Murder in the Raw

by William Campbell Gault

  Trask nodded and said, “I remember and I think I know what side of the fence you’re on. I guess we could all watch our tongues a little.” He looked at Pascal.

  Pascal muttered something that could have been apology.

  Trask looked back at me. “I guess we won’t need a statement from you two. To tell the truth, I’m not sure we want Red locked up. We’ve been watching him, Brock. Pascal and Caroline followed him to that motel.”

  I said nothing. I stood up.

  Randall stood up and asked, “Do we get a ride back to the motel?”

  “You’ll get a ride,” Pascal said. “I’ll take you.”

  Randall and I rode in the back, Pascal and Caroline in the front. It was a quiet trip; nobody said one word. They dropped us off at the curb in front and drove away without even nodding good-by.

  “Cops — ” Randall said, and shook his head.

  “They’re underpaid,” I told him, “and overworked. They deal with rapists and murderers, with child-mo-lesters and wife-beaters. All day long they meet arrogance and deceit and hate. You can’t expect they’d have the same attitude as ministers.”

  Randall didn’t comment on that. What he said was, “That Nystrom will be back, I bet. I’d better clean up that old service .45 of mine.”

  “Sure,” I said, “but take it easy. And thanks for your work with that chair. That took a lot of guts.”

  His smile was modest. “I surprised myself.”

  At the drugstore on Beverly Drive, the special was short ribs and browned potatoes. It was too hot for that; I ordered a bacon and tomato sandwich and a vanilla milk shake.

  The counterman said, “This Odie Posey’s back with the Rams, huh? He should go good, right?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll still take that Skeet Quinlan,” he said. “Man, how that little guy can twist and turn, huh?”

  “He’s a sweetheart,” I agreed. “Get the bacon lean, won’t you? Get the fat cooked off.”

  He made an O with thumb and forefinger. “You bet I will, Brock. Nothing’s too good for the Rock.”

  It is a discerning man who realizes the true worth of a lineman. This counterman deserved more than life was giving him.

  My mail consisted of three ads and a throwaway weekly newspaper and a letter with a lump in it. The letter was addressed to “Juan Mira, c/o Brock Callahan.” The lump felt like a ring.

  The postmark was 6 A.M. this morning from Santa Monica.

  I phoned Juan, but there was no answer. I put the letter into a more or less hidden compartment behind the bottom drawer in my desk.

  Then I washed up in the washroom down the hall and drove out to Elysian Fields. On the drive out, I thought about my dialogue with Lieutenant Dave Trask. For the second time, Dave had given me the impression I’d told him nothing new, had helped not at all.

  The first time, he had lied, and I wondered if he’d lied this last time. One thing I’d noticed, he’d made no request, this time, for me to keep my nose out of the case. Perhaps he had just overlooked it. Or perhaps not.

  There would be a short service for Roger Scott in the rather impressive chapel at Elysian Fields. And it was just about to begin as I entered.

  The chapel would seat over a hundred, but there was no need for that many seats this afternoon. I was one of the three in attendance.

  Joe Kramer sat in the front row. Two rows back of him, there was a feminine head of brownish-blond hair above a pair of blue gabardine shoulders. Neither of them looked around as I came in and took a seat in the back.

  The minister did the best he could with what he had. He was supplied by the management and he’d had no personal knowledge of Roger Scott. He spoke of “the word that lingers when the man is gone” and “this untimely extinguishing of the creative spark.” He sounded as though he were reading a speech written by someone else. Probably Joe Kramer, who now owned the business and could afford to be tolerant about the deceased.

  Elysian Fields borders a golf course, and the hole they’d dug for Roger Scott was only about twenty yards from the fence that ran along the thirteenth fairway.

  The pallbearers were professionals, but they waited at the grave with the three of us, to make it look less lonely.

  And then, just as the minister began to drop his handful of dirt onto the coffin below, there was a shout of “Fore!” from the thirteenth tee.

  Some dub had really sliced his drive. I was facing the tee; I saw the ball coming, and ducked.

