“Mostly. I carefully explained to one of them this morning, though, that I couldn’t and wouldn’t repeat everything you told me. Unless it’s connected with the Ryerson murder.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he said. “Though I personally had nothing to do with the Ryerson murder.” He leaned back and lighted a cigarette. “I lied to you about Arno Eriksen. I don’t have any interest in his welfare, except to hope he has a heart attack. He has been black-mailing me intermittently and successfully for seven years. I was interested in him only in the hope I could learn from you that he was involved in the Ryerson murder. That way, I’d have something to trade for his silence other than money.”
“I see. Yesterday morning, when you dropped into Ryerson’s office, did you inquire about me from Eileen Rafferty?”
He stared at me. “I swear to you I didn’t. Nor was I anywhere near that office yesterday. Why should she tell you that?”
“Who knows? Maybe, to lead me off her trail. And you did the same thing by showing this sentimental interest in Eriksen. Why did you go to see Miss Rafferty late last night?”
“Frankly, to frighten her. I knew she was involved romantically with George Ryerson and that Eriksen used to work for her father. To me, she looked like a girl who could know something about Ryerson’s death, and if that knowledge involved Arno Eriksen, I wanted it, and if I couldn’t frighten it out of her, I would buy it.”
“Then Eriksen actually never worked for you?”
“I didn’t say that and I won’t answer it either way. I’m here to tell you I might have more contacts who could locate Arno than you have. I couldn’t personally turn him over to the police, you understand. You could.”
“And if I did? What would they hold him on? You refused to sign a complaint.”
“He could be questioned about the Ryerson murder. Why else would he be working with Eileen Rafferty?”
“Mr. Greene,” I said patiently, “you’re not making sense and you know it. Miss Rafferty has already been questioned about the Ryerson murder — and released. What you wanted was for me to go after Arno Eriksen and not bring him in to the police, wasn’t it?”
He lifted his chin. “Maybe. You worked him over once, didn’t you? Another time wouldn’t hurt.”
“It would hurt me. And he isn’t the kind you can beat the truth out of. Last time, after that beating, he lied. He said he was working for Tom Talsman, when actually he was working for Miss Rafferty.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Not completely.”
“They could have all been working with one another, you know.”
I nodded and took a breath. “You wouldn’t know if Eriksen is homosexual or not, would you?”
There was only the slightest of pauses before he answered mildly, “I wouldn’t know. Why?”
“Because there’s reason to believe the person who killed Tom Talsman was. Another question, did you and Eriksen go into the backyard to argue last night?”
“Yes.”
“Then, perhaps Miss Rafferty honestly didn’t know you had been slugged. And possibly Eriksen only came there because he was following you.”
“Arno didn’t come there only because he was following me. As soon as he walked in, he asked her, in surprise, what I was doing there.”
“She seemed to know him?”
“She let him in without asking his name or his business, as though they were old friends.”
“And what did you quarrel about in the yard?”
“He wanted to know what I was doing there. I told him I was interested in the death of George Ryerson. He swung at me and I tried to protect myself and the lights went out.”
“And you think you know where he is now?”
“I think I can find out.”
I said, “Last night, Eileen Rafferty told the police that you were the man who had informed on Big Bill Rafferty. She said Arno Eriksen had told her that.”
“It’s a lie,” Dennis Greene said evenly, “and I don’t believe Eriksen told her that. Why would he?”
I didn’t answer.
After a silence of a few seconds, Greene said earnestly, “If you can prove Arno Eriksen guilty of murder, I’ll pay you five thousand dollars.”
“You don’t mean I should frame him, do you, Mr. Greene?”
“You’ve heard my offer. If he is convicted of murder through any efforts of yours, fair or foul, I’ll pay you five thousand dollars. I’ll pay it in cash, tax-free money, sir. That’s a lot of money, tax-free.”
“To a poor man, it’s a fortune,” I said. “And I’m a poor man. For that kind of money, in the old days, you could get a dozen men killed.”
“These aren’t the old days,” he said. He stood up.
I looked at him musingly. “You’re very bitter, Mr. Greene.”
“I’ve been humiliated. If I get any word of Arno’s whereabouts, I’ll let you know immediately. What happens from there on would be in the laps of the gods.”
“You could hope he’d pull a gun on me, eh? And I’d have to kill him?”
His smile was brief. He said good-by and went out. I watched him go, wondering if Eileen Rafferty had helped drag him to the car last night. I don’t know why I should have thought of that.
But I was mighty glad I did. Because it sent the first hopeful gleam of light into the darkness of my dull brain. Motive, motive, automotive …
It was beginning to make sense.
TWELVE
THE CASTERS on that heavy mop pail had tried to tell me, but I had overlooked the obvious. That pail would be too heavy to handle without casters.
Unfortunately, murders may be guessed at in the field but they are proven in courts of law. Could I go to the murderer now and say, “Everything points to you; you might as well confess”?
I could. If this was a movie or television play. Because there, the murderer would answer, “You got me, and seeing how you got me, I might as well confess in great detail to you how everything happened as it will help the D.A.”
