“I try not to. Well, I’ve talked with the Chief this morning and we’ll be tolerant with you. But make out a detailed report every day and supply us with a copy. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“And another thing, Puma, you’re working with us but not for us. You make that clear to everybody you interrogate.”
“Check.”
“And don’t get muscular.” “Right.”
He hung up and I went back to my corn flakes. This wasn’t a police state we lived in, but that wasn’t the Captain’s fault. He would have welcomed one. At school, Jeswald and I had been fraternity brothers. He had no brothers any more; he was all cop.
The corn flakes were limp and the coffee bitter. It was last night’s coffee. The Times had nothing new on the death of George Ryerson. The story was no longer front page news. There are too many homicides in this town and any big town to keep a murder important after the first couple of days. Unless the victim is headline-worthy. And the same new cases that come to the papers also come to the police department. No unsolved case is ever closed but the first few days see the maximum of investigation.
And how much work can be done after that first concentration of attention? The solution of a case after that initial effort is dependent on luck and the constant, twenty-four hour grinding of the general investigative machinery. A machine can only follow a pattern; there is no adjustment for the hunch, the whim, the calculated lie. Anything less than a machine would not be effective; anything more is not usually interested.
At my office, I checked the mail and my phone-answering service. There had been no calls and the mail was all third class.
It would be a morning funeral. I planned on seeing Mrs. Ryerson this afternoon. The morning yawned at me. I used an hour of it to type up in detail all the accomplishments on the disappearance of Jean Talsman. I added yesterday’s labor to this on the assumption that the death of Ryerson was an extension of the original case. Until I proved myself wrong, that would be my approach. In the report, I tried to remember all the dialogue, even those words that seemed unimportant when voiced. Later, compared with other dialogues, they might somehow reveal a lie that could be turned into a lead.
It was ten-thirty when I finished, and I phoned Frank Perini, the gambler whose son I had found, the man who had recommended me to Dora Diggert. He wasn’t home but his wife gave me a number where he could be reached and I caught him there. I asked him if he knew Jack Ross.
He said he did, and I asked him, “What’s his reputation? He’s never been mixed up with the Syndicate, has he?”
“Not to my knowledge, Joe. He’s really a gambler only by inclination and not even that, these days, I hear. Inherited his money, you know.”
“So I’d heard. He’s never been heavy, then?” “Hell, no! Have you ever met him? He looks like a cow college professor.”
“Hoodlums can look like anything, Frank.” He chuckled. “Anything but Jack Ross. What’s your beef with the man, Joe?”
“I have none. I’m working for him and I just wanted to make sure he was all right.”
“God! I’m glad you’re not working for me.” I thanked him again and hung up. Frank had been born in this area and had started gambling when he was seventeen. If Jack Ross had had any hoodlum tie-ups, Frank would have known about it and he would have told me. Of course, that still didn’t mean Ross wasn’t capable of murder. Only a small percentage of the homicides are committed by the organized hoodlums.
I ate lunch in Hollywood and phoned Mrs. Ryerson from the restaurant. I told her who I was and apologized for bothering her at a time like this. I told her I’d been hired to investigate the death of her husband and hoped she’d be able to see me this afternoon. She said she would see me at two o’clock. She sounded composed and calm and I remembered the story in the Times about her suit for divorce two months ago that she had withdrawn.
It was possible I was to meet another person who was not mourning George Ryerson. C.P.A.’s are likely to be insurance conscious; perhaps the widow had survived the calamity without undue grief.
At two o’clock, I pulled up in front of a two-story version of Hollywood Hills Norman architecture. As I turned off the ignition, the sun finally broke through the overcast and the well-kept lawn in front of the Ryerson home gleamed from recent watering.
To the south, I could see almost the entire city from this high vantage point. Thousands of cars were in sight along all the thoroughfares, but not a whisper of traffic noise penetrated to here.
A Negro maid answered my ring and told me Mrs. Ryerson was waiting for me in the living room. I followed her through a slate-floored entry hall to a long living room with beamed ceilings and leaded glass windows overlooking the city.
Mrs. Ryerson sat in a pull-up chair near the windows. She was a woman of medium height, getting faintly heavy, and there were no signs of mourning on her strong and attractive face. She could have been any age between thirty-five and forty-five.
She rose as I came in and walked over toward a davenport. Her figure was firm, if not slim. Her voice was low and a woman’s voice: “Drink, Mr. Puma?”
I tried not to look surprised, but perhaps I did.
Because she added quickly, “I need one badly. It would look better to the maid if you drank, too.”
“Whisky and water, thank you,” I said.
“Bourbon?”
“Please.”
“Would you mix them? I’ll have the same.”
She sat on the davenport as I went to the portable bar near the entrance to the dining room. I made her drink strong enough to loosen the tongue, hoping she was enough of a drinker not to gag at its potency. I brought both drinks back to the davenport and sat at the far end from her. She swallowed a good belt of the stuff and didn’t even blink.
I said, “I’ve been hired by Jack Ross. Do you know him?”
She nodded. “There weren’t many of my husband’s clients I cared to have in my home, but Jack Ross was certainly always welcome.”
