Ten minutes of waiting, and I went up to his door. I could hear a record player giving out with Brahms. I rang the bell. No answer. I knocked. No answer.
The music stopped and in a few seconds started over again. Hartley could be asleep or out, or maybe he liked the record. I tried the door; it was locked.
Was there another door? Not in the hallway, but perhaps there was one opening on the balconies overlooking the pool.
I found that there was a small sun-deck right off Hartley's door. The door was locked but I could see into his living room through a window opening onto the sun-deck. I could see Hartley.
He was on the floor, his face and forehead covered with dark blood. I didn't know if he was dead, but he wasn't moving.
I went along the balcony to the first neighbor's door and rang the bell. A Negro woman in a maid's uniform opened it and I told her, “The tenant in Apartment 22 has been seriously hurt. Would you phone the police and tell them to bring a doctor along? It's Mr. Hartley and he's on the floor in his living room. They'll have to break in, unless the manager's around."
"I'll phone the manager, too,” she said.
I went to the nearest pay phone and called Mr. Ladugo. He wasn't home. I phoned Barney Allison and told him what had happened.
"And you didn't wait for the police to arrive? You're in trouble, Joe."
"Maybe. What I want you to do is keep phoning Mr. Ladugo. When you get him, tell him what happened. And tell him his daughter was just leaving the place as I drove up."
"Man, we could both lose our licenses."
"You couldn't. Do as I say now."
"All right. But I'm not identifying myself. And when the law nabs you, you'd better not tell them you told me about this."
"I won't. Get going, man!"
From there, I drove to Santa Monica, to one of the modest sections of that snug, smug suburb where one of my older lady friends lived. She was well past seventy, and retired. But for forty years, she had handled the society page for Los Angeles’ biggest newspaper.
She was out in front, pruning her roses. She smiled at me. “Hello, stranger. If it's money you want, I'm broke. If it's a drink, you know where the liquor is."
"Just information, Frances,” I said. “I want to know all you know about the Ladugos."
"A fascinating story,” she said. “Come on in; I'll have a drink with you."
She told me what she knew plus the gossip.
Then I said, “Because Ladugo's wife was messing around with this other man, it doesn't necessarily follow that Ladugo wasn't the child's father. She and the other man could have been enjoying a perfectly platonic friendship."
"They might have been. But I don't think so. And neither did any of their friends at that time. I mean her good friends, not the catty ones. They were frankly scandalized by her behavior."
"All right,” I said. “Your gossip has usually proven more accurate than some supposedly factual stories. May I use your phone?"
She nodded.
I phoned Barney Allison and he told me I could reach Mr. Ladugo at home. I phoned Mr. Ladugo.
He said, “My daughter's here now, Mr. Puma. She tells me that she never went into Mr. Hartley's apartment. She stayed there quite awhile, ringing his bell, because she could hear music inside and she thought he must be home."
"She told me this morning,” I said, “that she was never going to see him again. She could be lying now, too."
A pause. “I—don't think she is. She's very frightened.” Another pause. “How about Hartley? Is he dead?"
"I don't know. Did Hartley try to blackmail you, Mr. Ladugo?"
"Blackmail me? Why? How?"
"Let me talk to Miss Ladugo, please,” I said.
His voice was harsh. “Is something going on I don't know about?"
"Could be. But I don't know about it either. Could I speak with Miss Ladugo?"
Another pause and then, “Just a moment."
The soft and humble voice of Angela Ladugo, “What is it you want, Mr. Puma?"
"The truth, if it's in you. Was Hartley blackmailing you? What was it, pictures?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Puma."
"Okay,” I said. “I'm supposed to be working for your father. But I'm not going to lose my license over a job. I'm going to the police now."
Silence for a few seconds, and then, “That would be stupid. That would be extremely poor business. Wait, here's Father."
After an interval Mr. Ladugo got on the wire. His voice was almost a whisper. “Will you come over here, first, Mr. Puma? And would you bring your reports along?"
"I'll be there in less than an hour,” I said.
As I hung up, Frances said, “Scandal, eh? And do I get let in on it? No, no. I tell you all and you tell me nothing."
