Dave’s dull eyes came to life. “Matches that bloody motel print?”
The thin man nodded. “You’ll want them both held?”
“That’s right. And tell that shyster out there I’ve gone to Tibet.”
The man went out and Trask looked at me. He half smiled, “Well, that makes you look better to me.”
I stood up. “I thought it would. But there’s still Nystrom out there, running around loose. I’ll go and pick him up for you. Do you want him dead or alive?”
“Just wear a gun,” he said. “And don’t forget.”
It was after five o’clock and I still had an hour or so of paper work ahead of me. I headed back to the office, not looking forward to it.
What does a murder need? Motive, means and opportunity. On the kid, Trask had means; Scott had been killed by a knife and the kid carried a knife. Opportunity, the state would have to prove; that the kid was in the room with the knife when Scott was stabbed. And motive — ?
The line would be that the kid worked for Nystrom and Nystrom had been heard threatening Scott.
Why was Trask so happy? Unless the kid confessed, the District Attorney had a long, hard furrow to plough. Trask was banking on the kid’s confessing, once the proof of his fingerprint was made clear to him. I had my doubts about the kid confessing to anything.
And there was still Red Nystrom at large, though Trask seemed confident he would be apprehended. I guessed that Trask’s current good nature had resulted from the first break he’d had in the case. In my book, he was still a long way from home.
I was halfway through my report for the day when the door opened and Wendell Lange came in. He wasn’t looking too worried, but then, it wasn’t his neck in danger.
“Bringing me some business?” I asked him.
“I might be. Your friend, Lieutenant Trask, wouldn’t talk to me. He’s a hard man to reason with, isn’t he?”
I stood up and stretched. “I don’t know. I guess. What brings you here, Mr. Lange?”
“Certain financial problems. I seem to be dealing with insolvent clients. Murder trials cost money.”
“So? A touch? I’m not good for much more than half a buck.”
“You represent a wealthy client, though.”
“I don’t follow you, Mr. Lange.”
“She will, I think. She knew Mr. Scott quite well.”
I studied him and saw nothing. The tall, thin figure stood there almost casually, the cold blue eyes regarded me impersonally.
I said, “This dialogue is preposterous. Unless there are some things going on that I don’t know about.”
He expelled his breath audibly. “Things are going on all over town that neither of us know about, Mr. Callahan. In this particular case, I happen to know more of the angles than you do.”
“Then take it to the police,” I said. “Your concern is with the law, isn’t it? That’s what you told me this afternoon.”
He shook his head. “I told you my first concern was my client. And I intend to buy him all the help that’s for sale. That takes more money than he has.”
“You want to buy him some witnesses? Which client, Lange?”
“Let’s not bicker, Mr. Callahan. I need money. If you want, I’ll go directly to your client.”
“Do that. And the minute you leave, I’m going to phone the police and tell them about this conversation. Now, get out.”
He smiled. “You certainly offer your clients a minimum of protection, don’t you? I hope you’re not charging them much for that kind of service.” He turned, and went out.
I reached for the phone, and paused. I reached for the phone again and got Trask, and lied to him. I said, “Lange was just here. He seems to think he can tap me for money to help with the kid’s defense. What in hell would give him that idea?”
“You’d know better than I would, Brock. Come clean.”
“So help me, Dave, the guy was talking Greek as far as I’m concerned. It didn’t make any kind of sense to me.”
“Maybe the shyster’s got something on your client, on Mira. He is your client, isn’t he?”
“Right from the start. You know that. We were in your office together.”
A few seconds of silence, and then, “Your only client, Brock?”
“I could hardly run even this small office on one client, Dave. I have another who’s going on a retainer as soon as I can draw up the contract.”
“I see. You run your office on two clients. Who’s the other one, Brock?”
I paused and then said, “A local woman, Beverly Hills woman.”
“She has a name, I suppose?”
“Miss Glenys Christopher is the name.”
