Million Dollar Tramp

by William Campbell Gault

  And then she said, “I’m too tired to move. You’ll have to sleep in the other bed.”

  I groped my way to the other bed and crawled in.

  I was stretching when she said softly, “Tell me about Mona Greene.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” I answered. “I don’t even remember her.” I turned over. “Go to sleep, Fidelia.”

  “Beast!” she said, and laughed quietly. “Good night.”

  It was still dark when I wakened. Those were some drapes. It was nine o’clock in the morning and still dark.

  And then the lamp next to Fidelia’s bed went on and she rose, naked as ultimate truth.

  I stared at her and she smiled back at me. “I’m never maidenly in the morning. Now, why is that?”

  “You’d have to ask Dr. Foy,” I said. “What time does the maid usually come in?”

  “When I call for her. Will you go out and get the paper? I’ll make some breakfast.”

  I slid into some pants and went to the front door. I opened it a crack first, to see if we had nosey neighbors, but we were well shielded by shrubbery from the next cottage.

  There was no paper in sight and I opened the door wider to examine the yard. I saw it then, over near the street corner of the cottage.

  As I started out, I heard that sound again, the footstep on gravel. I looked up and saw it was the dry frond of a palm tree scraping the rough eave edge of the shake roof.

  I went past it to pick up the morning Times. And as I bent over, I saw the pair of feet. They were big feet. The body was obscured by the corner of the building.

  I went around the corner and saw it was a big body too, the body of the man named Brian, my assailant of last night. There was no doubt that he was dead.

  Chapter Three

  In the cottage, Fidelia shuddered as I told her what I had found outside. She sat down on the divan, her legs wobbly, her hands trembling.

  “It’s no time to collapse,” I warned her. “I’m going to drive around the block, to warm up the engine on my car. While I’m gone, make one of those beds, but leave the other rumpled. Then I’ll come back and phone the police.”

  She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and stared at the floor. She looked sick.

  “Everything is the same as it happened,” I explained carefully, “except that I wasn’t here last night. I left after taking you home last night and came back this morning to check on whether you had phoned Willis Morley. That last is weak, but what else have we got? Look at me, Fidelia!”

  She stared up at me blankly.

  “That’s our story,” I said, “unless you want the papers to crucify us. Your reputation is at stake, and my neck.”

  “My reputation?” she said hoarsely. Her smile was ironic.

  “Okay, then, think of my neck. Remember that I had a hassle with that man last night.”

  She inhaled deeply and stood up. “We’d better move that one bed back to where it was, or the maid will notice. I’ll need help with that.”

  I helped her with the bed and then went out to my car. We were fairly well screened from the other cottages, but there was no way of being sure I couldn’t be seen. If I simply started the engine and let it run for a while, it would be warm enough. But if I drove out and wasn’t seen, and then drove back in, making enough noise, perhaps some gullible would confirm that I had arrived immediately before we phoned the police.

  I wasn’t acting like a solid citizen, but I had spent enough time in the L.A.P.D. to know what can happen occasionally to solid citizens. And this would be handled by the Santa Monica Police Department, where I had very few, if any, friends.

  As far as I could tell, nobody saw me leave. This cottage was close to the lateral street and a service road led to it from our parking area.

  I made a four-block swing, a total run of sixteen blocks, and had to wait for three lights. My temperature indicator showed a warm engine when I returned to the cottage.

  There, as I drove past the cottage that had held the noisy party last night, I killed the engine. I ground the starter and managed to tootle the horn before getting under way again. It had been necessary to over-choke the engine by pumping the accelerator to prevent its starting too soon, and a big cloud of unignited gasoline belched out as the engine finally roared into life.

  From the noisy cottage, somebody yelled, “What the hell is going on out there?”

  A man appeared in the doorway and glared over at me as I stepped from the Plymouth in front of Fidelia’s cottage.

  I made a one-act play out of ringing her door chime. Our neighbor was still glaring when Fidelia opened the door.