"Honey,” I said, “you're a reporter. Telling all is your business. But privacy is what I sell."
"I'm not a reporter any more, Wop. I'm a lonely old woman looking for gossip to warm my heart over. Don't hurry back, you slob."
"I love you, Frances,” I said. “I love you all the ways there are. And I'll be back with the gossip."
I didn't stop for the reports. I went over to the office for that purpose, but I saw the Department car in front and kept going. Sergeant Sam Heller would remember that I was asking about Jean Hartley the other day and that's why the law was waiting in front of my office. This would indicate that Hartley was either dead or unconscious, or the law would be parked somewhere else.
In the Ladugo home, Papa was waiting for me with Angela in his library. He sat in a leather chair behind his desk; Angela stood near the sliding glass doors that led to the pool and patio.
I said, “I couldn't get the reports. The police were waiting for me at my office, so I keep moving."
He nodded. “Somebody must have recognized you."
"I guess."
He looked at his daughter's back and again at me. “Why did you mention blackmail?"
"You tell me,” I said. “Has it happened before?"
He colored. Angela turned. Her voice was ice. “What kind of remark was that, Mr. Puma?"
I looked at her coolly. “Blackmail could be a good way to milk your dad. Especially, if you worked with Hartley."
"And why should I cheat my own father? I'm his only child, Mr. Puma."
"Maybe,” I suggested, “you get everything you want—except money. I don't know, of course, but that's one thought."
Ladugo said, “Aren't you being insolent, Mr. Puma?"
"I guess I am,” I said. “Your daughter brings out the worst in me, sir.” I took a deep breath and looked at him quietly.
He was rolling a pencil on this desk with the flat of his hand. “When you finally talk to the police, it wouldn't be necessary to tell them why you were at Hartley's apartment, would it."
"I'm afraid it would. If he's dead, I'm sure it would."
He continued to roll the pencil and now he was looking at it, absorbed in the wonder of his moving hand. “You'd have to tell them the truth? I mean, there could be other reasons why you were over there, couldn't there?"
I smiled. “For how much?"
He looked up hopefully. “For—a thousand dollars?"
I shook my head. “Not even for a million."
He was beet red and there was hate in his eyes. “Then why did you mention money?"
"Because I wanted you to come right out with a bribe offer. I don't like pussy-footing."
I looked over at his daughter and thought I saw a smile on that sly face. I looked back at Mr. Ladugo and was ashamed of myself. He was thoroughly humiliated. His hands were on top of the desk now and he was staring at them.
I said, “I'm sorry. Now that the damage is done, I'm sorry. But there has been such a mess of deception in this business, I was getting sick. Believe me, Mr. Ladugo, if I'm not forced to mention your name, I won't. Tell me honestly, though, have you been blackmailed before?"
He looked at his daughter and
back at the desk. He nodded.
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THE FAST LINE by ART CROCKETT
Rudy Ferris didn't have any trouble smashing my door open because he's a real big guy. He stood facing me, his black automatic pointed straight at my throat.
It didn't take me long to figure out what had happened. Ella had told him—everything. That little fool!
I spread my hands helplessly. “Now, look, Rudy. Let me—"
"Shut up, Chuck!” The guy's massive chest was heaving like a ground swell. “I don't want no talk. That's all we got since you blew in."
I shut up. Nothing I could say would wipe his brain clean. He was too far gone. Mad. Killing mad. So I shut up and watched his small eyes as they snapped to both sides of my room and then back to me. “You alone here?"
I nodded, wishing I wasn't. Rudy closed the door, its lock dangling, as if a closed door would muffle the blast of that cannon he held. That door was the only way out, unless I chose to leap out the window, which was two stories up, and kill myself that way.
Maybe I had it coming. In Rudy's eyes I guess I was a heel. But the big, overgrown jerk was stone blind and had been ever since Ella had decided he was her boyfriend, long before I had shown up in Leadsville. Otherwise he'd have known she was the type who got a charge out of anybody who could put some kicks into her miserable life.
