Murder in the Raw

by William Campbell Gault

  “You tell me. Why?”

  “You know why. Another thing, Juan — when that ring was returned, it was sent to your name in care of me. How many people knew I was working for you at that time?”

  “Sue Ellen knew.”

  “Yes and Rosa would have known if she was alive. And you knew, Juan. That’s three. It didn’t seem sensible to me that either Sue Ellen or Rosa would give up a ring that valuable. There’s nothing in their backgrounds that would make a gesture like that possible. So it had to be you, sending it to you. Which meant you had Rosa. And the postmark was Santa Monica; you’re the only one of the three who lived in Santa Monica.”

  “And why would Juan kill Rosa?”

  “Because she came to you, that night. When she ran from the motel, there was only one strong friend in the world she could trust. Out of desperation, she came here.”

  “You can’t prove.”

  “I think I can. She came to you and you promised to protect her.” I took a breath. “You told her now you would be married. And she turned you down, because she had a rich man who wanted to marry her, a young handsome, rich man from Beverly Hills. She probably laughed at you, didn’t she, Juan?”

  “Rosa never laugh at me. You know this man?”

  “No, not for sure,” I lied. “Do you know him, Juan?”

  “I find out. Some cops know. I buy a cheap cop.”

  “Isn’t one murder enough, Juan?”

  “Without Rosa, who cares? But the man who took my Rosa, I get him. I get that bastard first. Then the cops can have Juan.”

  I shook my head. “No, Juan. I work with the law.”

  “Like hell,” he said. “For the rich, you work. Against the law, you work.”

  I shook my head. “You only came to me because of the Beverly Hills address. You thought I might know about the man because of that.”

  “No. I trust you. I see you at the Coliseum, many times. You are my favorite Ram. But you cheat me, you do not give me what I pay for.”

  “You paid me to find Rosa, Juan,” I reminded him.

  “And I think I’ve found her. Is it Rosa, under that rose trellis?”

  He stared at me and the hand came out of the jacket pocket and the .32 was in it. “Bastard Brock Callahan,” he said. “The yard is big enough for you, too.”

  “Put it away, Juan,” I said. “It’s empty. I’ve got the shells in my pocket.”

  Sergeant McCall was a fat man and flustered. I said, “Get Lieutenant Dave Trask over at the West Side Station. He’ll be interested. This all ties in with that Roger Scott killing in Brentwood.”

  “We don’t need any L.A. police officers in Santa Monica,” he said irritably. “We can handle our own affairs.” He looked out the kitchen window, to where some men were digging. “Man, you’d better be right about this, or it’ll be your neck.”

  “I’m not doing the digging,” I said. “And I haven’t the authority to order you to dig. You should have faked some kind of gas leak report, or something.”

  “All the utilities come in from the front, peeper.”

  “Callahan’s the name,” I said. “Brock Callahan. All-League for five years, you may remember.”

  “Wise son-of-a-bitch, aren’t you?” he said. “My God, they’ve struck something out there.” He went out the kitchen door.

  I picked up the phone quickly and got the West Side Station. Trask wasn’t there, but Pascal was. I told him the story quickly, and said, “Don’t tell anybody I phoned. This sergeant over here hates my guts.”

  “I can understand that,” Pascal said. “Okay, we’ll call the Chief.” He hung up without thanking me.

  One of the diggers was sucking at his hand, where a rose thorn had scratched it. The other one was bending over the hole, taking dirt out by the handfuls, now, working carefully. Sergeant McCall bent over as far as his obesity would permit. Then he went to his knees, and started taking out some dirt, himself.

  I mixed another rum and coke and went into the living room. In the Department car in front, I could see Juan Mira sitting between two uniformed men. They didn’t even want to take him down until they had something. Santa Monica takes care of its own, like Beverly Hills.

  Juan had caught me once, under the heart, and the little man could still hit. I had a bruise under the heart. But a good little man is not a match for even an ordinary big man if the big man is careful.