Her voice was much more melodious than it had sounded over the phone. Her black hair was lustrous and thick; I was beginning to forget the middle-aged spread I had first noticed.
She said, “You’re the detective who came to see George — that morning, aren’t you? Wasn’t it in the morning?” “Around noon,” I said.
She looked at me squarely. “About some girl, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “Though I have since learned Mr. Ryerson had very little to do with the girl’s disappearance. He simply acted as an agent for Mr. Ross.”
She continued to look at me levelly and now she smiled. “Agent — ? That’s a polite word for it.”
I said nothing.
“Let’s be honest with each other,” she suggested quietly. “George spent a lot of evenings away from home.” She smiled meaningfully. “Have you met his receptionist?”
“Yes. But in the case I was working on at the time, your husband checked out as clean and uninvolved personally, Mrs. Ryerson. I have no other information on him.”
“Maybe,” she said, and held up her empty glass. “Would you mix me another?”
“Same strength?” I asked.
She nodded gravely. “Don’t worry, Mr. Puma. I’m not going to be a problem.”
It was hundred proof booze and I had put two ounces into her first drink. I mixed its twin and brought it back to her.
She looked musingly at the glass and asked, “What keeps a man away from home evenings when he isn’t working?”
“Bowling, gambling, lodges, ball games, miniature golf. All the husbands who are out nights aren’t necessarily chasing blondes, Mrs. Ryerson.”
“True,” she agreed. “But when they are evasive about where they have been, I think it would be fair to guess they weren’t playing miniature golf, wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe he was gambling,” I offered. “He had a history of that, didn’t he?”
“Not for years. And he wouldn’t have
to be evasive about gambling. I play bridge at ten cents a point, myself.”
I sipped my drink. “Is that why you were going to divorce him a few months ago, because of some woman?”
She paused, looked at me carefully. “Have you heard any reason to the contrary?”
“Not yet. All I know about it was the mention I read in the newspapers.”
She expelled her breath and said nothing.
I asked, “If I had nosed around, might I have heard something to the contrary?”
She looked at her drink. “You might have. George, like a number of unfaithful husbands, was pathologically jealous.” She frowned. “Projection, I think it’s called psychologically.”
“He was jealous — and still went out every night?” She nodded.
I said, “Would you be willing to give me the names of some of the women you suspect? Any investigation of them, naturally, would be extremely discreet.”
“I haven’t any names,” she said wearily. “He was a very cautious man, George Ryerson. Except one name he mentioned a few times in his sleep. Mary.”
“No last name?”
“No.”
I said thoughtfully, “Actually, then, you can’t be sure Mr. Ryerson was unfaithful, can you?”
Her chin lifted. “I certainly can. Perhaps another man wouldn’t be as sure.”
“Mrs. Ryerson, I didn’t say that as a defense or as an argument. It’s only that in an investigation of this kind, it is very important that we don’t waste any time on hearsay or suspicion. It takes time enough simply to check out the facts.”
She drank and said nothing.
I said, “Perhaps some of Mr. Ryerson’s male friends would know about his — evening activities. Do you think I might find it profitable to question them?”
She shook her head. “The friends we shared, and those are the only ones you could believe, those friends are all above reproach. The others I don’t even know.”
“But those friends you shared might know about George’s activities, even if they didn’t share his moral attitudes.”
“Not about George’s,” she said firmly. “He was careful; he was confident and he was cruel.”
I had been right; this was another who wasn’t mourning George Ryerson. We talked for a few minutes longer but I learned no more than I had in the first fruitless minutes. She had finished her second drink and was going to the liquor cabinet to mix another when I left.
In the entry hall, the Negro maid intercepted me. She stole a glance into the living room before opening the front door. Then she came out with me and closed the door behind her.
Her brown face was stiff with indignation and her low voice quivered with emotion. “I heard her. Running down that wonderful man, pretending to be the outraged wife. She makes me sick!”
I had finally found a mourner. I asked gently, “He was all right, was he?”
“To her, he was. The bills she ran up, and her from nothing. Do you know what she was — a floozie from Las Vegas, that’s what she was, one of those girls walks around with the change for the suckers. And now she’ll buy a four hundred dollar suit as though she never knew anything but Vassar and the good life. Such airs that woman can put on.”
“How about the divorce?” I asked. “Was that her idea?”
The maid nodded vigorously. “And she still sees the man, too, one of those beach bums ten years younger than she is.”
“Do you know his name?”
“It’s right here,” she said, and handed me a slip of paper. “I had it all ready for you. You look into him.”
I promised her I would, and went down to the waiting Plymouth. Behind me, the Hollywood Norman house looked sedate and solid in the afternoon sun.
SIX
THE NAME on the slip of paper was Leslie Colt and the address was in Venice. He had to be an actor with a name like that; nobody was ever born Leslie Colt. With the last name, he was a cinch for westerns, and with the front name guaranteed box office in English drawing room comedies. How could he miss? One would expect he would be smooth and tall and taciturn, but the maid had said he was a beach bum. And who can stay smooth and tall and taciturn in Venice?