  The ball bounced twice — and rolled into the grave. I heard a hollow “thump” as it hit the coffin.

  I straightened, shaken. The minister had paused for only a moment; he continued with the “dust to dust.” Joe Kramer’s face was a mask, as were the pallbearers’. The blonde was pale, and she was biting her lower lip.

  She was an attractive girl, fairly short, nicely shaped, and her brown eyes were warm and large. She looked at me, and down at the grave. Her hands were folded tightly.

  The last words were said, and everybody turned to go back the way we’d come. At the fence, I caught a wave from one of the golfers and I went over there.

  “Did you see a ball come in here?” he asked.

  He was a stocky man in a loud shirt and his wide face was bland and unconcerned.

  “I hope you hit a provisional,” I told him. “That slice of yours wound up in the wrong hole.”

  “No kidding? In the grave?”

  “Mmmmm-hmmm. That’s where it is.”

  “They haven’t started to fill it up, yet, huh?”

  I shook my head. “The diggers aren’t around. But there’s a question of good taste involved, don’t you think?”

  “Good taste, hell,” he said. “That was a new ball.”

  He was climbing over the fence as I went down the road to join the others.

  In the parking area, the brownish-blonde headed for a mustard-colored Chev Bel Air. I got to the car before she had finished closing the door.

  I said, “My name is Callahan, m’am, and I’ve been hired to investigate this — thing that happened.”

  She looked at me with the warm brown eyes, but said nothing. She looked at me without much interest.

  I said quietly, “I’ve so little to go on, I’m grasping at straws. I hope you don’t think I’m being — pushy about this, but I could certainly use any information you might have about Roger Scott.”

  “I haven’t any,” she said. “I met him through Glenys Christopher. You’re working for Miss Christopher, aren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, she knows as much about him as I do. Good afternoon, Mr. Callahan.”

  The Chev came to life, and she swung it in a U-turn, heading for the street. Next to me, Joe Kramer said, “Nice dish. Those eyes could melt you, couldn’t they?”

  “Or burn you,” I added. “It wasn’t much of a funeral, was it, Joe? I’m surprised there weren’t a few curiosity seekers, at least.”

  “No notice in the papers,” Joe said. “Well, I’ve got to get back to work. I’m up to my ears in scripts.” He sighed. “I sometimes wonder if there are people in the world who don’t write.”

  Along the path that led to Scott’s grave, the diggers were going to replace most of the earth they’d dug out this morning. On the thirteenth green, the foursome was putting. Overhead, a sky-writer was spelling out “Coola-Cola-It’s Coola.”

  The Ford came to life and snorted in disgust. “Everybody dies,” I told her. “Thousands every day. You can’t expect the living to mourn them all.”

  The flivver didn’t deign to answer me, murmuring to herself.

  Through the overcast, the sun was now breaking through. I turned right on Sepulveda, heading for Sunset. It was still too early for the going-home traffic; I made good time all the way.

  My phone-answering service told me I’d had a call, and the number was Mira’s. I called him back.

  I said, “There’s a letter here for you in care of me. Want to drop over and pick i
t up?”

  “I come right now,” he said.

  I had taken the license number of the Chev at Elysian Fields and I included it in my report of the day’s work. I could ask Glenys who the girl was. If she didn’t know, I could then check it through the license bureau.

  And then I remembered, I had never really questioned Mr. Randall. Red had broken that up just as Randall could have been about to give me something. I phoned the motel.

  When he answered, I told him, “You were about to tell me something, I think, when Nystrom broke up the party this morning. Can you remember what it was?”

  “About this Roger Scott, was it?”

  “I think so.”

  Silence, and then, “Well, I’ve forgotten it in all the excitement, I guess. If I think of anything, Mr. Callahan, I’ll sure call you.”

  “Please do,” I said.

  I went back to work on the reports, and my phone rang. It was Glenys Christopher. “Do you swim, Mr. Callahan?”

  “Not professionally, but I can get around in the water. Why?”

