Sweet Wild Wench

by William Campbell Gault

  I looked at her suspiciously. “Is this the same sales talk you gave Burns Murphy?”

  She stared at me and I was lost in the big blue of her eyes. “Sales talk?” she asked. “I haven’t anything to sell. I don’t understand you, Mr. Puma.”

  “That makes us even,” I said. “I don’t dig you at all.”

  “Just consider me another lonesome and confused human being,” she said. “Like yourself.” She took my glass and went back to the liquor cabinet.

  She brought it back, filled, and said, “Why did you mention Burns Murphy?”

  “Because I had a feeling he was half-sold on the cult. And I had a hunch Jeremiah Adams didn’t have the proper equipment to sell an old cynic like Burns Murphy.

  Her voice was cold. “Are you suggesting I’m one of the temple maidens, or something equally repugnant?”

  I smiled. “Something like a vestal virgin? Not for a second.”

  She stared at me and her face wavered in my vision. Her voice seemed to be coming through a tunnel. “You lied about Adele Griffin, didn’t you? She isn’t interested in the Children Of Proton. She’s a friend of yours, isn’t she? A special friend.”

  “I’ve known her a long time.”

  “Never mind,” she said, “drink up and we’ll dance.”

  She put a record on — something slow and easy — and walked over to me.

  I shrugged. “I grew up in dance halls.” I set my drink down and stood up. “Shall we give it a whirl?”

  Her body was firm but yielding; her breasts needed no artificial support. They were taut against my chest.

  She danced well. With grace and instant response but still with enough individuality to make her presence felt. Her mouth was close to my ear and I thought she nibbled.

  It’s the booze, Puma, I told myself. You’re imagining this; it’s wishful thinking.

  And then one of her sharp teeth sent pain dancing through the ear lobe and I knew it wasn’t the whisky; it was the wench. I stopped dancing and found her mouth and her body melted into mine and she whimpered.

  A king-sized bed, she had. Perhaps it would be more nearly accurate to call it queen-sized. She had a queen’s body, a full, rich, firm and active body and she knew what to do with it.

  She rushed nothing, but the sense of urgency grew just as steadily. And the odor of that expensive, musky perfume was mixed with the pounding of my heart and the fervent demands of that writhing body and we were all out, way out into the abyss of space.

  And then I slept, completely exhausted.

  I heard the bell, but it was in another country. She began to pound me, saying, “You’ve got to wake up. You simply have to! He’s at the door. You’ve got to wake up!”

  I forced my eyes open and asked, “Who’s at the door?”

  “The clerk. The desk clerk.”

  “That silly little man with the mustache? Tell him to go back to work.”

  “Joe, please! It’s important. We didn’t answer the phone, so he came up to waken me. It’s Jeremiah on the phone and something horrible has happened.”

  I said, “Tell the clerk to go downstairs and not listen on the board down there. We’ll answer the phone. Jeremiah doesn’t want me, does he?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s you he wants to talk with.” She went to the door to send the clerk back to the switchboard and I managed to get my eyes completely open.

  It was morning. Gray and sunless and misty, but morning. I could have sworn I had slept only a few minutes. My legs were limp, my sense of balance absurdly awry. I managed to wobble to the phone.

  Jeremiah’s voice was as soft as ever and held no hint of hysteria.

  “Would you get over to Mr. Murphy’s office on Selma? You know where it is, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I know. What’s happened?”

  His voice remained calm. “It looks like Mr. Murphy has been murdered.”

  “Phone the police,” I told him. “I’m on the way.”

  4

  ONE OF THE black and white prowl cars was parked in front of the building when I arrived. In the small office, one of the uniformed men was talking to Jeremiah Adams. The other was in a neighboring office calling Homicide.

  I knew the officer who was questioning Jeremiah and I went over.

  Jeremiah was talking. “ — asked him why he couldn’t tell me what it was over the phone and he told me it was too dangerous, so I came directly over.” He pointed. “I found him like that.”

