End of a Call Girl

by William Campbell Gault

  “Why don’t you want to talk about them?”

  “It makes my headache worse.”

  “Puma, I hope you’re not harboring any plans for personal vengeance on these two mugs. We don’t work that way.”

  “Sergeant, I don’t care a damned bit how you work. I am harboring plans for personal vengeance. Now run and get the nurse or doctor to give me something for this headache.

  He inhaled heavily and held it. He glared at me. I closed my eyes. He expelled his breath and went for the nurse.

  I slept without dreams and wakened to the smell of food. My headache was gone, but I had a strange, stiff soreness from my neck up and the attendant who brought my breakfast seemed to be surrounded by a red haze. After breakfast the doctor came in.

  He smiled. “How do you feel?”

  “Ready to go. Is that all right?”

  “If you promise to take things easy for a couple of days.”

  “I promise. That is a lie, and you know it, but it relieves your responsibility, doesn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Cynical man, aren’t you?”

  He bent over to examine my ribs. He stood erectly after a minute, and said, “You may be released. But try to take it easy.”

  I promised him I would.

  I hadn’t been able to eat much of the hospital breakfast; I ate another in a restaurant in Hollywood. And went from there to the station. I had to walk carefully; any sudden jar made my brain rattle and my neck twinge.

  Lehner wasn’t at the station but the man working with him on the Ryerson case was. I asked him if any identification had been established on my assailants.

  He shook his head. “Probably a pair of free lance muscle men for hire to anybody who has the price. It’s a buyers’ market for those, you know.”

  “I know. But in this case, the buyer could be the murderer. That makes them more important, doesn’t it?”

  He frowned. “Hell, yes. Who said they weren’t important?”

  “Your tone, your casual tone.”

  He studied me doubtfully. “I’m supposed to watch my tone? Puma, they didn’t beat me up. I’ve got no personal beef with these slobs.”

  I said nothing.

  He put a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry. But a word — don’t go flexing your muscles. The Chief would pull you off this case fast if you did.”

  “I’m not bright,” I explained. “I’m big, so my pride is physical. I owe this pair something and I mean to repay it.”

  “Don’t,” he warned me. “We’ve got the word to every stoolie in town that we want their names. Wait, and keep calm.”

  I didn’t argue with him. The haze was dimmer now but still with me. I bought a paper and read it when I got to my office. The police had been kind; there was no mention of the fact that the Leslie Colt who had been picked up was Mrs. Ryerson’s lover. He was identified as a friend of the deceased, and the story stated that he had been brought in for questioning, not for suspicion of murder. My own encounter was identified with the Ryerson murder and brought the murder back to the front page. There was a picture of me asleep in my hospital bed. I was reading this free publicity when the phone rang.

  It was Mary. “I’ve been trying to get you ever since I saw the Times. Are you all right?”

  “Up and around. I will be all right. Did you worry?”

  “I’ve been frantic. Joe, you are going to rest aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am. As soon as I answer some letters, I’m going right home to bed.”

  “I’ve some appointments for today, but I could cancel them. Don’t you want a nurse?”

  “No,” I told her. “I just want to lick my wounds in private. Don’t be offended, Mary.”

  “Of course not. Now, you get home; don’t bother with any letters.”

  “All right,” I lied. “Okay.”

  I hung up, my head throbbing. I phoned a stoolie I knew and he told me he had already been approached, by the police. He said there wasn’t a chance anybody would have a lead to the mugs. I told him I was paying a hundred dollars for any kind of lead.

  From the next office came the sound of Dr. Graves’ whirring, probing drill and it set my teeth on edge. I sat quietly in my chair, brooding. Outside, the overcast was heavy, the day damp and breezy.

  In Palm Springs, my employer would be enjoying the sun with his bride-to-be, insulated from the violent, working world of Joe Puma by his money and his good sense. So, he hadn’t twisted my arm; I’d taken this case of my own volition, motivated by my own love for money. I hadn’t expected it to be easy.

