The Wayward Widow

by William Campbell Gault

  She chuckled. “You have just described David Hawley. He’s a hopeless adolescent and over thirty. But I like him, for some reason.”

  “What did Mr. Greene think of him?” I asked. Another of our many silences. Then she asked quietly, “Exactly what did that mean?”

  “If I were over sixty,” I said, “and you were — well, working for me, I would take a very dim view of gents like Hawley hanging around.”

  “Are you implying, Mr. Puma, that my relationship with Mr. Greene went beyond an employee-employer relationship?”

  “I’m inferring it,” I explained. “You implied it by suing for half a million dollars. Let us be realistic; ordinary employees don’t sue.”

  “I wasn’t ordinary. I was a very important spiritual solace to Dennis Greene.”

  “Okay,” I said agreeably. “Pardon my dirty mind.” She sat up and put her cigarette out. She looked at me and smiled. “We’re going to get along, aren’t we? I really need you.”

  “We’re going to get along,” I assured her, “but why you need me is the question that gives me goose pimples.”

  She continued to smile. “You know, I think there’s a pair of trunks in the house that would fit you. Are you sure you don’t want to enjoy the pool?”

  “You’ve sold me,” I said. The way I figured it, maybe if she got a look at my fine non-athletic body, this Hawley wouldn’t seem like such a fireball any more. Not that I was planning anything in the adultery line, you understand, but there was a possibility I’d be needed for a considerable time. And San Valdesto had a reputation as being a very dull town.

  Let her size me up; she was paying for it. We splashed around and traded some banter. The sun got lower in the sky and it got a little chilly, up there with all those woods around.

  And she said she had to go in and get ready for her dinner engagement. She said, smiling, “I must be clean and sweet for David Hawley, mustn’t I?”

  I held her gaze and nodded. I asked, “Do I go along or won’t you need a bodyguard with him?”

  “I won’t need you,” she said. “The housekeeper will fix your dinner and show you your room. When I’m alone is when I’ll need you.”

  That last remark could be read more ways than one, but I read it the clean way. I showered and went into the breakfast room for dinner while she made herself ready for Hawley.

  The housekeeper was a sourpuss about fifty and she had no dialogue as she served me, though I gave her a few openings. A little later, I heard that throaty engine outside again, and a few minutes after that, I heard the front door close. She hadn’t even stopped in to say “good night.”

  I sat out in front after dinner, watching the big red sun set over the oaks and the sycamores, the dark green pines and the tall eucalypti. Around this house, and below it, were all the expensive homes of the truly rich, the rich who didn’t have to go to the office every day to stay rich.

  You’d think, in an area that fancy, the odor coming to me across the rich, dark green pines would be Chanel #5.

  But it was sewerage I smelled; somebody’s septic tank was acting up.

  Chapter Two

  THE EVENING grew colder, but I still stayed out in front, looking at the lights and the stars. About nine o’clock I heard a noise behind me and turned to see the housekeeper in a car coat, standing in the open doorway.

  “Aren’t you cold?” she asked hesitantly. I rose. “No. Come out and sit. It’s a beautiful, clear night.” She came out and sat in a plastic-upholstered chair in the shadows to the right of the window behind us. “I got a creepy feeling in there,” she said quietly. “Are you a detective, Mr. Puma?”

  “Yes. Why did you get a creepy feeling?”

  “I don’t know. Mr. Greene died in there, but it wasn’t that. I’ve been in plenty of houses where people died.”

  “His death was natural, wasn’t it? There wasn’t any gossip about it being anything else, was there?”

  “None I heard, but I’m not much for gossip. Wasn’t it natural?”

  “So far as I know. Are you a local resident, Miss — ?”

  “Mrs,” she corrected me. “Mrs. Harold Trapp, widow. I’ve been a local resident for twenty-five years; came from Nebraska.”

  “When you were just a girl, eh?” I said.

  “Thank you, but I was considerably more than that.”

  “Sort of a quiet town, isn’t it?”

