The Dunnes had already done enough for me. I decided it might be considered presumptuous if I asked for a ham sandwich.
Whimsical Bob delivered handsomely in this touchy social situation. Ten minutes after he came home with tonight’s provender, I heard his feet on the plank steps.
He had a king-sized cold turkey sandwich in one hand and a glass of milk in the other.
“You’re psychic!” I marveled.
“Born with the veil,” he admitted. “And I’ve seen you eat at the poker sessions.” He went over next to the window and gazed down moodily at the pool.
Around a mouthful of delicatessen turkey, I said, “You told me, last night, that a number of women drove up that hill to see Scooter. Could you identify any of them?”
He continued to stare at the pool as he shook his head. “I never saw any of them up close. There was a white Peugeot sedan that used to make a hell of a lot of trips, though.”
“A lot? How many would a lot be?”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t counting. More than a dozen, though. Do you know the driver?”
“I might.” I thought of Ruth saying, I dated him a few times before I learned what a lecher he was. I asked Bob, “What kind of a car did you get me?”
“A Chev. Do you think a woman might have killed Scooter, Brock?”
“I don’t know enough yet to have an opinion on that.”
He sighed and turned from the window. “Don’t worry about the car. I charged it to Barton, Boldt, and Bernstein. We do it all the time at the happy home of the three B’s. Luck, Brock.”
“Thanks,” I said. “And thanks again for everything else.”
“A pleasure to serve,” he said airily. He waved and went slowly down the steps. He apparently didn’t have his wife’s alcoholic capacity.
There was a phone here and a phone book. I looked up Tony Bogaro; I knew he lived in Topanga Canyon. I called the number.
A woman answered, a voice I hadn’t heard in over a year but one I recognized. I asked, “Could I speak with Tony, please?”
“He’s not here.” A pause. “Is this Mr. Callahan?”
“No. When will Tony be home?”
“After six. You don’t have to lie to me, Mr. Brock Callahan; I wouldn’t tell the police.”
“I know you wouldn’t, Ann. But would Tony?”
“My brother is the police. He is all police.”
“I’d like to talk with him privately. Would he turn me in?”
“Who can tell, with him? Have you a way to get out here?”
“Yes.”
A pause. Then, “Come around seven. If the front light is on, come in. If it isn’t on, keep going. That way, at least, he won’t be able to trap you.”
“But won’t he know I’m coming?”
“No. I’ll sound him out and pretend I’m supposed to phone you.”
“Okay, Ann. And how are you getting along?”
A low laugh. “I guess I’m still a little wild — by Tony’s standards. And how are you getting along, Mr. Brock (The Rock) Callahan?”
“Not so well,” I admitted.
She was laughing again when I hung up.
One turkey sandwich wasn’t going to hold me for long. My stomach still growled. A restaurant would be too public; I would have to eat in the car at a drive-in. There were plenty of drive-ins on the way to Topanga.
It was dusk when I drove away from the Dunnes’. It was still dusk when I stopped at a drive-in on the highway below Pacific Palisades. I ate slowly, stalling. I wanted the cover of darkness when I approached the home of lawman Bogaro.
At this time last night I had been waiting for Linda Malone to start out on the trip to her lover. Her lover was now dead and I had some character evaluations to reappraise in my mind. Was this trip necessary? Was it my duty to hide the story of her indiscretion from the public?
There was a simple enough answer to that — was it any of the public’s God-damned business?
“Did you call me, sir? “ the carhop asked.
“No. I was just talking to myself.”
She smiled, young and wise. “It’s surprising how many of our customers do.”
“How old are you? “ I asked.
“Nineteen,” she told me. “What would you like for dessert, sir?”
You, I thought, you and my youth. “Nothing,” I said. “Thank you.”
It was almost dark here now; it would be darker in Topanga Canyon. She took the tray from the car and I drove toward what I hoped would be a conversation with Bogaro.