Ella Barnes was fresh out of a haystack, like all the dames in Leadsville. But with her there was a difference. There was a restlessness in her that kept her on edge every minute, a restlessness that kept her dissatisfied with herself even though she'd snared the biggest, best-looking hayseed in town.
And there was something else about Ella. I found this out during the night I spent with her in her old man's barn.
We were in the loft. Her eyes lit up as she said, “Chuck, I'd like to stir up this town before I leave. I mean really stir it up. I'm so sick and tired and bored with everything in it that I'd like to give them a jolt they'd never get over."
Those were approximately her words. I'd only half listened. I'd already had what I'd come for so I wasn't much interested in her babbling. But now her words were coming back to me, or at least the gist of what she had been trying to say.
But I couldn't dwell on it. Rudy Ferris was coming forward, the .45 steady in his hand. “I'm gonna blast your brains out,” he was saying. “You got it comin’ to you."
He was so close I could smell the stench of his sweating body and the cheap whiskey on his breath.
I swallowed hard. “Ella tell you about it?” It was a stupid question, but I had to say something for a stall.
"I saw you an’ her sneakin’ outa the barn. After you left, I grabbed Ella an’ made her tell me what you did."
He raised his gun to my head.
"Hold it, Rudy!” My voice was scratchy and cracked, because I was scared. My only defense was to keep talking. “Let me have my say, Rudy. What harm can it do? I can't get out of here, can I? Just let me tell you ... “
He brought the gun up close to my temple and clicked off the safety.
"All right, Rudy. Go ahead and shoot!” I was practically screaming at him. “I wasn't Ella's first. She's already pregnant by somebody else."
The words had flowed smoothly out of my mouth. It was all a big lie. But I had to shock him with something. For the time being, it appeared to have done the trick.
I'd stunned him. His gun hand relaxed a little. I kept talking so he wouldn't have a chance to think about me. “Ella played you for a fool, Rudy. Can't you see that? All she wants is kicks. She told me so. She told me she was bored stiff with everybody in this dead town, including you."
All the things Ella had told me up in the hay loft were coming out now. I kept talking because I didn't want to stop and give him a chance to do his own thinking. He was listening all right. And that was what I wanted. His mouth hung open goonishly now and his gun hand was down at his side.
"I didn't force Ella to do anything she didn't want to do. Lord knows how many others she's had. She's sick, Rudy. Sick for the want of thrills. She'd do anything to stir up a rumpus."
A real out was hitting me now. It made me a little sick to think of it, but it was all I had. After all, it was my life that depended on it.
"That's why she told you about what happened in the barn. She knew you'd come here to kill me. And after you're finished with me she'll tell you about the other guy, the one who made her pregnant."
Sweat rolled down my face and some of it went into my mouth. Rudy's head was swaying with disbelief, but my words were reaching him, digging into him cruelly.
"Want to know something else, Rudy? I'll bet you anything that Ella is outside right now waiting to see what happens."
I backed toward the window. “Bet she's out there, Rudy. Take a look! She's waiting for you to kill me, then the other guy. You know why? So all the dames in this burg will look at her as the gal Rudy Ferris knocked off two guys for. She'll have what she wants. Recognition. Excitement. Plenty of it. And the other hayseeders around here will think she really has something because two men died for her. So they'll make love to her, Rudy, while you're sweating your brains out waiting for your turn in the electric chair."
"No! It ain't like that! You're just trying to lie your way out of a bullet."
"I am not. All you have to do is look outside. Go ahead, Rudy. Put the lights out and take a look."
He motioned to me with his gun. “Get over by the window. Stand there so I can see you."
I did as I was told, feeling sick to my stomach because of what I was doing. Rudy snapped off the wall switch and moved toward the window. He pushed the curtain aside just a crack. I took a look myself, and let out a sigh of relief.
In the lighted doorway of a store across the street, a bare leg swung back and forth. It was a woman's leg. Ella's. She was sitting on a stool just inside the door.
"What'd I tell you, Rudy?” I whispered. “She's waiting to hear your gun go off. She sent you on the errand and now she wants to see that you carry it out."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “Pack your bag and get outa here!"