  “I like it. Since some of this Los Angeles trash moved up here, it’s been spoiled a little, but it’s still a nice enough town for me.”

  “By Los Angeles trash, do you mean Miss Destry and Mr. Greene?”

  “Of course not, Mr. Puma, and I consider the question an impertinence.”

  “I apologize,” I said humbly.

  “I meant those research people,” she went on, “those high-living young couples with all their kids. This was a town for retired people, before they came, for mannerly people.” I wanted to tell her that the world changes and with it, San Valdesto, but if she hadn’t learned that in all her years, how could I explain it? We sat without speaking, looking at the stars.

  From the road below a spotlight flashed suddenly and blindingly our way and some startled exclamation came from Mrs. Trapp. Then it went out and a little later the headlights of a car came around the bend of the climbing driveway. It was a black Chevy two-door sedan.

  “Elmer Duggan,” Mrs. Trapp said. “He’s the special policeman for Halcyon Heights.” She stood up as he came over from his parked car.

  When he was within earshot, she said, “Who do you think you are, flashing that spotlight in our faces?”

  A thin, tall young man with a narrow face smiled at her in the light from the living-room window. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Trapp. I didn’t know you were working here now.” He nodded at me. “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “I’m a friend of Miss Destry’s,” I said. “Would you like to see my driver’s license?”

  “He’s a detective,” Mrs. Trapp said acidly, “and we can use one, the protection we get from you, Elmer Duggan.”

  He grinned at her. “Why, ma’am, you’re getting San Valdesto protection now; you’re getting the best. Halcyon Heights was annexed to the city over a month ago.” He stepped up onto the porch. “I’ll take a look at your identification.”

  “Are you on the San Valdesto Force now?” I asked. He stared at me and shook his head. “The local people wanted to keep me on. My authority comes from them.”

  “Not legally,” I said. “Not since this area was annexed.”

  He studied me and smiled. “You want to make an issue of it? I can have a prowl car here in five minutes. I can have a State Trooper here in three. Their headquarters is a mile right up the highway.”

  He was as tall as I was but at least eighty pounds lighter. I could have thrown him halfway to the road. I considered all the angles and took out my driver’s license and the photostate of my investigator’s license. I handed them over with a semi-smile. He brought them closer to the living-room window so he could read them. Then he looked up. “Gee, whyn’t you tell me you were Joe Puma?”

  “I didn’t know you’d be interested,” I said tolerantly. “Things pretty quiet tonight?”

  He shrugged like one professional to another. “Quiet enough. Things usually are, around here. How about Los Angeles?”

  “Quiet,” I said. “How old are you, Elmer?”

  “Twenty-one,” he said. “Why?”

  “I wondered. You seemed young. Sit down and tell us what’s going on around Halcyon Heights.”

  His grin was a little nervous. “You’re kidding me, huh?”

  “Only a little,” I assured him. “Mrs. Trapp and I seem to have run out of conversation and it’s too early to go to bed. I thought we could talk.”

  He shook his head sadly. “I’d like to, Mr. Puma, but the people around here like to see my car on the road. Maybe tomorrow? I only work nights.”

  “Drop around,” I said. “If Miss Destry doesn�
�t mind, we can chew the fat.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Puma,” he said. “Good night. Good night, Mrs. Trapp.”

  ‘Good night,” she said. “You keep that spotlight off us.”

  The Chevy went away and Mrs. Trapp sighed. “Silly boy, that Elmer Duggan. I thought he would amount to something. It’s those comic books and television that put him wrong, I’ll bet you.”

  “Wrong?”

  “Isn’t that a silly job for a twenty-one-year-old boy, playing detective?”

  “Mrs. Trapp,” I said profoundly, “all kids play cops and robbers. I don’t worry about the ones who grow up wanting to play cop; it’s the boys who insist on playing robber that bother me.”

  “Well, if you ask me,” she said nasally, “there’s not a lot to choose between them.”

  I didn’t answer. It always annoys me when these great and fundamental truths I occasionally utter are not intelligently received.