At the Topanga light, where Linda had temporarily lost me last night, I turned to the right. A half mile up this road and I turned to the right once more, up a narrower, rutted road that served about a dozen homes.
The name Bogaro was stenciled on the fourth mailbox up this road. I could see the light above his front door as I turned into the steep cinder driveway.
Ann Bogaro was waiting for me next to the carport in front. She was a slight girl, dark and high-strung, and she seemed to be nervous tonight.
“I hope I didn’t make a mistake,” she warned me. “He’s a hard man to get a promise out of.”
The front door opened then and Tony Bogaro was visible in the light from behind him. “Callahan?”
“Right.”
“Come in.” And to Ann: “Why all the secrecy? Couldn’t you wait inside?”
“I wanted the air,” she told him coolly. “I still do. See you later, Mr. Callahan.”
She stayed outside. I came into a living room furnished in discount-house provincial, reeking of cigar smoke.
Tony Bogaro was a man almost my size with a broad face now slightly flabby and thick black eyebrows that met over his flat nose. A stub of a cigar, no longer growing, adorned one side of his mouth.
“You’re sure playing it dumb,” he said.
“I’m hiding to protect somebody, Tony.”
“A woman?”
I met his stare and didn’t answer.
“A client? “ he asked.
“In a way. A non-pay client”
I thought he looked uncomfortable. Tony had been a non-pay client.
He said gruffly, “That Hansel woman, Ruth Hansel — you know her?”
“Tony,” I said firmly, “I didn’t come here to be interrogated. I came here to ask for your help. I came here hoping you had a memory. Now, don’t play cop with me.
“That’s what I am,” he said heavily, “and you knew it before you came.”
“I was hoping you were more than that. For Christ’s sake — you don’t think I’m a killer, do you?”
He shook his head.
“And you don’t think I’d protect a killer, do you?”
“Maybe. That Calvin was no loss. I keep remembering you’re the guy that introduced him to Ann.”
I stared at him, startled. I had forgotten that.
I said, “Calvin was an agent and Ann wanted to get into TV. You’re not trying to read anything else into that, are you?”
“I’m just putting together what I know, “ he said stubbornly. “You guys cut some cute corners from time to time.”
“Only to protect lambs,” I reminded him, “never lions. Lambs like Ann. Now, get that damned official look off your ugly face and start thinking like a human being.”
“I’ll think like a cop,” he said, “until you come up with some answers. You want me to trust you blind?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s it, exactly.”
“You can’t ask that,” he exploded. “You must be crazy!”
A silence. He glared at me and I stared at him. And then I said quietly, “Ann knew Scooter and you found his body. Can you imagine what those frustrated fiction writers who call themselves reporters could make out of that, Deputy Bogaro?”
He said hoarsely, “Watch it!”
“I’m trying to show you my position,” I went on, “not yours. I’m trying to get you to use what few brains and little heart God gave you. I wouldn’t cover f
or a killer even if it was my own mother and you know it. I’m asking you to respect my reputation. No matter what you think of it, it’s solid and it wasn’t easy to earn.”
He continued to glare at me, frustrated and stubborn and angry. There was a long silence.
Then the door opened and Ann came in from outside. She said lightly, “Why don’t I make some coffee and you can argue over that?”
Her timing had been good, she must have been listening through the open window near the door.
Tony glanced at her and back at me. “I could use some,” he agreed. “I got a hell of a headache.”
Chapter 6
IN THE BIG, old-fashioned kitchen, over the coffee, Bogaro told me a few of the things the department had not told the reporters. Arson had been established; the charred remnants of a homemade, delayed-action fire-starter had been found in the canyon below Big Rock Mesa. So far, no connection had been established between the fire and the murder.
The apparent favorite in the late Scooter’s harem had seemed to be a lady named Dawn Donovan, a former stripper who had developed more respectable theatrical ambitions.
“Two facts make her important,” Bogaro told me. “Nobody knows where the girl is and — ” he paused, “a lot of people consider her Joe Paretti’s girl friend.”
