Fair Prey

by William Campbell Gault

  I shook my head. “Not about my profession.”

  The dialogue ended there. A little later she went out to water the back yard and I went into the living room to play a hunch.

  I looked up James Fritzell on Galloway and dialed the number. A woman’s voice answered and I asked, “Is this Olive Fritzell?” My heart was beating too fast.

  “Yes—?”

  Now what? I’d learned my hunch was correct. But now what?

  “Hello?” she said impatiently.

  “My name is Dennis Burke,” I said. “Would it be possible for me to talk with you this morning?”

  A pause, and then, “What about, Mr. Burke?”

  My mouth was dry. I said, “About Bud Venier.”

  A much longer pause, and then a dead line. She’d hung up on me.

  So Chopko had found the elusive Olive. And how? Through Henry? Was it possible that Chopko could have killed Henry? No. The killer of Bud Venier was undoubtedly the killer of Henry. Our sly bartender had decided to play a bigger game of blackmail this time, and he’d lost.

  Through the kitchen window, the dry Santana was blowing. From the back yard, my mother called, “Will you close all the windows, please, Denny? And pull down the shades. It’s going to be another day like yesterday.”

  I did that and then rummaged through a kitchen drawer for a Palisades street directory the local merchants had put out last year.

  Under Fritzell, I learned that Olive was James’ wife. There were no children.

  And I was more than ninety-nine percent sure that Olive Fritzell was Bud Venier’s mystery woman. But what business was it of mine? What authority did I have to ask a citizen questions?

  Ten thousand dollars was six hundred and sixty-six days at fifteen dollars a day. Chopko might be on to the killer by now, but that didn’t mean the killer was legally in danger. Not if he had more than ten thousand dollars. Well, all I could lose would be a few front teeth. And probably not that if her husband wasn’t home. I decided to walk over; it would be just as cool as driving that hot Chev.

  It was a citizen’s duty, I kept telling myself, to see that murder didn’t go unpunished. I didn’t tell myself that I certainly wouldn’t have been this noble a citizen if Mr. Venier hadn’t put up the reward.

  The Fritzell home was the best one on the block, though it wasn’t an exclusive block. It was a low place of fieldstone and redwood with a rock roof and a beautiful lawn. The garage door was open and there was a Porsche in there. But it was a two-car garage, and her husband could be away in the other one.

  I went up a walk made of sliced redwood stumps, past the mist of the sprinklers, onto a shaded flagstone front patio. The chimes were four-tone.

  The woman who came to the door was wearing shorts and a halter. She had an oval, almost classically beautiful face and a firm and completely feminine body. Her eyes were large and brown, her skin tanned to a light mahogany.

  “My name is Dennis Burke,” I said.

  Her voice was soft, her articulation clear and cultured. “The man who just phoned?”

  I nodded.

  The soft eyes seemed haunted. “And what did you want? Is it money, Mr. Burke?”

  “Not from you, Mrs. Fritzell. I thought perhaps you could give me some information that would lead me to some money.”

  She stared and stared and stared. And finally asked, “Just exactly what did that mean?”

  “The ten thousand dollars that Mr. Venier offered.”

  Some relief in her eyes. “Oh, I see. And if I had that kind of information, why wouldn’t I use it to get the money for myself?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Were you with Bud, Mrs. Fritzell, the night he was killed?”

  She shook her head. “I was with him the Saturday night before that. Is that the kind of information you were seeking, Mr. Burke?”

  “No.” I took a breath. “I hope you don’t feel any sense of loyalty to him. He wasn’t—very—discreet, Mrs. Fritzell.”

  Her glance was bleak. “So I’ve heard. I’ve no information that will help you, Mr. Burke. If it’s blackmail—?”

  “It’s not blackmail,” I answered. “How could it be, if you’ve no information that will help?”

  Her voice was almost a whisper. “My husband didn’t know Mr. Venier. Nor does he know that I knew him. There’s something you can use.”

  “I’m not interested in that kind of information. Who told you Bud Venier was indiscreet?”

  She looked at me wordlessly.