  “Oh, I thought we’d have a few people in for a little party. And I think the night will be warm enough to use the pool. And I’d like you to come.”

  “Any special occasion?”

  “Well — ” Silence, and then, “I thought it might be appropriate. I didn’t want anyone to think I was mourning. Do you understand?”

  “No, but I’m not subtle. I went to the funeral.”

  “Oh — ?” Silence.

  “Just Callahan and Scott’s business partner and a girl with a Chev Bel Air — those were the only mourners.”

  Silence.

  I asked, “Are you still there?”

  “I’m here. I can’t think of anything to say, particularly.”

  “Do you know the girl with the Chev? She knows you. Pretty girl, very fine figure, brownish-blond hair — ”

  “And a crooked eyetooth?” Glenys asked.

  “I didn’t notice. She wasn’t smiling.”

  “I think I know the girl. She is an incurable sentimentalist. Are you coming to the party or not?”

  “I’ll be there. What time?”

  “After dinner. Eight-thirty or nine.”

  “Thank you. Do you want to tell me the girl’s name?”

  “Not particularly. She’s too available. I’ll see you tonight.”

  The line went dead.

  I was finished with the reports and sitting by my window, watching the traffic, when Juan Mira came in.

  He wore a fawn-colored suit today, the jacket almost down to his knees. He wore a brown shirt and a white string tie and brown-and-white sport shoes with heavy crepe soles.

  I fished the letter out of the compartment and handed it to him. He tore it open eagerly.

  There was no letter inside, only a diamond ring, big and ornate. Juan stared at it dully.

  “Is that the ring you gave her, Juan?”

  He nodded. “No note? No nothing?”

  “That’s all I got, right there. Let me keep the envelope, though. Maybe the police can learn something from that.”

  “To hell with them,” he said. “I don’t want them in my business.”

  “They’re already in up to their hips, Juan. They’re looking for her, and her not showing up makes it worse for her every day. She’s still the number-one suspect for Scott’s death, you know.”

  “You find her,” he said. “And you get me a good lawyer for her. To hell with the police.” He took his wallet out. “More money?”

  I shook my head. “No, no more money. All right, Juan, I’ll keep working.”

  “That Sue Ellen, keep working on her. She knows, I bet.”

  Juan left and I took the envelope the ring had been in and put it into a larger envelope addressed to Lieutenant Dave Trask. I enclosed a note explaining everything.

  It was a slow trip to Westwood in the jammed traffic of Wilshire. Stop and go, stop and go — another straw to add to the other straws of this day, frustration and futility.

  What had I accomplished, what had I learned? Nothing.

  Being paid by two clients and serving neither one well. Why had I considered myself qualified to open that office? Playing cops and robbers is fun, but most of us outgrow it in the fourth grade. And if I really wanted to play cop, the Department was looking for men.

  But who wanted to play cop at those prices?

  In front of the Los Angeles Country Club, a mustard-colored Chev Bel Air went past me in the inner lane. I saw the dark blond hair and tried to remember what the license number had been on the car at Elysian Fields.

  The Chev turned right on Beverly Glen and I didn’t follow. Glenys knew the girl and I still had the license number in the office.

  Left on Westwood Boulevard and home. In my mailbox, there were two ads and a letter from my aunt in La Jolla. She wanted to know, as long as I wasn’t playing football this year, why I didn’t come down for a visit? There were so many interesting young people in La Jolla, I’d be guaranteed a good time.

  Feminine young people, my aunt meant. To her, an unmarried man is a great waste.

  A hot shower, and a cool one. Then I put on a pair of shorts and made my dinner, lamb chops and creamed potatoes and broccoli. And a bottle of Milwaukee beer to go with it, and I felt better. A Beverly Hills party in prospect, two satisfied clients, one who wanted me on a retainer basis; why had I been gloomy before dinner?

  I had a fine imported linen suit I rarely wore because my legs are too heavy for fabrics that are not wrinkle resistant. But the evening would be cooler than the day and I would probably spend most of my time at the party in swimming trunks. I wore the suit with a white on white shirt and a Countess Mara tie my aunt had sent me for Christmas last year. I thought I looked pretty sharp.

