Dead Hero

by William Campbell Gault

  “Brock,” he said desperately, “I’m trying!”

  “Good night.”

  He stood there, two hundred and sixty pounds of muscle, quivering like a virgin at a Stanford prom. “Brock, I’m sorry I mixed you up in this mess. Believe me, I am!”

  “Good night,” I said again, and went out into the dry, warm night.

  Where was I now? I was on Horse Malone’s driveway, knowing only a little more than I had this morning, not knowing nearly enough to make me worth my usual rate.

  As I walked slowly up the lighted driveway to my rented Chev, my presence stirred again, the hair on my neck tingled. I had a feeling of being observed.

  My eyes were focusing to the darkness. About twenty feet up the street from my car there was another car parked under the overhang of a Jacaranda tree. I could make out the figure of a man leaning against the trunk of the tree.

  He started my way before I got to the end of the driveway. I wasn’t carrying a weapon; I kept a wary eye on him as I continued toward my car.

  When he was close enough to speak in a normal voice, he asked, “Callahan? Brock Callahan?”

  I stopped walking and tried to look tough. “What makes it your business, mister?”

  “My name is Jones,” he said. “Galveston Jones. I’m with Planetary.”

  Planetary was one of the big detective agencies, quite possibly the best. I said, “Always glad to meet one of the real pros, Mr. Jones. How did you catch me here?”

  “I’ve been following you since you damned near ran into me on the road near Deputy Bogaro’s,” he said. “I recognized you in my headlights.”

  He was in the range of the driveway floodlight now, a tall, thin man with high cheekbones and impressive shoulders. He studied me gravely. “Don’t you think it’s about time you confided in the law?”

  Chapter 8

  “YOU’RE NOT THE law, Mr. Jones,” I told him.

  “I’m on the law’s side,” he said. “You’re not, right now. I think we ought to go in together, don’t you?”

  “Nope. Are you armed?”

  His smile was carefully rationed. “No. Are you?”

  I shook my head.

  He said, “I’ll admit you’re bigger than I am and probably stronger.”

  “But you have my license number by now,” I confessed, “and can check out the man who rented the car for me. And you can put the heat on Bogaro, can’t you? So my weight isn’t much advantage.”

  He said nothing.

  I asked, “Who’s your client?”

  “Two of the insurance companies that took a beating in the fire.” He paused. “Mr. Callahan, before I turned honest, I ran my own office for a while. I’m not sure the best move would be to turn you in.” Another pause. “Right now, I mean.”

  “I’m not working on the fire,” I explained. “I’m working on the murder. And I haven’t learned much. Is it your theory that the fire and the murder are connected?”

  He shrugged. “I haven’t learned much, either.”

  “Don’t you even have a favorite suspect? “ I asked.

  The cautious smile again. “I guess you’d be my best bet for that. Do you happen to have an alibi for the two hours immediately following your visit to Calvin?”

  “No. Are you accusing me of arson, Mr. Jones?”

  “Not officially. Quite a number of expensive fires have been started by hired hands, though. I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

  “I am. Have you checked out my reputation?”

  That damned measured smile once more. He said, “Only superficially. I balanced your Santa Monica P.D. appraisal against your Beverly Hills score and you turned out gray-white.”

  “I could name you half a dozen more municipal departments that would bring the average up. Before you sold your soul to Planetary, was your office in this town?”

  “In Santa Monica,” he said, “so I know what you mean. Are you staying with the man who rented the car for you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He said, “I saw you meet Ruth Hansel in that parking lot. I have this address here and the one in Santa Monica Canyon. I know you went to see Bogaro and I have the license number of your rental car. I think I have enough to trade for a little frankness from you.”

  “Can you trade?” I asked. “That’s a big firm you work for. They don’t give you much operating leeway, do they?”

  “Not officially,” he admitted. “But the way I work has been pretty successful and I’m sure they don’t want to disturb that.”

