Sweet Wild Wench

by William Campbell Gault

  His face was gray and the brilliant blue eyes were clouded. I took a seat on the opposite side of the desk.

  He said softly, “They’ve released me, as you see. I don’t suppose that means I’ve been cleared, though?”

  I shook my head. “It only means they’ve released you, no more or less than that. It’s better than not being released, though, isn’t it?”

  His lips moved in a suggestion of a smile. “You don’t believe in anything, do you?” he asked.

  “I believe in what truth I can personally uncover. Would you like to give me the true story of this morning, now?”

  The blue eyes came to life. “I already have. You were present when the officer took it down.”

  “Okay. Then, maybe you can tell me something about Burns Murphy?”

  Adams studied me thoughtfully for a moment. Then, “I think, for one thing, that he believed in my sincerity. He was a man who desperately needed belief in something beyond the obvious.”

  “And that’s why he came here?”

  “If you’ll forgive a cliché,” Adams said, “perhaps he came to scoff and remained to pray.”

  “That’s not completely accurate.”

  “All right.” The suggestion of the smile again. “We’ll say he came to snoop and remained to pray.”

  “Did he admit that to you?”

  Adams shook his head. “Not directly. I’m observant, Mr. Puma, sensitive to moods and attitudes.” His chin lifted. “Next question, Mr. Interrogator.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but interrogation is part of my trade.” I smiled and asked genially, “Were you ever in another line of work, Mr. Adams?”

  He nodded, his eyes narrowing.

  “I wondered about your background,” I explained, “and how it would bring you to this.” I indicated the temple beyond.

  “You have a trick,” he said coldly, “of smiling when you ask your nastier questions. Don’t do it; it’s false.”

  I said calmly, “And you have a trick of not answering questions that displease you. Don’t do that. It encourages suspicion.”

  The fine New England face tightened. “I’m inured, Mr. Puma, to the suspicion and hatred of skeptics. As a man of God, I view these resentments very tolerantly.”

  A self-proclaimed man of God, I thought. And realized it was the first time I had ever heard him mention a definite deity. He could be frightened now, and ready to hide behind the Constitution.

  I asked, “Do you consider yourself immune from investigation?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then would you mind telling me what other lines of work you have followed?”

  He took a slow breath and looked at the top of his desk. “I sold newspapers as a child and waited on table through college and worked for a religious supply house after college.”

  “Was the college a divinity school?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve never been ordained then?”

  “Not in the orthodox sense, no.”

  “Ever been arrested?”

  His voice was frigid. “I was asked that question down at Headquarters, Mr. Puma. My answer is on record there. If you have some charge to make, make it. I will not be persecuted illegally.”

  “Okay,” I said and stood up. “You were quick enough to holler for me this morning, though, weren’t you? You may need me again.”

  “I sincerely hope not,” he answered. “Good afternoon, Mr. Puma.” He looked at some papers on his desk, ignoring me.

  I studied his bent and shapely head but could see no halo. I said, “We’ll meet again.”

  It was warm and quiet outside. I got into the Plymouth and steered it down San Vicente to Burlingame to the California cottage, so called, of Adele Griffin.

  It was a cottage of 2600 square feet, three bedrooms and four baths, on a rise above the street, buried in bougainvillea and roses, a low house with a shake roof on the most peaceful street in Brentwood.

  Adele’s single servant, a housekeeper, came by the day and she was not here now.

  Adele opened the door and said, “Well, hello semi-stranger!”

  “Love me?” I asked.

  “In our way. Come in, come in.”

  “I’m cold,” I said. “Hold me.”

  “In our time,” she said. “What strange beds have you visited in your absence?”

  “I’m cold,” I repeated. “I’ve been thinking of worms and I got a chill.” I came in and closed the door behind me.

  She is slim and her breasts are the firm, small breasts of a virgin. Her legs are without flaw and her tummy is taut as a kettledrum. She pressed her tautness against me.

