Dead Hero

by William Campbell Gault

  I went back into the house. Jan was dressed. She was stacking the breakfast dishes in the sink. I told her, “Scooter Calvin was murdered last night. The police are looking for me. I’m going to hide my car in that shed behind your garage and leave here in that Peugeot.”

  She stared in shock. “You’re — Brock, not so fast!”

  “I can’t explain, so listen carefully. If the police question me, I’ll have to smear some decent people. If they ask me for my alibi, I’ll have to tell them I was here — all night. I’ll call you later.”

  “Brock — ” she called, and I turned impatiently.

  Her face was tender. “Be careful? And phone me as soon as you can?”

  “I promise.”

  “I’m sorry,” she told me, “I was so — so pukey, this morning. Please, be careful?”

  I blew her a kiss and left.

  Outside, I told Ruth Hansel, “Get your car started and headed toward the street. I’m going to hide mine here and I’ll need a ride.”

  She didn’t waste any time with words. She went directly to her car and had it out of the way by the time I had the engine running.

  The dilapidated shed behind Jan’s garage had originally been a lath house. She had converted it into a carport and used it until two years ago when she had built her new garage. It was overrun with vines that would shield my car from the casual eye; nothing was likely to protect it from discovery by the non-casual eye. But it was all I had right now.

  When I came around to the front again, I told Ruth, “I’ll get in back and out of sight. It’s too early for me to be seeing any police officers. I have to think this out.”

  “Where do you want me to take you? “ she asked.

  “Your place will do for now. I can’t stay here. If you found me here, it’s logical to think the police will eventually.”

  Again, she wasted neither time nor words. “Get in,” she said.

  I climbed into the back and crouched below the window line as the white car started down the long drive that led to Beverly Glen.

  She said, “You’re taking a big chance, aren’t you? Won’t you be in trouble with the police?”

  “I quite often am, one way or another. Are your neighbors nosy in that apartment house?”

  “Not very. I’ll drive around to the parking lot in back and we can go up the rear steps. I’m sure, if we’re careful, nobody will see you.”

  When she stopped for the light on Sunset, I heard the wail of a siren and asked, “Police?”

  “No. Another fire engine, heading west.”

  She turned to the right and we drove in silence along the sweeping curves of Sunset Boulevard east of the UCLA campus. I sat up in the back seat; we were far enough from Jan’s house to keep her clear of involvement now and there weren’t many police officers who knew me by sight

  At the Westwood Boulevard light I told her, “Maybe you’d better turn off on Federal or Burlingame. Too many people know me in Westwood.”

  She nodded and drove on. We could see the smoke in the northwest now. I said, “Horse thought you were out of town yesterday.”

  “I’m on vacation,” she explained, “and I wasn’t due back from San Francisco until this noon. I came back last night at six o’clock. Ed called me after eight and asked for Linda.” She took a breath. “I had to think fast. I said she had phoned to tell me that she had car trouble and I was just on my way over to Wilshire to pick her up.”

  “So you drove up to Scooter’s?”

  “I phoned him first and nobody answered. “ The bitterness deepened in her voice. “I — took the chance that he was home but too — too busy to answer the phone. So I drove up there.”

  “You must have passed Linda going down as you were coming up.”

  “I couldn’t have. I’d have seen her car.” She turned off Sunset toward Brentwood. “I didn’t see your car, either, and you were there after Linda.”

  “That’s right. Mine was parked off the road when you went by. And I guess Linda would have been back to the highway by the time you started up.”

  “You were testing me,” she said.

  “No. I’m trying to think, to make some sense out of it”

  Her voice was low. “I’ll admit I’m not sorry Don’s dead. I suppose that’s the wrong thing to say to a friend of his.”

  “It takes two to tango,” I said. “Scooter wasn’t married; Linda was.”

  No words from her. I thought her shoulders stiffened. I suggested quietly, “Maybe Horse went up there.”

  Her head shook vehemently.