  My phone rang, and it was long distance from Palm Springs. It was the man I’d been thinking about. He said, “I’ve just read the Times. I didn’t expect my hiring you would subject you to something like this.”

  “It’s one of the hazards of the trade,” I explained.

  “Are you all right? The paper mentioned a concussion.”

  “I’m all right. Do you know Mrs. Ryerson well?”

  “I’ve been to the house for dinner a few times. She’s — ” a pause, and his voice sounded embarrassed when he continued. “She’s — well, would it be snobbish to say socially ambitious?”

  “I guess not,” I said. “This Colt you read about in the paper, if you did, was her lover.” “Oh — ? Anything there?”

  “I doubt it, or he wouldn’t have been released. He must have given the police a satisfactory alibi. Is the sun out there?”

  “Clear and hot. You and Mary must come out again this weekend. Only this time, you’ll stay at our place.”

  I said, “I wouldn’t want you to think I was socially ambitious, Mr. Ross.”

  His laugh was light. “Don’t take any chances, Joe. Ryerson’s death wasn’t that important.”

  An unimportant death? Was there such a thing? Perhaps we had so much self pity in the world because it was the only kind of pity a man could expect. From the office of Dr. Graves came the sound of a child whimpering.

  The blank wall of the Ryerson murder showed no holes. Last night had been the first move from the other side of the shadow and the men had gone back to the shadow, leaving no footprints.

  I hauled out the typewriter and went on from where I had quit at six o’clock yesterday, trying to minutely record the short dialogue I’d had with my assailants before the action began. I also recorded the visit of Tom Talsman to Eileen Rafferty. My scene with the cleaning woman didn’t seem significant, so I omitted that tableau.

  It was past noon, now, but I wasn’t hungry. I sat there, and my skin began to prickle. For no reason at all, I had a sense of something important impending.

  The ring of the phone didn’t surprise me in the least. I lifted it and said, “Joe Puma.”

  A voice said, “Had enough, monkey? You should be home in bed.”

  “I’ve been manhandled worse by higher-priced help,” I assured him. “You boys are stupid; I’m on the money side.” “No kidding. Had enough?”

  “Not yet. What kind of peanuts are you peons working for?”

  “Enough.” A pause. “Are you trying to buy something, shamus?”

  I asked quietly, “Does twenty thousand dollars sound like money to you, shorty?”

  “Huh! Who are you trying to kid? A cheap peeper like you — ”

  “My client’s name is Jack Ross,” I said evenly. “If you have any friends who move in better circles, you ask them about Jack Ross. And then call back at your leisure. It’s just a question of time until we get the murderer, anyway. After that, you won’t have anything to sell but your muscles again.”

  Another, longer pause, and then, “Twenty thousand — ? Man, you’re crazy — ”

  “Ten grand each,” I said. “That’s big money.”

  “There wouldn’t need to be a split,” he said thoughtfully. “My partner left town.”

  “Well,” I said easily, “I won’t keep you. Check around and phone back if you don’t get a better offer.” I paused. “And if you do get a better offer, there�
�s a possibility we can match it. Check around, shorty.”

  “Don’t call me shorty.”

  “You called me dago. Aren’t you going to leave me anything?”

  He laughed quietly. “You wouldn’t consider yourself man enough to cross me, would you?”

  “I’ve learned my lesson,” I said humbly. “Phone me when you’ve learned yours.”

  “Will you be in your office?”

  “For the next two hours,” I answered. “And if the twenty grand doesn’t appeal to you, maybe you could raise your offer to me and I’d consider dropping out.”

  “Twenty grand appeals to me,” he said. “But what makes you think the person that hired me is the killer?”

  “It’s another step,” I said. “All we’re buying is steps.”

  “That don’t add,” he said suspiciously.

  “Check around,” I repeated. “I’m not going to argue with you, not after last night.”

  He hung up. I put the phone down and watched the sweat roll off my wrist. I sat very quietly, waiting for the redness to go away and for my heart to stop pounding.