  “It wasn’t locked,” she said nervously. “I know,” I said. “I’m working for an Academy Award.” I went directly to the phone.

  • • •

  Sergeant Dan Loepke and Detective Mel Braun came over from Santa Monica Headquarters. Mel was a sort of half-friend of mine, but Sergeant Loepke and I were chilly acquaintances.

  The Sergeant listened coolly and carefully to my story while Mel talked quietly with Fidelia out of earshot. I had a hunch they were going to check us against each other.

  When I had finished, Loepke asked, “Know the man who was killed?”

  I nodded. “I know his first name. It’s Brian. I — had a little run-in with him last night.”

  His gray eyes showed interest. “Oh? Here?”

  “No. At ‘Eddie’s'.” I detailed it, favoring myself, natch.

  “Hmmm,” he said. “Stay here.” He went over toward Detective Braun.

  I watched him talk with Fidelia, and then looked through the window to see the boys carrying the body of Brian away. I was in the kitchen, getting a drink of water, when Loepke rejoined me.

  “This Brian Delsy,” he asked, “when did you first meet him?”

  “Last night, Sergeant.”

  He stood there and stared at me, a fairly short, heavy, solid hunk of mean cop, an old pro, cynical and efficient. I returned his gaze.

  He expelled his breath and came over to get a glass of water. His back was to me when he said, “You’ll come along with us. Maybe, down at the station, you’ll think of something you haven’t told me.”.

  I said nothing.

  He drank and turned around.“That Delsy was shot, Puma, shot with a.38.”“So?”

  “So nobody heard a shot around here, according to the officer who just checked the neighbors.A.38 makes a pretty fair noise, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Right. So?”

  “So dumping that body here looks like the cheap kind of trick a private eye might pull to put the screws to somebody as rich as Fidelia Sherwood.”

  I stared at him. Anger stirred in me, but I fought it. I said, “I’ll phone my attorney from here, if you don’t mind.”

  “I mind,” he said. “Come on along.”

  I followed him from the kitchen. In the living room, I stopped to tell Fidelia, “Call my attorney, Joseph Devlin in Beverly Hills, and tell him to send somebody down to the Santa Monica Headquarters with bail or a writ or whatever he might need.”

  The Sergeant stopped short of the door and turned slowly. He said quietly, “You don’t want any trouble, Miss Sherwood. Forget this peeper opened his mouth.”

  “My name is Richards,” she said, “Mrs. Richards.”

  “Is it, now?” he said. “At the desk, they told one of my men you were registered as Miss Fidelia Sherwood.”

  “I’ve always used that name here,” she said. “Ever since I was Fidelia Sherwood.” She looked at me. “Perhaps I’d better send my attorney, Mr. Puma. He’s very well known in this town. He’s a brother of the Mayor.”

  The Mayor had only one brother, a former governor of the state. I smiled and said, “I’ve heard that Fidelia means faithful.”

  She smiled back. “I’m in your corner, Mr. Puma.”

  I could almost see the smoke as Sergeant Loepke stood near the doorway and smouldered. His voice was hoarse and ugly. “I think you both had bette
r come to Headquarters.”

  Mel Braun said hesitantly, “Sergeant, Joe — I mean Mr. Puma — has a reputation for insolence but also one for exceptional honesty as regards — ”

  “I didn’t ask for any character references, Officer. Let’s go — both of you.”

  “As soon as I phone,” Fidelia said. She walked over and picked up the receiver.

  Loepke muttered something and moved swiftly across the carpeting to fasten a fat hand on her wrist.

  Nobody moved. Braun started to speak, and stopped. Fidelia stared at the hand on her wrist and the blue-green eyes were cold and withdrawn.

  Braun said, “Easy does it, Sergeant.”

  Fidelia’s voice was tight, almost shrill. “Take your hand away, Sergeant, or I’ll scratch your eyes out.”

  “Are you coming along?” he asked. “Are you coming quietly?”

  “It’s not the right time to make an issue of it, Mrs. Richards,” I said. “Let’s go quietly.”