Life should be more like the movies. Or TV. Or anyway, like an English-type deductive mystery. Things would be simpler. But in this cynical age, if you found the murderer with the gun in his hand and the corpse at his feet, he would say, “Okay, wise guy, prove it! I got me an expensive lawyer and you got an overworked D.A. Try and prove it!”
Before most of the juries you find today, you would be lucky to prove you were alive, unless your lawyer was expensive. I would need to break down someone close to the killer, someone who could be prompted to betray the killer for money or out of self-interest. I didn’t know how much money Ross would pay. Motive, means and opportunity. Motive, who would know it? Means and opportunity, who could prove either?
I phoned Captain Horace Jeswald and asked him, “Anything new out of Santa Monica? You promised to keep me informed.”
“Only some fingerprints. We had nothing to match them here so we sent them to Washington. Is that useful information?”
“It might be the most important of all if I brought in a killer.”
“Are you planning to?”
“Eventually, I suppose. You released the Rafferty girl, didn’t you?”
“You can blame Greene for that. Did you talk with him?”
“I did. He offered me five thousand dollars if I could prove Eriksen was a murderer. He claimed that he, Greene I mean, had nothing to do with Ryerson’s murder.”
“I see. How do you plan to frame Eriksen?”
“Captain,” I said sadly. “Brother. A certain wealthy man I know is going to try to locate Eriksen for me.”
“Greene?”
“I didn’t say it. His vanity must be great, don’t you think? I wouldn’t go to five grand for revenge on a man who merely blackened one of my eyes.”
“You haven’t got five grand. And probably never will have. Well, if you get Eriksen, you know where to bring him.”
“Hell, yes. To the Venice Station. That’s where he lives.” “
Don’t live so dangerously, Joe. I’ll see that the news photographer gets your good side. They don’t know your profile at the Venice Station like I do.”
He must have had a good night; he rarely indulged in humor, even humor as sad as the above. He was a good man. Pompous and self important, dull and tedious, but well fitted for his job.
Motive, motive, automotive, means and opportunity. There was still a rough road ahead. I was playing with moneyed people who could afford expensive lawyers, lawyers who could prove black was white.
Big Bill Rafferty must have left a sizable estate if he was as clever as his legend pictured him. And though his daughter worked for a living, it was possible she had worked for Ryerson after she had become the woman in his life. Perhaps she only worked to be near him. Or more probably, she worked where there were outside dollars to be made. She could be the kind of sensible girl who didn’t believe in living on her principal.
If I hurried, I would still have time to get to the bank before it closed.
• • •
From the bank, it was only a few blocks to Mary’s apartment, so I drove over there. She and Ross were in the living room; Jean was taking a nap in the bedroom.
“Stranger,” Mary said. “What brings you in?”
“The need for information.” I looked at Ross. “Could I speak with you alone for a few seconds?”
He yawned and stretched. “Important? What about, Joe?”
“Important,” I said.
He stood up and said to Mary, “If he makes any advances, I’ll holler.”
We went out to the hall.
When we came back in again, Mary was studying me curiously.
I said to her, “Will you come out in the hall now?”
She looked at Jack and he shrugged. She stood up and came out to the hall with me.
There, I said, “I don’t want you to blow up, now. I’m going to ask you a very personal question.”
“I’ll try to stay calm. Is it the same question you asked Jack?”
“No. It’s about Jean and that’s why I don’t want Jack to hear it. Now think carefully before you answer the question.”
She nodded, waiting.
“Did Jean Talsman, at any time, display any homosexual tendency around you?”
The brown eyes flared and she started to speak.
“Wait,” I said quickly. “She’s not a suspect in this case. I want you to think particularly of any time when she came home drunk. Perfectly normal, or apparently normal, people occasionally have lapses of that kind under alcohol.”
Again, Mary started to speak. And stopped. Then, softly, “This is very important, isn’t it, Joe?”
“Of course. Or I wouldn’t ask such a question.”
“There was one time,” she whispered, “when she came home drunk and acted — strange. That — way, you know? She insisted on sleeping with me and, well — I assumed she was so drunk she thought I was a man. She fell asleep after I pushed her away.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s only another straw in the wind, but it helps to build my theory.”
Mary put a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll never mention this to Jack, will you?”
“Of course not.” I kissed her forehead. “I’ll see you. Think of me, when you’re not busy.”
She nodded absently. “Joe, people can’t be just partly that way, can they?”
“Yes. Some are, and some are all the way. Some can’t help it and some can. Some arrive at it early and some late and for a variety of complex reasons. Now, don’t brood about it. It’s not a pleasant topic. Think of normal, lustful people like you and me.”
“Joe, don’t rush off. Jack Ross never married. What’s the reason?”
“Relax,” I said. “Don’t try to pump me. I’ll phone you tomorrow morning, probably.”
“I’m nervous,” she said. “I’m going to be more so.”
I kissed her again, patted her cheek and left her. Her door didn’t close until I got to the bottom of the staircase.
Straws, as I had told her, but all blowing the same direction. To the Tulare kid, this sort of revelation would be more sickening than to the sophisticated city-bred. Not that the ratio of these half-people was any lower in the small towns, just the number of them. I was a big town boy, myself. Fresno.