  What could I do? He had the edge. I had to trust him. I said, “It’s too public to talk here. Let’s go back to my Beverly Hills hide-out.”

  He followed me through the Wilshire traffic, a first-class operative. He had followed me all the way from Bogaro’s and I hadn’t suspected it, kept me under surveillance during the watchful period when I had talked with Ruth Hansel. I could see why he had a right to be suspicious of me.

  And I of him? There had been cases where big company agents had acted on their own, making a personal and undeclared buck from time to time. I hadn’t even seen his identification.

  The Dunnes’ driveway and parking area was jammed with cars, as was the curb for half a long block. I parked at the end of the string and waited for Jones, my headlights on.

  When he came back from where he had parked, I said, “How about a look at your ID card before we gossip?”

  He handed it to me and I examined it in the glare of one headlight before handing it back. I switched the lights off and led the way back to Dunnes’.

  Luckily, the overhead door was open. The way the cars were crowded on the drive, it would have been impossible to open the overhead door, and most of the party seemed to be out around the pool, from where the rear door to the garage was visible. We went in and up the plank steps.

  When I turned on a tall table lamp, Jones looked around the lofty room and said, “You’re living well for a refugee. Friend of yours?”

  “A poker buddy. He stuck his neck way out, I hope you’ll remember. Did you talk with Bogaro tonight?”

  He shook his head. “I was on my way out there when I recognized you. I turned right around and followed. “ He went over to the window from where he could look down at the party. “It would be great to be rich, wouldn’t it? Or maybe you are?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Peeping is just an avocation with me. I’ve got three shares of IBM.” I sat down. “How far can I trust you, Galveston Jones?”

  He turned to face me. “I’ll leave that to your professional judgment. And evaluate what you tell me with mine.”

  A cool kid, this Jones. I thought for a second, trying to get my professional judgment into first gear and then began: “I guess Horse Malone is about the best friend I have and when he phoned me yesterday morning …”

  I told him everything but the things Bogaro had told me. I figured that was information Bogaro could give him directly if he wanted him to have it.

  When I had finished, I said, “And now you know why it didn’t seem smart for me to go running to the police.”

  He nodded in agreement and said thoughtfully, “This Joe Paretti is the only one you’ve mentioned who is outside of the law. And he had a motive — jealousy.”

  “I doubt it. Dawn Donovan is just another tramp to Joe. I thought your interest was the fire, not the murder.”

  “They could be connected,” he argued. “It wouldn’t be the first time a fire was started to hide a murder.”

  “The fire started quite a distance from Calvin’s house.”

  He nodded. “But once started, Calvin’s house was a cinch to go. That might not be obvious to a layman but this fire was started by someone who gave it a lot of thought.”

  “A professional, maybe?”

  “That’s what I’m checking now.” He paused. “Callahan, if you had to make an instinctive, flash judgment on the murder, what name pops into your mind first?”

  “Deputy Anthony Bogaro,” I said. />
  “Why?”

  “He’s emotionally capable of it and could have been emotionally motivated for it.”

  “That goes for Malone, too,” he pointed out.

  “Not with a fireplace poker,” I said. “Not the Horse.”

  “How about that Ruth Hansel?”

  “She wouldn’t be one of my choices but I’ve been wrong before. Do you have a favorite suspect, Mr. Jones?”

  He said jokingly, “Until I heard your story, I did. Frankly, I can’t see Bogaro as a suspect.”

  “You asked me for a flash judgment,” I explained. “I never seriously considered Bogaro, either. “ I gave him his specialty, the rationed smile. “You don’t know any more than I do, do you?”

  “No,” he admitted slowly, “but I have some leads that might pan out.” He looked at me squarely. “We’ll work together, won’t we?”

  “If you’re willing,” I agreed. “I’m always glad to have professional assistance. Give me your phone number.”

  He took one of his cards from a card case and scribbled a number on the back. As he handed it to me, he said, “I won’t phone you here and you’d better not tell your host I know you’re here. I still have police connections I need to maintain. I’ll be at this number every noon.”

