A look of disbelief grew on St. George’s face.
“You fit the general description, and you’re even the right age for the man I’m looking for,” Horn went on. “What kind of cigarettes do you smoke?”
The other man swallowed. “Pall Malls.”
“Ever smoke anything else?”
“No.”
“I think you’re lying. You ever hear of Arthur Bullard?”
“Of course I have. He died the other day. And you mentioned him when you came in.”
“Good memory, Calvin. How about Vincent Bonsigniore?”
“I don’t know,” St. George said sullenly. “I don’t think so.”
“Wendell Brand?”
“No.” St. George shook his head. “What does this—”
“Don’t interrupt. Let me just tell you the whole theory, to save time. I think you’re the fourth man, Calvin. You and the other three took all those girls up to the mountains for your awful games, and you were the photographer.”
“No.” St. George’s face had begun to resemble Wendell Brand’s at the moment Horn threatened him. It appeared to be infected with dread and fear.
“There’s one other thing you need to know,” Horn said. “One of the girls was my daughter.”
St. George looked as if he wanted to sink inside the overstuffed cushions and disappear. His eyes darted around the room. Somewhere among the books, Mad Crow was whistling tunelessly.
“Listen,” St. George said. “You are terribly, terribly mistaken about this. Yes, I did recognize the picture—”
“How?”
“Mister Bullard brought it in one day, along with some others. That’s right, I knew him. He was one of my best customers. We had an arrangement. Whenever I received anything especially fine, I would call him and he would come look at it, to see if he wanted to add it to his collection. One day he pulled those photos out of his pocket and showed them to me. It was very casual. He just laughed and said, ‘Of course, I know you could never handle anything like this, but I thought these might interest you.’ That was all. I didn’t ask him where he got them, and he never mentioned them again. And—” He took a breath, as if willing himself to calm down. “And I never saw any of those pictures after that until the day you came in here. Naturally I lied to you. You could have been a policeman, for all I knew, and those pictures are dangerous.”
Horn cracked his knuckles, thinking. The man sounded convincing, but Horn needed a target for his hate, and he wasn’t ready to abandon his ideas about St. George. “I don’t believe you,” he said, putting as much threat as he could in the words. “You were lying to me then, and you’re lying now. Which is worse, Calvin—being caught with a few dirty pictures or putting a hood over your face and raping a little girl?”
Something passed over St. George’s face. He got up and went behind the counter. “I’d like to make a call,” he said. “Do you mind? I think it will help answer some of your questions.” When Horn nodded in assent, he picked up a telephone and dialed a number, and Horn thought he could hear a ring somewhere in the distance.
“Wally?” St. George said into the receiver. “It’s me. Would you come down, please? There’s someone I want you to meet.” A pause. “I know, but it’s important. Don’t worry about getting dressed, just come down. Now.”
A minute passed. Horn heard a door close, and then the sound of someone descending a narrow circular staircase he had barely noticed in the rear of the store. A young man appeared, wearing short pants, sandals, and a gaily striped pullover and wiping his hands on a dish towel.
“Wally, this is Mr. Horn,” St. George said to him from the leather chair, pointedly ignoring Mad Crow, who appeared lost in his browsing. “He’s looking for some information, so I’d like you to answer some questions for him. First, what were you doing upstairs?”
The young man was tall and blonde and well-built. He was probably about twenty, and he had the casually handsome but unformed look that Horn had noticed in Vincent Bonsigniore’s nephew at the lunch table. He looked uneasily back and forth between Horn and St. George.
“I was, uh, doing the breakfast dishes,” the young man said.
“And why was that?”
Wally laughed nervously. “You know, Cal. I always do them.”
“And what were you going to do next?”
Wally stopped drying his hands and, unsure what to do with them, clasped them in front, wrapped in the damp towel. “Fix lunch, naturally.”
“That’s good,” St. George said encouragingly. “Wally, how long have we lived in the apartment upstairs?”
“Well, you’ve lived there ever since you took over the store,” Wally said, smiling at Horn as he warmed to the conversation. “I’ve lived there since we met a couple of years ago.”
“Wally, Mr. Horn noticed the pictures I took of the young woman and the little girl. Would you tell him who they are and why I took them?”
“That’s Clara, your niece, and her daughter.” Wally shot Horn a conspiratorial look. “You said you took them because your brother’s a cheapskate who pestered you until you agreed to do it for free.”
“That’s right,” St. George said. “Now, Wally, please tell Mr. Horn whom I prefer to use as a model. And be honest.”
“Me,” Wally said proudly. He turned to Horn. “You should see the apartment. I’m all over the place. He says I’m his muse, and that I—”
“That’s fine, Wally. You can go back upstairs. Please call me when lunch is ready.”
The young man left. “I wouldn’t have told you any of that,” he said in a voice grown calm, “except that in your hunger for certitude and revenge, you had fixed on a fantastic image of me. And only the truth would shake you out of it.” He steepled his hands in front of him, brow knitted, like a schoolmaster forced to deal with a particularly difficult student. “I don’t molest little girls, Mr. Horn. I don’t even begin to fit the description of those men you’ve told me about. Now that you’ve met Wally, I think that should be clear to you.”
