Million Dollar Tramp

by William Campbell Gault

She rose quickly and left the table. I lighted a cigarette to go with the coffee and listened to the sound of water running in the bathroom. She was a strange one, but how many women aren’t? They don’t live in a man’s world.

  When she came out again, her face had been washed and her eyes were clear. She looked at me gravely and I smiled at her.

  “I don’t know where he lives,” she said, “but you won’t need to look for him. He’s the most … non-violent man I ever knew.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of him as the killer,” I explained.“But he must have been at Eddie’s last night when Delsy left. Or he might have overheard something. Delsy wasn’t alone when we left him, remember.”

  “No,” she said.“Eddie was standing with him at the curb. But Bob wasn’t around.”

  “Bob?” I asked.“Is he the other fellow who was in the booth?”

  She nodded.“Bob Tampett.” She spelled the last name for me.“Bob might know something.” She gulped.“You’re going to work on this — for me?”

  I nodded.“At my special rate. But you’re going to have to be honest with me, Fidelia, as honest as you are with Dr. Foy.”

  She licked her lips.“I will be. I need you, Joe.”

  Chapter Four

  Oh, hell, yes. When there’s dirty linen to be washed or rocks to be looked under, they always need me. But why didn’t they need me when the sun was bright and the outlook fair?

  I kissed her gently on the forehead and told her to be careful and went out to my wheezy steed. I had suggested that she find another motel or apartment, but she liked it here. It was familiar and she needed that much of a base at the moment.

  So I promised her I’d report back before the sun went down and I went out and drove over to Venice, right across the border from Santa Monica. Venice is a part of Los Angeles; Santa Monica isn’t. The police in Venice trusted me and they had reason to. I had helped them in a messy case less than six months ago.

  Eddie wasn’t behind the bar. It was now one-thirty and he wasn’t due until four. The bartender wasn’t the same one who had worked with Eddie last night, so he knew nothing about the donnybrook. But he did have Pete Richards’ address, and he gave it to me.

  It was an apartment on lower Ashland Avenue. Richards wasn’t home. And where did I go now?

  From a drugstore, I phoned Willis Morley and told him I had delivered the letter. He told me Fidelia had phoned him and my check was already in the mail.

  And then I thought of Robert Tampett and looked him up in the book. There was a possibility he wasn’t a working man and would be home. I could have phoned, but I like to watch people’s faces when I talk with them.

  He was in the book. It was a Santa Monica address.

  It was a two-story, twelve-unit apartment building of gray stucco and redwood, built around a pool, on Montana Avenue.

  I went up the outside steps to the wrought-iron-guarded runway and down that to apartment eight. The door chimes played “taps.” Tricky.

  The piece wasn’t finished when the door opened and a thin, hard-faced man of medium height and slender build stood there. His hair was cut short — wiry, thick hair. He looked rugged and not at all as I had expected, though I remembered him dimly from last night.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Robert Tampett?”

  He nodded.

  “Remember me?”

  He nodded.

  “I came to talk with you about Brian Delsy,” I explained.

  His face was bland, his gaze candid. “He’s dead.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m here. Do I come in or do we talk for the neighbors?”

  He yawned. “Talk? About what?”

  “About the death of your friend.”

  He looked at me contemptuously. “Beat it, muscles!”

  I looked at him tolerantly. “I’ll bet you’re one of those little guys who studied judo, huh? I’ll bet you watch TV and see how the skinny, smooth heroes handle the beefy boys. I’ll bet you don’t even realize I could throw you from here to the pool with either hand.”

  He started to close the door.

  I put a foot in the way of the door.

  He looked at my foot, then at my face. His voice didn’t sound frightened. “I’m not one of ‘those little guys.’ I’m not an outsized freak like you, but I’m not little. I’ve already talked with the police and you haven’t any authority. If you want to wait here until I phone them, okay.”

  “I thought Mrs. Richards was a friend of yours,” I said.

  More interest in his eyes, but not his voice. “I know her.”

  “I’m working for her.”

