Deadfall (Nameless Detective)

by Bill Pronzini

  At 3:20 I was still waiting. Maybe Ozimas didn’t go to Big Sur after all, I thought. Maybe she got hold of him and he told her he didn’t know any dealer in antique miniatures named Charles Eberhardt, and that made her balk at keeping our appointment.

  I was fretting with that possibility when I saw her. She came in through the main entrance and stopped and held her cane up in front of her in a discreet away, so that the gold head was visible. I got off the couch and went her way, taking my time so I could size her up. From a distance she looked small and frail in a bulky fur coat, like somebody’s nice old white-haired grandmother—one who happened to have a couple of million dollars or so. Up close there was no mistaking the toughness in her seamed and rouged face and her shrewd gray eyes, the imperiousness of her bearing. Or the fact that she was a woman who knew what she wanted and usually got it, one way or another.

  “Mrs. Prine? I’m Charles Eberhardt.”

  She looked me up and down, once, as if she were examining a curious artifact. If the artifact made any impression on her she didn’t show it. She said, “How do you do, Mr. Eberhardt. I apologize for being tardy; I was unavoidably detained.”

  Sure you were, I thought. She’d been late on purpose—I understood that now. A double-edged ploy, no doubt, designed to test Mr. Eberhardt’s sincerity and to froth up his eagerness to sell her a Cosway snuff box.

  I said, “No apology necessary, Mrs. Prine.”

  “You’ve bought the Cosway?”

  I smiled at her. “Shall we go into the lounge, where it’s more private?”

  “No. It’s too dark in there. I’ll want to examine the piece, of course.”

  “Of course.” I gestured toward where I’d been sitting before; none of the furniture there was occupied. “Over this way?”

  She nodded and we went that way and took opposite ends of the same lumpy couch. She said, “Now then, Mr. Eberhardt, the Cosway.”

  I said pleasantly, “Now then, Mrs. Prine, my name isn’t Eberhardt and I don’t have any Cosway box.” I told her what my name was and that I was the private detective she wouldn’t talk to last week. I also offered her one of my business cards.

  She didn’t take the card; she looked at it as if it were something unclean. Looked at me the same way, with a sprinkling of contempt and malice thrown in. “I do not care to be lied to,” she said in a chilly voice, and started to get up.

  “I think you’d better stay a while,” I said. “I know you’ve got Kenneth Purcell’s Hainelin snuff box; I know you paid Eldon Summerhayes seventy-five thousand dollars for it four months ago.”

  She went rigid. She seemed to pale a little, too; at any rate the rouge on her cheeks appeared redder now. The look she gave me this time was one of hatred. She said in a biting whisper, “Blackmail.”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Prine. I don’t want anything from you except the answers to some questions.”

  That pushed her a little more off balance, which was where I wanted to keep her. The way to handle Margaret Prine, I had decided, was the same way Kerry had handled the Right Reverend Clyde T. Daybreak.

  “Questions?” she said. “What questions?”

  “About the Hainelin box. About where Summerhayes got it and why everybody pretended it was lost when Kenneth fell.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything,” she said.

  “That’s right, you don’t. But how would it look for you if I took my information to the authorities?”

  “I admit to nothing. You can’t prove I have the Hainelin.”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “But does it matter? Kenneth Purcell was murdered, Mrs. Prine; I think I can prove that. So was his brother. How would you like to be arrested as an accessory to double homicide?”

  “Accessory?” The hatred was still in her eyes, but so was uncertainty, now, and the emotion I most wanted to see: fear.

  “That’s right. The Hainelin box may be important evidence in Kenneth’s murder. You bought it and are holding it without having informed the authorities of the transaction; technically that’s suppressing it, and suppressing evidence in a homicide case is a felony.”

  “I had nothing to do with Kenneth’s death!”

  “Whether you did or not, you could still be tried on a felony charge. A good lawyer could probably get you off—but what about the publicity? What would that do to your reputation?”

  She clamped her mouth shut as a group of people passed, on their way into the Squire Restaurant. She didn’t speak when they were gone, either; she was thinking over what I’d said. The seamed skin of her face had the look of parchment stretched too tight around the shape of her skull, so that it might tear at any second.

  It didn’t take her long to make up her mind. Not much more than a minute had passed when she said in a stiff, controlled voice, “Ask your questions.”

  “Where did Summerhayes get the Hainelin box?”

  “From Alicia Purcell. Or so he told me.”

  “How did she come to have it?”

  “He said she found it among Kenneth’s effects.”

  “When?”

  “Two days after his death.”

  “Then why did she keep up the pretense that it was lost?”

  “She told Eldon she needed cash. If she had reported finding the box it would have legally become part of Kenneth’s estate; she would not have been able to sell it until his will cleared probate.”

  “That sounds pretty flimsy,” I said. “She sold it illegally anyway, didn’t she?”

  “I’m sure I don’t care how it sounds to you. I am only telling you what Eldon Summerhayes told me.”

  “Meaning you didn’t care how flimsy it sounded, or how illegal the deal was, as long as you got the Hainelin.”

