“Toilet?”
“Down the hall. We take turns with the shower. Me and three other girls.”
“Good to know,” said Dash. “Take a seat on the davenport and let’s have a little chat.”
She did so, and Archer leaned against the wall with his notepad and pen. The woman was calm, patient, and unmoved. All things she shouldn’t have been with them. The room had a scent to it other than the cigarettes. He eyed her clothes. The pajamas were polka-dotted and looked like a man’s outfit, wide in the shoulders, narrow in the hips. He wondered where she had gotten them. Not from Kemper, they were too short for him.
“What is it that you do here, Ruby?” asked Dash.
“I sing and dance and do skits. And I work with Ralph Jeffries. He’s good, showing me the ropes. He was in vaudeville before the war. You know him?”
Dash shook his head. “Where you from?”
“Illinois.”
“Chicago?”
“Never been to Chicago. I usually tell people I’m from Peoria because that was the closest big city to where I’m from. But I’ve never been there neither.”
“What are you doing out here?”
“Looking for something besides Peoria.”
Archer noted that she put her hand to her mouth while speaking. When she removed it, he noted the line of yellowed uneven teeth, with scraggly points at either end.
Archer said, “You sticking around here long, Miss Fraser?”
“Just call me Ruby. Long enough to learn my craft, that’s what they call it. Then I’m off to Hollywood. I want to be in pictures. Soon as I get my teeth fixed. I’m saving up.” She now opened her mouth wide to show them.
“Hollywood, huh?” said Archer. “That seems to be going around like the flu.”
“Douglas Kemper?” said Dash.
“What about him?”
“So you know him?”
“He comes here pretty regular. They have a card club here. He’s a member.”
“Card club?” said Archer.
Dash said, “California doesn’t allow casino gambling like they do in Nevada, Archer. They used to have gambling ships just past the three-mile mark, but before the war a state attorney general by the name of Earl Warren, and who is now our esteemed governor, got them outlawed. Now the card clubs are the only game in town, unless you’re into horse racing, which is allowed as well.”
“But isn’t card playing still gambling?”
“There’s no House to play against. The players are pitted against one another.”
“How does the House make money, then?”
“Various fees. Players pay for their seats, they pay by the hand, things like that. The House provides the space, the dealer, the cashier. They make good money. The clubs are real popular. The one here does very well. The more players, the more money you make.”
Fraser said, “Mr. Kemper is married to some important lady, so’s I hear. He’s very nice.”
“How nice, meaning to you?” said Dash.
She picked up the lit stub and took a long drag on it, shooting both men probing looks. “Who wants to know?”
“For starters, I do. And maybe Mrs. Kemper, the very important lady.”
She looked relieved. “She’s got nothing to worry about. He’s a perfect gentleman.”
“Then you have no idea who might be claiming that Kemper and you are far more than friends?”
She presented him with a knife-sharp glare. “What are you trying to pull here, mister? Who says that?”
“Mr. Kemper has received a blackmail demand and you figure prominently in it.”
“Well, I don’t know nothing about that. Sweet Jesus.”
“Then if someone asked, you’d say that there was nothing there?”
“That’s what I’m telling you. That’s what I’d tell anybody who asked.”
“I need you to tell me that you’re speaking the truth.”
“I am. I never slept with Mr. Kemper. Swear to God.”
“Okay, Archer, you got that?”
Archer nodded. “Got it. Swear to God.”
“Okay, the next time we come back it’ll be with an affidavit for you to sign. Do you know what an affidavit is?”
She shook her head.
“Well, it’s a document where you tell the truth and then sign it, to make it official. Then, if you change your story, it can be used against you.”
“Well, why would anyone want to sign that?” she asked.
“It can also help you, but only if you’re telling the truth. And since you are, there’s no problem, right?” said Archer.
She didn’t respond. She just looked at Archer like he was the last thing standing between her and death row.
Dash rose. “One more thing. How much do you make here?”
“Hundred dollars a week, room and board included. Most dough I ever made. Why?”
“Just setting a baseline, Ruby. That’s all.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I suppose not. You’re not thinking of leaving town anytime soon?”
She eyed him like a chicken did a fox. “I don’t know. Should I?”
“Not till you hear from me, no. But if I do tell you to go, Ruby, you need to go like nobody’s business.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Good. Then I’m getting my point across.” He added, “Maybe we’ll be back to take in your show. What time does it start?”
“Ten o’clock sharp.”
“I’ll have to take a nap. You be a good girl, Ruby, and we’ll get through this.”
Downstairs, Dash made a call from the front office of Midnight Moods to Connie Morrison and then waited for a few minutes for her to ring him back with an answer. After that, as they were leaving, Archer said, “Do you believe her?”
“I’m not sure. What I am sure about is that she’s a drug user.”
Archer looked startled. “How do you know?”
“The eyes don’t lie. From the looks of her I’d say opium. Don’t think she’s taken heroin yet. Hope she never does. That’s the difference between getting shot with a .22 and a bazooka.”
“Where are we off to now?”
“The next piece of the puzzle, Archer.”
“Mrs. Kemper?”