  “If it’s a man named Chopko,” I said, “don’t give him a nickel. He’ll bleed you white. Has he threatened you yet?”

  “I’d rather not talk about that,” she said. She put a hand on the door frame and looked at me quietly for a moment. “You look like a human being, Mr. Burke. I’m going to talk to you like one. I was deeply in love with Bud Venier. It was almost pathological. But my husband is a fine man, and I think I can love him the rest of my life.”

  Through the day’s heat, I felt a chill. I said nothing.

  Her words were very distinct. “Weigh that carefully. If you’ve any conscience, think of what publicity would do to that situation.” She paused. “Without helping to apprehend the murderer one bit.”

  I said lamely, “I mean to harm no one, Mrs. Fritzell.”

  She nodded. “I thought so when I first saw you.”

  “But there’s still Chopko,” I continued. “I’m sure he thinks your—uh—relationship with Venier is a clue to murder.”

  She shook her head. “Not any more, he doesn’t. We talked for two hours last night. I met him in a bar in Santa Monica and we talked for two hours.”

  “And now he’s going to blackmail you?”

  She looked past me. “He probably will, until the day I can get the courage to tell my husband all about Bud Venier.”

  From the street, a car horn sounded, and a girl behind the wheel of a Mercury convertible waved. Mrs. Fritzell waved back, and watched the Mercury disappear down the street.

  I asked, “You have no idea who killed Bud?”

  She looked at me candidly. “None.”

  I smiled. “Good-bye, Mrs. Fritzell. Good luck.”

  She nodded, and I went down the sliced redwood chunks to the walk. I was nowhere. The big clue had been nothing I could use and still stay a member of the human race.

  Of course, she was a poised woman. And her diction indicated some theatrical training. Had I been conned?

  And if I had been, what did I plan to do about it? I could take this information to Sergeant Morrow and perhaps he could find a clue to Bud’s death somewhere in it.

  At home, Mom told me, “Judy phoned. I told her you’d call back. She’s home, waiting for your call.” She looked up from her sewing. “Where were you?”

  “Over talking to a neighbor.” I went to the phone and dialed Judy’s number.

  Her voice was chilly. “I think it’s time we had a talk, Dennis Burke. Could you come over here right away?”

  “Yes, m’am. May I bring my attorney?”

  “It’s hardly the time for levity. If you don’t care to come, Denny, I think I’ll bear up all right.”

  “I’ll be right over,” I promised. “I’m on the way.”

  My Judy, my beloved Judy. I could guess she would be very formal and reasonable and regal for about the first three minutes. The Chev’s tappets were noisy under the heat-thinned oil. The sun was a red ogre in the clear sky.

  My Judy; I didn’t deserve a girl half as lovely.

  The kids were swimming in the pool of the house next to Faulkner’s. They sounded happy, despite the heat. Judy came to the door in answer to my ring.

  “The study’s the best place,” she said. “It’s air-conditioned.”

  There was no sign of C.R. or of Pat as she led me through a mammoth living room to a short hall and into a paneled study. It was almost too cold in here after the heat of the Chev.

  Judy closed the door and turned to face me. “You certai
nly made a spectacle of yourself at Ted’s yesterday.”

  I nodded.

  “You could have ignored us,” she added.

  I nodded.

  “I suppose you’re Bud’s replacement with that—that thing.”

  I shook my head. “And she’s not a thing. She’s a lonely woman married to a pompous and philandering ass. You could ask Pat about that last. Pat trailed the doctor to his San Francisco tryst.”

  Judy’s eyebrows climbed. “Oh? A confidant of Mrs. Evans’, are you?”

  “To some degree. Did you call me over here to fight with me, Judy?”

  She shook her head and studied me. “I—just wanted to know where we’re heading, if anywhere.”

  “I can’t tell you. I can tell you I love you and that I’m going to be a tournament golfer. Those are the only things I’m sure of.”

  A moment’s softening in that lovely face and then the stiffness tried to get back. And she looked momentarily about eleven-and-a-half years old. She said rigidly, “And can you tell me you did not indulge in physical pleasure with Mrs. Evans?”