  Her lips pulled in tight at the corners and her eyes snapped at me. But she held her tongue.

  I said, “Why did Mrs. Purcell need such a large amount of cash?”

  “Some sort of investment, I gathered.”

  “You gathered. Didn’t you ask Summerhayes?”

  “No. I did not.”

  “Did he tell you how much he paid her for the box?”

  “Seventy thousand dollars.”

  “So his commission for arranging the deal was five thousand?”

  “That is correct.”

  “That is incorrect,” I said. “He paid her fifty and kept twenty-five for himself.”

  That surprised her, and it made her even angrier than she already was; I could see the anger like sparks in those sharp gray eyes. But it also served to tighten her control. When she spoke again it sounded as though the words were being squeezed out through a roller press.

  “If you are telling the truth,” she said, “that is a matter between Eldon and myself. It has no bearing on anything else.”

  “Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. Have you had any contact with Mrs. Purcell since you bought the box?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Why ‘hardly’? Don’t you get along with her?”

  “I despise her. She has the morals of an alley cat.”

  So do you, Maggie, I thought, in your own sweet way.

  I said, “How about Kenneth? What did you think of him?”

  “As little. He was a boor, a drunkard, and a womanizer.”

  “Uh-huh. Who do you think pushed him off that cliff?”

  “I don’t believe anyone pushed him, no matter what you say. His death was an accident.”

  “His brother’s wasn’t.”

  “I know nothing about that.”

  “Did you have any contact with Leonard after Kenneth’s death?”

  “Certainly not. I told you, I know nothing about his murder.” She drew herself up even straighter and pointed the gold head of her cane at me as if it were a weapon. “Now are you quite finished with your questions?”

  I wasn’t, but asking any more wouldn’t get me anything: the set of her jaw and the look in her eyes made it plain that she’d said all she was going to say. If she knew anything
else it would take an official inquiry to get her to admit it.

  I said, “That’s all for now, Mrs. Prine. You can go.”

  “How generous of you.” She got slowly to her feet, using the cane as a fulcrum; I didn’t much feel like being a gentleman, not where she was concerned, so I made no effort to help her. When we were both standing she said, “Do you intend to tell anyone about what we have just discussed?”

  “If you mean the police or the newspapers, no. Not unless it has a direct bearing on either Kenneth’s death or Leonard’s.”

  “If you do I will deny having spoken to you. I will deny having purchased the Hainelin box and I will see to it that Eldon Summerhayes denies having sold it to me. I will also speak to my attorneys about suing you for harassment and defamation of character.”

  “You’re a nice lady, you know that?” I said. “I wish I had a granny like you.”

  Her tight little mouth worked; if we had been somewhere other than the lobby of the Fairmont, somewhere alone, she might have spit in my eye. As it was, she settled for a contemptuous sneer and then turned abruptly and thumped off across the lobby.

  Back in the car, I looked up the Moss Beach number in my notebook and called it on the mobile phone. Alicia Purcell was in; she answered herself. Her voice was cool, but she didn’t sound unhappy to hear from me again—not yet.

  “Have you found out anything new?” she asked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes. I’ve just had a long talk with Margaret Prine. I know all about the Hainelin snuff box.”

  “… What do you know?”

  “I know it didn’t go over the cliff with your husband,” I said. “I know you sold it to Eldon Summerhayes for fifty thousand dollars four months ago, and that he in turn sold it to Mrs. Prine. What I want to know is why you lied about having it.”

  There was a lengthy pause. When she spoke again the coolness in her voice had frozen into solid ice. “I resent you meddling in my private affairs.”

  “Meddling is one of the things I get paid for,” I said. “Answer my question, Mrs. Purcell.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then you’ll answer it for the police.”

  “I’ve done nothing illegal. The box was mine to sell as my husband’s legal heir.”

  “Not until his will clears probate.”

  “All right, yes, I admit that. But I needed cash after his death; he left me cash-poor.”

  “So you needed the fifty thousand for living expenses.”

  “Among other things, yes.”

  “What other things?”

  “Nothing that concerns you.”

  “Suppose you let me be the judge of that.”

  “Oh, all right. There were things I wanted—clothing, jewelry.”

  “Wouldn’t your husband let you buy them when he was alive?”

  “If you must know, no, he wouldn’t.”

  “But you told me the other day you never wanted for anything the entire time you were married.”

  “… I wasn’t being completely candid with you then.”

  “And you are being candid with me now.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get the Hainelin box?”

  “Kenneth gave it to me.”

  “When?”

  “Before he left the house. When we talked in his hobby room.”

  “Why did he give it to you?”

  “I asked him to. He’d been drinking so heavily … I was afraid he’d lose it.”

  “He just handed it over?”

  “Yes.”

  “No argument or anything?”

  “No.”

  “Did you argue about anything else at that time?”

  “We did not. Why do you ask that?”

  “Your housekeeper said he was upset when he left the house. Any idea what he was upset about?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “What did you do with the box after he gave it to you?”

  “Put it with the other pieces in his collection.”

  “Left it there after his death?”

  “Until the next day, yes. Then I removed it.”