  “Linda could have come home,” I went on, “and got caught in the lie you told Horse about her car breaking down. And maybe then she admitted she’d been — seeing Scooter.”

  “If Ed had gone up there,” Ruth said, “Linda would have told me that this morning. And Edwin W. Malone wouldn’t have needed to use a fireplace poker, not on a pipsqueak like Don Calvin.” She glared at me in her rear-view mirror. “You didn’t need a poker and Ed’s as big as you are.”

  “You have some quick answers,” I told her. “You must have been thinking along the same lines.”

  She didn’t answer. She turned off San Vicente, heading for Wilshire.

  Scooter, Scooter, Scooter…. Against the Bears, in the Coliseum, he had run two punts back for touchdowns and scored three more times on long runs from scrimmage. That had been his greatest afternoon, that cold Sunday against the Bears.

  And now he was dead, at thirty-two. And his last memory of Brock (The Rock) Callahan had been an unexpected punch in the stomach. Unexpected and unearned. As the French law so intelligently makes clear, the sexual practices of consenting adults are no concern of the state’s. Forgive me, Donald Mark (Scooter) Calvin, forgive me for my unrighteous wrath.

  The Peugeot turned in at a drive that led between two eight-unit apartment buildings of canary yellow stucco. In the parking area that seemed to serve both buildings, •Ruth Hansel drove into a space half covered by a second-story runway.

  She turned to tell me quietly, “I’ll go ahead and unlock the door. I’ll leave it open, Apartment 2-D on the second floor. If there’s somebody in the hall you can walk right past it and come down again.”

  I counted to thirty after she had left the car and then went quietly up the rear steps to the apartment directly above the stall where she had parked.

  The drapes in her apartment were drawn and it still held the night’s cooler air. She closed the door behind me and asked. “Coffee?”

  “I could use some. We didn’t get to it at Jan’s before you came.”

  She went to the kitchen; I sat at the table in the dinette that flanked it. And the obvious suddenly hit me, the question any competent investigator would have asked long before this.

  I asked it now: “Who told the Sheriff that I’d been up to see Scooter?”

  “Some neighbor.” she said. “A man named — I think it was Dunne?”

  “Bob Dunne. He not only recognized me out there; he recognized the Malone’s Buick. And put two and two together in his mind, I’m sure. He must have told the police about the Buick, too.”

  She had been measuring coffee into the percolator. She stopped, the measuring spoon halfway to the canister, her gaze anxiously on me.

  “Phone Linda,” I said. “Maybe we no longer have a story to hide from the newspapers.”

  She finished filling the percolator and turned on the gas before leaving the kitchen and going to what was probably a bedroom, out of my sight. I heard her close the door but could not hear her dial, nor could I make out any words in the murmur of conversation that followed.

  When she came back to the kitchen, she said, “The police haven’t contacted them. Do you think — ? “ She broke off.

  “Maybe, “ I guessed. “ Dunne figured he’d done enough damage by giving them my name.”

  “He’d almost have to do that, wouldn’t he?”

  “I suppose.”

  From the direction of Wilshire
came the sound of a siren and the rumble of a fire truck.

  Ruth Hansel asked quietly, “Was it a coincidence, do you think, or is there a connection?”

  “Connection?”

  “Between the fire and what happened to Don?”

  I shrugged.

  The coffee began to perc and she went over to lower the flame. She came back to sit across from me. “What do you plan to do?”

  “I don’t know. When Dunne told them I was up there, he must have told them I was waiting outside. That isn’t going to look to the police as though I came there on a friendly visit.”

  “Perhaps,” she suggested, “I could go to the police alone and tell them you had left by the time I arrived, and that Don had mentioned your visit. I wouldn’t need to tell them you had hit him.”

  I nodded, thinking of Scooter’s big house, now probably ashes. In my mind I saw the light go on in his bedroom again, and then out.

  Coincidence? Or a judgment? Or a husband or a boy friend? Or a girl? A girl could handle a fireplace poker. Horse Malone wouldn’t need one; Ruth was right about that.