Horn turned to Mad Crow, and both nodded at each other. “All right,” Horn said.
St. George drew himself up. “Now please take charge of your crude friend and get out of my store.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
As Mad Crow gunned the Cadillac up through the pass toward the Valley and Maggie’s place, Horn retrieved the Colt from under the seat. He muttered under his breath.
“Hard to see a good theory blown all to smithereens, ain’t it?” the Indian said.
“I wanted him to be the fourth man,” Horn said. “He still could be, except. . . .”
“Except it’s a lot less likely. He just doesn’t fit. Can’t see him getting all worked up over any member of the female sex, no matter what age. Guess that leaves you without anybody to look at, doesn’t it?”
“I guess it does.” Except for Scotty, a small voice said inside his head. His silent answer came quickly: I don’t want to think about that. Horn took off his hat, ran his hand through his hair, and laid his head back on the seat, letting the sun warm him. “Listen, I appreciate you coming along today. You were right. This was one of those times when I could have done something I’d regret.”
“Don’t mention it. You’re the excitement in my life these days. Gasoline bombs in the night, a killer on the loose. . . .”
“I don’t want you to get so close to all this that you—”
“Get burned? That’s the excitement, my friend. You know, I told you I was sorry for not saying anything the night Del Vitti brought the girl over to my place. That’s still true. I suppose I’m trying to be helpful in order to make up for that. But there’s another reason.”
Head tilted back, Horn turned to look at him through slitted eyes.
“Back when I met you, I’d just finish
ed being the third Indian from the left in some Hopalong Cassidy epic. I had one line: Drums talk, tell us you lie. I still don’t know why you put in a good word with Bernie Rome, but—”
“Told you why,” Horn said, sounding bored. “I thought you and I would make a good team. Turns out I was right.”
“Anyway, after you did, I found myself working regular and eating good and feeling a hell of a lot better about things. I was able to bring family out here, the whole package. I turned a corner when I started working with you. I don’t know if I ever said a proper thank-you—”
Horn put his hat back on to shade his eyes. “Just wake me up when we’re there, okay?”
* * *
“Clea!”
Mad Crow was yelling for her before his Cadillac had rolled to a stop in front of Maggie’s cottage. “Where are you?”
She came out the door, followed by Maggie. “Uncle Joe,” she said, sounding pleased.
“She’s one of the few who can get away with calling him Joe,” Horn said to Maggie as he got out.
Mad Crow boosted himself up heavily onto the back of his pinto-hide seat, swung his legs over and, ignoring the door, dropped to the ground. He strode over and stood close to the girl, hands on hips.
“Well?” he demanded.
She shook her head, feigning ignorance. It was an old game.
“Well?” he asked, louder this time.
“Hello, Joe, what do you know?” she yelled, a broad smile creasing her face.
“That’s right,” he boomed. And I say. . . . ‘Hey, little girl, lemme give you a twirl!’ ” With the last word, he grabbed her around the waist, lifted her high, and spun her around three times. She screamed, delighted.
“Damn, you’re big,” he said, setting her down, pretending to gasp. “What happened to that little bitty thing I used to swing around in the yard? Last time I’ll be able to do that.”
“It’s good to see you, Uncle Joe,” Clea said.
“Double for me, girl,” Mad Crow responded, flashing a smile at Maggie. “Hey, wait a minute. Almost forgot.” He strode over to the Cadillac, retrieved something from the back seat next to the cooler, and brought it over to her. It was a gift-wrapped parcel. “Heard you had a birthday just the other day.”
She kissed him on the cheek, said, “Thank you,” and hurried inside to unwrap it.
Horn shook his head. “What’s the matter?” Maggie asked.
“I don’t know. Look at her today, all happy to see Joseph and get a present. Last night she seemed just broken to pieces.”
“I know,” Maggie said. “Amazing, isn’t it? I think it just has something to do with being seventeen.” She turned to Mad Crow. “Can you stay for a while?”
“Sure. My place doesn’t open up for a few hours. Let’s have a great big lunch.”
“You two do that, but I have to go somewhere,” Horn said. “Pasadena. I have to see a rich lady about something.”
“Mrs. Bullard?” Maggie was interested. “She was in the society page the other day. She lives in one of those mansions. You know, I wouldn’t mind coming along. Get away from this place for a while.”
“Admit it, girl. You want to see how the idle rich live.”
“I do not.” She seemed defensive.
Horn immediately regretted what he’d said. “Well, hell, come along. You’ve been cooped up here for days, what with me and Clea and the mare. Indian, can you watch Clea and Addie ‘til we get back in an hour or so?”
“Addie’s gone,” Maggie broke in. “She took off early this morning without saying goodbye.”
“Damn,” Horn muttered. “Something tells me we haven’t heard the last of her. I’m afraid she’s going to be trouble.”
