A Gambling Man
Page 33
Douglas swallowed the rest of his bourbon and collapsed back against the chair. “Right,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
Beth looked worriedly at him and then said to Archer, “What can be done?”
“I’m not sure. But I do know that your husband is being set up as a patsy to take the fall.”
“I never had anything to do with Ruby Fraser, I swear.”
Archer glanced at Beth. She had told him she didn’t know whether her husband was sleeping with the lady. But now, in her countenance, he only saw belief in Douglas’s words. She gripped his hand to show her support.
“Okay, I believe you,” said Archer.
“You do?”
“I’ve seen and heard of other ladies throwing themselves at you. No go on their part. Why would that be?” He looked at Beth. “Because he loves you.”
Beth looked at Douglas, and Archer saw a glimmer of tears there, from both of them.
“But you’re not out of the woods,” continued Archer. “Talk to me about the island.”
“I don’t know anything about—good Lord, what is that?”
A door could be heard banging open; there was a shout followed by mingled cries, and feet pounding fast toward where they were. Archer had risen, his hand moving to his .38. The Kempers stood, too, staring at the doorway, their arms around one another.
Archer quickly moved the hand away from the gun when he saw who was arriving at the party.
Chief Carl Pickett and four of his beefy coppers, looking all nice and shiny in their brass buttons, clipped hats, shoulder straps, big guns, and brash countenances.
Archer could see they were all excited, and he knew why. Rousting a poor slob was not a thrill; they probably did it every day. But slinging mud at the rich, carrying them out of their palaces, now that could get a man’s blood going.
Pickett eyed all of them there, and a grin spread over his face as he extracted a small stogie from his pocket and took a moment to light up.
“Well, well,” said Pickett as the three stood there staring at him.
“What do you want?” demanded Douglas. And it was clearly a demand.
Pickett strolled over to him. “Don’t go all high and mighty on me, Kemper. You might be married to the boss’s daughter, but that means shit to me.”
“I’m my own boss.”
“Whatever you say. But what I’ve come here to say is, you’re under arrest.”
“For what!”
“Do I really have to spell it out for you and upset the missus?”
“You’re damn right you do,” insisted Beth.
“Okay. You’re being arrested for the murders of Ruby Fraser and Wilson Sheen.”
“What would possibly be my motivation?”
“You were bedding Fraser, and Sheen found out and was blackmailing you for it,” replied Pickett. “That comes out, you’re not going to be the mayor of this town.”
“That’s absurd,” cried out Beth. “He was not sleeping with that woman.”
“Well, then, how did we find a pair of his cufflinks in her bedroom? Along with a shirt belonging to him that has blood on it, and that matches the blood type of the deceased woman? How did two witnesses swear on the Bible that they saw him in the company of Miss Fraser on the night she died? And that they had seen the two a week earlier in Mr. Kemper’s Rolls-Royce Phantom?” Pickett sidled up to Kemper and said in a low voice. “If you want to screw around with other women, you really need to do it in a low-down Ford.”
“And Sheen?” said Archer.
Pickett gave him a withering look. “What are you doing here, whatever your name is? Willie off in the bottle and sent the schoolboy to cover for him?”
“The name’s Archer. And what evidence do you have that Kemper killed Sheen?”
Pickett got so close that Archer could smell the cheap gin on the man’s breath. “Well, let me tell you, Archer, the autopsy on Sheen showed enough barbiturates in his stomach to make a horse go nighty-night. And Sheen and Kemper were seen having drinks at the club earlier that night. A perfect setup to slip the man a mickey and then come back later and kill him.”
“You’re crazy,” said Kemper. “I was having dinner with Wilson when Fraser was killed.”
“Sure, sure you were. Anybody else verify that?”
“No, we were at the office alone.”
“And he’s dead and can’t verify that. Right,” scoffed Pickett. “Of all the lame excuses.” He looked at his men. “Take him away.”
“I’ll call my father,” Beth said quickly, giving her husband a kiss on the cheek before he was handcuffed and led away.
Pickett said. “Not even Daddy will be able to get his little prince out of this jam, lady.”
And Archer thought he might just be right about that.
Chapter 58
NOW IT WAS JUST BETH AND ARCHER.
“This is ridiculous,” said Beth. “Douglas wouldn’t harm a fly.”
“They didn’t arrest him for harming a fly,” Archer pointed out.
“My father will know what to do.”
She rushed from the room, leaving Archer alone. He mixed himself a whiskey and soda. He was drinking it in his chair when Beth returned about fifteen minutes later.
“My father will be here shortly. He’s as distraught as I am.”
“But what do you really think he can do?”
“He can…do something. You don’t believe Douglas killed those people, do you?”
“No, but I can’t prove it.”
“He hired you. You have to help him.”
“He hired us to find the truth. That’s the road we’re going down.”
“The truth will be enough,” said Beth firmly.
“Yeah,” said Archer. “That and ten cents won’t get you a cup of coffee. So talk to me about the island.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“I need you to try. You were at the harbor that night when your father came back in on the boat. Why were you there?”
