End of a Call Girl

by William Campbell Gault

  “Leonard Stern of 245 Gallo Way,” I said. “Would you hurry? The man has been attacked by somebody.”

  The sun was breaking through as I went out to my car. My stomach was growling and my conscience cringing. There was a persistent throb behind my eyeballs.

  I started to get into my car and then thought of something else. I went back to the phone and dialed the Hollywood Station. I got Captain Jeswald and told him, “I’ve just learned that one of the men who manhandled me is named Arno Eriksen. He lives at 239 Gallo Way, in Venice. He was hired by a Tom Talsman, I learned.”

  “And where did you learn all this?”

  “What difference does it make, Captain? Probably from one of the same stoolies who works for the Department. I’ll keep you informed.”

  He growled something and hung up. As I went back to the car again, I could hear the wail of a siren getting louder from the north.

  It was a short drive to Santa Monica, to Trader Street and the address I had found in Eriksen’s wallet. It was an eight unit apartment building, with a pool. All the newer apartment buildings seemed to have pools. It was fieldstone, stucco and redwood, this building, and this certainly didn’t appear to be a low rent district. Tom Talsman was either doing all right or not paying his rent.

  His apartment was on the second floor and I went up an iron staircase to an iron runway that served the second floor units that faced on the pool.

  I could hear the door chimes clearly but there was no response. I tried them again. Two apartments up the runway, a door opened and a heavy and heavily made-up woman came out, leading a cocker spaniel on a leash. They headed my way. When they were abreast of me, the cocker growled, straining at the leash, crying deep in his throat.

  The woman said, “Stop it, Lester!” She looked at me. “He never does that.”

  The dog moaned and sniffed at the edges of the door. Then he backed away, whimpering.

  The heavy woman’s face was puzzled. “He must smell something strange, don’t you think?”

  “Definitely, ma’m,” I agreed. “Which is the manager’s apartment?”

  The manager, she explained, didn’t live here. A Mrs. Dural, in Apartment One, relayed any complaints or requests to the manager.

  I went down to Apartment One and displayed the photostat of my license to a thin woman of about thirty wearing horn-rimmed glasses.

  I said, “I suspect something might be wrong in Mr. Talsman’s apartment. The way that tenant’s cocker acted, I feel almost sure he smelled a dead man.”

  She gulped and looked at me anxiously. “I have a key — But don’t you think it would be best to call the police?”

  “Not yet,” I answered. “Not until we’re sure. C’mon, I’ll go along with you. I’ll go in first.”

  She came with me, bringing a ring of keys. In front of Talsman’s door, she paused, and said weakly, “It doesn’t seem right, somehow.”

  I took the key she held and opened the door. I stepped in and could smell nothing, but I didn’t have a dog’s olfactory sensitivity.

  I didn’t need it.

  The thrice-humiliated Tom Talsman had suffered the final indignity. From the floor where he lay, his dead eyes stared at me as though I were a stranger.

  I guessed I was a stranger to him now.

  EIGHT

  I WENT out to the runway again and said gently, “We’ll use your phone. We don’t want to disturb anything in here.”

  The thin woman put one hand on the wrought-iron railing. “Is he — Is Mr. Talsman — ”

  “We can’t be sure,” I lied. “The doctor will know.”

  This was Santa Monica. Hollywood is Los Angeles and so is Venice and Westwood, but Santa Monica is a municipality of its own, smug and snug and suspicious of outsiders who infringe on its apparent decorum. It is a town run completely from within and I didn’t have a friend on the force. It is a tight town, rough on outsiders.

  I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t. A man was dead. I phoned the police and went out to the curb to wait for them. A patrol car came first. One uniformed man stayed with me; the other went up to Talsman’s apartment.

  My man asked, “You live here?”

  “No.” I showed him the photostat. “I came to see the man.” I told him about the lady and the dog and my going down to get the key. I said, “I’m sure this is tied up with the murder of George Ryerson. I wish you would phone Captain Jeswald at the Hollywood Station and tell him about this.”

