Sweet Wild Wench

by William Campbell Gault

  He shook his head slowly. “She’s in Santa Monica. She phoned me this afternoon.” His voice had held a quaver.

  I asked, “Is she still interested in this — cult?”

  “She told me she wasn’t. I hope she’s not lying. Have you any information to the contrary, Mr. Puma?” He stared at me grimly.

  “None,” I lied evenly. “Mr. Deering, in this attack on Sam Griffin, we can count on you as an ally, can’t we?”

  He nodded. “I’ve a few strings I can still pull. We’ll put that loud-mouthed Irish ass in his place.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and there was a long silence.

  He turned to me now and his face seemed momentarily more vulnerable. “In return for my support, Mr. Puma, I’d be repaid if you’d keep an eye on my daughter whenever it’s convenient.” He clenched his hands in his lap. “She’s an extremely strong-willed girl.”

  “I’ll try to keep her from any involvement in this mess, sir,” I promised. “Good-night.”

  He nodded, and I went out to the big hall with the thin rugs and the crossed lances. The maid had the door open and she was looking out at the clean night air sadly.

  “Don’t you ever get any time off?” I asked her.

  “Not nearly enough, Mr. Puma. Is Miss Eve coming home again?”

  “I’m sure she will eventually. Do you miss her?”

  She nodded. “And he does too. If there’s any soft spot in that man, it’s Miss Eve.”

  “Did you know Mrs. Deering?”

  “She hired me. She was a saint, that’s what she was. A saint, married to that — ” She stopped talking abruptly and her ebony face lifted. “I talk too much. Good-night, Mr. Puma.”

  The moon was out, a big round Minsky moon and the stars were only an arm-length away. The Santana wind had come in from the desert to give us a clear, warm night.

  A warm night after a bad day and the old Plymouth seemed to steer itself back toward Brentwood.

  Adele was out in front, sitting quietly in a deck chair. I saw the glow of her cigarette as I came acrosss the lawn from the parking area in front of the garage. As I got closer, she stood up and came part of the way to meet me.

  “How was Big Jim Murphy?”

  “Obnoxious. I don’t want to talk about him.”

  “Don’t be so sensitive. He didn’t threaten you, did he?”

  “Not exactly. I went from there over to Deering’s. I told him about Murphy giving us trouble. I figured we could use allies of Deering’s weight.”

  “Sam isn’t going to like that.”

  “Probably not. But somebody has to fight at the street level. Your brother’s entirely too idealistic. Come on, I have developed a great need for whisky and bright lights. Let’s hit a couple of spots.”

  “Yes, master,” she said mockingly.

  7

  IT WAS NO GOOD. We went to the Golden Rhino and the Surf and wound up at Lippy’s. I couldn’t get happy and nobody in these joints looked particularly happy themselves.

  At Lippy’s, Deke was at the bar and he came over as soon as we were settled in a booth.

  “Take a look at the corner booth,” he said. “Know him?”

  I looked, and saw a moose of a man with a round, bland face and hands like hams. “I know him,” I said. “Ned Deutscher, a private operative with a drag at City Hall. What about him?”

  Deke smiled and slid into the seat next to Adele. “He was putting the heat to me. Tried to talk as though he had some official backing. Said he could fix it so I’d never play another game of cards in this town.”

  “And why was he doing this?”

  “He wanted to know about you and this lady sitting next to me. He wanted to know what I knew about the Murphy killing, the inside story.”

  I told Deke, “Order for Adele, will you? I’m going to have a word with Ned.” I started to slide out.

  Adele said quickly. “Slow down. Don’t go over there looking like that. Remember, it’s been a bad day.”

  “Relax,” I told her. “I’m under control.”

  But when I sat down across from him, he looked at me with complete contempt.

  I asked, “Have you joined the Department, Ned?”

  He shook his big head, holding my stare. “Why?”

  “Deke tells me you’ve been impersonating a police officer.”

  He laughed sharply. “Isn’t that funny? I heard the same story about you.”