  I drank some cold water. I plugged in my electric shaver and shaved at my desk without a mirror, feeling for stubble. My face was wet and the shaver pulled and irritated.

  He wouldn’t phone back. He would suspect that I’d have a tap on my phone by that time and the police alerted to trace the call. He was undoubtedly a professional and no professional would use the phone after the initial call.

  In the days before the unions had belatedly begun to clean house, men like my caller had been constantly and gainfully employed. Then, as they became respectable, the unions had been forced to clean the Commies and the thugs from their rosters. And these boys had been forced to free lance in order to stay in their trade.

  Doc Graves came in to ask, “Going to lunch?”

  “No. I want you to do something for me, Dale.” I took out my checkbook and tore one check from it. “I want you to write out a check to me for twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Hell, yes,” he said. “Glad to help out in any small way.”

  “I’m serious. And I want you to sign it Jack Ross.”

  He sighed. “All right. I won’t ask why.”

  “Because the hoodlum might get suspicious if I made it out and then endorsed it in the same handwriting.”

  “Okay, Fosdick, give me a pen.”

  I gave him a pen and he did as I’d asked. He handed me the check and asked, “Now, when this bounces, where do I send the ambulance for you?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “Boy, you sure are hell on kids, aren’t you? That one whimpering this morning almost tore my heart out.”

  “I’m painless,” he said solemnly. “Any rumors you hear to the contrary are subversive.”

  He left, and I sat back again to wait. If my caller checked anyone in the know on Jack Ross, he would learn some facts that would substantiate my offer. He would learn about a man who had once bet fifty thousand dollars on the single cut of a deck, a man who had lost twice that in six hours of poker. I hoped he would ask the right people.

  Two hours later, he hadn’tphoned back. I strapped on the.38 and went out to the drugstore for lunch. From there, I went to the parking lot for my car.

  And taped to the steering wheel with cellophane tape was a note for me. I read:

  Get right into the car and drive to 239 Gallo Way in Venice. We’ll talk about the twenty grand there. Don’t stop on the way.

  I got right into the car, as the note directed. I pulled out of the lot and turned west on Olympic. Nobody followed me off the lot, but a block up, a Chev pulled away from the curb after I had gone past.

  It was a common model, so I stalled enough to let him get closer. There was only the driver in the car, I then saw, and the last three digits of his license number were 079. The man behind the wheel seemed to be a wide man.

  He followed me all the way to Santa Monica on Olympic, staying far enough behind so I wouldn’t have noticed him if I hadn’t been looking for him.

  On Main Street, when I turned left off Pico, I watched the corner in my rear view mirror. He came around it when I was two blocks down Main.

  In front of the Leslie Colt abode, a wino was tilting a bottle of muscatel to his mouth. He had the red halo and I wondered if that illusion was coming back. It could have been a reflection from a sign.

  I turned left on Gallo Way and transferred my gun from its shoulder holster to my jacket pocket before the other car came around the corner. Sweat trickled down my legs.

  239 Gallo Way was a ramshackle cottage facing on the canal, with a sun-bleached picket fence and a front yard high with weeds. The sagging gate was ajar. Redwood chunks had been set into the ground for stepping stones leading to the narrow front porch.

  I was on the porch when I heard the car pull into the back yard. The man in the Chev had evidently arrived by another street. I looked through the front window here and saw there was no furniture in the dusty living room.

  Footsteps came along a wooden walk that skirted the side of the house and soon a pale man of medium height and impressive width came into view in the weed-filled yard.

  He wore a dark suit and a blue shirt. His eyes were the same light blue as Leslie Colt’s. His mouth was small and there was a thin scar running from his left ear to the center of his left cheek.

  He came up onto the porch and smiled at me. “I followed you all the way from the parking lot.”

  “You’re kidding! I’d have spotted you.”

  “Not me, you wouldn’t.” He looked me up and down. “Jesus, you are big, aren’t you?”