And for a variety of reasons … That had been told to me by a psychologist friend and it led me to motive, the first of the necessary and deadly triplicate.
There was a possibility that after last night’s disturbance, Eileen Rafferty had not gone to work this morning. If so, she could be home now. It was not quite four o’clock.
She was home. She came to the door, looked at me bitterly, and started to close the door.
“Two have died,” I warned her. “You could be next on the list.”
“You don’t fool me or frighten me,” she said scornfully. “You don’t know anything and you’re trying to get by on bluff and bluster.”
“Please listen to me, Miss Rafferty. You’re not as safe as you think you are. You underestimate the law. The Department is big and complex and overworked. But the boys keep grinding away and eventually they get to the truth. It’s only a question of time.”
“So is living,” she said, and closed the door.
The first time I had come here, she had asked if I was armed. She hadn’t asked this time; I no longer frightened her. She knew I wasn’t working for the killer.
I went back to the office and my phone answering service informed me there had been a message from a Mr. Battered. That was Dennis Greene’s kind of humor.
Mr. Eriksen, the monotone of the operator revealed, could be found at the Vicente Motel under the pseudonym of Ned Stevens. She gave me the address of the motel and told me there had been no other calls. I had passed the Vicente Motel going from the Bluffview bank to Mary’s apartment. I seemed to be going in circles. I hoped, before the day was finished, I would complete the big circle I had started.
The manager of the motel told me there was a Ned Stevens in unit fourteen but he didn’t know if Mr. Stevens was in now. I went down to ring the bell of unit fourteen and there was no answer. I parked in front and waited. Arno would probably no longer be driving the Buick, unless he had changed the plates. But it wouldn’t be dark for a while yet and I might see him drive in.
If he had Dennis Greene on the hook, he could have a fairly steady source of income. He was getting too old to play his former game; there were younger, tougher boys eager to take his place. When Eileen Rafferty had summoned him from retirement, she must have convinced him there would be big money in the operation.
Traffic grew heavier as the sun moved further toward the western horizon. Three cars drove into the motel courtyard in that time but all of them were couples.
It was just starting to get dark and the manager had lighted his red neon Vacancy sign when a Plymouth of the same vintage as mine drove off the street into the yard.
My quarry had come home. I waited until the door of number fourteen closed behind him.
When I rang, he called out “Who’s there?” and I answered “Joe Puma.”
He opened the door and looked at me blankly. “I’m not armed. It didn’t seem bright to be armed for a while. If you came to fight, beat it.”
“I just want to talk, Arno. We’re even, aren’t we? You put me in the hospital and I returned the favor. Doesn’t that make us even?”
“I play to win, not to get even. What do you have on your mind?”
“The death of George Ryerson.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“Your friend does. She’s an amateur, Arno. She tries to act like a pro but she’s never been tested.”
He looked at me skeptically. “You rodded up?”
“The case seemed to need it. I didn’t plan to use it here, though. How can a little talk hurt you, Arno? It might save you some lumps later.”
“Come in,” he said.
The room held a bed and
three chairs. I sat on a chair near the door. He went over to sit on the bed.
I said, “Miss Rafferty knows who killed Ryerson. I would bet on that.”
“Well, I don’t. And I’m not interested. And let me tell you something more, peeper, I’m all for her. Her old man was the greatest guy I ever knew. He took care of his boys. He knew what these punks today can’t learn — he knew what loyalty meant.”
“Okay. But he’s dead. Did you know that Eileen Rafferty and George Ryerson were lovers? George’s wife knows that. She hired a detective to find it out for her.”
“Who was the peeper, you?”
“No, a friend of mine. I have a lot of friends and quite a few of them are in the Police Department, Arno. Why don’t you get out of this extortion racket now? That way you’ll get out whole and well.”
He sneered. “Come off it. You think working for Dennis Greene will keep you on the right side of the law? You’re crazy.”
“I don’t work for Greene. I work for Jack Ross and if you think I’m lying, check me. I’ll give you a number right now where he can be reached.”
“To hell with Jack Ross,” he said. “You pulled that gag before.”
“All right. Then consider I’m working with the Los Angeles Police Department on this. Because Greene wouldn’t sign a complaint, the Department isn’t too interested in you right now. But they would pick you up as a matter of routine. Why not come clean with me and avoid all that bother?”
“I know my loyalty, Puma. Don’t talk cop to me; it’s a dirty word. And I’ll tell you something else — you’re whistling in the dark. You don’t know who did what to who, or why. You’re all mouth and muscle.”
“Okay, Arno. And you’re a brain?”
“I never had to be. But I can spot a brain when I come across one, and you don’t fill the bill.”
“I gave you your chance,” I warned him. “You’re being stupid.”
“Drop dead,” he said contemptuously.
“You’re fighting the money,” I said patiently. “Big Bill didn’t teach you much. The first thing a hoodlum should learn is never to fight the money. Money’s always right, Shortie.”
“Maybe Red and I know where it is. Mouth isn’t money. How would a cheap working stiff like you know anything about money?”
End of a Call Girl Page 14