  Sirens, and an ambulance came up across the street, looking for a driveway to turn in. I went into the bedroom for my last look at Rosa’s picture. I didn’t want to see her when they pulled her out of the hole. I’d never seen her, and I sure as hell didn’t want this to be my first look.

  I heard steps in the kitchen, and went out. One of the diggers was getting a glass of water from the sink. He gulped as I looked at him anxiously.

  “Well — ?” I finally asked.

  “A girl all right,” he said. “Wrapped in silk, no less. That digging is sure hot work.” He looked at the rum and coke. “You cheap peeper, drinking a citizen’s booze.”

  I got home a little after eight, and I had my shower. I was going to put on a robe and relax, but I decided against that. I didn’t want to be alone with myself, not after today’s work. I wasn’t real proud of myself, though it had been a full day’s work.

  I put on a lightweight suit and a cotton sport shirt and went out into a fairly warm evening. I climbed into the flivver and drove north, toward Sunset. I had half a mind to go over to Christopher’s, though I wasn’t really looking forward to it. I’d had enough of the Christophers today.

  On Beverly Glen, the flivver seemed to turn itself, and go scooting up toward the hills. I swung it off to the left at the narrow side road and looked ahead anxiously to see if there was a light.

  There was a light.

  No sound from the dog as I went up the stepping stones. My heart hammering a little as I rang the bell.

  Jan came to the door and looked up puzzledly. “Nothing wrong, I hope?”

  “Everything all straightened out, except for a few ends. Are you — expecting company?”

  “Not exactly, though I was hoping someone would drop around. I don’t feel like going out, though.”

  “Neither do I,” I said. “Look, Jan, this — I mean, I’m probably bad company. But you talked about a — a need. And I certainly need someone tonight. It’s been a miserable day, and I’m a little sick of myself.”

  “It hasn’t been the best day in the world for me, either,” she said, and smiled up at me. “But it’s getting better. Won’t you come in, Doctor Callahan?”

  If you liked Murder in the Raw check out:

  The Wayward Widow

  Chapter One

  THE GIRL was a friend of an attorney I knew, an attorney who had some unusual friends. This one was about thirty-five, though she looked younger. She looked all right; I would judge her as 34-24-34. Her eyes were a bright and piercing blue and though her hair was fraudulently blonde, it had been changed by an expert.

  Her name was Carol Destry and she lived in San Valdesto. In case you’re not familiar with this area, San Valdesto is a town about ninety miles up the coast from Los Angeles. It was originally composed of millionaires and those who served them.

  A middle class is starting to infiltrate the town now, but that has nothing to do with Carol Destry. She deserted the middle class when she left college and went to work (?) for Dennis Greene. Greene had been a wealthy producer-director and there are those who say he was a good one. I never liked his pictures, but what’s one man’s opinion?

  Anyway, Greene was fifty-three when he hired Carol Destry and he was sixty-eight when he died, leaving an estate of two million — which means that she had been his so-called secretary for fifteen years and that he had been careful with his money.

  There was an estranged wife in the background he had never got around to divorcing and some nephews and nieces who claimed to have been very close to him. Natch. Miss Destry then made her pitch. She filed
suit in Superior Court to the effect that nobody, but nobody, had been as close to Dennis Greene as she had for fifteen loyal years.

  She had been his secretary, his nurse, his housekeeper, his shield against the vulgar and inartistic world. Her complaint went on to state that he had promised she would never want for anything but him after his death.

  What she wanted now was half a million. Because he hadn’t bequeathed her a dime.

  She had been at his bedside when he died; his wife had been in Bermuda. His wife hadn’t lived with him for fourteen years. She had, as a matter of fact, signed some kind of separate property agreement twelve years back but the validity of that was now being questioned by her attorney.

  Miss Destry was still staying at the Greene home, a simple California cottage of six bedrooms and seven baths on a summit overlooking the ocean. It was in a wooded area known as Halcyon Heights, a real estate development designed to assure its residents they would never be troubled with a proximity of Mexicans or Democrats.

