”

  “I didn’t,” she said stiffly, “but I do now. Do you suspect me of withholding information?”

  I nodded slowly and stood up. “Well, thanks for the coffee. And good luck, Miss Rafferty.”

  Her smile was cool. “Good luck to you, Mr. Puma. You can find your way out in a small place like this, can’t you?”

  “Easily,” I answered, and went out into the gray Sunday with no further objective. I didn’t want to bother Mrs. Ryerson today and there was no other person I could think of to visit. I should have stayed in Palm Springs.

  The Bluffview shopping center wasn’t too far from here; I drove over. The scene of the crime looked innocent enough this bleak day. It was ringed with small shops and all of them were closed.

  Some of the shops were in two-story buildings; I went into all the lobbies that were open and read the lists of second floor business establishments. Nothing rang a bell.

  Why had the murder happened here? Motive, means and opportunity, that’s the deadly triplicate necessary to all murders. Without motive, it’s manslaughter. Without both of the other two, it doesn’t happen. This hadn’t been manslaughter, not a bullet through the temple. Motive — the word was trying to tell me something, something in the nature of a pun. It was swimming in the subconscious, trying to reach the surface. It didn’t make it.

  Was I wrong about manslaughter? Was it lack of motive that was trying to break through?

  On the corner here, there was a branch of the Security-First National Bank. That seemed to be the only business in the center that could have anything to do with murder; an impressive number of homicides are committed for money.

  I drove into Hollywood and had dinner at the Shorthorn. And after dinner, because it was close, I drove to the station on the off chance Sergeant Lehner would be around.

  He wasn’t, but a detective I knew by the name of Sands was there and he had some familiarity with the case. I asked him if Eileen Rafferty had been checked out.

  He nodded. “Though only because of routine. She was in the office at the time Ryerson was killed. She took her lunch earlier.”

  “How about her background?”

  He didn’t answer that. He said, “Why are you interested, Joe? You’re too smart to get involved in a homicide, aren’t you?”

  “Usually. Is Captain Jeswald in?”

  “Not today. Friend of yours, isn’t he?”

  I nodded. “We went to college together.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, no police officer is enough of a friend to give you permission to stick your private nose into a murder, and you know that damned well, Joe.”

  “I’ve heard the rumor,” I said mildly. “But I didn’t think it applied to honest private men.”

  “No private operative is completely honest or he wouldn’t be in business.”

  “If there wasn’t a need for us, Sacramento wouldn’t license us. I’ll see Captain Jeswald tomorrow.”

  “Not if he sees you first. Be sensible, Joe.”

  Sure, sure. Credit reports and hotel skips, that’s all they wanted to leave us. Stay out of the money cases, you licensed practitioners of private enterprise, stay out of the headline cases. You might build a rep. In a trade this high in occupational hazard, I should be able to go to Palm Springs at my own expense. More often. In Palm Springs, they would be laughing now, drinking good booze and eating fine food? Why had I come back to town?

  My golf clubs were in the deck of the car and there was a sweater in the rear seat. I drove over to the Rancho Municipal Golf Course.

  Rancho is jammed on Sunday, but I filled in with a threesome and teed off half an hour after I arrived. I finished thirteen holes before it turned too dark to play.

  At home, I showered and settled down in front of the TV with a quart of beer to watch What’s My Line? The commercial was on when my phone rang.

  It was long distance and Mary’s voice was happy. “We’ve been thinking about you.”

  “And drinking.”

  “Why not? What are you doing?”

  “Watching television and sulking. And drinking beer.” “Beer? What’s that? Jack has a rich friend who likes tall and skinny girls. Does that frighten you?” “That’s fine. Are you with him now?”

  “Do you mean Jack?”

  “No, I mean the rich friend. Is that why you’re happy?”

  “I’m not with the friend. I’m with Jack and Jean.” A pause. “I miss you, Joe.”

  “I miss you, too,” I answered. “Let
me talk with Jack.”

  When he came on, I said, “I was down at the Hollywood Station this afternoon. An officer there told me I had better keep my nose out of this Ryerson murder. I planned to see Captain Jeswald about that tomorrow, but I thought you might be able to go even higher.”

  “I know somebody downtown,” he said. “The Deputy Chief. Is that high enough? I can phone him today.”

  “That would be dandy,” I said. “Let me talk with Mary again.”

  She came back and I said, “Take care of yourself, won’t you? You know what liquor does to your — emotions.”

  “You’re worried,” she said. “How wonderful! How is it you never married, Puma?”

  “I could never find a tall girl who was skinny enough or a skinny girl who was tall enough,” I told her. “Now, you be good.”

  “Joe, darling, I will give it my Girl Scout best. But we don’t want to get all tied up in promises, do we?”

  “I guess not,” I admitted.

  “Don’t sulk, Joe. I’m a big girl.”

  “Good luck,” I said.

  “Sweet dreams,” she said, and hung up.

  Women didn’t need to be born rich. With any kind of passable equipment, they could always meet rich men. The only kind of rich women most men could get to were those over fifty who hadn’t worn well. It was a woman’s world.

  I sat soddenly in front of the TV set, getting drowsy on beer. I watched Steve Allen. And hugged the small, warm knowledge that I was still better off than George Ryerson. At ten o’clock, I went to bed and slept the sleep of the poor and noble.

  • • •

  Monday morning dawned brighter than the previous day, though there was still some overcast. Captain Jeswald phoned me while I was attacking a bowl of corn flakes.

  He said, “I understand you were looking for me yesterday.”

  “That’s right, Captain. I wanted permission to help investigate the Ryerson murder.” “Who’s your client?”

  “Jack Ross. He owns a restaurant in Palm Springs.”

  “I know the man. Isn’t his place where you found the girl you were looking for?”

  “Correct,” I agreed, startled. “You don’t miss much, do you?”