  He went out and I went over to stare down at the revelers. At the far end Of the pool Maggie Dunne stood with a drink in her hand. She was wearing a white sheath dress and her hair was up off her neck, a stimulating picture. She was talking with a short, thick man in an Italian silk suit and trying not to yawn.

  I thought of Ruth Hansel and Ann Bogaro, of Linda and of Dawn Donovan. It seemed to be my night to think of girls.

  There were plenty of them below, many of them attractive, but the poised Maggie Dunne made them all seem less than they were.

  I was still staring, lost in licentious reverie, when I heard the light footstep on the stairs. I went over to the shadowed part of the room, where I would not be visible from the doorway.

  When the person knocked, I said, “Come in,” and the door opened.

  It was Jan!

  She said, “Bob Dunne phoned me and told me you were here and you had just come back. He saw your light. Now why did he do that?”

  “Whimsey,” I explained. “He’s a whimsical man. I’ve been sitting here, lonely for you.”

  “I’ll bet!” she said. “With all those females down there, I’ll bet you’ve been thinking of me.”

  “I’m not down there, am I?”

  “No. Because you’re in hiding. I’m glad of that. Tell me you love me, Brock Callahan.”

  “I love you,” I said, “all the ways there are. Come closer and let me enfold you in my enormous arms.”

  “Oh, boy! “ she said. “What a corn pone!”

  But she came over just the same, and the pressure of her body comforted me, the smell of her perfume stirred my lust.

  “Take your time,” she whispered. “Let’s make it last.”

  She was gone and I was alone again. I was physically depleted and should have been able to sleep. I couldn’t. It wasn’t the strident sounds of the party below that kept me tossing; it was all the ego-eroding frustrations of the dead day.

  So, I tried to tell myself, it was only one day. And now you have Deputy Bogaro and Galveston Jones to help. Fight on, dull guard. Persistence is your major weapon.

  Sleep, finally, with dreams of Scooter, too meaningless to record, with a finishing dream about Dawn Donovan, murkily vulgar, lost in memory.

  I wakened to a hot and brassy morning. Though I hadn’t picked up any swim trunks last night, I was sure the Dunnes wouldn’t be shocked if I wore two pairs of shorts. Perhaps the exercise would stimulate my sluggish mind.

  Three lengths of the pool later, puffing like a leaky steam engine, I looked up to see Maggie Dunne in a dressing robe, regarding me with heavy tolerance from the pool’s edge.

  “You don’t look like an athlete,” she said. “Unless wrestlers are considered athletes. Are they?”

  “Not professional wrestlers. I happen to be a little overweight at the moment.” I pulled myself to the deck at the far end and sat there, puffing, my heart pounding. “Aren’t you up early?”

  She shook her head. “Bob went to work two hours ago. It’s eight o’clock. Are you hungry?”

  “I can always eat. But I don’t want to be pushy. You’re doing too much already.”

  “Nonsense! Our one-woman staff of servants resigned last night, because of the party, but I could make eggs and bacon.”

  I told her that would be fine.

  Ten minutes later, in more formal clothing, I was sitting at the table in her bright breakfast room reading the Times. Evidently Paretti’s lawyer had come back to town before this edition of the Times had gone to press, because we had a new headline.

  MYSTERY WOMAN SOUGHT IN CALVIN SLAYING was the headline and the account below the headline was based on Scooter’s confession to Dawn Donovan regarding his true (though married) love. Further along in the piece I read that Private Eye Callahan was still missing and a healthy inference was growing that there was a connection between Callahan and the mystery woman.

  Maggie Dunne set a glass of fresh orange juice in front of me and said, “They’re getting closer, aren’t they? The police, I mean.”

  “It’s possible. Though even when they aren’t they try to sound as though they are. It’s a psychological weapon. A nervous criminal is likely to make some bad moves.”