Dash gave him an admiring look. “You might just make a decent gumshoe after all.”
Chapter 25
ARCHER DROVE BACK TOWARD TOWN and then up a road that zigzagged as they passed canyons with clefts that crept through the rock like capillaries inside the body. As they reached a plateau in the rise and the ground flattened out like a skillet, he was then directed by Dash to pass through a pair of impressive wrought iron gates embossed with the letter A in scrollwork that appeared when the gates were closed and the two halves came together. The gates were mounted on two enormous stone columns. With the ocean on the left and the foothills of the Santa Ynez Mountains on the right, the Delahaye roared along on a curved, pale cobblestone road.
The trees up here were lush and covered the ground like a vast, decamped army. Fifty-foot-tall live oaks with their jumble of branches lined their way. Spanish moss hung off them like veils on blushing brides.
This botanical spectacle held forth until they rounded a bend where the columns of trees retreated. There the greenest, widest patch of grassy lawn Archer had ever seen commenced; it led up to a peninsula of land on which sat a long two-story structure that was built of limestone block, round gray and brown stone, and other elements thrown in for interesting architectural measure. A sea of French doors ran along the front and were anchored by a pair of massive wrought iron doors with impressive scrollwork that served as the main entrance. On either side of them were lit gas lanterns about the size of Archer’s torso, and still they seemed small next to the doors.
Thick, plush, variegated ivy covered much of the home’s lower front façade. Throughout the landscape were well-tended flower beds creating patterns of color, green hedges, and lush topiary bushes set
in either pots or the ground. It was an idyllic setting powered by money, and presumably a lot of it. Along with a ton of sweat labor.
As they turned and came up the long drive running along the face of the house, Archer got a glimpse of the rear grounds, which faced the ocean and held a stunning vista of the Pacific. There was a tennis court with a tented seating area on one side and an oval-shaped pool with deep, dark blue water on the other. A long stone wall ran along the rear perimeter of the property, which presumably ended in a cliff. The Pacific stretched out nearly a thousand feet below like a private body of water.
Next, he looked at a large metal-roofed barn from which two men in denim work clothes were coming out, while another man pushed a wheelbarrow full of brush; a fourth man hosed down a dark blue Triumph Roadster with its canvas top up. A green John Deere tractor sat idle near the barn; a man had the engine cover open and was tinkering with the motor.
Archer pulled to a stop in the paved motor court next to a red-and-black Bentley with a topless front compartment for the chauffeur. Next to that was a silver-and-black Rolls-Royce Phantom.
As Dash got out he said, “Hey, now your ride’s in good company.”
“I’d say so,” replied Archer. “Nice place the Kempers have.”
“Didn’t you note the letter A on the gates? Sawyer Armstrong built this place for his daughter as a wedding present but couldn’t resist putting his ‘name’ on it.”
Dash breathed in the sea air that rose up from below like it had taken an express elevator car to get there. “Smell that, Archer?”
“Yeah. Fish.”
“Bet you never seen a house this big before?”
“I have.”
“Get outta here, you’re having one on me.”
“The one I saw back in Poca City was bigger than this place, but not by much. But it was also phony and so were the people in it. The jury’s still out on this one.”
“It won’t be much longer. But I wouldn’t call Beth Kemper a phony.”
“How do you know she’ll see us?”
“I phoned Connie from Midnight Moods and had her set up an appointment. She called back to confirm it. That’s what I was waiting on.”
They walked up to the massive double front doors. They, too, were embossed with an A, but here each door held its own letter.
Archer said, “Boy, the guy likes to remind people of the origins of this place.”
Dash said, “For me, it’s a sign of insecurity, but I could be wrong.”
He poked at a buzzer. From somewhere distant they heard the peal of a bell, its sound dulled by distance.
About twenty seconds later footsteps approached.
The opening door revealed a Chinese man who wore a waist-long white tuxedo jacket, black pants with lighter black stripes down the sides of the trousers, and a bow tie the color of the pants. His skin was tanned, and he had three moles that marched across his forehead like a line of ants. His dark hair was trimmed with silver at the temples, like the best character actors in the movies, and was slicked back. He had a long, tapered mustache that dovetailed around his mouth and ended in a stringy goatee. He had the sort of face that made it hard to guess the correct age. Archer put the range at forty to sixty.
“Willie Dash and Archer to see Mrs. Kemper. We’re expected.”
“May I see identification, please?”
“Oh, so you’re one of those butlers? Okay, pal, feast your eyes.”
Dash held out his ID card and the man examined it long enough to have copied out all the information it contained three times over. He handed it back and motioned them in. He closed the door, and they followed him down a marble hall that had a cushiony Oriental rug running right down the middle of it for what seemed like miles. The walls were festooned with enough paintings that Archer could have been forgiven for believing he had mistakenly stepped into a museum. They passed large rooms that were all furnished with just the right amount of furniture and not a smidgen more. White, gray, and pale blue were the dominant colors. Archer could see how that scheme would play well off the California sun that was streaming in through all the windows and French doors that also lined the rear of the home.