“Well — ! You’re certainly getting the carriage trade, aren’t you? What is she, a client or a patron, Callahan?”
“She’s a rich and vulnerable girl without any parents in a nasty world,” I said. And added the lie. “She’s also a Ram fan. So now you know my complete client list to date. And I still can’t figure how it would give Lange the idea I’m rich.”
Trask chuckled. “Maybe he thinks you’re scared. You have reason to be, with Nystrom still at large. Well, we’ll check into the Mira angle. And you wear a gun.”
I hung up with the untold things still simmering in me. I had told him about Lange’s threat and about my two clients. I had given myself an out, but I had given Trask the wrong picture. And that’s a lie, slice it how you will. Any words uttered with intent to deceive are lying words, and I had intended to deceive.
I thought back to Dave Trask’s office when he’d told me, “But you’re in a dirty business, Brock, and you can’t stay clean in it, not if you want any new clients.”
I reached for the phone again, and drew back again. I remembered Glenys saying, “We need a man, Bobby and I. We need a man I can trust and Bobby can admire.”
I didn’t pick up the phone again. The telephone company would still be in business tomorrow. I finished the paper work and filed it neatly, and pulled a chair over to the window to watch the traffic.
It was still heavy and I didn’t intend to buck it until it thinned out. I wanted to go home and take a long shower and then get drunk and not on beer. I would buy a big bottle of booze and have my semiannual drunk, all alone, at home in Westwood.
The coincidences had screamed at me and I had ignored them, blinded by a pair of long legs and that expensive look. And the promise of a retainer and the unconsciously recognized hope of some payment even beyond that?
Don’t muse, Callahan, and don’t guess. The phone is staring at you. You are trained to act; leave the thinking to the quarterback.
The phone delivered Glenys Christopher’s voice to me and it was a strained voice.
I said, “I want to talk to you, right away. You’ll be home, won’t you?”
“I’ll be home. Has something happened? What’s happened? Brock?”
“Lieutenant Trask thinks he has a killer. One of those hot-rod hoodlums has a print that matches one found in the motel room.”
“I — heard that. But — I mean, what have I — ”
“How did you hear it?” I interrupted her. “Who told you?”
“I — it was on a news report, on the radio or TV. I forget exactly. Brock, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“Did Wendell Lange phone you and tell you about the kid? Did he ask for money?”
“Lange — ? Brock, you’re not making sense.”
“Would you answer the question?”
“I don’t know any Lange, Brock Callahan.”
“All right. Do you want to see me, or don’t you?”
A moment’s pause, and then, “If you think it’s important, I certainly do.”
I wasn’t hungry. I’d had two luncheons. So I didn’t stop for dinner. I locked the office and drove directly to the Christophers’.
Glenys was in pale yellow tonight, her black hair held an orchid. She looked at me humbly, fear in her eyes, standing very quietly in the door
way.
“Shall we go to the patio?” I asked. “I don’t want the servants to hear anything.”
Interest in the blue eyes, some hope. “All right.”
Out there, I sat in one of the cushioned aluminum chairs, she sat on a chaise longue.
I said, “You didn’t love Roger Scott, did you? He was just another of your nothings, of your perpetual guests?”
She looked at me without expression. “I think there was a time when I loved him. I wouldn’t swear to it, but it seemed like love to me.”
“That isn’t why you came to me, though. You weren’t worried about yourself, or any threat from the killer of Roger Scott.”
“What was I worried about?”
“Bobby.”
She seemed to flinch. She leaned forward on the chaise longue. “Are you crazy?”
“I might be. Did Bobby know those hoodlums?”
“What hoodlums? Do you mean those two who slashed up your car’s upholstery?”
I nodded.
She shook her head. “How could he? Where would he meet boys like that?”
“In Venice. Muscle Beach isn’t too far from Venice. Bobby used to go in for that muscle-building mania, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” For some reason, she seemed relieved, and I wondered if I wasn’t off the track.