  I wanted to laugh. I wanted to laugh so badly my stomach muscles ached. But I was certain it wasn’t a time for that. I did my damnedest to match her high-school solemnity as I said clearly, “I swear on my sacred honor that I did not have sexual intercourse with Mrs. Evans.”

  One of those static moments when the world seems to stand still. And then she said, “Oh, Denny—” and she was coming my way and I had my arms open for an easy infield catch.

  There were some sniffs and some kisses and an awareness in me that was starting to be embarrassing. And then she pulled clear.

  “Why don’t we waste the day right here in the pool?” she suggested. “Why don’t we make like—well, millionaires—like Faulkners, just for today?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Hell, yes.”

  We didn’t talk golf or papa or murder. We had lunch at the covered patio end of the pool and spent most of our time in the water. Downtown, the radio informed us, the temperature was now 110, a new Los Angeles record.

  It was cooler out here, around 107. Pat came home and joined us. C. R. Faulkner came out to say “hello” and he didn’t look too perturbed about seeing me there.

  I had a sense, however, of being suspended in time and space. This was an interlude between conflicts. Nothing had been decided about us and Judy wasn’t a good loser. As someone had said, quitters make good losers; she was no quitter.

  She was too friendly, too reasonable and loving and cheerful. She gave me the feeling that she was about to try to do with sugar what she had failed to do with vinegar.

  I kept my reserve inside and tried to be an extroverted Dennis Burke.

  At five, she said, “Why don’t you phone your folks and have them come over for dinner? Tell them to come in their swimming suits. We’ll eat out here.”

  Wariness in me, though I was ashamed of it. Was she going to work through Mom? Was the Faulkner economic pressure being brought to bear on the vulnerable member of our family?

  I studied Judy’s candid face and suggested, “Why don’t you phone her? Mom still looks pretty good in a swimming suit.”

  She smiled. “Not as good as your dad, I’ll bet. I’ll phone right now.”

  From the edge of the pool, Pat looked over at me and winked.

  I waited until Judy had gone into the house, and asked “What did the wink mean?”

  “There are machinations afoot,” he said. “The executive minds in this family are being focused on a problem.”

  “I’m the problem?”

  “Not you. Your attitude. Boy, I’m glad I’m not the pigeon they intend to strangle.”

  “I’m thick-necked,” I said, and lighted a cigarette. And then I asked, “Did you find out who Olive is?”

  I was sure the blankness in his stare wasn’t feigned. “Olive?”

  “All right,” I said. “Never mind. I’m further along in the case than you are, I guess.”

  “You’re working on this business? Why, Denny?”

  “For a ten-thousand-dollar stake. That could carry me a long way.”

  “I can get you ten thousand dollars,” he said.

  I shook my head. “I don’t want your money, just your sister.”

  Judy came back to tell us, “They’re both coming. And I convinced them a robe over their swimming suits would be formal enough for this evening.”

  “That’s California white tie,” Pat said, “a robe over the swim suit. Judy, are you manipulating again?”

  She looked at him with some malice. “Careful, meaty brother.”

  “Because if you are,” he said evenly. “I’m on Denny’s side.”

  “You’re lost,” she said lightly. “You haven’t my figure. And don’t go heavy on us, brother; you’re not equipped for it above the neck.”

  Pat smiled genially. “War has been declared and the enemy defined. Who wants to race me for two lengths?”

  We both raced him and I beat him by two strokes. But Judy beat me by fifteen feet. A little later, C.R. himself came out in trunks and joined the festivities. Real gay, but Pat had shown me the gears meshing in the differential.

  Well, I’d known I wasn’t playing with amateurs, but they couldn’t move me, not with a direct attack. Through Mom though? I am an only child.

  It wasn’t Mom they hit first.

  The six of us were at a big table eating what people like the Faulkners probably consider a ‘snack.’ This was cold turkey and cold ham and jellied consomme and iced coffee and a dozen other plebeian standards that I’ve forgotten now.