The interior was as quiet as a tomb and nearly as joyful, Archer thought as he walked next to Dash. Even with all the beautiful things, he couldn’t imagine living here.
The man stopped at double curved doors made of walnut, which shone with elbow-greased polish, and knocked on one of them.
“All right,” said the voice within. To Archer it sounded dulled and joyless, like a knife blade left outside to rust.
He steeled himself to meet Beth Armstrong Kemper.
Chapter 26
THE MAN OPENED THE DOOR and stepped to the side for them to pass through. They did so and he closed the door, and Archer heard his soft footsteps moving away.
Archer glanced around the room. He didn’t have to be a world-class shamus to deduce that this was the library. Three walls of floor-to-ceiling shelves bursting with books would have been his first and only necessary clue. The carpet was white with subtle dashes of orange and muted teal done up in a breaking-wave pattern. It felt deep and springy, like he was standing on a trampoline. The furniture was large and tasteful and well laid out over the room’s expanse. A fireplace at one end was mounted in stone and topped by a mantel consisting of one enormous worm-eaten piece of blackened and distressed timber that someone could have built a boat out of with wood left over. Despite the warmth outside, it was deliciously cool in here, and a small fire flickered in the hearth. There were two camel-haired wingback chairs set in front of the fireplace. One of them was occupied.
When Beth Kemper rose and turned to them, Archer had to catch his breath and almost dropped the notepad and pen he’d taken from his pocket. She was not the most beautiful woman or the one with the finest figure he had ever seen. Yet he wasn’t sure he had ever been in the presence of a lovelier woman, and right now he couldn’t explain the distinction. It was just a feeling, an overpowering one.
She was tall and slim, with blonde hair that had not come out of the bottle. It skimmed her shoulders like a shade tree does its underlings. Her skin wasn’t pale in keeping with her hair. It had a healthy glow that radiated right up to her eyes, which were cornflower blue but seemed enhanced by something inside the woman that transformed soft cornflower into electrically charged sapphires.
Her features were classical in the sense that there wasn’t a flaw to be detected or criticized. The cheek bumps, the jawline, the slender, plum, line-straight nose, the shallow sockets the eyes rested in, the high forehead without trace of wrinkle or brow furrow, all seemed molded by the sure hand of a sculptor intent on perfection, or at least most people’s view thereof.
She was dressed simply in a lavender day dress that dropped straight down her tall frame, with a strip of white around the neck and also at the ends of the elbow-length sleeves. The hemline just touched her knees. She wore a strand of small pearls, a platinum, engraved wrist cuff, and white unadorned heels of simple, elegant design. Her engagement and wedding rings were the stuff of royalty, thought Archer.
He also observed that Beth Kemper had the weary expression of a woman who wished to tolerate others only on her terms but had never yet been afforded that singular opportunity.
He figured she couldn’t be much older than he was, maybe thirty at the most.
“Gentlemen,” she said, her voice bubbling like a brook, but he thought that might be just for a certain effect.
“Mrs. Kemper. I’m Willie Dash. You might remember me. Our paths have crossed at certain functions from time to time. This is my associate, Archer.”
Kemper barely looked at Dash. “Is Archer your surname or given one?” she asked.
For a moment Archer couldn’t remember the answer. He twirled his hat in his hands, a trait of his when nervous, and said, “Archer’s my last name.”
“And your Christian name?”
“Aloysius.”
&nbs
p; She nodded, satisfied, and motioned to the two chairs while she stood with her back to the fire. “Yes, Mr. Dash, I do remember you. You and my father go way back.”
After they sat, Dash said, “We’ve known each other a long time, yes.”
“To the extent that anyone really knows my father.”
“Yes ma’am. I understand what you mean. He and I have butted heads a few times, and I can’t say I understand him any better now than I did then.”
“Then you and I have something in common.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Would you like something to drink? A bit early in the day but I’m having one if that influences your decision.”
It was then that Archer saw the bar set up a few paces from the fireplace and on the same wall.
“Bourbon straight is fine by me,” said Dash, running his eye along the rows of bottles.
She nodded and looked at Archer with hiked eyebrows that were as rigid as a pencil, even in the uplifted position, and far darker than her hair. The combination of the two colors for some reason had a deeply unsettling effect on him. As though he were looking at two women instead of merely one.
“And you, Mr. Archer?”
“Whatever you’re having. And you can just call me Archer.”
She nodded, turned to the bar table, and fixed their drinks. Her motions were practiced and efficient, Archer thought as she jiggered, measured, and mixed. That bar must see a lot of work, he figured.
He glanced at another table that was bedecked with framed photographs. He rose and started looking over them. They were all signed either to Beth or Douglas, but none together. There was one of the vice president, and another signed, “Best wishes, Earl Warren.” Then he glanced at another one. “You know Jimmy Stewart?”
She turned to him from the bar table. “My husband did. They flew together in the war.”
“Your husband’s a pilot?”
“Yes, at least he was.” She presented Dash with his bourbon and nothing else in a cut crystal glass. Then she handed Archer his drink. “Dry Manhattan, Archer.”
A Gambling Man Page 14