I hoped I was. I said, “You brought Bobby along the first time you came to my office. Coming to me was his idea, wasn’t it?”
“Partially. Brock, you’re — ”
“Wait,” I said. “Maybe my reasons are wrong, but I’m on the right track, despite that. Did Bobby know Rosa Carmona?”
Only the faintest of pauses before she said, “I’m sure he doesn’t. Isn’t she that dancer?” A strained, false voice.
I nodded and brought out the first lie. “I’ve a witness who will swear Bobby knew Rosa Carmona.”
“If he did, he didn’t tell me. What are you trying to say, Brock?”
“I’m not sure, yet. Get Bobby, and we’ll ask him.”
“He’s not home. I don’t know where he went.”
“Well, try all places you can think of. Did he have dinner already? Won’t he be home for dinner?”
“He’s had dinner. And I’m not going to disturb a lot of people by phoning them unless you can tell me what’s so important about his being here.”
“Did you send him away after I phoned you?”
“Brock, what does all this mean? Whom are you working for?”
“I haven’t figured that out. You deny that Bobby knew Rosa Carmona or the hoodlums?”
“I only deny that I know about it, if it’s true. I doubt it very much. And if he did, what does that prove?”
“That’s what I hoped you would tell me. You came into my office right after you read about Scott’s death. A shyster lawyer named Wendell Lange today implied that you’d pay him money. This lawyer represents the hoodlums and Red Nystrom. I can’t see that you would be implicated, but you admitted to me that there are times when Bobby’s arrogant. Bobby is your responsibility and I think you feel that very strongly. I thought for a while, there, that you were jealous of Jan Bonnet. Wasn’t that egotistical of me? You were only worried that she would tell me about Bobby and Rosa Carmona. She’s close enough to Bobby to know about that, isn’t she?”
Glenys said hoarsely, “She’s your witness? She’s the one who told you about Bobby and this Carmona person?”
I shook my head. “Not a word. My witness is from the other end of town.”
“That-girl who was killed, that Sue Ellen?”
I shook my head again.
Glenys rubbed the back of one hand across her forehead. “Brock, you haven’t taken this ridiculous story to the police, have you?”
“If it’s ridiculous, it shouldn’t bother you.”
“Won’t it? Can’t you see the papers? Does it matter to them whether it’s true or not? And Bobby just starting college. Haven’t you any sense of — of — ” She broke off and tears began to run down her cheeks. “You — you — monster — ” She put her head forward into her hands.
“Did Lange phone you?” I asked her gently.
“Go away,” she said chokingly. “Please get out of here, Brock.”
“I’m still working for you, Glenys,” I said softly. “I’m still on your side. But I’ve got to have the truth.”
“Truth — ?” She looked up. “You come here and accuse Bobby of God knows what — and then ask for the truth?”
“Did Lange phone you?” I asked for the third time.
“Some lawyer phoned me. Yes, I believe his name was Lange. He phoned a little while before you did. And he didn’t threaten me, either.”
“But he asked for money.”
“He said he knew I was interested in finding the real killer of Roger Scott. And he said the real killer would never be found if some innocent lad was railroaded to the gas chamber for the murder. He thought I should be interested in saving an innocent young man.”
“And how much would that cost?”
“Five thousand dollars, to start with. He said he might have to make further demands on me later.”
“Blackmail,” I said. “He can weasel-word it any way he wants, but it’s still blackmail.”
She looked at me candidly and nodded. “I suppose it is. I’d pay a lot more than that to — to — ”
“Save Bobby?” I finished for her.
“Do you think Bobby’s a — a killer?”
“It’s hard to believe,” I said. “In the heat of anger, or the influence of alcohol, anyone could be a killer, I suppose.”
“Bobby doesn’t drink.”
“No. But he loves his sister. And if he should learn that some filthy angle-shooter she was infatuated with was really a pornographic picture peddler, he might — ”
She shook her head. “No. There’s nothing there, nothing.”