  “So? You mean you’ve been working on that Ryerson murder?” I nodded.

  “A private investigator? Man, what won’t they think of next in that town?”

  “It’s a big town,” I explained. “They can’t afford the coverage you boys can get in a little hamlet like this.”

  He looked at me resentfully. “Eighty thousand people? That’s no hamlet.” He nodded toward the apartment. “We’ll wait up there.”

  Five minutes later, I was repeating my story to a detective-sergeant named Faust, a tall thin man with gray hair and tobacco-yellowed teeth. He didn’t look like he was believing much of it.

  When I had finished, he asked, “You say you’re working with the Los Angeles Police Department? But for a client, no doubt?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. A Mr. Jack Ross of Palm Springs.” “And what’s his interest in Ryerson’s murder?” “I’m not sure.” He looked at me skeptically.

  I protested, “The Los Angeles Department didn’t think there was anything unusual about that.”

  He nodded contemptuously. “Puma, you’re not in Los Angeles, now. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Of course, Sergeant.”

  He beckoned to one of the uniformed men. When the officer came over, Faust said, “Take this man down to Headquarters and hold him there until I come back.”

  “Wait — ,” I suggested. “Why don’t you phone Captain Jeswald from here?”

  He looked at me bleakly. “I’m busy. Is that all right with you, Puma?”

  I didn’t answer him. I went quietly, as the phrase goes.

  At Headquarters, I sat with the uniformed man in a small room on the sunny side of the building. He didn’t have any conversation to offer and there was nothing to look at in the room. I smoked and thought about Tom Talsman.

  In a little less than half an hour, Sergeant Faust came into the room. “All right,” he said, “I phoned your Captain Jeswald.”

  “And?” I asked eagerly.

  “And he’s sending a man out for you. Something about an assault charge in Venice.” He turned to the uniformed man. “Keep an eye on him.”

  • • •

  My old fraternity brother, Captain Horace Jeswald, was fuming. He glared at me from behind his desk. “Who do you think you are? That man has internal hemorrhages. Who do you think you are — God?”

  “I work for Him,” I answered calmly. “What man are you talking about, Captain?”

  “You know what man I’m talking about. Eriksen. Don’t try to con me, Puma; he told us who assaulted him.”

  “I wouldn’t ever call you a liar, Captain,” I said, “but I will bet you ten dollars to ten cents that Arno Eriksen didn’t tell any police officer that I assaulted him.”

  Jeswald half rose from his chair, his face livid.

  “Cash bet,” I added.

  He said ominously, “Are you denying it?” I nodded. “Take me to him. Let him make identification. I’m ready to go, right now.”

  He settled in his chair, steaming.

  I reminded him quietly, “I give you Colt and Eriksen and Talsman. I don’t turn around without informing you. And you’re dying to throw me into the can on an assault charge. I’ve had it, Captain. I’m withdrawing from the case right now.”

  He took a deep breath. “You son-of-a-bitch — You and your fraudulent humility and your phoney sensitivity. As if I didn’t know you. If you didn’t bounce Eriksen around, who did?”

  “I don’t know, but I could guess. His partner.” “No kidding? And while
you’re guessing, could you guess why?”

  I took out the twenty thousand dollar check and put it on his desk. I said, “I was ready to offer that to Eriksen and his buddy for the name of the man who hired them. I figured them for hired help. Eriksen told me there wasn’t any reason to split; his partner was out of town. The way it turned out, I guess his partner didn’t stay out of town.”

  Jeswald leaned back and lighted his pipe. “Keep talking.”

  I took out the note that had been taped to my steering wheel and put it on his desk next to the check. “I found this in my car and went out to Venice. The door was open and Eriksen tied up in the house. He told me to get to Talsman in a hurry, and that’s exactly what I did.”

  “You could have untied him in the time it took to make that phoney call to the Venice Station and the call to me.”

  “I didn’t think untying him was as important to his health as getting medical help there in a hurry.”

  He puffed on his pipe and read the note. He looked up and said, “I hope you don’t think I believe a damned word of all this nonsense?”