  Burns Murphy was slumped over his desk. I learned later that he’d been shot through the left eye, but I couldn’t see his face now.

  “And why didn’t you phone the police?” the officer asked Adams.

  Adams stared in wonder. “I did. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  The uniformed man shook his head slowly. “My understanding is that the call came in from another office in the building.”

  Adams glanced at me and back at the officer.

  I asked, “Why did you phone me?”

  “Because I knew who you were. You didn’t fool me with your visit. I thought you could help, being a friend of a friend.”

  “A friend of which friend?”

  “I found you, didn’t I, at my friend’s apartment? Do you want me to say more, Mr. Puma?”

  The officer said, “I’d like to hear more.”

  “I don’t intend to say any more until I phone my attorney,” Jeremiah Adams said. “It’s rather obvious, isn’t it, that somebody tried to frame me for murder?”

  The officer shook his head.

  “Whoever phoned,” Adams went on, “wanted me to be found here with a dead man. I insist on the privilege of phoning my attorney.”

  Then the pair from Homicide came in. One of the men was Sergeant Kafke. He nodded very coolly to me and beckoned to the officer.

  I went to another office to phone Griffin.

  I told him what had happened and suggested, “I’d better bow out now, don’t you think? This makes it Homicide’s baby.”

  “You stay right there. Who came over from Homicide?”

  “Sergeant Kafke and a man I don’t know.”

  “Let me talk to Sergeant Kafke.”

  Kafke was no Puma admirer. When I told him the D.A. wanted to talk with him on the phone, he looked at me bleakly and asked, “Why?”

  “He didn’t say,” I said. “I’ll go back and find out.” I turned toward the office I’d phoned from.

  “All right, comedian,” he said, and muscled past me through the doorway.

  His partner was smiling. “What’s with you on this killing?”

  “I know Mr. Adams. He phoned me when he found Murphy.”

  “Know him well?”

  “I met him yesterday. I knew Burns Murphy pretty well.”

  “Gambled some, didn’t he? Burns, I mean.”

  “I don’t know. I never gambled with him.”

  “But your brother has, often.” He paused. “Right?”

  I didn’t know this detective but he evidently knew me. I looked at him levelly and said, “I have no idea.” I paused. “Why did you mention that?”

  “I’ve been thinking. Where were you when the uniformed men came?”

  Rancor boiled in me; I kept it from my voice. “I was out ditching the gun. I came in later to throw some red herring around. Relax, officer.”

  He moved half a step closer. “No cheap private peeper is — ”

  I put a hand on his shoulder. I said, “At the moment I’m working for the District Attorney’s Office. Now let’s try to get along.”

  I squeezed his shoulder and his face blanched and his knees buckled. He reached in under his jacket and I stepped back and said, “We’ve got to work together, officer.” I smiled at him.

  His hand stayed there on the butt of his pistol, hidden from view behind his jacket. His eyes glared, though there was some mist in them.

  Finally his hand came out again, without a gun. His voice shook as he said, “Your time will come, Pum
a. I look forward to it.”

  Suicide was ruled out; they found no gun. It helped to keep them from locking up Jeremiah, too. Because it didn’t seem logical that he would go out, ditch the gun, and then come back to the scene of the kill. His attorney made a big point of this.

  Nobody in the building had heard a shot.

  And nobody in the building would admit phoning the police. The name given to the desk sergeant over the phone had obviously been fraudulent. That wasn’t too surprising; innocent citizens quite often lie when phoning the police.

  I made put my statement at the Hollywood Station and then Sergeant Kafke had me come to a small room off the main corridor. He was at a desk in there, going over the reports, when I came in.

  He smiled, a change in climate. He said genially, “So we got a bad start on this. You didn’t have to manhandle my partner, Joe.”

  I smiled, lips only.

  He said. “Anyhow, what have you got that I can use?”

  “Most of it’s in my statement, Ernie.” I lighted a cigarette. “Except that I was investigating the Children Of Proton. That’s not for the record yet.”

  “We’ll want to see whatever you find, Joe.”

