The Wayward Widow

by William Campbell Gault

  “It’s entirely possible,” he admitted.

  “And maybe,” I went on, “you’re sitting there thinking you don’t want a troublemaker like Joe Puma messing around a murder case in this town.”

  “It’s entirely possible,” he said again.

  “I’m arrogant, Lieutenant,” I said softly. “I’m insolent and mouthy. But every intelligent police officer I ever worked with will tell you I’m honest.”

  He met my gaze. “I believe that.”

  “You’re thinking of Sergeant Purvis and probably of a couple more like him on the Force?”

  “This is a small town,” he said. “In many ways an insulated town. Some very important people live here.”

  “I know that. But I can be polite. I can be so polite it’s painful.”

  He chewed his lower lip and stared at his desk. Finally he looked up. “I’ll talk it over with the chief. You go and see Mrs. Greene. Perhaps she doesn’t want you to investigate anything, in which case there will be no problem. If she does want you to stay here, phone me. I’ll have talked with the chief by that time.”

  He gave me her address, a luxury hotel on the south end of town. Then the officer brought my typed statement and I signed it.

  It was a little past noon when I arrived at the plush Montevista Hotel. The tanned and amiable clerk told me Mrs. Greene was in.

  At room 312, a maid answered the door and said, “This way, please.”

  I followed her through the enormous living room of the suite out to a balustraded porch three stories above the ocean. A woman sat here, eating her lunch, a woman younger than I had expected to meet.

  She wasn’t much older than Carol Destry, a dark-haired, blue-eyed, highly attractive and beautifully burnished lady.

  “Sit down, Mr. Puma,” she said. “Why are you staring?”

  “You look so young,” I explained.

  “Well, I’m under eighty. What did you expect me to be?”

  “You’ve been separated from Mr. Greene for fourteen years. That, in itself, is quite a span.”

  “I was with him for three years before that. I married him when I was twenty. How’s your arithmetic, Mr. Puma?”

  “You’re thirty-seven,” I said. “You look twenty-three.” She smiled at me blandly. “Thank you. Have you had lunch?”

  “I had a late breakfast.”

  “How about a drink?”

  “I could use a bottle of beer.” The maid was still standing there. She nodded, and left. I sat down.

  The elegant Mrs. Dennis Greene said, “Mrs. Witherspoon seems to think you’re some kind of space age Sherlock Holmes. Are you really as successful as your publicity man claims?”

  “I have no publicity man, Mrs. Greene. I’ve been lucky lately.”

  “She also said you’re quite often insolent. I won’t stand for anything like that, you understand.”

  “I charge ten dollars a day extra for the non-insolent service,” I told her. “Why did you want to see me, Mrs. Greene?”

  “I wanted you to check into the death of my husband,” she said calmly.

  Once more I stared at her. She said, “Doctor West, who signed his death certificate, is undoubtedly senile by now and even in his prime he was an extremely incompetent and careless man.”

  “If you believe that, Mrs. Greene, why didn’t you ask for an autopsy?”

  “Because, at the time he died, it didn’t matter to me. We weren’t close, of course, you must realize. Since his death, certain actions of interested parties have given me a new interest in the situation.”

  “Are you suggesting Miss Destry might have killed him?”

  She smiled and said nothing.

  “Why don’t you openly ask for an autopsy now? It could be done.”

  “It — would be in — bad taste. If his death proved to be natural, it could also be cause for legal action against me, don’t you believe? From Miss Destry and Doctor West?”

  “I don’t know. A lawyer could tell you. But about the bad taste — isn’t hiring me the same thing?”

  “One is public bad taste and the other private,” she said. “I’m sure practically everyone is guilty of private bad taste.”

  A cool one. I stared at her, thinking of nothing. The maid brought my beer and a glass to pour it in. I poured slowly and thoughtfully, like a space age Sherlock Holmes.

  Finally, I said, “You don’t really care how your husband died, do you? All you want to do is discredit Miss Destry.”

  “She has discredited herself. I only want to make sure she doesn’t profit from it.”