“So? “I said. “What’s Paretti? Just a bookie. He was never heavy.”
“He’s a big bookie, “ Tony persisted, “ maybe the biggest in town. A book that big is bound to have a mob tie-up.”
I didn’t follow the logic of that but I didn’t argue. I asked, “What does he say about all this? Have you picked him up?”
“He’s missing, too. The last trace we had of him was yesterday afternoon through a waiter who served him at The Dolphin.”
“And that’s all you have, Tony? “ I asked.
He paused, frowning.
Ann said, “Tell him about the book, honest brother.”
Tony transferred his frowning gaze to her. “So all right, Calvin didn’t die right away, we’re sure now. It looked like he went over to a table after he was hit and grabbed this book. It was near his hand when I found him.”
“A book? A novel, a telephone book, an address book?”
“Wait, “ he said, and went out to the living room. When he came back, he had a notebook in his hand and was leafing through it. “It was a book called The World in the Evening by somebody named Christopher Isherwood. You ever hear of it?”
“I’ve heard of Isherwood,” I said, “but not that title. Any prints on the book?”
“Nothing we can use,” he said. “You think it means something? Those lab men can be wrong, you know. Maybe he was reading it when the killer came in, or something.”
“Maybe he was trying to point a finger. Maybe we ought to read the book.”
“Somebody’s doing that now,” he said.
“It was quite a problem,” Ann explained, “trying to find a deputy who could read.”
There wasn’t much more he could tell me. They both came out to the car. There Tony said, “I told you some things I shouldn’t have told you. And if you get something — ”
“It comes to you,” I said, “of course. You can make the pinch, Tony. I don’t need the ink.”
He said stiffly, “I wasn’t thinking of publicity.”
“He was thinking of a promotion,” Ann said lightly. “And right now he’s probably memorizing your license number.”
Bogaro took a deep breath and said nothing. He didn’t look at his sister.
I said, “Ann, get off his back. Try to grow up.”
“Tell him that, Uncle Brock,” she said bitterly. “I’ll grow up when he lets me.”
Tony Bogaro remained silent, standing rigidly, the marble martyr. I knew how emotional he was and could guess at the fight for control going on inside of him now.
I said good night to them both and got out of there.
I don’t know if it was due to my haste or a careless driver in the car coming up, but on the turn that led to the canyon road I was suddenly blinded by oncoming headlights. I swung sharply to the right, into the cliff side of the road, luckily, and heard my tailpipe bang on a rock before I was again under control.
The car that had blinded me slowed, and then went on as I concentrated on the steep road ahead.
We had had two hot days in a row and the clothes I was wearing had been put on yesterday morning. I hoped the law had grown bored with keeping an eye on my apartment.
On Westwood Boulevard I turned right. I drove past my place and traveled for two blocks before coming back on a side street to the alley entrance that ended in the parking area. Here I sat in the car for a couple of minutes and finally decided the Big Eye was not on me.
Five minutes later, I was again traveling down Wilshire, my grip in the back seat of the Chev. From an outside phone booth a few blocks away, I called Ruth Hansel.
Her “Hello” was tentative and frightened.
I said quietly, “Brock Callahan, Ruth. Alone?”
“Yes. Where are you?”
“Still on the run. You had a rough time of it, didn’t you?”
“Terrible. Could we talk somewhere?” A pause. “I don’t want to talk over the phone.”
“Drive to the Baypoint shopping center,” I told her. “Try to park as close to the Thrifty Drug Store as you can, in the side lot. I’ll contact you there if I think it’s safe.”
I was closer to the center than she was; I was parked near the side lot entrance for almost five minutes before the white Peugeot turned in from the street.
There was a car about a hundred feet behind it but a woman was driving and there were two kids and a dog in the rear seat. I returned my attention to the Peugeot to see where it parked.
She was in range; I flicked my lights twice and Ruth came across the narrow traffic lane as I opened the door for her.