  “Naturally. I’m sure the District Attorney intends to cooperate with the Department.”

  He colored slightly, but maintained his new cordiality. He smiled and said, “And you too, Joe?”

  I nodded.

  I went from there to the nearest acceptable restaurant and ate half a dozen scrambled eggs with toast and drank four glasses of milk.

  Then I phoned Eve Deering. “We have to talk again,” I said.

  “Like we did last night?”

  “We have to talk as honestly as possible.”

  A silence, and then, “I’ll be here.”

  I drove over to the hotel.

  The snippy little clerk wasn’t behind the desk. The woman who was told me Miss Dugan was expecting me.

  She was waiting in the doorway again, wearing a sweater and toreador pants. She was barefoot and she held a drink.

  “I’m not usually a morning drinker,” she said, “but I’ve been out in the rain. Join me?”

  I shook my head and remarked, “It’s a bad day for shopping.”

  “I wasn’t shopping. I was walking in the rain. I love to walk in the rain.” A pause. “Why so cool, my Latin lover?”

  “Your limp Latin lover,” I corrected her. “What kind of whisky was that?”

  She smiled. “It’s known as Old Conscience Depresser. What happened to Burns Murphy?”

  “He was shot in the head. Did Jeremiah talk to you before you wakened me?”

  A pause, and then she nodded. “Incidentally, Jeremiah knows all about you, just as he knew Burns Murphy was an investigator.”

  I sat down on the love seat. “A man is dead, so we had probably better drop the light touch and find some honest words.”

  She came over to sit next to me. She stared at her drink.

  I said, “Jeremiah, first. It’s a racket, isn’t it?”

  She transferred her stare from the drink to me. She shook her head slowly and emphatically. “It’s kept me sane.”

  “Look at him,” I said. “He’s a human being. Like all of us, he scurries through the days and squirms through the nights. He isn’t trying to sell honor or decency nor any discernible moral code. His one gimmick is immortality.”

  “Joe, don’t try to take Jeremiah Adams away from me. He’s my rock.”

  “Some rock,” I said. “You living here under an assumed name, trying to crawl into a bottle.”

  “That’s my father’s fault.” Her chin lifted. “I told you I don’t drink in the morning.” Her chin lifted higher. “Not that it’s any of your God-damned business!”

  “Jeremiah’s my business,” I said quietly, “and so is the death of Burns Murphy. And I think you might be able to help me find Burns’ murderer.”

  A long silence and then she said hoarsely, “You mean a way to frame Jeremiah Adams, don’t you?”

  I shook my head. “I never framed anybody or contributed to a frame. And you know damned well Mr. Griffin wouldn’t have any part of that kind of deal. Eve, Burns Murphy was a pretty nice guy.”

  She lowered her head. “I know, I know. But there’s nothing I can tell you about him. We talked together very little.”

  A vagrant thought came to me. She could have left last night while I was sleep. She could have drugged me and gone anywhere, even to Burns Murphy’s office.

  I said, “Let’s talk about you. Tell me about your father.”

  She told me about him and it was a story of almost pathological bigotry. And she told me about the nurse who had brought her up. Her mother had been a near-invalid all her life. The nurse had been closer to her; the nurse had been devoutly religious.

  “That,” I said, “could be where you developed this unusual need to believe in immortality.”

  She stared. “Unusual?”

  I nodded. “For a person your age, highly unusual. Almost pathological. I suppose, after the nursemaid’s influence, you went through some education that punched holes in her faith.”

  “Stop it!” she said harshly. She looked up at me. “You’re not trying to help me. You’re trying to use me but you’re not trying to help me.”

  I shook my head and said nothing.

  “You lied about Adele Griffin,” she went on. “I know she never went to any of the meetings. I’d know if she did. And Sam Griffin wasn’t interested because of Adele. He’s trying to persecute Jeremiah and you’re his weapon.”

  “No,” I said. “I lied about Adele but nobody I know of is trying to persecute Jeremiah Adams. All we’re trying to do is uncover whatever truth might be around. You have to trust me, Eve.”