"Yeah, sure, Rudy.” It took me no more'n three minutes to shut my suitcase on a full load.
"So long, Rudy."
He didn't answer, nor turn his head away from the window. I squeezed hurriedly out of the door and then took the back stairs on the double down to the alley that circled the hotel. I wanted to get away from there, fast.
I was in the alley when I heard the shots. I counted six. I felt like throwing up. All the way to the bus station I kept trying to rid my brain of the promise I'd made Ella up in the loft. I'd promised to take her away from Leadsville that very night.
I told her to wait for me across the street from the hotel.
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CRIME OF PASSION by RICHARD S. PRATHER
There must have been twenty cars in the drive when I got to the address in Malibu. I parked my Cad behind a new Lincoln convertible and walked to the front door of a two-story, hundred-thousand-dollar house as modern as now. A small fortune in rubber plants, ferns, bananas, hibiscus fronted the house and bordered the drive. From the sea's edge fifty yards or so away I could hear the boom of surf, and the tangy bracing scent of the ocean was exhilarating in my nostrils.
This was a warm Sunday afternoon; Sheldon Scott, Investigations—my downtown L.A. office—was closed, and I was invited to a party. A Hawaiian party at that: luau, roast pig, the works. From behind the house somewhere I heard a happy squeal. A happy feminine squeal. Sounded like a good wild party. There was a lot of hellish yelling and whooping. At the top of six cement steps I found a buzzer on the right of the massive door, poked it as chimes went off to the tune of How Dry I Am.
I could hear somebody running toward the door. Sounded like somebody barefooted. “Oh, Johnny!” a gal yelled, “Here I come, Johnny!” There was the slap-slap of bare feet and then the door swung wide and a beaut
iful blonde babe holding a highball glass in her hand stood there framed in the doorway beaming at me.
She cried, “Where you been, Johnny?” and then she began staring at me curiously.
Well, that was nothing to what I was doing to her. Very softly, so softly that I am amazed she heard me, I said, “I'm not Johnny, I'm only Shell Scott, but don't let that—"
Wham, the door slammed in my face. Feet went slap-slap back the way they'd come. What the hell, I leaned on the buzzer some more. Christ knew what I'd get next time. I was even thinking maybe I should yell, “Hey, Johnny's here!” and stand back.
There weren't any footsteps this time. The door opened and a guy about five feet, eight inches tall came outside and glared up at me. The guy was about thirty-five, wearing vivid swim trunks and carrying a highball glass. He was six inches shorter than I, but only about ten pounds under my 205. He was built like a .45 automatic, and he was loaded. “Johnny, huh?” he said thickly, then he dropped his highball glass onto the cement with a crash, and socked me on the chin with his right hand.
I was caught completely by surprise—to tell the truth, I'd been trying to peek around him and get another glimpse of that blonde—so I didn't even have time to jerk my chin. He got me solidly and knocked me clear down those six steps onto the driveway. “The hell with you, Johnny,” he said.
The door slammed again. Behind him.
I started to get up, then changed my mind. Maybe it was time for a few cool thoughts. Everything was going around and around. That short guy packed a powerful punch, and though he hadn't knocked me out, he'd made the afternoon a couple shades darker. I fumbled in my coat for cigarettes and my lighter, got a weed lit, and propped an elbow under me while I dragged smoke into my lungs.
The numbers above the massive door danced a little as I stared at them, but they were the right numbers. This was the right house. I shook my head and the ringing went away, everything stopped going around, settled down. It had been less than an hour ago that Dolly had phoned me from here and told me to fly out and bring my trunks, that there was one hell of a party going on. She had said, “Come on, Scotty boy, you come on out here ri’ now. Bes’ li'l ol’ party you ever did see. You got my pers'nal invitation.” And so on. Naturally I had dropped everything and headed for Malibu. She'd convinced me that I'd be welcome. Dolly had said she'd save me a drink and a kiss if I wanted them, and I wanted them. But maybe, I thought, Dolly had been out of her mind. Some welcome.
Masters of Noir: Volume Four Page 13