  He studied me, chewing at one corner of his mouth. Then, “Okay if I phone her to check that?” “Of course.” “What’s her number?”

  I told him it was the Avalon Beach and he closed the door and locked it before phoning. In a few minutes he came back to open the door again. He said, “Come in.”

  The furniture was new and modern, mostly upholstered in a buff Naugahyde. The prints on the walls were fair reproductions and an expensive-looking portable bar stood against the dining room wall.

  “Do you work nights?” I asked him.

  “Night and day,” he answered. “Are we going to talk about me or about Brian?”

  “Both, if you don’t mind,” I said. “Do you have a problem, too, Mr. Tampett?”

  He stared at me coldly. “Talk English.”

  “Brian had a problem,” I explained, “that Dr. Foy was trying to correct. I thought that might be where you met.”

  “It doesn’t matter where we met,” he said. “Last night is all you’re interested in, isn’t it?”

  I sat in one of the Naugahyde pull-up chairs. “Not necessarily. Murder has to have some background. It requires motivation, or else it’s manslaughter. This didn’t look like manslaughter.”

  He opened a can of beer, but didn’t offer me any. He took a deep swallow and said, “I knew Brian from

  Eddie’s. Last night, after Eddie bounced him, I hung around for a while and then came home. That’s what I told the police. Why Fidelia should hire you to ask the same stupid questions is beyond me.”

  “Where did you meet her?”

  “At Eddie’s.”

  “What were you giggling about last night?”

  His face hardened. “I wasn’t giggling. I was talking to Brian. Maybe he was giggling, but I wasn’t. When something strikes me funny, I laugh.”

  “That’s the manly thing to do,” I assured him. “How much money have you borrowed from Mrs. Richards?”

  He glared and said hoarsely, “Not a goddamned dime! And she never told you I did.”

  “True enough,” I admitted. “But you look like a hustler to me and I can’t see you overlooking such a soft touch.”

  “Listen, peeper,” he said grimly, “I didn’t invite you in here to be insulted. And I don’t have to hustle broads. I can always turn a buck, a damned sight better than you can.”

  “That’s what I meant. You’re a hustler. Admit it, Tampett. If not women, swishes. Right?”

  He looked at the can of beer, as though intending to throw it at me.

  “I’ll take it back,” I said, “if you want to tell me what you do for a living.” I indicated the apartment around me. “It’s a sure thing you don’t work the night shift at Douglas.”

  “Beat it,” he said. “Get out before I call the law.”

  “Calm down,” I said soothingly. “I was just trying to annoy some truth out of you.”

  He walked over to the phone and lifted it. He said quietly, “You’ve got ten seconds.”

  “Call ‘em,” I said. “I’ll tell them that you approached me on the street and invited me up here. That should get you ninety days, if you’ve got a record.”

  “One,” he counted. “Two, three, four — ”

  I thought of Sergeant Loepke, of trying to explain my position to him. I thought of his threat. I rose and said, “Stop counting. I’m on the way.�
� At the doorway, I turned. “But I’ll be back, little man.”

  “I’m not little,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not a freak, like you, but I’m not little. I’m almost five-ten, see, and you don’t scare me a damned bit!”

  “Don’t get hysterical,” I told him tolerantly. “I’m going.” I closed the door quietly.

  The latch had scarcely clicked before the beer can clattered against the other side of the door.

  Robert Tampett had his problems, too. And one of them was that he was almost five-ten. I went down the steps conscious of my impressive size.

  I drove over to Santa Monica Headquarters hoping that Mel Braun would be there. He wasn’t, but another detective who liked me better than Loepke did was in, and cooperative.

  They had no record on Robert Tampett.

  “If he’s a swish,” my friend said, “and lived here long enough, we’d have something.” He shook his head. “With that beach and canyon gang, they’re a major problem here, let me tell you.”

  “I’ve a hunch,” I said, “he’s as normal as we are, but hangs around with the lavender lads. And that’s worse, don’t you think?”

  He nodded, his eyes bleak.