  “why?”

  “For personal reasons — for which I’m willing to pay.”

  “You signed a separate property agreement some years ago, didn’t you?”

  She smiled. “Mr. Puma, when I married Dennis Greene, he was fifty-one years old and earning three hundred dollars a week as a director. I financed his first independent production. There wouldn’t be any property nor any estate today if he hadn’t married me. I hope you don’t believe what you read in the Los Angeles movie columns.”

  I said nothing for seconds and then said, “He must have been a very charming man.”

  She shook her head. “He was attractive to me, but only because I thought him a replica of my father, a pose I later learned he had gone to great trouble to learn. It took an expensive psychiatrist two years to cure me of my Dennis Greene complex.”

  “And even after that you didn’t divorce him,” I pointed out.

  “That’s right. Do you want me to explain that?”

  “If you want to.”

  “Marriage would bore me. After three months, any man bores me silly.”

  I smiled. “So Dennis Greene was your out. And why didn’t he divorce you?”

  “For the same reason. No attractive woman ever bored Dennis, but the thought of marriage did. He could always explain to the poor girl that I refused to give him a divorce. He relished the spiciness of the extra-marital relationship.”

  “Miss Destry was with him for fifteen years.”

  “Not as a wife. And not in any position to complain if he courted other women. All she had was a job, you see, and she was free to quit it any time she desired.”

  “He was old,” I protested. “My God, he was fifty-three when he met Miss Destry. What interest could women have for him?”

  She lighted a cigarette and poured herself a cup of coffee. “Mr. Puma, at what age do you imagine you will no longer be interested in women?”

  I thought about it as honestly as I could. And then said, “I guess you’re right. I guess no red-blooded man ever lived that long, did he?”

  “Not even Methuselah,” she said.

  A cool one, I thought again. A scrambler, without emotion or compassion.

  “I suppose,” she said quietly, “you’re sitting there and thinking that I’m a very cold fish.”

  I looked up, startled. “Why — uh — not exactly.”

  “I’m not,” she said simply. “If it wasn’t in bad taste, I could offer you any number of testimonials to the contrary.”

  “Like the Salvation Army and the Community Fund?” I asked.

  She shook her head, her eyes musing. “Not at all like that,” she said. “Well, Mr. Puma, what are your rates?”

  “For the insolent or non-insolent service?”

  “Your lowest rate. I can stand insolence if it’s coupled with efficiency.”

  “You have no job for an honest operator,” I said. “Without an autopsy, where can I start? I’d be wasting your money.”

  “You can start with the death of this Duggan boy,” she said. “I’m sure if you get to the bottom of that, there’ll be no need for an autopsy on Dennis Greene. Because personally, I don’t give a damn how he died.”

  ‘Why, then, do you want me to investigate Miss Destry? Certainly you don’t need the share of the estate she’s suing for.”

  “And neither does she,” Mrs. Greene said. “Dennis was very generous wi
th her. Miss Destry is already a wealthy woman. I’ve got proof of that.”

  “You don’t mean wealthy by your standards.”

  “No. I mean wealthy by hers.”

  “I guess, if the local police don’t object, I could investigate the death of Elmer Duggan, I’d kind of like to do that; Elmer was one of my fans.” I stood up. “But first, I have to talk with Lieutenant Ortega. Could I use your phone?”

  She nodded and I went into the living room to phone the lieutenant. I caught him in. He had already talked with the chief.

  “It’s okay,” he told me, “but you’ll have to make daily reports for us and omit nothing.”

  “I’ll omit nothing pertinent,” I agreed, “but I’d be typing all night if I put in all the tedious details of one of my days.”

  “Okay, Puma, we’ll go along on faith and an honest daily report.”

  I thanked him and went back to the porch to haggle out terms with Mrs. Dennis Greene.