  I said, “I’ve never evaded the police for any extended period of time. I could easily lose my license. Maybe I ought to turn myself in and then lie about why I went to see Scooter.”

  “You were outside,” she reminded me.

  “That’s right. Damn that Bob Dunne!”

  “Couldn’t you refuse to name your client? “ she asked. “Aren’t you permitted to do that?”

  “Only on TV. They can hold me and sweat me. The way it’s shaping up, they could even hold me on suspicion of murder.” I took a breath. “And maybe they’ll throw in arson.”

  She rose and went over to turn off the gas under the coffee. She asked, “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Black, please.”

  She poured two cups and brought me one. She took hers back to the other end of the table. Her voice was low and troubled. “I guess it would be best, wouldn’t it, if you told the police everything?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t trust them. They need the newspapers too much and the newspapers need the scandal for circulation.”

  We drank in moody silence. Finally, I said, “I’ll just have to take a chance and phone Bob Dunne. I have to convince him that Horse didn’t kill Scooter before he gets scared and blabs to the police.”

  “You can’t call him at home,” she said. “His home is gone. And if he has an office, it isn’t likely he’d be there this morning, would he?”

  “He could be. He’s a broker and he might have clients phoning him in the morning.”

  Ruth Hansel’s blue eyes were clouded and her voice tight. “I think you’re taking a risk that no friend should expect. I’ll tell the police any story that will help you. Linda’s my sister, but she has no claim on your loyalty.”

  “Horse has. We’re very good friends, Horse and I.”

  Her voice was cooler. “And Linda’s now outside the pale?”

  “I didn’t say that, Ruth.”

  “You implied it. “ Moisture in the blue eyes. “Oh, God — I hope they stay together. That crazy Linda Hansel — ” She sniffed, wiped her eyes with the back of one hand, and stood up. “I’ll get you the phone book.”

  Horse had married the wrong sister. This was a girl.

  There were two numbers for Robert E. Dunne in the western section phone directory. I called the Beverly Hills number.

  A feminine voice answered, “Barton, Boldt, and Bernstein,” and I asked for Robert Dunne.

  “Who’s calling, please?” she asked in her impersonal voice.

  I paused and said, “Randy Roman.” Randy was another of the poker players.

  When Bob answered, I said, “This is Callahan. Can I talk freely?”

  A moment of silence and then, “The line’s clear now. Where are you? What’s — ?”

  “I’m not with the police, not yet. I wanted to warn you about Malone, Bob. You didn’t give that name to the Sheriff’s Department, did you?”

  “No — I — uh — Hell, I’m sorry I gave them yours, now. I mean — Oh, hell — ” He broke off.

  I said evenly, “You had to give them mine and I understand. But there is no point, right now, in getting Horse involved. We don’t want to ruin a marriage, do we, Bob?”

  “I sure as hell don’t,” he said earnestly. “Brock, I feel like a heel. Where are you? Is there some way I can help?”

  “I don’t know. I may have to call on you later. Where are you living?”

  “Just a second.” A pause. “My wife phoned half an hour ago to tell me she’d rented a furnished house.” Another pause. “Here it is — 9638 Hemphill. That’s in Beverly Hills. Got it?”

  “I have it.”

  “And don’t worry, Brock,” he promised. “Horse will never get involved in this mess through me. And you call me if I can help.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Bob.”

  When I came back to the dinette, Ruth had a small radio going and the announcer was saying: “ — now under control and many of the units have been sent back to their stations. As Chief Miller stated on our nine o’clock newscast, the shift in the wind from — ”

  Ruth snapped off the radio. “The fire’s under control. What did Dunne — ?”

  Someone knocked on her door.

  Chapter 4

  RUTH STARED AT me anxiously and then pointed toward the bedroom from where I had just phoned. I nodded and moved quietly out as she went to the door.

  Standing next to her closet, I tried to make some sense of the mumble of voices I could barely hear. No luck. I wondered if I wasn’t making a serious mistake by not reporting to the police.