  Where were Carol and David, I wondered? Were they dancing somewhere? Were they necking? David Hawley was out with that ripe and ready lovely and Joe Puma was sitting here with Mrs. Trapp. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

  Mrs. Trapp said, “It’s getting cold. Aren’t you coming in?”

  I shook my head. “I think I’ll wait up for Miss Destry.”

  “You could wait inside.” I didn’t want to go in but if she was nervous it seemed only courteous for me to stay in the house with her. I am often rude but rarely discourteous.

  So we went in. She went into the den to watch television and I sat in the enormous living room reading a Mark Harris book I hadn’t read before.

  About ten, I heard the television cease and soon after that heard some noise in the bathroom, so I assumed she was going to bed. About ten-fifteen, the front-door chime sounded.

  There was no indication of stirring from the other part of the house, so I went to the door after the second summons.

  A man of about thirty-five stood there, a man almost as big as I am. He was a symphony in blue, with a pale blue shirt and a silver striped tie and a blue flannel suit that had never come off the shelf, real custom tailoring. In this getup I had to assume he wasn’t what he looked like. He looked like a cop.

  “I’d like to speak with Miss Destry,” he said.

  “She isn’t home,” I answered. “Would you like to leave a message?”

  He looked at me belligerently. “Who are you?”

  “Miss Destry’s message-taker. Wait’ll I get a pencil and piece of paper.”

  “Don’t be flippant,” he said. “I’m Sergeant Purvis of the San Valdesto Police.” He showed me his badge. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Puma,” I said. “Joseph Puma. I live in Westwood.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Puma? The private investigator?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been reading Letter From A Seamstitch, Sergeant,” I answered humbly. “Have you read it?”

  He said ominously, “I’ve heard about you and about your lip. Puma, you’re not in Los Angeles now. Keep that in mind every second you’re up here. Now, well start over. Why are you here?”

  “Miss Destry hired me,” I said. I nodded toward the broken window. “Somebody did that with a rock last night and it made Miss Destry nervous. So she sent down to Los Angeles for the name of a competent private man to act as bodyguard and here I am.”

  He took a breath, studying me. “I saw some lights in the west wing of the house. Miss Destry is home, isn’t she?”

  “No, Sergeant,” I said. “A Mrs. Trapp is here. She was hired by Miss Destry as a housekeeper only this morning.”

  “I see,” he said quietly. “And do you know where Miss Destry is?”

  “Quite possibly at some country club or other,” I answered. “She went there for dinner with a Mr. David Hawley.”

  He stared at me for a few seconds.

  “Is there any message?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, after a few more seconds. “You may tell her it’s possible I have some information about the person who threw that rock. I’ll phone her tomorrow.”

  “I’ll tell her.” He continued to stare at me. “And keep your nose clean while you’re in this town, Puma.”

  “Absolutely, Sergeant,” I said earnestly. “Good night.” He left and I went back to Mr. Harris. But the magic was gone; resentment simmered in me and I couldn’t keep my mind on the story.

  I went to the window and looked out, but there was nothing to see. I went to the kitchen and found some Oregon cheese and a loaf of delicatessen rye bread. I made three small sandwiches and washed them down with a bottle of beer.

  I was trying to concentrate when I heard the growl of that lightly muffled engine again and the squeal of tires, the trademark of playboy Dave Hawley.

  Miss Destry came in with Hawley right behind her. They were both laughing. She stopped when she saw me and said, “Migawd, he reads, just like a human being.” I looked up blandly. “A Sergeant Purvis was here. About the window. He’ll phone tomorrow.”

  “How sweet of him,” she said. “And what have you been doing — making time with Mrs. Trapp?”

  They were both a little drunk, I saw now. I said, “I looked at the stars for a while and talked with Elmer Duggan and Sergeant Purvis. Did you have a nice time?”

  “We always have a nice time,” she said. “Don’t we, Dave?” She patted his cheek and he leered at her. She looked back at me. “We discussed you. We decided you’re a hedonist. Do you know what a hedonist is?”