  I couldn’t understand why Miss Destry would need my services, but my lawyer friend assured me my trip would be paid for and perhaps the lady would find something that needed doing in my line.

  So I drove up to San Valdesto.

  • • •

  She was in simple yellow linen, looking slim but adequate, when I steered the Plymouth up the climbing drive that led to the Greene home. She was sitting on the house-long, lawn-level front porch reading Time. She was wearing horn-rimmed glasses for this, and a thoughtful expression.

  She rose and smiled at me as I walked over from the parking area. “Mr. Puma?” she asked.

  “At your service,” I answered.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” she said wearily. “It’s been a bad time, a frightful time.”

  I said nothing. She nodded toward a wrought iron chair nearby and I sat down.

  She sat down and looked out over the restricted hills. “They hate me here.”

  “Who hates you, Miss Destry?” She waved. “All of them, all the snobs in this dull town. I’m an — intruder.”

  “Maybe the citizens are more friendly outside of Halcyon Heights. Have you tried them?”

  She stared at me thoughtfully. “I was told you were often sarcastic.”

  “I’m not trying to be. A development like this is based on snobbery; it helps to keep the real estate values up. It protects your — or Mr. Greene’s — considerable investment. That isn’t necessarily wrong, is it?”

  “I suppose not,” she admitted after a moment. “Would you like a drink?”

  “I guess. It’s been a hot drive. Beer, if you have it.”

  She rose and went toward the front door. Then she turned. “Oh, have you had lunch?” I shook my head.

  “We can eat in back,” she said. “Pool-side. It’s too nice a day to eat indoors.” She went through the doorway.

  No matter how long some people hang around the money, they can’t get over vulgarisms like “pool-side.” I pictured her without the yellow linen dress on, an adolescent habit of mine. She had seemed friendly. I wrenched my mind from that and tried to look professional. But behind my bland, professional look I was wondering what good a woman like that would do a sixty-eight-year-old man. It was a waste, a shameful waste.

  Of course, he had been fifty-three when he met her and there are some amazingly virile men of fifty-three.

  She brought a glass and bottle of Einlicher with her when she returned. She also brought something that looked like a Tom Collins for herself.

  We settled down again and she nodded toward the window behind her. “What do you think of that?”

  I looked and saw a shattered pane in the leaded, diamopd-paned window. I said, “It looks like a hole.”

  “Made with a rock,” she said. “A big rock, about eleven-thirty last night, while I was sitting not ten feet from the window.”

  “Kids?” I suggested.

  “I doubt it. And it wasn’t thrown from the road. The road’s too far away. It was thrown by someone standing on my — on this property.”

  “A kid with a real good arm could make it from the road,” I said. “Was it an isolated incident, or has something like this happened before?”

  “It wasn’t — I mean nothing this definite has happened before. But there have been prowlers. The servants left after Mr. Greene died and I was alone until this morning, when I hired a housekeeper. I was frightened.”

  “I see.” I sipped my beer. “Uh, how does it happen that you’re still here? Is the house in your name?”

  She looked at me steadily and suspiciously. “Mr. Greene’s attorney wants me to stay here until the estate is settled and the house disposed of. Why did you ask that?”

  “I’m trying to get the picture,” I explained. “The attorney who sent me up here, Mr. Darbo, didn’t really seem to know why you needed me.”

  “I need you as a bodyguard,” she said. “For protection.”

  “You could buy that cheaper. I’m rather expensive for guard work.”

  “I was aware of your rates. As a matter of fact it wasn’t only Mr. Darbo who recommended you. Franklyn Jeswald also thought you were the ideal man for the job.”

  Jeswald was an assistant D.A. in Los Angeles and I had done the only divorce job I’d ever handled for him. And I’d done that only because he was a nice guy and his wife a bitch. She was also a whore, but I’ve got nothing against them.

  “What are you thinking about, if it’s not personal?” Carol Destry asked.

  “Frank Jeswald’s wife.” She smiled. “Some girl. I understand she’s now selling what she used to give away.”

  “I didn’t hear that.” I sipped my beer and looked at Miss Destry. “A good-looking woman can always make out, can’t she?”