  Chapter Five

  THE MOTEL I picked was on the north side of town, not too far from Halcyon Heights but in a slightly lower rent district. I took a unit in the rear near the pool, then I drove over to Halcyon Heights. There were a number of rubber-neckers in the area and a policeman guarding the entrance to the three acres of the Greene estate. I passed the spot where Elmer’s car had been found and noticed it was the closest spot he could park and still be out of sight of the house.

  At the foot of the Greene driveway, the uniformed officer stopped me as I started to turn in. He was a young and earnest man and he listened to my explanation courteously.

  When I’d finished, he said, “You’re a friend of Miss Destry’s, then?”

  “Not exactly. I worked for her until this morning. Now Lieutenant Ortega steered me onto a better job.”

  He hesitated. “Okay. I guess it will be all right. You don’t plan to question her, do you?”

  “No, I only want to check the path from Elmer’s car to the place where he watched the house.” I looked profound. “It’s for a theory I intend to substantiate.”

  He smiled and said, “You don’t have to swear.” He waved me through.

  I went up the driveway and parked some distance from the house. A uniformed man with a camera was coming down the path from the knoll and I told him, “Lieutenant Ortega sent me out. Would you show me the spot where the blood was found, where Duggan was attacked?”

  “We’re not positive Duggan was attacked there,” he said. “It’s only a theory we’re trying to substantiate.”

  “You don’t have to swear,” I said. “Lead the way.” He showed me the place and there was dried blood all over it. I said, “The killer must have hit an artery.”

  He shrugged. “He fought like a tiger; the underbrush shows that.” He nodded toward the house. “And then he crawled all the way down there. I’d say he died hard, wouldn’t you?”

  “I thought the theory was that he was knocked out and then stabbed.”

  “He was slugged twice. Between the first and second blow is the time he must have fought. Then the killer thought he was a goner, and left. He should have been dead right then. Any normal man would have been, according to Doc Christie.”

  I stood on the knoll and saw it was well screened from the road but afforded a complete view of three-quarters of the house, including all the doorways.

  The officer said, “I guess you don’t need me any more, do you?”

  “Not any more. Thank you very much for your courtesy, officer.”

  He went back toward the house and I followed a hardly discernible path through the trees on the reverse slope, a path that led to the road not far from where Elmer had parked his car.

  What had he hoped to see? Me necking with Mrs. Trapp? The return to the house of Miss Destry and David Hawley? I came back to the top and saw there was another house over the crest of the rear slope. It was the only other house in view. From its rear yard, a pair of boxers looked at me doubtfully, their great jaws slobbering. I was glad the fence that separated us was six feet high. Dogs resent my animal magnetism.

  I saw Elmer again, admiring me with his eyes. I heard him say, “Gee, whyn’t you tell me you were Joe Puma?” I went down the path to the house.

  David Hawley stood waiting for me in the parking area. He was frowning and trying to appear dominant, but he couldn’t hide what he was — an idiot athlete.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked sternly. “I thought you were fired.”

  “I’m working with the San Valdesto Police on the death of Elmer Duggan,” I said ponderously. “And some other matters. You may call the chief and check that if you want to.”

  “I certainly will,” he said.

  “Buy the place, Mr. Hawley?” I asked. “Get a bargain?”

  “Don’t be insolent. I’m watching out for Miss Destry’s interests.”

  “Isn’t that sweet? Is she around at the moment?”

  “Get out of here,” he said. He took a step toward me, one hand clenched.

  From behind him, the well modulated voice of Carol Destry called, “Who is that, David? What’s the argument about?”

  I looked toward the house and saw her in Bermuda shorts and turtle-neck sweater. She had it. I smiled at her and waved.

  “Puma,” she said, and came over, smiling. “I’m sorry about this morning. It was Mr. Darbo’s idea. Did you come for your pay?”

  “No’m,” I said politely. “I have a new client.” Hawley said heatedly, “I thought you said you were working for the San Valdesto Police?”

  I shook my head. “I said I was working with them. I’m working with the police and for an interested party.”

  “I’ll bet,” he said scornfully.

  “Will you? Mouth bet or cash? Only cash from you, Hawley.”