  How the talk got to insurance, I don’t know. I know my dad didn’t start it. But the subject came up, and C.R. said in his thoughtful way, “I’ve really neglected my insurance program. I intend to extend it considerably. I hope we can get together this week on it, Mr. Burke.”

  “This week,” he’d said, and today was Thursday. Me oh my, the heat was on.

  Mom glowed and beamed at all of us. Dad smiled and looked appraisingly at me. And then said clearly, “Not this week. I refuse to be commercial in this heat.”

  That was my dad, Scooter Burke. The man who ran for two hundred and forty-six yards in the Rose Bowl. I’d never been prouder of him.

  My mother frowned and said nothing. There may have been some doubt as to who contributed the most money but never any doubt in her mind as to who was the man in the family.

  Pat was grinning, Judy frowning. C. R. Faulkner was as bland as ever; he was a pro.

  I said, “My dad used to be quite a swimmer in college, too, Judy. Maybe you’d like to race him.”

  She looked at him doubtfully. “I—don’t think so.”

  And then Pat laughed and in a second we were all laughing, though Pat and Dad and I seemed to be laughing the loudest.

  There was no noticeable pressure after that. We all had a good time, just like neighbors should. Mom and C.R. played Scrabble; the rest of us stayed wet most of the time.

  At midnight, when we left, it was still warm, the first time in my life I’d known this kind of heat at midnight.

  As we walked down to our cars, Mom said, “That Mr. Faulkner is certainly a gentle, wonderful man.”

  Dad nudged me. “He certainly is. I wonder how he ever got to be a millionaire?”

  “I didn’t say he wasn’t bright,” Mom protested.

  Dad yawned and patted my shoulder. “Luck, boy. She’d make a wonderful wife, on any terms.”

  “I know, Dad,” I said. “That’s what makes it so rough.”

  “Men,” Mom said. “Athletes! Oh, you two think you’re something.”

  That’s what Judy had told Willie and me. I said, “Well, maybe we are. It’s possible we are.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  MY ROOM WAS HOT and the smell of jasmine coming through the open window almost overpowering. I heard the baby cry again and saw the light go on. I was on top of the covers, wearing nothing, thinking.

  This w
as the kind of weather that brought the rattlers down from the hills. When I’d first started to caddy at Canyon, we’d occasionally run into a snake in the barranca in the hot weather.

  When I’d first started to caddy, a snake…That was the picture, something told me; that was the picture that had meaning. But why? What was significant about that?

  I tried to relax, to let the unconscious mind throw up whatever was pertinent. A snake, the barranca, and I’d been caddying. I’d gone down to look for a ball, into the barranca along the seventh hole.

  And there, under this shrub, the rattler had been coiled. I heard his buzz and saw him lift his head—and had never been so frightened in my life.

  I’d shouted and someone had come to the edge of the barranca to see what the trouble was. Who had that been? Wait, I’d been carrying double; I remember the two bags I’d left on the fairway above.

  That fat-bodied snake with the venomous head poised, the thin neck arched, the white rattles buzzing. And who had looked over the edge of the barranca?

  Mr. Griffith. But I’d been carrying double. Who else had been there? And then I remembered it had been C. R. Faulkner. But who else? It had been a foursome, I was sure.

  Had Dr. Evans been in that foursome? Some doctor had, because I remembered Mr. Griffith saying that rattlesnake bites weren’t deadly if they were attended to immediately. And wasn’t it lucky we had a doctor in the foursome? Nobody had been bitten, but there were still eleven holes to go.

  Dr. Evans, it had been Dr. Evans. That was before he’d been married; he’d played a lot of golf those days.

  Who else had been there? Bud Venier? Young Griffith? Pat? Judy? No, no…

  The talk had been about snakes for two holes and each of them had told of their experiences with rattlers. There were a lot of them around the Palisades in those days and there are still too many of them.

  But why the psychic block—who else had been in that foursome?

  Willie? Had it been Willie? That could have been it; that was a hazy fourth figure in the otherwise clear picture.

  But what did the picture mean? Nothing to me. Somewhere in that picture, my unconscious was trying to tell me, there was a clue to murder. And why should it be obstinate?