  “No I don’t,” she said. “I don’t even have to listen to you. I’m not a child, you know. I am perfectly capable of doing my own thinking.”

  “Then do it,” I said. “Don’t let Jeremiah do it for you.”

  She finished her drink and stood up. She went over to the liquor cabinet. Her back was to me as she said quietly, “I won’t keep you any longer. Good-by, Mr. Puma.”

  I had a feeling she was in no mood for reason. I said, “Don’t crowd me; I’m going.” I stood up. “Is that ‘good-by’ meant to be permanent?”

  She didn’t answer. I went out.

  Though my breakfast was still undigested, I went to Lippy’s for a sandwich. I asked him if Deke had been in. He had been, and Lippy told me he was probably at home right now.

  That’s where I found him, in his two-story apartment on the Strip. He was sitting in front of his radio, waiting for the race results. The rain had cleared and from the windows in the rear wall of his living room I could see the city, looking washed and new and smog-free.

  “I was wondering,” I said, “how well you knew Burns Murphy.”

  “Casually. He played for some stiff stakes for a crummy private eye. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had some big money tie-ups.” He raised a hand for silence as the race results began to come in.

  When they were finished, I said, “You know Burns was killed, don’t you?”

  Deke nodded. “I heard it over a TV news report. And what a phony setup, right?”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  Deke shook his head. “Grade-Z pulp detective situation. The private eye is phoned by a client and when the eye gets there, the client is dead. That’s the kind of crap that put the mystery magazines out of business. Hawkshaw, let me give you a tip. Look for a killer with a stack of old pulp magazines.”

  “This one had a twist,” I said. “It was the eye who was killed. You don’t know much about Burns, then?”

  “Very little. He had a brother in the trucking business.

  And he had an amateur’s habit of raising before the draw on a four-card flush. I learned something about your Jeremiah Adams, though.”

  “A criminal tie-in?” I asked hopefully.

  Deke shook
his head. “Buddy of mine knew him back East in Connecticut. Adams killed a man back there.”

  I stared.

  Deke smiled. “Not premeditated; don’t look so eager. It was an accident. A foggy night and this drunk wanders in front of Jeremiah’s car. Adams wasn’t held, but the story goes that he was kind of punchy for a while after that.” Deke shook his head. “The weird angle is the victim’s trade.”

  “What was weird about that?”

  Deke’s voice was cynical. “He was an electrical engineer.”

  5

  DEKE STOOD UP. “I’ll mix you a drink. You look like you could use one.”

  I asked, “Does your friend know what Adams’ profession was at the time of the accident?”

  Deke nodded and smiled. “He was a salesman for a church supply house. He probably got his temple furniture wholesale, huh?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  Deke said, “So he goes punchy and where’s the logical place to go if you want to start a crack-brained religion? Where but L.A.?” He brought me a drink.

  I sipped the drink and looked out at the washed city.

  Deke said, “So, Inspector, if you will search the temple for a stack of pulp detective magazines, you will clean this up in a hurry. And then you and Adele can recuperate in your own way in Palm Springs.”

  “Don’t be smart,” I said. “Do you know Eve Deering?”

  “I’ve seen her around. Don’t tell me that’s your latest?”

  I shook my head. In my mind I saw the fog and Adams’ car and the careening drunk. I could almost hear the thud of the collision. That could put a man over the edge, if the man had any crackpot leanings to begin with.

  “Why so quiet?” Deke asked. “It’s good booze.”

  “I’ve been thinking about Jeremiah,” I explained. I finished my drink and stood up. “It is good booze. I’ll see you, kid.”

  “Sure.” He smiled and then his face turned grave. “Joe, be careful, won’t you? Watch that temper of yours.”

  I nodded and smiled at him and went out. My brother Deke, a strange kid.

  In the oak-paneled study, Adams was sitting behind the same desk where I had first seen him. Again, he saw me through the glass of the door and beckoned for me to enter.