  “Take me to Eriksen,” I said calmly. “Let him make identification and then you can book me. I’ve told you my story.”

  He said nothing, staring uncomfortably at the note and the check. Finally, he handed them both back to me. “You were correct about Eriksen; he didn’t name you. But he’ll be out of the hospital one of these days and his partner is still around. Perhaps they’ll do the job on you we can’t.”

  I stared at him. “Would you be happy to see that?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “No, no, of course not. It’s been a bad day. Get out of here.”

  I stood up. “Eriksen is scum, remember that. You’re confusing him with a citizen.”

  He looked at me unwaveringly. “At the moment, I’m running down a rumor that this Jean Talsman was a call girl. She and her roommate are going to be thoroughly investigated. I don’t believe the roommate ever hired you.”

  “Think what you must,” I said, “and then balance it against the knowledge that I gave you Colt and Eriksen and led you to the body of Talsman. Judge me completely, when you start, Captain.”

  “Beat it,” he said.

  “I’m an ally,” I went on. “I’m an ally and a damned valuable one.”

  He looked at his pipe and he looked at his desk and he finally looked at me. “Okay, okay, you could be right. Now will you beat it?”

  I winked at him. “Sure thing. See you around — brother.”

  I left him with his pipe and his conscience and went out into the rush-hour traffic of Hollywood. Carbon monoxide from a million belching tail-pipes poured smog into the Los Angeles Basin. My eyes smarted as I looked out at the yellow pall highlighted by the setting sun. The corn-belt refugees who complained about it the most were the people who were actually responsible for it. This area was growing too fast.

  I went back to my office, which was in another separate municipality, the millionaire’s haven called Beverly Hills. There, I tore up the bogus check and filed Eriksen’s note. Then I typed the story of my adventure since last I sat at this desk. The bit about Eriksen at the house in Venice I fictionalized, as a copy of this report would be going to Captain Jeswald.

  I took two aspirin and sat by the window, watching the sun go down and the traffic dwindle. I was ashamed of my part in that Venice violence; I tried to rationalize it away by telling myself I hadn’t been mentally sound since leaving the hospital. But though I could lie to others with fair success, I had never properly learned to lie to myself with conviction.

  Below my window now, an Imperial was pulling to the curb in front of the building entrance. A man of about sixty got out on the curb side; a heavier, younger man got out from behind the wheel on the street side. I thought I recognized the older man; I went back to my desk.

  I heard their footsteps on the stairs and coming down the hall. I pretended to be absorbed in my reports, though my.38 was in a handy desk drawer and the drawer was open.

  It says “Enter” on the frosted glass of my office door and that’s what they did. I looked up and stared at the older man.

  “Joseph Puma?” he asked.

  “Yes. And you’re Dennis Greene.”

  The other man lifted his eyebrows. Greene’s face showed nothing. He asked mildly, “How did you know?”

  “I saw you when you appeared in front of the Kefauver Committee.”

  He winced wryly. “Ouch! Absurd farce, wasn’t it?” The other man smiled. I said nothing.

  “We came,” Greene said, “to inquire about a man named Arno Eriksen.”

  “He’s in the hospital. You could check there.”

  “We’ve already been there. You’re not very gracious, Mr. Puma.”

  “I don’t like crooks,” I said.

  The younger man stiffened; Greene remained calm. Greene asked, “Would you answer some questions for us?” “Ask them, and I’ll decide.”

  The younger man growled something and Greene turned to him. “Wait in the car.”

  The man started to protest, hesitated, and then turned and went out.

  “Eriksen’s partner?” I asked.

  Greene glanced toward the door. “Him? No! What made you think he might be?”

  “Just a random guess. Sit down, Mr. Greene.”

  He came over to sit in my customer’s chair. He settled himself comfortably and said, “Arno Eriksen has worked for me from time to time. I haven’t had any need for his rather narrow talents recently, but I retain a sentimental interest in his welfare and try to find him work when I can. I thought perhaps his trouble with you might concern me.”