  “Hid it, you mean.”

  “Hid it. Yes. Are you satisfied now?”

  “For the time being.”

  “I suppose that means I’ll be hearing from you again.”

  “I thought you wanted to hear from me,” I said. “I thought you were very concerned about things I’ve been finding out.”

  She hung up on me again.

  On the way down California Street I called Kerry’s number; I was starved—all I’d had to eat today had been some toast for breakfast—and I thought maybe she wanted to go out for an early dinner. But her line was busy. So I drove on home, and tried her again from there. Still busy. Talking to one of her women friends, maybe. Or her mother, Cybil, who was a former pulp writer and lived in Pasadena with Kerry’s father, Ivan the Terrible, also an ex-pulp writer, and who would cheerfully talk your ear off if you gave her half a chance.

  I rummaged around in the refrigerator. There wasn’t anything in there I wanted to eat except an apple, and it turned out to be mushy and I threw it away after one bite. I opened the cupboard and found a can of ravioli and opened it and ate the little buggers cold, right out of the can. Kerry would have been horrified, but I’ve been eating cold ravioli for years; it’s the only way to eat the canned variety, which isn’t really ravioli at all. The kind native Italians make by hand and serve hot, that’s ravioli. The cold canned stuff is a whole different taste treat.

  At five o’clock I tried Kerry again and finally got through to her. She’d been talking to Cybil, as it turned out—filling her in on our visit to the Church of the Holy Mission and the number she’d done on the Right Reverend Daybreak. She said dinner sounded fine, but she’d just had a sandwich and wouldn’t be hungry again for a while. We settled on seven-thirty and a fish restaurant we both liked out on Geary Boulevard.

  I sat down in the living room with a can of beer. So now where was I, after the session with Margaret Prine and the telephone conversation with Alicia Purcell? I now knew for sure that Mrs. Purcell had hidden her possession of the Hainelin box from the authorities, that she’d sold it to Eldon Summerhayes, and that Margaret Prine now had it. So? Did the box have any direct bearing on Kenneth Purcell’s death? It didn’t look that way, unless Alicia was lying about her reasons for secreting the box, or holding something back. But why would she lie? What would she hold back? I had no good answer in either case. And that put me right back where I’d been two days ago, smack up against a dead end. The only concrete lead I’d turned up with all my running around and maneuvering, it seemed, was Danny Martinez. He was the key to the whole case. Without him, there was no way to make sense out of it, to put it all together.

  Or was there?

  The telephone rang. I went into the bedroom and answered it, and Tom Washburn said, “I just came back from the house. I … well, I couldn’t make myself go over there until today. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t.”

  “Don’t apologize, Mr. Washburn. Did you find anything in Leonard’s papers?”

  “Nothing pertaining to Richard Dessault or that man Ozimas.”

  “Something else?”

  “Well, I don’t know. A photograph.”

  “What sort of photograph?”

  “You’d better see it for yourself. I don’t know what it means; it probably doesn’t mean anything. But I think you should look at it.”

  “Are you still at the house?”

  “No. I’m back at Fred’s.”

  “What’s the address there again?”

  He told me, and I said, “I could come by around seven or so.” On my way to Kerry’s, I was thinking. “Is that all right with you?”

  “Yes, fine. I’ll expect you.”

  A photograph, I thought as I rang off. Which reminded me of the one I’d taken out of Danny Martinez’s farmhouse. I found it in the pocket of my other suit coat and looked at it agai
n. And it bothered me again in the same vague way it had yesterday in my office. Or was it something associated with it that was responsible for the bother? I couldn’t seem to get a grasp on whatever it was. Too many things whirling around inside my head, too many confusing elements that kept me from seeing any of them clearly.

  I started out into the kitchen to get another beer, and the telephone rang again. I did an about-face back into the bedroom, picked up, and a familiar voice said, “This is Melanie Purcell.”

  She was one of the last people I expected to hear from. I said, “Yes, Melanie,” and managed to keep the surprise out of my voice. “What can I do for you?”

  “You still want to see Richie?” The way she said it, I thought she might be angry or uptight about something.

  “Yes, I do. Where is he?”

  “At the houseboat. He came back a little while ago.” There was a pause. “He was gone two days,” she said.

  “Gone where?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me. I don’t care anyway, not anymore. That’s why I called you.”

  “Where are you?”

  “One of the neighbor’s boats. I slipped out when he got into the shower. Listen, I think he’s going out again pretty soon. He acts all excited about something.”

  “I can be there in half an hour,” I said. “Can you keep him around that long?”

  “I guess I can try. But you better hurry.”

  “What kind of car does he drive?”

  “A white Trans-Am.”

  “All right. Thirty minutes, Melanie.”

  Chapter Twenty

  It was full dark when I got to Mission Creek. There was not much of a moon tonight and patchy clouds mostly obscured its thin, pale hook-shape; but nightlights strung along the floating walkway and aglow in boat windows and portholes, lights both moving and stationary on the freeway terminus high above, made it easy enough to see. I cut my headlamps just after I made the turn off Fourth onto Channel Street, beyond Blanche’s Café.