  Ruth and I could manage a story that should get me off the hook without implicating the Malones. But my alibi? Could I let the police (and thus the newspapers) know that I had spent the entire night at Jan’s house? Jan was in business in Beverly Hills.

  From the other room the mumbling went on and on and on…. It seemed like half an hour before Ruth came to the bedroom door to say, “All clear. One of my gabby neighbors. What did Dunne tell you?”

  “He’ll keep his mouth shut. I think I’d better get out of here, Ruth.”

  “Where will you go? And how?”

  “I don’t know.” I paused. “Maybe we ought to put half of your plan into operation — maybe you should go to the Malibu Sheriff’s Station and explain that you saw Scooter alive after I had left last night. “ Another pause. “You could even say you saw my car coming down the hill as you were coming up.”

  “Would it help much?” she asked.

  “It might keep some trigger-happy cop from shooting me on sight. It could encourage the police into investigating some other suspects not connected with Callahan.”

  She studied me doubtfully.

  “It’s going to be rough,” I admitted. “It’s going to be rough on your reputation, for one thing.”

  She said quietly, “I wasn’t thinking about that. I was wondering if I could hold up under their questioning. I was wondering if they would find out about the Malones because of my weakness.”

  I didn’t answer.

  She answered her own question. “They’d have no reason to think I was protecting the Malones, would they? They’d think the obvious. You stay here; I’ll go”

  “All right.”

  She started to speak and then stopped, apparently embarrassed. Finally, “But — that part about seeing your car as I was driving up — ”

  “A lie,” I explained, “like the rest of your story. Ruth, do you think I killed Scooter Calvin?”

  “No,” she said, too quickly, “but what if somebody should be able to prove I couldn’t have seen your car? I mean, this Dunne or somebody — ?”

  “You might have a point,” I agreed. “Forget that part of the story.”

  She seemed more than embarrassed now; she seemed ashamed. She said quietly, “You wait here. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She picked up her car keys from the kitchen counter and w
ent out.

  After making sure the door was locked, I went back to the kitchen to warm the coffee. It seemed clear that I wasn’t handling this as a competent investigator would but a competent investigator wouldn’t have taken a charity case in the first place. But for Horse …

  I called Jan’s shop and she answered the phone. “Alone?” I asked her.

  “I am now. Sergeant Gnup was here ten minutes ago.”

  Gnup was a detective-sergeant from the Beverly Hills Police Department. I said, “Looking for me, no doubt.”

  “He wanted to know if I’d seen you last night. I told him I hadn’t. Could I tell him you were there all night?”

  “No. Nobody found the car?”

  “Not yet, Brock, are you all right? If I have to, I’ll tell them you were with me all night. Would it help?”

  “It wouldn’t help your business or your reputation.”

  “I know that, you dope. But would it help yow?”

  “I don’t know. It might, later. I love you, Jan Bonnet, crooked eyetooth and all. You deserve better.”

  “What’s come over you? Are you drunk?”

  “I am overwhelmed by your loyalty. Don’t tell Gnup a damned thing. Or anybody else, either.”

  “Brock — that girl who came to the house this morning, I know her. That was Linda Malone’s sister, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Linda and — Scooter — were they — ?”

  “I don’t want to answer that.”

  “The fool,” Jan said hoarsely. “The damned fool! With that sweet Horse and that darling baby — she must have been crazy!”

  “Yes. Honey, I’ll phone you later. My coffee’s boiling.”

  I hung up and managed to get to the stove before the coffee erupted. The way it was shaping up, everybody but the newspapers would soon know about Linda and Scooter. I took my coffee over to the window that faced the street to watch for the return of Ruth.

  Where could I start? The logical suspect, as of right now, was Horse Malone, betrayed husband. And the next choice? Had Linda come back? It didn’t seem likely; they had parted as friends. I had heard her call a cheerful good night to him as I had crouched behind that rock.