“I’ll be happy to mind Clea,” Mad Crow said to them. “Take the Caddy, you two. Ride in style for a change.” He tossed Horn the keys.
“You’re sure Mrs. Bullard wouldn’t mind an uninvited visitor,” Maggie said to Horn.
“Depends on the visitor. Way I see it, anybody who’s hobnobbed with the Duke of Windsor ought to be able to swagger into any place in Pasadena and start ordering the help around without batting an eye.”
He went inside to make a quick call, then came out. “She’s out shopping but’ll be back before long. Let’s go.”
He turned to Mad Crow and said quietly, “You won’t need it, but if you do, her husband Davey’s deer rifle is on the wall of the living room.”
“Go,” Mad Crow said. Then he hollered toward the house. “Clea! I want to see the new colt!”
* * *
When Horn guided the convertible into the Bullard driveway, he saw Helen Bullard by the front door, watching as her maid unloaded several shopping bags from the trunk of her car. She came over to greet him.
“Hello, John Ray,” she said. “Nice to see you.”
“Mrs. Bullard,” he said. “This is my friend Margaret O’Dare.”
Helen Bullard smiled at her. “How do you do? Won’t you both come in?”
“We can only stay a little while,” he said. “I have some information for you.”
A few minutes later, Maggie was settled into a lounge chair on the back patio with a glass of iced tea, enjoying the view of the arroyo. Horn sat in the living room with their hostess, who had changed from her shopping clothes into a silk lounging robe and high-heeled slippers.
“I have to go away for a while, and I’ll be out of touch,” he told her. “But before I go, I have something for you. You wanted to know when I had found out anything about Scotty’s death and who was behind it.”
She nodded, waiting. Her hostess’ face had disappeared, and in its place was something hard and focused.
“His name is Vincent Bonsigniore,” he said. “You may have read about him in the paper. He’s a gangster, basically. He runs a lot of businesses here in L.A. for his bosses in New York, some legal, some illegal.”
“I know the name,” she said. “He’s been here in my house, at a party we gave once. Arthur said they had business connections, but this man was not a typical business associate. I didn’t like him.” She wound the fringe of her sash around one thin finger. “And the young woman he brought with him struck me as cheap.”
“Bonsigniore was part of a group of men who spent time with underage girls. Your husband was one of them.”
She blinked at that, and her nostrils flared slightly. “Go on.”
She knew some of it but maybe not all of it, he thought. Whatever this does to her, she’s not going to let it show. “Scotty found a collection of pictures among your husband’s papers. Bonsigniore wanted them back, and he had Scotty killed for them.”
“You’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” He handed her a manila envelope with a small note clipped to the outside. “This is his name and address here at the top,” he said, pointing to the note. “Do you know anyone in the police department?”
“I sit on a board that oversees investments in some of the poor neighborhoods. We sometimes consult with the police. I had lunch not long ago with one of the deputy chiefs.”
He nodded. “I don’t know how much you or the police can do with this information, but it’s yours now. You need to know that this man is one of the most powerful gangsters in this city. He kills people whenever they get in his way; I know of at least one other besides Scotty. To be that powerful, you need friends in the police department, so he probably has a few. Whoever you approach about this, just be careful.”
She compressed her lips in a thin line, briefly carving dark valleys under her cheekbones. “I think what you’re saying is that no matter what I do, he may get away with this.”
“Mrs. Bullard, people get away with things all the time.”
She lifted the manila envelope. “Are these the pictures?”
“Yes, ma’am. I guess they belong to you now.”
She glanced at the note again. “This other name and phone number underneath—who is that?”
“I wrote that down just as an afterthought,” he said. “This man has nothing to do with Scotty. But you may want to talk to him.”
“Why?”
“He’s someone who wants Bonsigniore as badly as you do.”
She looked out the big window over the expanse of lawn. “I’m not sure that’s possible,” she said.
* * *
He and Maggie stopped for lunch on Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena, then drove back to the San Fernando Valley. A few miles short of her place, they passed a billboard advertising a new housing development—two-bedroom bungalows, attached garage, special terms for veterans—and saw bulldozers leveling acres of land. The development was called Vista del Sol, the billboard proclaimed. A little farther on was the developer’s office, a stucco creation done up to resemble a miniature Alhambra, painted in garish orange and blue and festooned with pennants. It sat in the middle of nothing.
“There goes another orange grove,” said Maggie. “One of my neighbors who’s been breeding horses out here since the thirties has just sold out to a developer. Said he couldn’t turn down the money. They told him there was room for almost a hundred homes out where he and his family have been living.”
“What’ll happen to him?”
“He’s going to move up the coast, where land is cheaper,” she said. “I’m afraid the bulldozers’ll come after me someday too.”
“Don’t sell. Hell with ‘em.”
“It’s not that simple, John Ray. The Valley isn’t the place you remember, where you and Iris used to live. It’s more crowded, it’s noisier, the air’s not as clean. Too many cars, too many people. Davey and I’ve talked about it. We may not last much longer either.”
“Sorry to hear that. You’re good folks. Listen, Maggie. I just want to say thanks.”
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