End of a Call Girl

by William Campbell Gault

  I hesitated between loyalty to Jean and the necessity of my staying in business. Thoughtfully, I said, “I’m beginning to think she was. Not any more, though. She’s marrying money.”

  “Ross?”

  I nodded.

  “He’s clear enough, on Talsman. One of the men he played poker with is in the D.A.’s office.”

  “He’s respectable,” I said. “He was never one of the mob.”

  “He was never married, either, and he’s no kid.”

  “I — mentioned that to him last night, Sergeant. And he pointed out that I was single, too.”

  “You accused your client of being a homo? A hundred dollar a day client?”

  “Not exactly. But when he first hired me, he insisted I investigate him as thoroughly as any suspect and I took him at his word.”

  Lehner frowned. “Puma, that sounds like you’re almost honest. Wouldn’t that be suicide in this business?”

  “Sergeant,” I said pompously, “complete honesty is suicide in any business, any marriage, any art or any relationship. I’m as honest as any in my profession and much more honest than the majority of them.”

  “You might be, at that. For some reason, I could never get to like you.”

  “I’m big and arrogant,” I explained. “And free from a time clock. It’s possible you envy me.”

  Silence. He finished his coffee and stood up. “Everything you know is in these daily reports you send in?”

  I nodded.

  “Keep sending them in.”

  I nodded. “Sergeant, I have no way of getting information from the Santa Monica Department. Would you pass on to me what you get from them?”

  He nodded. Both of us had now lied to each other with nods, the mark of honest men.

  He said, “Thanks for the coffee,” and went out looking no happier than he had at his entrance.

  They had a line on Jean Talsman now and that could lead to Mary. Under police questioning, she might admit she had never hired me. My current semi-cooperation from the Department would cease if they learned anything about that.

  I studied my primitive art work with the tentative and obvious relationship lines. I crumpled it and threw it in the wastebasket. To all of them, an investigator was a resented alien and they showed him only the surface of their personalities. The truth was deeper; the truth of murder would be buried deepest of all.

  Around twelve-thirty, I headed for Stormoff’s, stopping at the bank on the way. I didn’t think the twelve dollars I had in my wallet was enough insurance against the hazard of a hungry girl at Stormoff’s.

  The redhead was on time, arriving only a few minutes after I had. She wore a light green suit and her beautiful hair was piled high on her head. Not a masculine eye in the restaurant missed her. She ordered a double Martini and so did I. She relaxed in her chair and smiled at me as though we were friends.

  “How’s business?” I asked.

  “It will go on. George was the genius, but the new boss is bright enough.” She sipped some water. “By the way, one of our clients was asking about you this morning.”

  “Which one?”

  “Dennis Greene. Do you know him?”

  “I met him once. What did he want to know about me?”

  “He never told me. He asked if I knew anything about you and I said I knew nothing and that ended that.”

  “Tell me, do you know much about him? I mean, is he — ”

  She smiled and nodded. “I’m certain he is. A waste, isn’t it, such a rich and distinguished man without a woman to help spend his money.”

  “I asked,” I explained, “because it was one of Greene’s men who beat me up. And then, yesterday, we uncovered a homo angle in Tom Talsman’s death.”

  “Tom Talsman?”

  “Don’t you know him?”

  She shook her head. “Was that the man who was killed in Santa Monica yesterday?”

  “That’s right. He came to see you the night before last, but you weren’t home.”

  Her eyes widened. I couldn’t be sure if it was fright or amazement, but I was sure it wasn’t deception.

  I asked quietly, “Are you sure you don’t know him?”

  “I’m sure. Wait — isn’t that the man you asked me about Sunday morning?”

  “It could be. I’ve forgotten.”

  Silence. She sipped her drink and I sipped mine. Her face was more guarded now, her position in the chair more erect.

  Finally, she asked, “How do you know this Talsman person came to see me when I wasn’t home?”

  “The police were following him,” I lied. “I’m working closely with the Department on this business.”