  In a dim light she looks eighteen and in the noon-day sun no more than twenty-five. Her face was buried under my chin, her voice muffled against my chest. “Who chilled you?”

  “I’ve been talking with Jeremiah Adams. Know him?”

  “I’ve heard of him at my bridge club. He’s a whiz-bang, I heard, a real latter-day saint.”

  “I think he’s a fraud.”

  “So? The world is full of frauds. Rye?”

  “I’d rather have bourbon if there’s any of the good stuff around.”

  She mixed me a drink and came over to sit next to me on the curving, fifteen-foot sofa. She held my free hand. “You’re sensitive for a lout,” she said.

  A silence. Good whisky and a quiet room and a lovely, mature woman holding my hand. Some peace came to me.

  She asked, “Anything new on that Burns Murphy business?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s Homicide’s business anyway, I suppose.”

  “Your brother told me to stay with it. It’s probably mixed up with the business we’re on.”

  She chuckled. “Some of Sam’s friends have joined that cult. I wonder if he would worry as much about it if they hadn’t.”

  “Don’t be cynical about your brother. We need more like him.”

  She took the empty glass from my hand and stood up. “I’ll get you another.”

  She was three steps from the sofa when I said, “I don’t want another.”

  She turned. “Something to eat, then?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well?”

  I said nothing.

  “Not here,” she said. “It always seems so adolescent in the living room.”

  Later, in the shadowed bedroom, she said, “Eve Deering phoned me this morning. I was a little surprised because we haven’t been too close since her mother died. And then I learned she phoned to ask about you.”

  I said nothing. I stroked her hair.

  Adele’s laugh was soft. “How is she?”

  “Mixed up. I think she’s basically sound enough, though.”

  “You know that isn’t what I meant, Joe Puma. How is she in bed?”

  “You’re being vulgar,” I said. “It’s out of character. Please don’t talk like that.”

  She sighed and ran a flat hand over my chest. “I’m getting possessive. I’ve no right to, have I?”

  I told her, “If you want to get possessive about a poor private investigator, don’t do it in a community property state. You have too much to lose and nothing important to gain.”

  She sighed, then rolled over and asked, “Hungry?”

  I nodded, staring at the ceiling, thinking back on the day, seeing the worm.

  She rose and began to dress. In the dim light, her body looked firm as a child’s. I could marry her, I was sure. We got along so well both in and out of the hay. If I had less ethics, I could marry her tomorrow. I would be a happier man if I had either more or less ethics.

  I showered, toweled and dressed and went out to the kitchen. Adele was mixing a salad in a huge wooden bowl.

  “And she can cook,” I said.

  “And dance,” she said, “and play a fair piano.” She turned to face me. “And I don’t look thirty-seven, do I?” I kissed her forehead.

  The door chimes sounded and she looked at me quizzically
. “Now who could that be, at dinnertime?”

  “One of your lovers. I’d better go.”

  “It’s probably one of the nosy neighbors,” she said as she went out.

  I was getting a drink of spring water from the cooler when I heard her say, “Well, Sam, this is a pleasant surprise. Nothing wrong, I hope?”

  And I heard the D.A. say, “I was just going by and I noticed the car in front. Joe Puma’s here, isn’t he?”

  “In the kitchen,” she answered. “Come on back.”

  Great, I thought. He knows my reputation, but I have to be found with his sister. Back to the private enterprise for you, Puma. It was nice while it lasted.

  6

  HE LOOKED TROUBLED when he came into the kitchen, but it wasn’t because of finding me there. He’d been called in by the mayor, he told me. Burns Murphy’s brother had been in to see the mayor.

  “Isn’t he the man in the trucking business?” I asked.

  Griffin looked at me bleakly. “He’s the big man in the trucking business, the biggest in the state. He was always in the trucking business, but particularly during prohibition. His name is Jim Murphy and politicians dance to his tunes.”

  “So? And what’s his beef?”