  I asked, “Anything new on Delsy’s death?”

  He shook his head. “I hear Loepke gave you a bad time.”

  I shrugged.

  “A bitter man,” he said. “A good officer but a hell of a sour man. Well, Joe, you get something, I can use it. This is a two-way street, you know. I can use help, too.”

  I promised to keep him in mind and went out. Again, I drove over to Ashland Avenue. This time, Pete Richards was home.

  He was in the courtyard of the apartment building, in shorts and sneakers, soaking up the sun. And sweating out the booze, he told me. He’d been home when I had rung his bell before, but hadn’t answered.

  He offered me a glass of water from the pitcher of ice water on the grass next to him. As I drank, he said, “Back on the wagon, again. Man, that was some session I just went through.”

  “How long?” I asked. “Six weeks,” he answered. “You worked all through it?”

  He nodded. “At Eddie’s. So I guess I wouldn’t be a genuine alcoholic.” He stretched, arching his neck. “I guess the law was here this morning and figured like you that I wasn’t home. I saw an early afternoon paper.” He made a face.

  “I’ve just been over to see a man named Robert Tampett,” I said. “Know him?”

  He nodded. “Friend of that big queer — the one that got killed. I don’t think Tampett’s one, though.”

  “Neither do I,” I agreed. “Did Tampett leave with Delsy last night?”

  Richards looked thoughtful. “I — don’t think so…. Wait.” He screwed up his forehead. “There was somebody sitting in that booth with Tampett after Delsy was bounced. Tampett stayed for a while.” He sighed. “I don’t know how long, though.”

  “Was it a man or a woman who sat with Tampett?”

  “A man,” he said. “Tall, thin. Kind of an elegant gent.”

  “Do you know Dr. Foy?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I never met him. I heard enough about him through Fidelia.”

  A silence, and I asked, “Do you still love her?”

  “I always will,” he said simply. “I couldn’t live with her; nobody can. But you have to love Fidelia if you’re at all human.” He smiled at me. “Don’t you love her?”

  I agreed I did. But added, “It doesn’t mean much. I’m not discriminating. I love all females from eight to eighty.”

  His eyes were reminiscent. “She’s never malicious. She’s never petty or pretentious. In those ways, she’s not anything like a woman.”

  If she’s not a woman, I thought, nobody ever was.

  I drank another glass of water and asked, “Who would want to frighten her or frame her? Who would have dumped the body of Brian Delsy so close to her cottage door?”

  He closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. “I can’t think of anybody. It had to be a coincidence. Unless … do you think there’s a possibility Brian was going over to see her, was shot on the way, and still tried to reach her?”

  “No,” I said. “Think! Certainly, she must have had some enemies.”

  “I’m trying to think,” he said quietly. “I’m trying so hard it aches.” He shook his head. “Nothing, nothing, nothing — ”

  “All right, then,” I said, “who gains if she’s discredited?”

  “Nobody I know of,” he said.

  I stood up and thanked him. I started to leave, when he said, “Wait.” He rubbed his forehead nervously. “That man who sat in the booth with Tampett after Brian left — I remember Fidelia mentioned his name to me once.” He made a fist and hammered his forehead with a knuckle. “His first name is — Louis. That’s it, Lou Serano.”

  Serano, Serano, Serano. The name went around in the card file in my brain and came up with something. I said, “There was a pusher named Serano, convicted of a narcotics violation. Could that be the man?”

  Richards looked at me anxiously. “I’ve no idea. God!”

  “Was Fidelia ever on the needle?”

  He shook his head. “Not that I know of. I’m sure I’d know.”

  “Were you?” I asked.

  He shook his head again. “Reefers, a couple of times, but never the needle. Booze is my problem.” He belched and looked sickly at the grass. “Fidelia — she’s a damned target! The publicity she’s had and the people she hangs around with — it’s criminal. They want to get into her and into her money.”

  He was so right. All towns are filled with predatory males, but this area attracted the real scum, the rootless, aggressive, immoral, crafty tigers who would never punch a time clock.