  She looked at me as Loepke took his hand off her wrist. She didn’t move.

  “We have to learn to adjust to the unreasonable. It’s an unreasonable world,” I said soothingly.

  Loepke looked at me. “Is that a crack?”

  I shook my head and met his gaze. “No, Sergeant.” I took a deep breath. “Don’t crowd your luck, Sergeant.”

  There was a static moment, and then Mel Braun said easily, “Shall I run them down, Sergeant, or do you want me to stay here?”

  Loepke didn’t look at him. “You stay here.”

  Loepke drove us down in the Department car. Nobody said a word. Fidelia stared out the window. I stared at the back of Loepke’s neck and he kept his eyes on the traffic.

  In the big building that overlooks the Bay, he took us to the office of Captain Aaron Amos. The Captain was a reasonable man; almost a friend of mine.

  Loepke briefed him, and then added, “Mrs. Richards tried to intimidate me, sir. She dropped some names.”

  The alert face of Captain Amos tightened.

  I said, “That’s not true. The Sergeant tried to manhandle Mrs. Rienards. And he accused me of killing Brian Delsy and then dumping his body near Mrs. Richards’ cottage.”

  There was a big, fat silence — and then Fidelia chuckled.

  The three of us looked at her. She smiled at Captain Amos and said, “The Sergeant didn’t hurt me. It was a rather absurd situation all around, and better forgotten. What did you want from us, Captain?”

  Amos studied her for a moment and then looked at Loepke.

  Loepke said, “All I want is some truth, polite truth.” Captain Amos said, “Get officer Barker for dictation, Sergeant.”

  Loepke left and Amos looked sadly at me. “I suppose your big, loud mouth was working overtime, as usual?”

  “No, sir. I was real cooperative.”

  “I’ll bet.” He looked at the closed door and back at me. “The Sergeant has been overlooked on two recent promotions. He’s a good officer, Joe. Bitter, but first-rate.”

  “So, okay. I swear to you I didn’t give him cause for his hysteria. I told him my story and he came up with this dumping-the-body bit. He must watch old movies on TV.”

  The Captain’s eyebrows lifted. “Somebody dumped the body. Delsy wasn’t shot where he was found.”

  “If the shot wasn’t immediately fatal, he could have made his own way to the cottage, couldn’t he? Or he could have been shot with a silencer. There wasn’t the slightest damned reason in the world for Sergeant Loepke to dream up his idiotic fantasy.”

  “The shot was immediately fatal,” Captain Aaron Amos said.

  And then a uniformed officer came in to take our statements and Amos left the room. He wasn’t back by the time we had finished and signed our statements.

  Loepke came in to tell us we could go. And he hadn’t quite cooled off. He told me, “One of these days, you’ll slip. When you do, I hope it’s here, in my town.”

  I said nothing.

  Fidelia said quietly, “You need help, Sergeant. There are clinics where it’s not expensive.”

  He began to smoulder again, glaring and rigid. I said, “That wasn’t a crack. Mrs. Richards is serious. All of us need help one way or another, Sergeant.”

  “Get out of here,” he said. “Both of you. Beat it.”

  Fidelia started to say more, but I had her arm and I pulled her quickly away from there. Outside, I told her, “We got off very easily. We’re still not clear. We don’t need any more enemies than we have.”

  “Poof!” she said. “Policemen. Poof!”

  A traffic officer drove us back to the Avalon Beach. There, Fidelia said, “You might as well stay for a late breakfast. I may decide to hire you.”

  “Hire me? For what?”

  “Not what you’re hoping. As an investigator. That is one of your services, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, boy!” I said. “We’re adjusted now. You’re back to dominance, aren’t you?”

  She kissed my cheek. “No. I’m going to serve you breakfast, aren’t I? Joe, I have a rock in Dr. Foy. But I need a shield.”

  My lover’s mind wanted to accept her explanation, but my working mind balked. She needed a shield? I had seen her under stress. I had seen her calmness in front of the police and after a man had been found dead not fifty feet from where we had slept.