  “Yes,” I said, “and you’re a hundred per cent right. Though I never had enough money to properly pursue the philosophy.”

  Hawley said smilingly, “I think he’s the wrong man to leave you with overnight. I think I should stay to protect you.”

  “I’m hungry,” she said. She patted his cheek again. “Aren’t you hungry, athlete?”

  “Famished,” he said, and leered some more. What is more boring to a sober man than the coyness of drunks? I smiled politely and watched them as they went off in their festive way to the kitchen.

  The visit of Sergeant Purvis hadn’t registered with her. And yet, he had come to talk about the broken window and it was that incident that had prompted her to send for me. What made it suddenly unimportant? Alcohol, maybe.

  They were laughing in the kitchen. For fifteen years, Miss Destry had been the companion ‘of a man almost thirty-five years her senior and perhaps she had some laughs coming.

  The laughing stopped, after a while, and I read on in peace.

  In half an hour, they came through the living room again, and she went with him out to his car. She stayed out there for what seemed like a long time to me.

  When she came in again, she asked, “Was it your sense of duty that made you wait up for me?”

  “What else, Miss Destry? Are you going to phone Sergeant Purvis? He said he had some information about the person who might have thrown that rock. He also said he would phone you tomorrow about it, but I imagine he’s still on duty. He was here after ten o’clock.”

  “Tomorrow will be soon enough,” she said. “You’re still doubtful about that broken window, aren’t you?”

  I smiled. “I’m not here to doubt, only to protect you, Miss Destry.”

  She sat down across from me and lighted a cigarette. “Did Elmer Duggan come with the sergeant, or did he come alone?”

  “He was alone. He was making his rounds and he saw Mrs. Trapp and me sitting out in front, so he came up to check us. He’s pretty young for a job like his, isn’t he?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t hire him. Anything else happen?”

  “Nothing. Are you still nervous?”

  “Not still,” she said. “Again. I never seem to worry about anything when I’m with Dave Hawley.” I said nothing. She said, “You don’t like him, do you?” I smiled. “I don’t know him.” She blew smoke at me. “You’re a strange man. Sometimes you talk too much and o
ther times you don’t talk enough.”

  “I’m sober,” I explained. “You’re all wound up from your festive evening and it only seems like I’m taciturn at the moment. It was probably a good thing for you to get out of the house for an evening.”

  She nodded gravely. “I needed it. Hawley was good for me.” She crushed out her cigarette. “Well, I suppose I had better get to bed. Did Mrs. Trapp show you which room would be yours?”

  “Yes’m. I think I’ll finish this book.” She grimaced. “That one? I have some screen-writer friends who tell me Mark Harris is a fine writer, but I certainly can’t see it.”

  “I wouldn’t know, ma’am,” I said. “I’m not literary. I just read for pleasure.”

  “Don’t call me ma’am. You sneer when you say it.” I didn’t answer her. At that second, I heard what sounded like a moan from outside and then something scratched at the door.

  Carol Destry stared at me, her mouth open. I rose and went to the door as she whispered hoarsely, “Be careful.”

  I didn’t have my gun on me but it didn’t seem likely that I would need it. I heard another moan as I started to open the door, and down at the threshold, I saw a reaching, scratching hand as the light from behind me flooded out.

  There was a man there, lying on his stomach, his left hand reaching out for the door. I couldn’t see any blood on him, but there was blood on the driveway behind him and it looked to me like he had crawled to this door.

  For a second his head lifted, and I saw it was Elmer Duggan. His eyes grew wide and then a great shudder shook him as I bent over.

  Behind me, Carol Destry gasped and said quickly, “Don’t try to move him. I’ll phone for a doctor.”

  “Phone,” I said. “Though I think it’s too late for a doctor to do him any good.”

  Chapter Three

  LIEUTENANT ORTEGA was a soft-voiced, mahogany-skinned gentleman quite different from Sergeant Purvis. He questioned me in the den while Purvis talked with Mrs. Trapp and Miss Destry in the living room. I told him everything from the moment I first talked with Miss Destry, everything that seemed important.