  She finished her Martini and looked at me. I ordered two more. We talked about a number of things after that and according to her knowledge of the Ryerson client list, none of the doubtful citizens George had serviced were unduly dissatisfied with the relationship.

  “There were chances,” she said, “for George to engage in gouging and polite blackmail, but he resisted every one. I don’t know if it was his honesty or the reputations of his clients that kept him on the side of the angels, though.”

  “You can’t think of any client with whom he had an unsatisfactory relationship?”

  She paused, thinking. “Well, perhaps Dennis Greene could be the exception. I don’t know what it was, because George never talked about it, but there seemed to be an animosity between them.”

  “Why did Greene stay with him, then?”

  “Because George was familiar with Greene’s entire financial structure and that was important at tax time.”

  “You don’t think it was Greene’s — oddness that bothered Ryerson?”

  “No. Dennis Greene wasn’t our only unusual client. You must remember we have a lot of studio people.” She sniffed. “I could get rich, writing for those exposé magazines.”

  “Maybe George did supply some of the magazines without your knowing it. Could that be possible?”

  “It’s possible, but I doubt it. At any rate, I haven’t seen our clients mentioned in the magazines yet. And I doubt if the magazines would pay enough to George to make the possible loss of the client’s account a sensible risk.”

  It was a good if expensive meal. Eileen Rafferty could be pleasant enough when she wanted to be and though I had learned very little for my money, it was good for my ego to sit in a fine restaurant with a girl as attractive as this one. The talk stayed trivial.

  I drove her back to her office and she thanked me for the lunch and on impulse I asked her if it would be all right for me to phone her some evening.

  “Why not?” she answered. “I haven’t anything wealthier breaking down my door at the moment.”

  There was no reason for me to feel guilty as I drove back to the office. One weekend in Palm Springs didn’t make me a married man, or even, as Mary had pointed out, an engaged one.

  I had a right to line up future potentials.

  TEN

  THERE were nothing but ads in the afternoon mail and my phone answering service informed me there had been no calls while I was away.

  I thought back on the lunch and one attitude of Eileen Rafferty’s bothered me. She had not shown nearly enough interest in why Tom Talsman had come to see her; she had showed no concern about it after learning how I had come into possession of the information.

  That could mean she had known why he had come to see her. If that were true, why had she been unfamiliar with his name when I had first mentioned it? It appeared reasonably certain that she was trying to hide her relationship with him.

  Of course, I couldn’t be positive that the death of Ryerson and the death of Talsman were connected. I was being paid only to investigate the death of Ryerson. Motive, motive, automotive …

  Had Talsman been investigating the Ryerson murder? And for whom? And why had he hated Ross so? So far, the only connection between Ryerson and Tom Talsman was Jean. And yet, Talsman had tried to question Leslie Colt and had gone over
to see Eileen Rafferty. That seemed to prove he was investigating Ryerson’s murder. Why? If I could learn that, I would be closer to the final truth, but the man who could tell me why was dead.

  I turned on my small radio for the three o’clock news report and learned that George Ryerson’s estate had been estimated at close to four hundred thousand dollars. I wondered if that news would affect the marital attitude of Leslie Colt. George, it developed, had not only dabbled in figures. He had speculated in real estate and prospered in the current real estate boom.

  From my bubbling subconscious, the phrase “remote from violence” came up to heckle me. Where had I read that? What did it mean to me now? Dennis Greene was remote from violence, insulated from the necessity of wounding by his thugs, remote from the wounding. That elegant man, dabbling in the rackets from an aloof wealth and protected from the throes of feminine fickleness by a mental quirk.

  The phrase had come up from the same mental cavern that had produced the motive, motive, automotive teaser. A pattern my dull conscious mind couldn’t find was being formulated in the subconscious. Jack Ross was remote from violence, too. Though Tom Talsman had tried to change that situation. And failed, as he so often did. Leonard the waiter? No.