“I…thought he might be there.”
Archer shook his head. “It was almost three in the morning. You didn’t take a ride down there on the chance that you might run into him.”
She lit another cigarette and blew puffs of smoke to the ceiling. She finally looked at him. “I need a drink,” she said.
“Dry Manhattan again?”
“Something stronger than that.”
Archer rose and poured out three fingers of scotch, neat. “If that doesn’t do it for you, go to the hospital and get some morphine.” He sat back down and picked up his glass and watched the lady drink hers. “When your father gets here, will the two palookas be with him?”
“I don’t know. Probably. They usually go where he goes.”
“I have it on good authority that they’ve been ordered to do me in on account of I’ve been snooping around that island.”
She glanced up sharply. “What good authority?”
“Good authority.”
“You’re saying that my father wants to have you killed because of your snooping around that island?”
“You need to try that line again, Beth, and add in surprise this time. It’s like eating spaghetti without the meatballs.”
“Oh, so now I’m in on the conspiracy against you?”
Archer swallowed the rest of his drink and shook his head. “Wanting a man dead doesn’t have to constitute a conspiracy. You just need someone willing to do the deed and a weapon with which to do it. And there are lots of both around this town, I’ve found.”
“Well, then you better scram before the death squad gets here.”
“Since you won’t spill on the island, let me do some spilling.” He lit up a Lucky, bent the match, and flicked it into the empty fireplace. “Casinos on that island would be worth more money than even your old man has ever made, I’m thinking.”
“You can’t have casinos in California. You can only bet on horses and play in card clubs.”
“My, my, Archer, you’re so free with your compliments.”
“My point is, why go out for filet mignon if you already have it at home?”
She looked down and said demurely, “Sometimes, the grass is greener. But casinos really are a no-go in this state. So why all the interest in that island?”
“That chunk of rock isn’t part of California. It was owned by the feds and then sold to Stearman Enterprises. The surveyors have already started to work it.”
“Which surveyors?”
“Lancet.”
He watched her catch a breath and her face changed color.
“Yeah, I thought that might be the case. There’s only one hitch in the giddy-up I haven’t pegged yet.”
“What’s that?” she said dumbly.
Before Archer answered, they could hear footsteps. A few moments later Sawyer Armstrong appeared, hat in hand, and, thankfully, with no Hank and Tony behind him.
Chapter 59
ARMSTRONG’S GAZE FLICKED AROUND THE ROOM before alighting and holding on his daughter.
He hurried across and wrapped his long arms around her. “Oh, honey, this must be very distressing for you.”
Archer watched Beth Kemper. If he had used the flower metaphor before, now it was like acid had been thrown on the bloom. She wilted as though every molecule of water had been drained from her at the man’s touch.
He tilted her chin up so she would look at him. He was dressed more formally tonight, a three-piece wool suit with a colorful cravat. His hat was a dark brown fedora with a crimson band. A pair of specs poked out from his breast pocket.
“We will make this right, Beth,” he said.
Archer thought, Well, there’s a lot of wriggle room in that statement.
He looked around and spotted Archer. Armstrong slowly let the woman go and faced him. “I was under the impression that you had been warned to stay away from Beth.”
“It’s all right, Dad,” said Beth. “I said—”
He put up a hand, and she stopped and stepped back. “Archer? I’m waiting for an answer.”
“I didn’t hear a question. But maybe that’s just me. By the way, where are Laurel and Hardy? Out beating up some old ladies for their church money?”
Those lines didn’t even warrant the tiniest of smiles from Armstrong.
The man turned to Beth. “I’ll talk to Carl. I’m sure this can be rectified.”
“They have evidence, or so they say,” commented Archer, one eye on Armstrong and his other on the doorway waiting for Hank and Tony to appear. “Pretty compelling stuff. Cufflinks, bloody shirt with guess-who’s blood on it, eyewitness testimony, stomach contents from Sheen. I’m no lawyer, but even a bad DA could make hay out of that.”
Armstrong said, “You and Willie never gave me an answer on my offer. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“I work for him. It’s his call.”
“Then tell him what I said. And just do it.”
“By any means necessary?” asked Archer, with a glance at Beth, who looked at the floor and nothing else.
“I won’t tell Willie or you how to do your job. I’d appreciate the same courtesy.”
“Yeah. Well, I guess I’ll be going then.” He looked at Beth. “You going to be okay?”
“She’ll be fine, Archer, now that I’m here,” Armstrong answered for her.
The night sky was bursting with stars, the air chilly enough to make him feel alive, and yet with all that, part of Archer felt dead inside as he steered the Delahaye back down the mountain. The scent of eucalyptus was so strong he felt his eyes start to water. He glanced at his timepiece. He debated whether to go back to Midnight Moods, but then decided against it. He opted to return to the office, call Dash, wake him up if necessary, and get his advice.