  I went back to the Avalon Beach to check in with my lamb.

  “What have you learned?” she asked. “Nothing I didn’t know,” I answered. “Fidelia, what’s their lure?” “Whose lure?”

  “The trash you associate with. They’re out to cut you up like a pie and divide you among them. What’s wrong with your real friends?”

  “They’re dull,” she said. “They stifle me.”

  “They can’t all be dull,” I argued. “At every social level, some people are dull and some aren’t. Look for the ones who aren’t.”

  She shook her head. “At the Sherwood level, they’re all dull.”

  I sat on the bed and stared at her. She said, “Bob Tampett called me to check on you. How did you two get along?” “Badly. Why?”

  “You’re both so self-consciously aggressive,” she said. “I thought there’d be sparks.”

  “He’s a hoodlum,” I said. “He hasn’t any record I’ve been able to uncover, but I can smell a hoodlum and he has the odor.”

  “If he hasn’t any record,” she pointed out coolly, “you’re judging him emotionally. Is that efficient police procedure?”

  “I’m not a policeman,” I explained slowly. “I’m a private investigator and I work by hunch. I work by hit and miss and trickery and throw my weight around. If you’d wanted a policeman, you wouldn’t have hired me.”

  “All right,” she said. “All right. Relax.”

  “Louis Serano,” I asked. “Know him?”

  She nodded.

  “Is he the Serano with the Las Vegas tie-ups, the pusher?”

  “I have no idea. He spends a lot of time in Las Vegas, I know.”

  “Do you, too?”

  “When I was going through my gambling period. Dr. Foy cured me of that.”

  Natch. I thought. He can use the money, himself. I said nothing.

  “You’re dispirited,” she said. “Why, Joe?”

  “Because it’s tough to help people who won’t help themselves. It’s — frustrating.”

  Her chin lifted. “That’s not fair. Since I started going to Dr. Foy, I’ve seen less and less of those kind of people.”

  “You were involved in a divorce case just last month.

  You were named a
s correspondent, if I remember.”

  The flush in her cheeks again and the moisture in her eyes. “I thought I was in love. Can’t you understand that? Damn you, hasn’t it ever happened to you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry. Fidelia, don’t cry. I’m sorry.”

  She sniffed. “I don’t know Louis Serano well. Nor Bob Tampett either. I kept going to Eddie’s place because Pete was playing there. Dr. Foy has slowly been weaning me away from those kind of people. I’ve got all of Pete’s records, but the records aren’t one-tenth as exciting as listening to him in person.”

  “Okay,” I said soothingly. “I’m on your side, Fidelia.”

  “For fifty dollars a day you’re on my side,” she said.

  I stared at her for seconds and she stared back.

  “I’m a poor man,” I finally said, “and I can’t work for nothing. All right, you don’t owe me a dime, and I’ll say good-bye to you now.”

  Her smile was sad. “Even if I apologize?”

  “Even if you apologize. In my business, I’m forced to walk a narrow, tricky road. And unless my client has complete faith and complete loyalty, I’m finished.”

  “I believe in you,” she said.

  “And complete honesty,” I added. “That’s more important than the rest.”

  “I’ll be honest,” she said. “But you must believe in me, too, Joe.”

  Her door chime sounded and she rose and went to the door. I heard the man say, “You and Puma will have to come down to the station, Mrs. Richards.”

  She opened the door wider and I saw it was Mel Braun.

  “Now what, Mel?” I asked him.

  He looked sheepish. “The Sergeant’s been checking on last night.” Mel looked at the floor. “You lied to him, Joe. You stayed here last night.”

  Chapter Five

  Brother! I could see the headline. After my lecture about her disreputable playmates, the lecturer was going to be responsible for another Fidelia Sherwood headline.

  I said to Mel, “The man’s insane. What in hell is his beef with me? Why this persecution?”

  “Let’s go, Joe,” he said quietly.

  “I’ll go,” I said to Fidelia. “You stay here.”

  Mel shook his head. “Both of you. That’s the order.”