  6

  THERE WERE A FEW CARS already parked in the parking area at the side of the Christopher home when I tooled the flivver in at nine o’clock. One was a Jag and the other two were Cads. The flivver snorted before I turned her off.

  I was just getting out when the mustard-colored Chev came rolling in. I waited until she’d parked.

  She was in strapless black, this evening, with a white, crocheted stole over her shoulders. She looked at me curiously as she approached. The lights serving the parking area were yellow and dim.

  I said, “As a fellow-driver of a lower income group car, I thought it might be fitting if we went in together.”

  “Perhaps we could use the servants’ entrance,” she said. “Brock Callahan, isn’t it?”

  “At your service. And you?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Mr. Callahan. I’m sure I’ll never require your services.”

  “What are you, a Forty-niner fan, or something? What’d I ever do to you to earn this scorn, Miss — ?”

  She stopped walking and looked up at me. “I’m sorry. I really am. You’re just one of the moths, really, aren’t you, attracted by the flame?”

  “I think I’m a little heavy to fly,” I answered. “Who or what is the flame?”

  “Glenys Christopher, of course. Who else?”

  “You’re here,” I said. “Are you a moth?”

  “I’m a butterfly,” she said, “working by day and flitting by night. And meeting very few interesting people, except at parties given by Glenys Christopher.”

  “I see. And that’s important to you, meeting interesting people?”

  “That’s important to me. And meeting wealthy people is not only important, it’s necessary. I’m an interior decorator, Mr. Callahan.”

  “Oh,” I said, “I get it. What name do you use in the trade?”

  Silence, and then she chuckled. “Persistent, aren’t you? My name is Jan Bonnet. That’s middle-class enough, isn’t it?”

  “I can see the sign,” I said, “reading ‘Décor by Jan Bonnet.’ My arm, Miss Bonnet?”

  We went along the walk together to the open front door. A maid met us there, and then Glenys Christopher came out from the living
room.

  She frowned. “Did you two come together?”

  “More or less,” I said. “We met this afternoon.”

  Jan said, “He’s trying to be humorous, Glen. We met in the parking area a few minutes ago.”

  A moment of silence while Glenys studied me. Then she smiled and said, “A few people are already here. I think you know them all, Jan. Les Hartley’s here.”

  “Goodie,” Jan said, without expression. “I’ll manage.” She left us and went into the living room, heading for the bar in one corner.

  Glenys sighed. “I do admire her. But she seems to — resent me for some reason.”

  She took me into the living room and I met some people. I met them by name and not by occupation, so I didn’t learn until later what Jan Bonnet had meant by “interesting people.” Most anyone is interesting when he’s talking about his specialty; these people had interesting specialties, I learned later.

  There was a ceramist and a folk singer, a gag man and a sculptor, a sports announcer and a wrestler. They were the early birds and still sober; the party was still in its strained and quiet-voiced birth.

  Glenys left me to go and welcome some new people; I went over to the bar for a bottle of that Einlicher.

  From the window here, I could see the pool, and it was a sixty footer, with both high and low boards. I took my glass and the bottle out there.

  Jan Bonnet sat in a deck chair on the patio side of the pool, and Bobby Christopher sat next to her on a canvas and aluminum chair. I went over.

  Bobby looked up and grinned. “Hi, Champ. I’ve made up my mind. S.C. for me.”

  “Great,” I said, “especially if you want to build a rep.”

  He nodded. “That’s what I want.” He stood up. “Well, I’ve got to pick up my date. I’ll be back.”

  I took the seat he’d vacated. I took a swig of the beer.

  Jan Bonnet sipped her drink; it looked like a Bloody Mary.

  I said, “Having fun?”

  “It’s too early for that. Just the exhibits are in there, now. The audience arrives later.”

  “The audience would be Glenys’ real friends?” She nodded.

  “Why do you resent her?” I asked.