  Her chin lifted. “A good looking, smart woman can. Were you being personal, Mr. Puma?”

  “Not consciously. I will be, for a moment. Do you think you really have a case against the Greene estate?”

  She nodded. I asked, “Is Jack Darbo your attorney?”

  “He’s going to be. He’s taking over. The one who originally started the suit is a little stuffy, a local man.”

  I smiled. “Is ‘stuffy’ the proper word? Did you maybe mean ‘ethical’?”

  She looked at me frowningly. “Mr. Puma, you’re here as a prospective employee, not as a friend. I will not tolerate insolence from an employee.”

  “I’m sorry. As soon as I finish this beer, I’ll leave. I am what I am, Miss Destry, and I don’t intend to change my character for day wages.”

  Her frown deepened, but she said, “Aren’t you going to wait for lunch? I asked the housekeeper to set two places.”

  “All right.” I grinned down at her. “Why don’t we get along? We’re both middle-class.”

  “I’m not middle-class,” she said. “My father was a wealthy man.”

  “No, he wasn’t. He was a clubman and he lived well. He was a charming and knowing man, but he was never actually wealthy.”

  She stared at me.

  “I didn’t come up here blind and deaf,” I explained. “I like to get the background of any case I go into. And I like to get the facts from my client when I do accept a job. I’ve a feeling you haven’t been honest with me.” I nodded toward the broken window. “Was that really done with a rock?”

  She continued to stare. Finally she nodded, but it seemed like a lying nod to me, the stubborn lie of a child.

  “You could be frightened,” I said, “but not of anyone who only throws rocks.”

  She licked her lower lip. “How bright of you! Stay for lunch, anyway. It’s cheaper than buying one.”

  “You hit me where I live,” I answered, and sat down again. “Is there another bottle of that Einlicher around?”

  She brought me one and then it was time for lunch. It was a fine lunch. While we ate we talked, and I tried to learn exactly why she had sent for me.

  I didn’t learn anything. She had lived by her wits, her
charm and her body too long to be vulnerable to the clumsy probings of Joe Puma. We were drinking iced coffee when Jack Darbo came out from the house and over to where we sat.

  He was a man of about forty, tall and dark, a solemn man and an able attorney. He smiled at both of us and asked, “Come to terms?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “I can’t seem to get the picture.” He sat down on an aluminum chaise longue near us. “I was in town to see Winters, so I thought I’d drop over.” He looked at Miss Destry. “I have a feeling he considers our claim almost reasonable.”

  “Is Winters the executor?” I asked. He nodded at me and continued to look at Carol Destry. “Has anything happened since you phoned about the window?

  She shook her head. He looked at me. “You said something about not getting the picture. What did that mean, Joe?”

  “I can’t understand a client sending all the way to Los Angeles and paying a hundred dollars a day for work she could probably get done locally for thirty dollars a day.”

  He smiled gravely. “We didn’t set your rates. Would you feel better about it if we only paid you thirty dollars a day?” I didn’t answer.

  “Don’t take the job, Joe,” he said mildly, “if you feel there’s anything doubtful about it.”

  “If I followed that philosophy,” I told him, “I’d starve to death. Consider me hired.”

  Darbo left in a few minutes and I poured myself more iced coffee. I had brought clothes, expecting to stay in a motel overnight if the job had required more than a few hours, so there was nothing for me to do now but stay close to Carol Destry.

  It was phony as hell to me, but I couldn’t figure why else she had sent for me. If she was looking for a patsy, it might figure I would make a good one, but that didn’t make sense to me.

  What then? Why then?

  “You’re brooding again,” she said.

  “I was quietly admiring the scenery,” I lied. “Darbo seems to think you have a case, huh?”

  “Mmmm-hmmm. Don’t you?”

  “I’ve no idea. I’m not a lawyer.” She stared at me for seconds and then said stiffly, “I usually swim and sun-bathe this time of day. You may wait here. Or if you’ve brought swimming trunks, you may use the pool. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”