  “The fact that you and Adams found his brother’s body. And neither of you was held. The fact that Burns had been working for J. D. Deering and I’m a friend of J. D. Deering’s and you’re a friend of my sister’s.” He breathed heavily. “It all smells very damned fishy to Big Jim Murphy.”

  “How does he know all this?”

  “He knows everything, on both sides of the law. He has a million ears out. He has all kinds of friends and too damned much influence!”

  Adele said, “Relax, Sam. This isn’t anything new to you.”

  “That doesn’t make it any more palatable. I detest politicians and the men who make them jump. And I will not be subject to their dirty pressures.”

  I suggested quietly, “I can run oyer and see Murphy tonight. Do you know anything about him I can use?”

  Griffin frowned at me. “You’re not making yourself clear, Joe.”

  “I’ll need some kind of weapon,” I explained.

  His face stiffened. “I don’t operate that way.”

  “You don’t need to. You’ve got me.”

  He shook his head. “I can be only as clean as my staff.”

  “Okay, then,” I went on, “let me talk to him, anyway. I knew Burns pretty well. Maybe he’ll listen to reason.”

  “I don’t beg,” Griffin said stiffly.

  “I promise you I won’t either.”

  He was quiet for a moment, looking out at the back yard through the kitchen window. Then, “Okay. But don’t be servile.”

  Adele chuckled. “Puma servile? That I’d like to see.”

  Her brother looked at her thoughtfully. She smiled and said, “I’ve made too much salad and there’s plenty of steak. Stay for dinner, Sam?”

  He shook his head. “The governor’s in town. He’s coming over for dinner.”

  Adele made a face. “Well, have a nice dull evening. Don’t forget to laugh when the governor does. That’s the only way you can tell he’s just told a joke.”

  “Thank you.” He studied her appraisingly. “Aren’t you just a little — mature — to be playing the butterfly?”

  He turned and left us on that line.

  We heard the slam of the front door before Adele said anything. Then she said quietly, “Sam can be nasty, can’t he?”

  “It seems to be a family trait. Let’s get that steak on the fire. I’ve work to do tonight.”

  She sighed and fanned the charcoal in the barbecue pit. “A three-word history of Adele’s friends, sleep, eat and run.”

  We didn’t talk much during the meal. We were eating on the patio and I could look down on the quiet houses in the neighborhood. I asked, “Don’t you ever get lonely?”

  She smiled and sipped her coffee. “Not lonely enough to inflict myself on some chained male twenty-four hours a day.”

  “I didn’t mean that. I was thinking of all those wealthy people in Jeremiah’s temple. They’re lonely, don’t you think?”

  “Lonely and frightened,” she said. “I’m rarely frightened.”

  “I’m both,” I told her.

  “You’re a sissy,” she said. “You never left the church. Have you ever considered how supremely arrogant it is to expect to live forever? Ye gods, what have we done to deserve that?”

  I helped her bring in the dishes and she told me, “If you’re still lonely after you see Murphy, come back. We’ll go out and see a few bright lights.”

  I promised her I’d try to get back.

  The Murphy mansion was like the Deering place in some respects; it was immense and more than one story high and on Sunset Boulevard. But where the Deering place was Spanish, the Murphy mausoleum was early Chicago, a huge, gray stone building with narrow windows and an ugly stone portico over the driveway in front of the entrance.

  A butler came to the door. I told him who I was and apologized for coming at this hour without phoning first. He told me to wait and he went back to see if my behavior was acceptable to his master.

  A minute later I was led into a high-ceilinged and mahogany-furnished living room.

  There was only one person in the room, a bulky man of medium height who stood with his back to the marble fireplace and his glare directed toward the archway through which I entered.

  The small fire behind him sent its warmth through the lofty room, but there was no warmth in the face of Jim Murphy.

  “You’re from Griffin’s office, eh?” he opened in a curt tone.

  I stopped a few feet past the archway. “Yes, sir. And I knew Burns. I know there aren’t any words for a time like this, but I want to say that I had a lot of respect for him.”