  She went back to the stove. “What kind of woman is Mrs. Malone?”

  I didn’t answer that. I said, “Your husband has some admirable qualities, but his big mouth isn’t one of them.”

  She laughed quietly. “He always confides in me. Was that Mrs. Malone who went up to visit you last night?”

  I looked across the length of the breakfast room to the kitchen but she wasn’t looking at me. I said, “No, that was my chiropodist. I’m having trouble with an ingrown toenail.”

  She looked at me now and made a face. She looked back at the sizzling bacon and said, “You don’t like me much, do you? You think I dominate Bob.”

  “Do you?”

  “When he needs it,” she admitted. “He’s not exactly the most decisive man in the world, you may have noticed. I try not to be — overbearing.”

  “Maggie,” I said frankly, “at our first meeting I’ll admit you struck me as matriarchal. But perhaps you need to be. You also struck me as attractive, intelligent, and spirited. Bob is lucky.”

  She sighed. “He certainly is. Tell me more about your chiropodist.”

  I didn’t answer her. There was a picture of Scooter’s house in the paper, blackened and ruined, the scorched rock of his immense double fireplace and chimney still standing, not unlike an enormous headstone over a mass grave.

  I was thinking of all the poker games we’d had up there, the barbs, the long night’s camaraderie, the vulgar jokes of convivial lowbrows, the sad, emphatic fellowship of retired warriors. Linda had put a blight on that memory.

  Maggie Dunne said, “Your eyes are watering. Do you have a cold?”

  “Chlorine,” I explained, “from the pool. I’m allergic toit.”

  She looked at the paper. She set four eggs and six strips of bacon in front of me. “Don’t lie. You were thinking of Don. “ She went back to the kitchen for my toast.

  After she had brought it, she sat across from me with a fresh cup of coffee. “We’re not married,” she said. “Put that paper down and tell me why your eyes were wet.”

  I put the paper to one side. “It’s hard to explain to a woman and it doesn’t need explaining to a man. I guess what men regret all their lives is the loss of innocence.”

  “Not men,” she corrected me. “Boys. Boys of thirty, fifty, and eighty, athletes and sports fans. And by loss of innocence you meant loss of ignorance.”

  “All right,” I said. “Yes, m’am.”

  “But it’s not a man you’re protecting now,” sh
e pointed out. “It’s a woman, isn’t it?”

  “No,” I said honestly. “I guess I’m really protecting a three-year-old boy. Are you trying to explain to me that it’s a man’s world and men are fools?”

  “Something like that.”

  “A girl told me almost the same thing yesterday,” I said, “and my — my chiropodist has given me a number of lectures on the same general theme. You go into divorce court in this town and see who owns the world.”

  “Your eggs are getting cold,” she said.

  I continued eating.

  “You’re not married,” she said. “Have you ever been?”

  I shook my head.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t earn enough to support a wife at the level where most wives expect to be supported.”

  “Maybe you’d earn more if you were married. Maybe your wife would see to it that you didn’t take charity cases, as I imagine this one is.”

  “She might. And then I’d be less of a man, wouldn’t I?”

  She stared at me and I at her and I had a feeling she could have been thinking about her husband.

  Because suddenly her eyes were wet

  “That damned chlorine,” I said. “It gets us all.”

  Chapter 9

  AT THE SCENE of the crime, as they say, the hills were blackened all the way to the horizon on the north and to the highway on the west. I stood on the wind-cleaned concrete slab floor of Scooter’s former home and could see in the distance the place where the fire had started.

  Galveston Jones, I thought, was reaching if he assumed the fire had been started to hide a murder. Unless the murderer had been an experienced arsonist. And even then, a shift in the prevailing wind could have foiled him, just as it had finally been responsible for the extinguishing of the fire.

  The ocean was blue today and Catalina seemed to be only a mile off shore. Overhead, a light plane was scattering seed in an attempt to get new grass started before the rainy season began to erode the unprotected slopes.