She settled in the seat beside me and expelled her breath heavily. “Do you know a man named Bogaro, a deputy?”
“Yes. Did he give you a bad time?”
“Oh, no! He was about the most polite, I think. But when the other officers were out of the room, he said a strange thing. He asked me if I knew his sister.”
“His sister knew Scooter,” I explained. “Did you know the Santa Monica Police came up to knock on your door when I was there alone?”
She nodded. “My nosy neighbor must have phoned them. When I was out at the Sheriff’s Station, somebody said there was a call from Santa Monica.” She took a breath. “This neighbor, this woman knew I was a friend of Don’s. And she must have seen you come in, or heard you.”
“I suppose you had a second grilling, then, at Santa Monica Police Headquarters?”
She shook her head. “When those officers came back with me, you were gone and they didn’t seem much interested in — in what happened at Malibu.”
“Ruth,” I said hesitantly, “you told me you only had a couple of dates with Scooter.”
She turned to stare at me in the reddish reflection of the drugstore neon. “That’s true.”
“I was told a few hours ago that your car made more than a dozen trips up there.”
Her voice was tight. “It did. With Linda driving it Did she want her Buick parked in front up there if any of Don’s zillion friends might happen to drive up? She could hide, if they dropped in, but she couldn’t hide that Buick, not in a carport.”
“I see,” I said.
“Now you see. Am I a suspect, detective Callahan?”
“Let’s not fight,” I said. “We’re allies.”
She nodded, her expression bitter. “I’m sorry. It’s been a horrible day. Have you found a place to stay?”
“Yes. Did any of the officers mention a girl named Dawn Donovan or a man named Joe Paretti?”
She shook her head. “The only name I heard mentioned was Ann Bogaro. That man who asked about her, that deputy, he’s strange, isn’t he? I mean — he talked so soft and gentle but I had the fee
ling he was just — on fire, inside.”
“He’s trying too hard to be a father,” I said, “and he plays it a little heavy. I introduced Scooter to his sister.”
She lighted a cigarette and stared out through the windshield. “Do you think the police will get to Linda eventually?”
“I hope not. If I thought that, I wouldn’t be sitting here in a rented car. This publicity you’ve had isn’t going to lose you your job, is it?”
“No. I work for a very understanding man, a lawyer. “ She blew out an angry puff of smoke. “But the publicity has brought me two obscene telephone calls so far. I had to take the phone off the cradle.”
I said nothing.
She said more quietly, “I’m sorry. I’m doing the moaning but you’re the one who has the most to lose, aren’t you?”
“No. The Malones have the most to lose because they have the most. How come you never married, Ruth?”
“The right man never asked me, “ she said lightly. “ An Edwin W. Malone type man, that’s the kind I’m looking for. And the only reasonably accurate facsimile around is already shacked up with a snippy drip named Jan Bonnet.”
“We are not shacked up,” I said stiffly. “We are not even engaged.”
Her laugh was muffled. Then she said, “I’m sorry. I suppose nothing is really funny to you right now, is it?”
I shrugged.
She reached for the door handle. “Will you keep in touch with me?”
I nodded.
She opened the door. “I’m sure you’ve visited a number of beds, Brock Callahan, but you’re an innocent just the same, aren’t you?”
“Try me sometime,” I answered with a sneer.
The sneer was phony; the girl was right. I had never really left Long Beach.
The little white car went away. I sat there, depressed and stymied. From the street a police cruiser came loafing into the center, swung wide around a double-parked station wagon, and turned into the side lot where I was sitting.
I waited until it was parked and the engine dead before pulling out. I cut back to Wilshire and drove east, aimless as a tourist, the ineffectual operator contributing to the smog.
I had met Joe Paretti a few times and I knew a man who knew him well. I didn’t share Deputy Bogaro’s view of him as a potential killer but he was known as a man with a big ear. If his girl was a Scooter favorite, I was sure Joe Paretti had a full file on Scooter Calvin.
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