  In order to unlock a mystery, one needs a key. Tom Talsman had been one, I was now sure, and I had neglected to concentrate enough attention on him. The only apparent key left was Miss Eileen Rafferty and I decided she would not be neglected as Tom had been.

  My phone rang and Mary said, “I thought you were going to call me.”

  “I was. It’s only four o’clock.”

  “Okay. I want you for dinner. Jack and Jean will be here.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s very important that I work tonight.” A silence, and then, “Puma, you’re not annoyed with me?”

  “Of course not.” “Or bored?” “Never.”

  “Okay, then, you work. But be careful. Don’t go flexing your muscles.” A pause. “Does it look hopeful? Do you think you’re getting somewhere?”

  “Not at the moment. All I can do is plug along, snooping into this and that until something breaks.”

  “Something like your head. Or your ribs. I’m going to talk to Jack Ross about you. I’ll bet he could find you a much better job than the one you have.”

  “Don’t. I’ve got the job I want.”

  A sigh. “All right, bull-head. Call me tonight if you get a chance to. I’m not sounding possessive, am I?”

  “A little, but I don’t mind. If it’s at all possible, I’ll phone you tonight.”

  I was lucky to have such a nice girl like me. Generally, women under sixty didn’t and it made my love-life haphazard. The redhead had been nice to me, too, at lunch. Perhaps I was becoming more and more attractive as I grew older.

  Dr. Dale Graves came in to say, “Little poker game tonight, Joe. Table stakes. Interested?”

  “I have to work. And table stakes poker with professional men would be a little rich for my peasant blood.”

  “You’re a professional man, too, in a sort of crummy way. Got an extra cigarette?”

  “I always save one for you,” I told him. “Dale, don’t you ever get an urge to throw everything overboard and just take off for some tropical island and go native?”

  He nodded and yawned. “Every evening about this time. How would you like to look into dirty mouths all day long?”

  “So why don’t we ever chuck it?”

  He shrugged. “Habit. Or maybe we’re gutless. Or maybe we’re naive and we still believe in this civilization. What’s got you down this afternoon?”

  “Frustration. Padding about with questions and getting nowhere. Being sneered at by my financial betters.”

  “You’re single. There’s nothing to keep you from that tropical island. Why don’t you take off?”

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

  He smoked my cigarette and smiled at me. “That Eriksen I read about in the paper — you beat him up, didn’t you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Was he the one who was on your floor the other day?” I shook my head. “That was Tom Talsman on the floor. He was murdered in Santa Monica yesterday.” “Wow! And you’re bored?” “Fed up, not bored. Disenchanted.”

  “It’s the same thing. Puma, you need a weekend at Las Vegas. Or maybe a woman.”

  I stood up. “I think what I really need is a million dollars. Shall I give you another cigarette for later or are you going home now?”

  He came over to pat my shoulder. “You maintain your sense of humor and it will save you. Carry on, buddy.” At the doorway, he turned. “For what it’s worth, I admire you and I envy you.”

  He had a point; I wouldn’t want his job, though it maintained a fine home with a mammoth swimming pool and a wife who paid a hundred and fifty dollars for a cotton dress. And a semi-genius son who had his own pipe organ at the advanced age of nine. So nobody lives in heaven. Here. Yet.

  • • •

  I had an early dinner at Lachman’s and another investigator I knew was at a booth alone so I shared it with him. His name was Don Kranski and he kidded me about all the publicity I was currently receiving.

  I told him it hadn’t brought any new business into the office and then asked him what he knew about Dennis Greene.

  “Nothing beyond the obvious rumors,” he said. “I know something about Ryerson, though. I put in a week on him for his widow.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to violate a confidence,” I said, “so I’m quietly waiting.”

  “The receptionist,” he went on. “That redhead. You and the Department sure as hell missed on her.”

  “How, please?”

  “Her name. Don’t you remember Big Bill Rafferty?”

  “Sure. The former D.A., the one who blew his own brains out. Wasn’t he involved in some big scandal?”