  “It might,” I said. “He and his partner offered me twelve hundred dollars to stop investigating the Ryerson murder. When I refused, they put me into the hospital. When I came out, Eriksen approached me again and I offered to buy some information from him.” I leaned back. “And he fell for it.”

  “And you beat him up?”

  “I don’t remember. You’re Mr. Eriksen’s employer, are you?”

  He shook his head, looking at me thoughtfully. “Not exactly, and certainly not on this bit of violence. Mr. Puma, believe me, I had nothing to do with your misfortune or the Ryerson murder.”

  “Okay. I’ll believe you if you tell me the name of Eriksen’s partner.”

  “You know I can’t do that. I want you to know they were free lancing and that murder is never any part of my operations.”

  “Unless it’s necessary,” I added. “Are you going to keep that pair from bothering me again?”

  “I can assure you they’ll not trouble you again.” I smiled. “In writing, Mr. Greene?”

  He frowned. “You’re being unreasonable. Or was that an attempt at humor.”

  “I’m afraid it was,” I admitted. “Well, there’s nothing else?”

  “Only one question and I know most private investigators resent it — but would you want to tell me the name of your client?”

  “Jack Ross,” I said. “He lives in Palm Springs.”

  “Ah, yes … I know Jack very well. Give him my best, won’t you, when you see him?”

  “I’m not sure your best would be good enough,” I said, “but I’ll forward it.”

  For an unmasked moment, he must have forgotten his advanced age and current respectability. Because he said hoarsely, “Some of your humor, Puma, borders on insolence.”

  “All the better humor is based on disrespect,” I explained to him. “You’re a rich man today, Mr. Greene, and probably admired in a number of pseudo-respectable circles. But too many widows have reason to remember what you really are. And now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to work.”

  He went out without answering and I did what I should have done two hours ago. I phoned Palm Springs.

  Jack Ross wasn’t there; I talked with Leonard. I told him, “I should have phoned earlier, but I’ve been kept busy. Does Jack know Jean’s brother was murdered?”


  “He does, Mr. Puma. They left for Los Angeles an hour ago.”

  “I see. Leonard, do you know Dennis Greene?” “I guess everyone knows him, Mr. Puma. Why do you ask?”

  “He claimed to be a good friend of Jack’s. It was a pair of Greene’s hoodlums who clobbered me yesterday.”

  “Mr. Greene was never a good friend of Mr. Ross’s. You can be sure of that, Mr. Puma. Mr. Greene is a name-dropper.”

  I hung up and added Greene’s visit to my report of the day. When he had appeared before the Kefauver Committee, some newspaper wag had labeled Greene “Dennis the Menace” and that had reputedly been a bigger blow to his ego than being summoned by the Committee. He certainly acted like a man who took himself seriously.

  I phoned the Hollywood Station and was told Captain Jeswald had gone home. I phoned him at home and told him about Greene’s visit.

  “I’ll have him brought in in the morning,” he said wearily. “Tonight, I’m going to rest.”

  “Captain, I think we’re finally getting somewhere. The creatures are beginninng to crawl out of the woodwork. Somebody will break.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe. Good night.”

  “One second, Captain. How about Talsman? What killed him?”

  “An ice pick. The temple, again. Though I just a few minutes ago got a report from Santa Monica that he’d been fed chloral hydrate, too. In alcohol. Which should mean he had been drinking there in the apartment with somebody.”

  “Chloral hydrate wouldn’t kill him, would it?”

  “Combined with an ice pick, cream puffs will kill you. He died about eleven o’clock last night. Where were you at eleven o’clock last night, Puma?”

  “In the hospital, remember?”

  “Well, that should clear you. Where was your client at that time?”

  “In Palm Springs, no doubt. I won’t keep you any longer, Captain.”

  A pause. Then, “Good night. Working late, aren’t you?”

  I thought of a nasty crack in answer, but didn’t voice it. He’d had a bad day.

  I phoned Mary and told her Jack and Jean were on the way to town and asked her if Jean had phoned.

  “Yes. They’re going to stay here. Why don’t you come over for dinner? They’ll be here by eight and we’ll eat then.”