  Carol Destry said, “Stop it, both of you! How about a bottle of beer, Joe?”

  “Why not?” I said, and followed her, crowding Hawley only a little as I brushed past him.

  We went to our old trysting spot — the rear patio — and Carol called through an open doorway for Mrs. Trapp to bring the beer. I waited until Hawley sat down and then sat as far as possible from him. Carol stretched out on a chaise longue between us.

  I asked her, “Get a new bodyguard yet? Or aren’t you nervous any more?”

  “I figured,” she said, “as long as Dave was here night and day, anyway, I might as well rely on him. He’s free, unlike you, Puma.”

  Mrs. Trapp came out with the beer. She brightened when she saw me. “Are you back to stay, Mr. Puma?”

  “No ma’am,” I said. “I was out this way on business and dropped in. Do you miss me, Mrs. Trapp?” She colored and then smiled. She said, “You’re pretty fair company — for a man.”

  “Carol Destry laughed. Hawley grimaced. I said,

  “Thank you, Mrs. Trapp. I enjoyed our talk last night, too.” Mrs. Trapp went back to the house and Carol said too casually, “What in the world could a pair as unmatched as you two find to talk about?”

  I stretched and sipped the beer. I wiped my mouth and said, “Oh, local mores and customs and attitudes and relationships. A town this size has some interesting patterns in it, usually, and I like to look for patterns.”

  “Try McCalls,” Hawley said. “I’ve always found their patterns the nicest.”

  Carol laughed.

  “Aren’t we cozy,” I said caustically, “sitting here with the gags and the beer? And poor Elmer Duggan not even in the ground yet.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Carol Destry said, “but he was never a very close friend of mine. And as for the patterns in this town, just call it provincial and snobbish and petty and mean.”

  “You don’t plan to stay here, then?”

  “Fooey,” she said. I drank some more beer. “First you told me it was Darbo’s idea to fire me and now you say it was yours. Which was it?”

  “It was his, first. Now it’s mine. But I could be wrong. Who are you working for, Puma?”
r />   “An interested party.”

  “Secretive, aren’t you?” I didn’t answer. I lighted a cigarette and looked at the trees on the slope behind us.

  “It must be somebody in this town,” she said, “and I can guess why they hired you. You’re to investigate me, I’ll bet.”

  “Only incidentally,” I said. “Is it true that you’re wealthy in your own right, Miss Destry, that you don’t actually need the money you’re suing for?”

  There was one of those silences often described as pregnant. I couldn’t be positive whether this one was or not, but when Miss Destry spoke, I thought she spoke very carefully. “I’m not wealthy. Did your question mean more than that?”

  “No.”

  “Who told you I was wealthy?”

  “A private source of information. A highly respected person.”

  “I see. Did you sell yourself to this new client? Did you convince him that you knew something about me worth investigating?”

  “Of course not,” I answered. “I’ve a number of objectionable traits, Miss Destry, but malice isn’t one of them.”

  “But you are going to investigate me?”

  “I’m going to investigate a death. I have no way of knowing if you are involved in it or not.”

  Another of those perhaps meaningful silences and then her careful voice again. “A death? Whose death?”

  I paused for a second before saying, “Elmer Duggan’s.” Maybe I imagined it, but I thought there was a lessening of tension, a sense of relief in the air. Could that mean the death of Dennis Greene disturbed her, that she might be involved legally in that? Why had she asked “whose death?” Was one more important than the other? And why had David Hawley seemed relieved, too?

  “Another bottle of beer?” she asked. I stood up. “No, thanks. I’ve a big job ahead.” Hawley grimaced again but said nothing. Why did he envy me? Why was he bitter? I looked at him pityingly — an athlete, a play-boy — but getting into Miss Destry, I would bet. The pity left my eyes and now I was the envious one.

  Hawley said, “You’re a strange man, Joseph Puma.”

  “So I’ve been told. Well, thanks for the beer. Have fun, kids.”

  “We always do,” he said, and Carol smiled good-by and I went out to the dirty Plymouth, feeling crummy.