  “That’s right. His wife hired an investigator to check his marital fidelity and the investigator came up with enough for a grand jury. An honest man, Tim Hovde, like us, and so he took it all to the police. Remember Tim?”

  “Only by legend. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Died two years ago. But to get back to my angle, this Ryerson and the redhead were like that, all right. And now consider this — Arno Eriksen was a muscle for Big Bill Rafferty in a union extortion racket Big Bill ran as a sideline. Rafferty claimed he was only a legal advisor for the outfit, but the grand jury decided otherwise. And they had reason to.”

  “Don,” I said, “thank you very much. The whole day looks brighter.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I asked, “Why would Mrs. Ryerson check her husband when she was engaged in a little extra-marital frolic herself?”

  “Maybe she wasn’t when I worked on that job. Though you know, if I was going to guess about her, I’d say she had quite a crush on Jack Ross. And I’ve heard a rumor that you’re working for Ross.”

  “You heard right. Anything detrimental you know about him?”

  Don smiled. “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you. I remember what happened to Arno Eriksen.”

  “Once in my career,” I said bitterly, “I lose my head and nobody will let me forget it.”

  “You poor boy,” he said mockingly. “You poor, sad, undernourised little Italian boy. I’m bleeding for you.”

  When the check came, I picked it up. “Expenses,” I assured him. “It’s little enough for what you’ve given me tonight.”

  “It’s little enough,” he agreed, “but more than I expected.”

  Big Bill Rafferty … The man was as glamorous a legend in this town as Jimmy Walker was in New York. And almost as crooked. And Arno Eriksen had worked for him. Would Eileen Rafferty know her dad’s former muscle man?

  I went out to park on National Boulevard again, near the Santa Monica Airport. Her light was on and I saw movement behind the thin drapes, so I knew she was home, this time. I had been there about twenty minutes when an Imperial pulled to the curb in front of the
triplex. I couldn’t be positive from where I sat, but the man who got out of the car looked like Dennis Greene. There was nobody else in the car.

  I sat and waited. If I had come here without meeting Don Kranski in the restaurant, I would have been worried about Eileen Rafferty getting a visit from Dennis Greene.

  Now, I could assume she had been expecting him. They had a mutual friend, Arno Eriksen. That would be a heavy, not a tentative, line. I was almost positive it was Greene but made a note of the license number for later checking.

  He hadn’t been out of sight for two minutes before a green Buick Special came up the street to park behind the Imperial. A fairly short and extremely heavy man got out of the Buick and went up the walk that served the triplex.

  From my vantage point, I couldn’t be sure he was going to the Rafferty girl’s apartment. He could have been one of the other tenants. But he had looked uncomfortably like Arno Eriksen. If it was Arno, he had been released from the hospital earlier than I had expected.

  I sat and waited.

  In about ten minutes, the man who looked like Eriksen came down the walk again. I waited for him to get into the Buick, but he didn’t. He climbed into the Imperial.

  This was getting complicated. Now, I guessed, Greene would come out and he and Eriksen would drive away in his car. I didn’t guess it for long. The Imperial’s lights went on and it started to swing in a U-turn as I ducked below the cowl to avoid their revealing glare. It moved past and turned left on the street behind me. I waited. Would Greene come out now and drive the Buick away? Had they decided to trade in the Rafferty apartment? This was a weird one.

  And then, after a few more minutes, I began to see a pattern. Her’s was the rear triplex and its rear door would be served by the alley, if there was an alley. There weren’t many in this part of town, but I thought I remembered one from my last trip here. I was about to start the engine of my car when the redhead came down the walk. She went directly to the parked Buick and climbed in behind the wheel. I had to duck once more as her lights swung in another U-turn.

  I began to perspire. I remembered how George Ryerson had been found in his car. I, too, made a U-turn. I came to the mouth of the alley in time to see the two cars. They were turning right at the far end as I entered this one. I came out at the far end in time to see them turning to the left, two blocks up the street. I didn’t want to get too close, but it was important that I didn’t lose sight of them. I took the chance and goosed the Plymouth.