  I reached into my jacket pocket and brought out my wallet. I took the check from it and showed it to him. “My client sent that in this morning. Recognize the name?”

  He nodded. “I checked it.”

  “With that kind of money,” I said, “you can buy some furniture. You can fix this dump up.”

  “It’s not mine,” he said. “I’m renting it. Let’s not gab out here on the porch.” He went past me, a key in his hand.

  Bile came into my mouth and the back of his head glowed redly. He opened the door and went in first. I followed him in, my wallet still in my hand.

  The front door opened directly into the living room. It was a spring lock and it locked as it closed behind me. He turned to face me.

  I still had my wallet in my hand. I put it casually into my jacket pocket and just as casually brought my.38 out.

  He stared at the gun and at me. “Don’t be a damned fool!”

  “I won’t if you won’t. Believe me, I’m aching to kill you. You’d be foolish to give me an excuse. Take off your jacket.”

  He studied me for seconds. Then, carefully, he removed his jacket.

  “Turn around,” I said. “Drop the jacket on the floor.” He glared at me. “You think I’m crazy? You’ll slug me.” “Better crazy than dead,” I said. “I’ll count to three.” “What can you gain?” he asked. “How can you win? You think I haven’t got friends who’ll get you for this?” “One,” I said. “Two — ” He turned around.

  I caught him right behind the ear with the barrel of the.38 and he dropped like a sledged steer. The floor shook and dust danced in the air. I went into the kitchen and through it to a service porch. I found some clothesline on the service porch.

  I came back in and rolled him over and tied his hands behind him. He started to moan as I was tying his feet together.

  He had regained consciousness by the time I was finished. I grabbed a handful of his greasy hair and helped him to his feet.

  “I’ve got a memory,” he warned me.

  I took him over to the wall and held him against it, my left hand firmly gripping his throat. I said, “Now tell me all you know about the Ryerson murder.”

  “You’ve gone nuts,” he said. “You’ll lose your license.”

  “I’ve gone partially nuts. Start talking.”

  “Go to hell,” he sai
d.

  I put a right hand into his belly. Not with all my strength; I didn’t mean to kill him. He grunted and cursed. I put two more in there and his pale face turned paler and this time he didn’t curse.

  “You’re crazy,” he said sickly. “You’re not thinking.”

  I hit him harder. I took off his belt so I wouldn’t skin my hand on the buckle. He was moaning now.

  I held his throat with my right hand and hit him on the other side of the belly. He couldn’t seem to get his breath. I waited.

  “I don’t know anything about Ryerson,” he said, “so help me.”

  I hit him again and some vomit dribbled down over his chin.

  “Honest to God, Puma, I don’t! A guy named Talsman hired us, Tom Talsman.” He opened his mouth wide, gasping for air. “God help me, that’s the fact.”

  I drew my right hand back — and he started to cry.

  “Where does Talsman live?” I asked.

  “On Trader Street, in Santa Monica. His address is in my wallet.”

  I reached into a pocket and took out his wallet. I let go of his throat and he slumped to the floor, moaning quietly.

  His driver’s license was in the wallet; his name was Arno Eriksen. At least that was his current name. I went through the cards in his wallet until I came to one that held a Trader Street address. He nodded when I showed it to him.

  I asked, “Want to tell me more now or should I go to work again? I’m enjoying this.”

  “So help me, Puma, that’s all I know. It was only a job.”

  “What’s your buddy’s name?”

  He shook his head stubbornly, sick as he was. I couldn’t hit him for that. I had lied; I wasn’t enjoying this. Nausea moved through me. Nothing was red any longer. If the man was really his buddy, I’d be meeting him soon enough. I went out, leaving the front door held open by a chair I brought from the kitchen.

  From the first phone I got to, in a liquor store, I phoned the Venice Station. I said, “There’s a very sick man who needs immediate medical treatment at 239 Gallo Way.”

  “Who’s calling, please?” the officer asked.