  “At the moment,” I said, “I’m working for the District Attorney. Who’s your client, Ned?” I paused. “Jim Murphy, maybe?”

  “Get your nose out of my business, slob,” he said.

  I leaned across the table — and Lippy came out from behind the bar.

  Lippy, the Department behind him, had never built up any love for most private operatives. He stood next to the table and said, “This jerk giving you any trouble, Joe? Say the word and I’ll bounce him.”

  Ned looked between us calmly. His voice was perfectly confident. “If either one of you should make a move for me, I’d cream you. And one of you would lose his license and the other would go back to hunting hotel skippers.”

  Lippy reached for him then, but I stood up and put a hand on Lippy’s shoulder. “Easy,” I said. “He’s got a point.”

  And I turned away, pulling Lippy with me. And there stood Deke, that mean, ready-for-anything look he sometimes gets on his otherwise personable face. He, too, had probably had a bad day and needed a vent for his animosities.

  He said, “You boys might have something to lose, but not old Deke. Why don’t you let me have this tomato?”

  He only goes about a hundred and eighty pounds, my unpredictable brother. But he’s very quick and he hits with a minimum of wasted motion and he will never quit while he’s conscious.

  I said, “Go and sit down, Deke.”

  His look stayed mean and stubborn. “He called me a dirty punk. I’ve been thinking about it and it festers. Now you go and sit down, Joe. From here in, it’s all my business.”

  Lippy said, “No fighting in here, Deke. You know that.”

  But Ned was already sliding out of the booth. And in order to get out, he had to go past Deke. And in doing that, he put one of those big hands up to Deke’s chest. And he pushed, not gently, but in malice.

  Deke took a step back and half a step forward, and he brought up a right hand with the forward step. It caught Ned in the middle of his round face, and Ned brought an overhand right around from the bleachers.

  Deke hit him three times before the overhand right completed the arc. Deke was still hitting the big slob as he stumbled and crashed, and Lippy and I had all we could do to pull the kid away from Ned when he hit the floor.

  Real calm, debonair guy, my brother Deke. Usually.

  Nobody in the place had moved or cried out. I put my arms around Deke; he was breathing like a bitch in heat, and trembling.

  “What in hell came over you?” I asked.

  He squirmed free. “I’m all right now. He gave me a lot of lip before you came in. I held it as long as I could.”

  On the floor, Deutscher stirred, and Lippy bent over to help him get up. Lippy maneuvered his arm behind him, like he’d been taught in the Department.

  There was blood dribbling down from Deutscher’s lower lip and his light blue eyes considered Deke venomously. “You’ll regret this. You and your hot-pants brother will regret this plenty.”

  Lippy swung him toward the door and propelled him along the pathway between the tables. Some of the customers watched anxiously, but Deutscher made no move to break free of Lippy.

  Back at the booth, Adele said, “Now that was bright of your sweet little brother, wasn’t it? He was like a crazy man.”

  I shrugged. Deke hadn’t come back to the booth. He sat at the bar, his back to us.

  “What got into him?” Adele asked.

  “He doesn’t like musclemen.”

  A pause, and then, “He doesn’t like me either, does he?”

 
; I shrugged again. “What makes you think he doesn’t?”

  She didn’t answer. My eyes went along the bar and I saw Sergeant Kafke standing near the end of it. He was the sergeant from Homicide assigned to the Murphy kill. His eyes met mine but he showed no sign of recognition.

  “Could I have a drink?” Adele asked. “Your brother never got around to ordering it for me.”

  I signaled a waiter.

  Had Kafke come in with Deutscher? Deutscher was supposed to have influence downtown, but it didn’t seem reasonable that he’d be paired with a Department man. Kafke was watching Deke and Lippy as they talked.

  The waiter came and I ordered. I felt restless and resentful, spoiling for trouble.

  Adele said, “Your little brother. Your problem child.”

  “He’s only three years younger,” I said.

  “But you’re so — so steady.”

  “That’s what Mom always said. Don’t say it to Deke.”