It is a beach town and was originally a delightful area, with its man-made canals and wide beach and sweeping view of the sea. But then oil had been discovered along its shores. So today Venice is a conglomeration of shacks and shabby homes, of oil pumps and raucous bars.
The address I’d been given was a four-car garage and for a moment I thought there had been a mistake. But then I saw some names on the stucco wall above the outside wooden staircase.
There were three names and numbers there and one of the names was Leslie Colt. I went up the steps to the open, railed runway that fronted on three doors. On the middle door, I turned the crank that rang a mechanical bell. I could see the beach from here.
The man who opened the door was not tall, about five-ten. He wore nothing but swimming trunks and his tanned body was almost grotesque with bunched muscle. His hair was sun-bleached, the face beneath it broad, attractive and pugnacious.
“Well?” he asked.
“My name is Joe Puma,” I said. “I’m investigating the death of George Ryerson.”
A flicker of annoyance in his bleached blue eyes. “So, who’s stopping you?”
“Nobody, yet. You knew Mr. Ryerson, didn’t you?”
“I met him once; I didn’t know him. You a private eye?”
“I’m an investigator licensed by the state and currently working with the Los Angeles Police Department on this homicide. You can phone the Chief of Police if you doubt my authority.”
He laughed. “Stow it! You’d be out of here in a hurry if I made a move to phone any law.”
“If you have a phone,” I said stiffly, “use it. I’ll give you the number, if you want.”
“Sure, sure. So all right, I met George Ryerson once. Any more questions?”
“You know his wife very well, don’t you? His widow?” He glared at me, his face tight. “What do you mean by very well?” “Do you?”
“I know her. What’s very well? You looking for trouble?”
“Any man,” I explained patiently, “who looks for a murderer is automatically looking for trouble.”
He smiled and his gaze traveled my length from top to bottom and back up. “How much do you weigh, Sherlock?”
“About two-twenty,” I said. “The name is Puma.”
He continued to smile. “Soft, too, I’ll bet. Overweight, aren’t you?”
“Stop racing your engine,” I told him. “I came in peace, but no muscled beach freak ever frightened me and you’d be making a serious mistake if you tried to be the first. Don’t you want to talk with me?”
His smile evaporated and he studied me speculatively. Then the smile returned. “Come in. If I didn’t have a hangover, I’d try to be the first. It’s your lucky day, Puma.”
The room I came into held a studio couch and a kitchen table, a contour chair, three kitchen chairs and an ancient television set with a twelve inch screen. Cracked and peeling linoleum covered the floor. Beyond was a small kitchenette and an open door revealed a littered bathroom. It wasn’t much compared with the home of the Widow Ryerson.
Colt asked, “Beer? I need one. Or do you tough eyes only drink rye?”
“Nothing, thank you,” I said. “I’ve had my quota for the day. I guess Mrs. Ryerson didn’t have the most faithful husband in the world, did she?”
From the kitchen, where he was punching holes into a can of beer, he looked out at me suspiciously. He shrugged.
“Did you ever meet Mr. Ryerson’s receptionist?” I asked.
He frowned and shook his head. “Why?”
“Mrs. Ryerson mentioned her.”
He tilted the can back and the muscles in his heavy throat moved as he gulped. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and came over to sit on one of the kitchen chairs.
Silence for a moment and then he grinned at
me. “You don’t think I killed him, do you?”
“I’ve no idea. Did you?”
He shook his head and tilted back in his chair. “Why in hell should I?”
“So you could move to Hollywood Hills,” I guessed, “and get out of this miserable rattrap.”
He stared at me thoughtfully. “I could have done that a couple of months ago. I’m the one who talked her into withdrawing the action. I’m not ready for marriage.”
A thought came to me that I didn’t voice. So many of these muscle men were, but those kind didn’t break up marriages. I said, “I suppose you have a sound alibi for the time George Ryerson was killed?”
“I suppose,” he said casually. “I’d have to think back. And I’ve had no reason to, yet. I’m not a suspect. You’re really only looking for dirt, aren’t you? Like all the rest of those private operatives the government is investigating right now.”
“Believe me,” I assured him, “you’re as much of a suspect as any person I’ve met. You’re the first with a motive.” He smiled wryly. “Okay, book me.”
“I’m working with the Department, not for them,” I explained. “I have no authority to bring you in.”
“So,” he said contemptuously, “we can sit here getting nowhere. Do you get paid for all this useless work?”
“It isn’t always useless. You’re not being very cooperative, Mr. Colt.”
“I’m not getting paid to be. Look, Puma, I met a wife that wasn’t being serviced and wanted to be. I filled the order. Can I help it if she gets some middle-aged romantic notions? I’m going to be a martyr?”
“You’d be a very well-fixed martyr, if martyr’s the word.”
“Well-fixed? Man, I know richer broads who are young, plenty of ‘em. Why should I get chained to that biddy?”
I didn’t answer. He went over to punch holes into another can of beer. Then he came back to recline on the contour chair, the only reasonably new piece of furniture in the place.
“Do you work, Mr. Colt?”
He chuckled. “Nights, I work. Get a real good stud fee, too. I’ll bet you envy me.”
“A little. But is that gentlemanly, to accept money for such a personal service?”
End of a Call Girl Page 7