“I might still be right, though for the wrong reasons,” I said. “Bobby is involved in all this that has happened, isn’t he?”
“You’re blundering around in the dark,” she said quietly. “I don’t know what your purposes are, but you don’t really know anything, do you? But you concocted this absurd thesis and thought you could bring it up here and scare me with it. Why, Brock?”
I didn’t answer.
“For money, Brock?”
I stood up. “I guess we’re getting nowhere, Glenys. There’s no faith between us. I hope, when Bobby comes home, he’ll have more faith — and more sense. Tell him I was here, won’t you? And why?”
Then, from the entrance to the living room, a voice said, “I’m here, Brock. I’ve been here all along.”
12
GLENYS SAID QUICKLY, “Bobby, you — fool! He’s not on our side. He hasn’t the faintest idea about any of it. He’s trying to blackmail us.”
I looked at Bobby and Bobby looked at me. His smile was weak, but it was a smile. “Not Brock,” he said quietly. “Not the Rock. You couldn’t be more wrong on him, Sis.”
“Thanks, Bobby,” I said. “Do you want to give me the story?”
He nodded. “Here? Or at the station?”
“Right here,” I said. “Just the three of us. And all of it, Bobby.”
He sat down next to his sister on the chaise longue. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his fingers laced. I’d seen a lot of players sit like that in the locker room, before a big game.
He said, “I know Rosa Carmona. I was in love with her. That’s real crazy, huh?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I never met her.”
“Great party girl,” Bobby said. “No — pushover, but she did — I mean, she said it was because it was love. Are you with me?”
I nodded.
“It gets funnier,” Bobby went on. “I wanted to marry her. Maybe it’s — because I didn’t have much experience with girls like that. Anyway, I wanted to marry her. I was real hot for marrying her. Why aren’t you laughing, Brock?”
&
nbsp; “Maybe it isn’t funny,” I answered.
“Sure. Maybe. I don’t know.” He shook his head and looked at the concrete of the patio. “Then Jan told me the girl was a tramp.”
“You’d never guessed that?” I asked.
“I figured she had been. I figured we had something a little better than that. Golly, she was fun. I mean — swell, happiness just seemed to surround her.”
“Where’d you meet her, Bobby?”
“At that bar in Venice, that place where the blonde got shotgunned.”
“Uh-huh. So Jan told you she was a tramp. Then what?”
“So I got mad at Jan. I wouldn’t take any nasty talk, not about Rosa, not from anybody.” He shook his head slowly.
Glenys reached over to put a hand on his shoulder.
“And then?” I asked.
“And then Jan said she’d prove it to me, that the girl was a tramp, right then, and sleeping with Roger Scott. She told me about the motel, and told me how to get to Scott’s room that back way.”
“And you went over there?”
He nodded. “I had a couple drinks, first. I never drink, Brock, not since the first time I tried it, when I was sixteen. I don’t drink. I stay in shape, Brock.”
I smiled at him. “Okay, you stay in shape. There are more important things to think about right now. Go on.”
“I had a couple drinks, or I never would have gone over there. I believed in the girl, Brock.”
I nodded. “Go on.”
“It gets kind of mixed up, now,” he said. “So help me, I can’t be sure of what happened, exactly.” He looked at Glenys, and at me, and back at the concrete. “I had a key. They were there, all right, Scott and Rosa. And Rosa without a damned stitch on.”
I asked quietly. “You had a key? Who gave it to you?”
He said hoarsely, “Jan.”
“Go on,” I said.
“I don’t know. I was mad and drunk and sick. I remember I hit him. I hit him clean and hard a couple times. And he was on the floor and he didn’t get up. I remember that damned well.”
“Were you carrying a knife, Bobby?”
He stared at me. “A knife? What am I? You know I wouldn’t have anything to do with a knife, Brock.”
“All right. Go on.”
Murder in the Raw Page 12