  Silence, and then she said quietly, “That’s why it doesn’t bother me about — about our difference in ages. You seem older.”

  “In bed, do you mean?”

  She colored.

  I said, “I’m sorry. It was a bad joke. I’m annoyed. The man standing at the end of the bar is Sergeant Kafke, out of Homicide.”

  She glanced that way and back at me. She was frowning. “And he saw what happened?”

  I nodded.

  “And now the mayor will have more ammunition to fight Sam with?”

  I nodded again.

  “Because of your brother,” she said quietly. “If the sergeant wasn’t simply looking for ammunition, he would have stopped the fight before it got started, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t that be his duty as a police officer?”

  For the third time, I nodded.

  Lippy came over to tell us he was about to close and if we wanted another round, we would have to order now. Neither of us wanted another round.

  I said, “Kafke saw the fight, didn’t he?”

  “I suppose,” Lippy said.

  “And made no move,” I said.

  “He’ll make a move,” Lippy said. “When the time’s right. He’s a cute one, that Kafke.”

  At the bar, Deke was rising now, getting ready to leave. I said to Adele, “Finish your drink. We’re going.”

  “Yes, master.” She gulped it obediently.

  We went out into the cold night and saw the Buick parked across the street. Nothing revolutionary about that except there was a man behind the wheel and he seemed to be waiting.

  I saw Deke walk up the street toward his Bentley. I watched him get in, drive away, swing around the corner two blocks up. And across the street the Buick still waited.

  We were parked in a small lot next to the bar and the logical way to turn, coming out of the lot, would be to the left, sending us in the same direction the Buick was pointed.

  Instead I turned to the right. And in my rear-view mirror I saw the Buick make a U-turn and cut over to the same lane I was traveling.

  “We’re being followed,” I said.

  Adele turned around.

  “Don’t,” I said. “Pretend you don’t notice.”

  Her voice was subdued. “Don’t you think it would be wise to drive right over to the Hollywood Station? It isn’t far.”

  “It might be. Are you frightened?”

  “Not if you’re armed.”

  “I’m armed.” I swung right on the next corner and then right again, heading for Sunset. The Buick followed.

  I said, “I can protect myself, but I can’t take the responsibility for you. I think I’ll go to the station.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “Head for home.”

  I said no more, watching the car behind.

  I had gone half a block on Burlingame when the Buick’s lights swung around the corner. I told Adele, “Duck low in the seat.” I took out my gun.

  I was approaching her driveway now, but I didn’t slacken speed. When I came abreast of it, I called, “Hang on!” and swung sharply to the right. The Plymouth teetered and her tires screeched, but she made the turn in one piece. My heart dropped back out of my mouth.

  The Buick didn’t follow. It shot past and continued up Burlingame.

  But he blasted his horn three times as he sped by.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Adele said. “Who could it have been?” She was staring after his diminishing taillights.

  “A spotter, maybe. That could easily have been a signal. Look, I’ve an idea on this. I won’t come in. I’ll pretend to go home, but I’ll be watching the house.”

  “You’d better watch the house. I’ll lock the doors and windows. I’m more frightened now than I was when he was followng us.”

  I walked with her to the door and there she put a hand on my arm. “Stay within hailing distance, please, Joe?”

  “I promise.”

  She lifted her face toward me and I bent to kiss her.

  And that’s when the flashbulb went off.

  It came from the bougainvillea near the doorway and in the momentary blindness from the glare I had to pause before stepping out in that direction.

  Then, as my vision came back, I saw someone scurrying down the lawn toward the side street and I started after him. I was gaining, I thought, when the toe of my shoe caught on one of the built-in sprinklers.

  Pain flashed up from my knee as I sprawled, sliding on the wet grass of the slope. I was still lying there when I saw the small sedan start up from the side street.

  I got to my feet slowly, the knee throbbing. Adele was hurrying across the lawn toward me. “Joe, are you hurt?”

  “A sprained knee,” I answered. “You’ll see that picture in one of our trashier papers tomorrow, I’ll bet.”