  “Don’t look so cynical,” she said. “Did the mention of Dr. Foy cause that look?”

  “Maybe,” I lied. “Maybe, unconsciously. It’s almost noon; let’s get going on that breakfast.”

  Her smile was wry. “Yes, master.”

  She fried me four eggs, sunny-side up, and toasted half a loaf of bread and broiled some ham a special way and served it with a barbecue sauce. And while we ate, we talked.

  Had dad had died three years ago. Her mother had died just a week before Fidelia had sought the solicitude of Dr. Foy. Her mother’s death, it seemed likely, had been the blow that had made Foy necessary.

  “And now he’s your rock,” I said. “That’s dangerous,

  Fidelia. He can become so important to you you’ll never be able to leave him.”

  “That’s a danger,” she admitted. “But I’m not ready to face it, yet.”

  I shook my head wearily. She looked sadly at the table.

  I asked, “Is it trouble that makes people rich, or wealth that makes people troubled?”

  She sipped her coffee and said nothing.

  I thought of last night and remembered how soundly I had slept, right through, without rememberable dreams. She could have left the cottage while I was asleep, left the cottage and killed Brian Delsy.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked me.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “I was thinking,” she said evenly, “that you could have left the cottage while I was asleep last night.” I stared at her.

  “And you could have been thinking that about me,” she said. “Were you, Joe?”

  I lied with a shake of the head. “I was wondering why the administrator of your estate didn’t warn you against Willis Morley.”

  “I didn’t consult him. I have an allowance, you know — five hundred dollars a week. I’m supposed to live on that until my thirtieth birthday. That’s seventeen months from now. I can’t make it, not on five hundred a week.”

  “You can’t afford me on five hundred dollars a week, either,” I told her. “I get a hundred a day and expenses.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t charge Mona Greene that.”

  “I charged her that and she paid me five times that,” I answered. “In money, in case you’re wondering.”

  “Don’t be vulgar,” she said. She sighed. “Couldn’t you let me owe you? Or couldn’t you explain to the attorney in charge of the estate that finding the murderer of Brian Delsy is important to my safety?”

  “You could owe me,” I agreed. “Trying to explain to a lawyer why the normal processes of law aren’t adequate would take more persuasion than I possess.”
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br />   “You could do it,” she urged. “You’re very persuasive.”

  “Not around lawyers. Tell me, how well did you know Brian Delsy?”

  She frowned. “As a casual friend. Why?”

  “He died fifty feet from you,” I said. “You don’t think that was just a coincidence, do you?”

  “We don’t know where he actually died,” she said. “The police said the body had been moved.”

  “All right, then,” I said impatiently, “he was found dead fifty feet from here. Is that a coincidence?”

  “I suppose not,” she said. “Why are you so cross?”

  “I’m nervous. You’re not, and you’re supposed to be. You’re the girl who can’t face reality and I’m the tough and cynical private eye and I’m breaking up while you sit there like a — ”

  “A rock?” she asked.

  “Like a really adjusted citizen,” I corrected her. “I think you need Dr. Foy about as much as I need a girdle.” She sipped her coffee.

  I finished the toast and poured myself some coffee.

  “I suppose,” she said softly, “last night to you was just another — episode.”

  “The death of Brian Delsy, do you mean?” I asked.

  Her chin lifted. “No, I don’t mean the death of Brian.”

  I took a breath and looked at her. “Was it just an episode to you, Mrs. Richards? Aren’t you going a little maidenly on me?”

  She began to color, a flush coming up into her cheeks from her throat.

  I studied her. “Was I vulgar again?”

  She nodded.

  “I cherish last night,” I said. “But this is the morning, Fidelia, and a man is dead. Even if we aren’t involved technically, we’re involved as humans.”

  She began to cry quietly.

  “Fifty dollars a day,” I said, “and you can owe me. Special rates for special people. Where does your ex-husband live?”

  “You monster!” she said chokingly.

  I shook my head. “I’m your shield, remember? Does he live in Santa Monica?”