He pulled to the curb in front of the office building and got out. The front door to the building was unlocked and Archer proceeded down the hall toward the stairs. He reached the elevator and stopped. The elevator’s outer door was partially open because there was something blocking it. And that something was an arm, with a gnarled hand at the end of it.
Archer quickly pushed the door all the way open, revealing Earl lying there, his face pointed to the side.
“Earl, you okay? Earl?”
The man’s eyes were closed, and it was dark enough that Archer couldn’t see whether he was breathing or not. He might have had a heart attack or maybe a stroke.
He knelt down and felt around the man’s neck. He didn’t need to check for a pulse, because when he pulled his fingers back the clotted blood came with them. Archer pivoted on the balls of his feet for a better look at the little man. He tipped the chin back a bit and saw the slash across the neck.
This was Ruby Fraser all over again. The man was cold. He’d been dead awhile, but his limbs weren’t stiff. Archer looked around the elevator car and saw what looked to be a pile of blankets in one corner along with a newspaper and the bottle of booze he had seen before. Archer sniffed the air. From out of the pile of blankets he pulled a raw onion, half eaten, and a knuckle of bread with some roast beef inserted in it. Along with a pair of underwear and a torn sock.
The guy was living here?
He backed out of the car and hurried toward the stairs. And stopped again.
A door off the hall was open. The doorjamb was shredded and the locking side of the door had a long crack in it.
Archer eyed the name stenciled on the door.
MYRON O’DONNELL, M.D.
Archer recalled the name because O’Donnell was the surgeon who’d recently removed Beth Kemper’s appendix.
He eased the broken door open.
“Hello? Dr. O’Donnell, you okay? It’s Archer from upstairs. I work for Willie Dash.”
There was no response. The place had the feel of a tomb. Archer nipped out his gun and pointed it around. He worked his way through the front reception room, which had six wooden-back chairs all in a row, and a coffee table with magazines spread out on it. He spied an old Look magazine from 1948. And a Life magazine from August with a toothy Joe DiMaggio on the cover.
“Hello?” said Archer.
He reached another door and pushed it open. This must be where O’Donnell kept his drug dispensary. The glass cabinet was smashed open, and bottles and spilled pills littered the floor.
Archer left this room and headed on. The next room was O’Donnell’s office. Archer could tell because the man’s diplomas were on the wall. There was a desk with two chairs on the patient’s side, and one office chair on the other.
And in the office chair was a dead man.
Chapter 60
ARCHER RUSHED UP TO THE FOURTH FLOOR to make sure that Dash had not been a victim as well. When he unlocked the door and burst into Dash’s office’s a few moments later, he heard a voice call out, “One more step and you get a third eye, buster.”
“It’s me, Archer.”
Dash turned on a light revealing him sitting on the side of the bed holding a lethal-looking .32 Colt. “What the hell are you doing here?”
And Archer told him what he was doing there. Dash hurriedly dressed and raced out without bothering to don his toupee.
They first went to look at Earl. “Shit,” Dash said.
Then he followed Archer to the doctor’s office.
Dash looked down at the body. “Shit twice,” he muttered.
“Who is it? Dr. O’Donnell?”
Dash nodded, picked up the dead doctor’s phone, and made a call.
“Ernie Prettyman on duty? Yeah, right. Tell him it’s Willie Dash. Thanks.”
A few moments passed and then Prettyman came on. Dash told him what had happened.
“Okay, Ern, we’ll be here,” s
aid Dash in reply to whatever Prettyman had said.
Dash put down the phone and said, “Okay, you look like you have something to tell me.”
“Pickett arrested Kemper for the murders of Fraser and Sheen.” Archer told him about all the evidence Pickett said he had on Kemper. And the fact that Beth had called her father and that Armstrong had shown up a bit later.
“I’m sure Pickett paid top dollar for the eyewitness accounts,” said Dash. “And the other stuff is easy to massage into evidence of anything you want it to.”
“We can’t fight the whole police force, Willie.”
“Maybe not. Let’s go analyze this sucker and see what they were really after.”
In the dispensary Dash carefully looked over the tossed bottles and spilled pills. Then he stepped back and said, “Tell me what you see here, Archer. Take your time and think it over.”
Archer bent down and picked up some of the bottles and scooped up some of the pills. He compared some pills with some bottles and even put some of the scattered pills back in the bottles. He looked up at Dash.
“This thing was staged, to make it look like a robbery with drugs as the loot.”
Dash nodded. “You’re right. But explain to me your reasoning.”
Archer stood and held out two half-empty bottles and a handful of pills. “This is morphine. And these pills are amphetamines. Worth a small fortune on the street.”
“That’s right.”
“But when you compare the pills they spilled with the space left inside the bottles, they pretty much tally. So they didn’t take any narcotics with them.”
“And they didn’t have to smash the cabinet open. The key’s in the lock. The idiots obviously didn’t see it, or else they would have taken it with them.”
“Did you know O’Donnell?”
Dash nodded. “He was a good guy. A good doctor.”
“Why would anyone want to kill him?”
“That’s principally why they call it a mystery, Archer.”