  “So? And what’s wrong with a kiss. We’re both single.” She came closer. “You’d better come in and let me look at that knee.”

  I put a hand on her shoulder, favoring the knee as we moved toward the door. “A kiss,” I explained, “given by a slightly disreputable private investigator to the District Attorney’s sister can be made to look very significant. Especially by a certain paper against the background of Murphy’s strange death.”

  “The Progressive?” she asked.

  “Right.”

  “That’s the paper that’s always after Sam, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “And the man in the Buick was Deutscher, I’ll bet. He was the finger. So tomorrow you can look for a fine picture of you in the Progressive. And not on the society page.”

  She was silent as we completed the trip to her front door. She paused there before opening it. “Joe, the first edition of the Progressive doesn’t come out until noon tomorrow.”

  “So?”

  “There are other papers that come out earlier and would love to have an account of your adventures tonight to add to their account of the Murphy case. Don’t you see the point?” She opened the door.

  We came inside and she snapped on the entry hall light. We went from there to the living room, where I relaxed in a big chair. I said, “Okay, spell out your tricky maneuver.”

  “The fight at the bar,” she said, “and the police officer who didn’t interfere. And the car that followed us home and that trespasser who took the picture at the doorway.”

  I leaned back, rubbing the sore knee.

  She went on. “The trend of the article would be ‘who is trying to impede the investigation in the Murphy case.’ If it was properly handled, with the right innuendoes, it could make people wonder.”

  “And who would do this for us?”

  “A friend of mine. Don’t look so suspicious; he’s married. Paul West.”

  The man was a feature writer for the Star, a columnist and reporter widely read in this area.

  We had Lippy on our side; we had a clear proof of trespassing because of the picture they would print. We had the bad reputation of Ned Deutscher on our side and the esteem in which the District Attorney was held by enlig
htened citizens.

  We concocted our story and Adele got hold of Paul West at the Star. It was a morning paper and he was still working. He thought, along with the angle of Jeremiah Adams’ current prominence, it would make a provocative story and that was the way he planned to write it.

  After that, my knee was better. But I left still troubled.

  I got Paul West’s story with my morning ham and eggs at a Westwood restaurant. He’d given it as light a touch as its connection with murder would permit. The whole fracas could have been considered another wild Hollywood lark from the bar fight to the stolen flash picture if Burns Murphy hadn’t been currently awaiting burial.

  Somehow, with that in the background, the light touch didn’t quite save the story from being faintly macabre.

  Griffin wasn’t in his office all morning. He was in court. So I had no immediate chance to see him after the Paul West story broke.

  At Headquarters, I checked the background of Clyde Tackett, but there was nothing on him. Then I went over to see his boss at the Hacienda Arms, a Mr. Gelling.

  I told Gelling about Tackett’s visit to Big Jim Murphy and Tackett’s story that Big Jim was a majority stockholder in the hotel.

  Gelling looked shocked. “There isn’t a molecule of truth in it, Mr. Puma. It’s an amazing lie.”

  “He may have been mistaken,” I suggested. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t mention it to him for a while. I don’t want to have him — warned.”

  Gelling frowned uncertainly. “Neither do I want him around if he’s mixed up in anything disreputable, Mr. Puma.”

  “I haven’t anything definite,” I assured him. “His record is clean; I’ve just come from looking it up. I know you’re doubtful, but it is very important to the District Attorney’s office to maintain secrecy on this for a while.”

  He said he’d go along, for a while, and I left.

  I ate lunch in Santa Monica and got a copy of the Progressive there. The picture of me bending over Adele had been snapped too early. The photographer hadn’t been able to see well enough in the dark. Only an incurable romantic could be sure I’d been bending to kiss Adele. It was a clean enough shot, otherwise, and three columns wide.

  The story under it was written by a newspaperwoman who had a reputation for controversial campaigning. The paper publicized her as a modern Joan of Arc, a knight riding sidesaddle, a tigress who fought for Right and Justice.