  “I’ll bet. What’s your story tonight? Griffin sent you, eh? I made that monkey jump.”

  “He didn’t want me to come, Mr. Murphy. He doesn’t jump for anyone. He’s independently wealthy and doesn’t need the job.”

  “He’s independent enough. If he didn’t send you, why the hell are you here?”

  “In the hope that you might know something that would help me to apprehend your brother’s murderer, Mr. Murphy. I realize now this was a bad time to intrude on you.” I turned to go.

  And he said, “Just a minute, buddy. I’ll tell you when to go.”

  I turned back. As calmly as I could, I said, “My name is Joe Puma, Mr. Murphy. I don’t take back talk from thieves at any economic level. I haven’t anything to say to you and you haven’t anything to tell me. So I’m leaving. If you have any complaints on that, send them through your regular channels.”

  My back was to him when he said, “You’ll hear from me, slant-head. You’ll hear soon.”

  I didn’t turn around. I let myself out and stood for a moment under the ugly portico, taking deep breaths of the cold night air. He had been very close to a punch in the nose and wouldn’t that have been an idiotic gesture on my part?

  From Sunset, below, a car was turning up the winding asphalt drive. Headlights from behind caught it for a moment as it turned and I saw it was an old and dirty Chevy.

  What kind of friends would Big Jim Murphy have who drove old Chevies? I moved around to the protected side of my own car and waited, on the off chance there might be something enlightening in this visit.

  The light near the door was bright and I caught a glimpse of the man as he left his car and came up my way.

  It was the small-salaried snob, the two-legged mustache who worked behind the desk at the Hacienda Arms, the clerk who had thought Eve Deering was named Dugan.

  I moved out from the shadow of my own car and met him just as he started up the steps to the door. I said, “Hello.”

  He paused, startled, to stare at me. “Joseph Puma,” I told him. “Remember me?” He nodded, his eyes doubtfully on my face. “I remember you, Mr. Puma. Is something wrong?”<
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  “I’m not sure. Is Mr. Murphy a friend of yours?”

  “I know him.”

  “Perhaps you’re here to sell him something. Is that it?”

  His chin lifted. “I don’t have to take your insolence, Mr. Puma. I have a right to come here, and a duty.” He paused, and I had a feeling he was about to lie. “Mr. Murphy happens to be one of the major stockholders in the Hacienda Arms.”

  “I see,” I said. “You understand, of course, that your visit here will have to go into the report I turn in to the District Attorney. What’s your name?”

  “Clyde Tackett,” he told me. “Is that all you want to know?”

  “That’s all for now. Good-night.”

  “Good evening,” he answered, and went past me to the door.

  And where now? The next step wasn’t one I wanted to take, but when a man needs allies as desperately as we did, we couldn’t be fussy about pedigrees.

  I drove down Sunset another half a mile and turned in at the drive that led to the Spanish mansion.

  The same Negro maid opened the door and, a minute later, led me to the same small sewing room off the living room. J. D. Deering seemed to be in the same position and the clothes were the same. He probably had changed his shirt. The TV set was silent.

  “Well,” he said gruffly, “what is it tonight?”

  “It’s about a trucking contractor named Murphy, Big Jim Murphy,” I said. “Do you know him?”

  Deering nodded contemptuously. “I know the ass. He was denied membership in a few clubs to which I belong. What’s he braying about now?”

  “He gave Mr. Griffin some trouble this afternoon, sir, through the mayor’s office. He’s suspicious of the fact that you and Mr. Griffin are old friends. He seems to think Adams and I should have been held after we discovered the body of Mr. Murphy’s brother.”

  Deering frowned. “You’re not being very clear.”

  “Well, Big Jim knew his brother had just finished a job for you. He knows you’re a friend of Mr. Griffin’s and I’m working for Mr. Griffin. It looked like a cover-up deal to Big Jim.”

  “I see.” Deering inhaled heavily. “And is my daughter likely to be involved in this mess?”

  “I don’t see how, sir. Isn’t she in Palm Springs?”