Million Dollar Tramp

by William Campbell Gault

  Fidelia said, “I’ll change my shoes and be right with you. Please wait outside.”

  Mel flushed. I said quickly, “I’ll wait with you, Mel. The lady has a right to some privacy, hasn’t she?” I went out and closed the door behind me.

  We stod there, saying nothing while we waited. Mel seemed embarrassed and I had a hunch he realized Sergeant Loepke was acting out of some personal animosity.

  When Fidelia came out, Mel looked at her shoes and up at her. “I thought you were going to change them?”

  “I decided to use the time to phone my attorney,” she said. “Where’s your car?”

  It was now three-thirty. The sun was bright as we drove along Ocean Front and the Pacific was placid and a deep, rich blue today. Fidelia smoked and stared out the window; I planned words for Sergeant Loepke, placating words that would not be servile.

  We waited for ten minutes in a small corridor at the rear of Headquarters until the great Loepke was ready to see us. Then we went into a room furnished with about a dozen folding chairs, a desk and three or four captain’s chairs. Sergeant Daniel Loepke sat behind the desk, looking efficient and smug and mean.

  “Well,” he said, “I’ve got your sworn statements around here somewhere.” He began to leaf through papers on his desk.

  “Right on top there, Sergeant,” I told him. “Try not to ham it up too much.”

  His eyes locked with mine and we glared at each other like adolescents. Then his gaze shifted to Fidelia. “Are you ready to admit you lied, Mrs. Richards?”

  She yawned, and shook her head. She went over to one of the captain’s chairs and sat down.

  Loepke said, “There are some reporters waiting for another Fidelia Sherwood story. I don’t know who alerted them.”

  “I can guess,” I said. “And when Mrs. Richards sues, her attorneys will undoubtedly sue you, personally, not the city. Because this persecution is personal, isn’t it?”

  “You watch your tongue, Puma,” he said.

  “I am. I’m not making any idle threats. The badge doesn’t make you any kind of a god, Sergeant. You’re just a public servant, like all the rest. And I’m a citizen.”

  “Not of this town, you’re not. Now either shut your big mouth or I’ll have you locked up until you learn some manners.”

  I stared at him; he glared at me. I could have snapped his spine with one hand, broad as he was. But he had the badge and he knew it. I shut my mouth.

  Fidelia asked gently, “Is there any reason for all this argument? Is this a police station or a debating society?”

  He stared at her with the rancor of the poor man looking at money. “I asked you a question when you came in, Mrs. Richards. You haven’t answered.”

  “I answered,” she said. “Not with words, but I shook my head. I’m not ready to admit I lied. I’m not ready to even admit I’m Mrs. Richards — not until my attorney advises me to.”

  “Your attorney is not here, Mrs. Richards.”

  “He will be,” she said. “I phoned him.”

  Loepke looked surprised and then glared at Mel Braun.

  Mel said, “She asked me to wait outside until she changed her shoes.”

  Loepke started to say something and then the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up. He said, “Sergeant Loepke.” A pause. “Oh, yes, sir.” A pause. “Of course, sir.” A frown. “Nothing like that, sir. It’s an unfair charge.” A pause. “Immediately, sir. The back corridor.”

  He replaced the phone on its cradle and looked at Mel. He said, “That was the Mayor. He wants us to meet him in the Chief’s office, right now.”

  We all stood up. Loepke came around from behind his desk to lead the way. I was grinning.

  He stopped directly in front of me. “What’s funny, Puma?”

  I said, “The naivete of a grown man who doesn’t realize that you don’t have to fight city hall if you can buy it.”

  His eyes were murderous and his voice a growl. “You stinking, lousy dago!”

  I’m usually thick-skinned, but not about that word. The redness took over my mind and my right hand swung automatically toward the jut of his jaw.

  I caught him above the button but with enough force to slam him into the wall. Dust flew and his hand went sliding in under his jacket and nausea welled in me as I realized he was unbalanced enough at the moment to use a gun.

  Then Mel Braun was between us, holding onto Loepke’s gun hand, and Mel’s voice was shrilly urgent. “Sergeant, for Christ’s sake, get hold of yourself. Don’t — ”

  Loepke took a deep breath and his hand came out without the gun in it. He said hoarsely, “Lock him up. I don’t give a damn what the Mayor or the Chief think about it. Lock him up. Right now! Hear?”

  “I will, I will,” Mel said soothingly. “He struck you. I was a witness to that.”

  “Were you a witness to what he called me, Mel?” I asked.

  Braun didn’t answer. He said, “This way, Puma. Let’s go.”

  I knew the way. I had been there before.

  They put me into a cell next to a vomiting drunk, a drunk who had nothing left to vomit but kept hoping he’d bring up something. I was still rattled by the violence of the office incident and my own nausea wasn’t helped by the horrible sounds from my neighbor.

  I sat on the steel bunk and tried to calm down. I can play it cool for only so long and then my Italian temper builds to a climax. And usually gets me into trouble.

  Fidelia’s illustrious attorney had undoubtedly phoned his brother, the Mayor, and the conference now going on had resulted. To a professional police officer like Loepke a situation of that kind was bound to be embarrassing and demeaning. My smile had been cruel and pointless. I had goaded him; the guilt was mine.

  The man next door stopped making noises. He sat on his bunk and looked sickly at the concrete floor. Somewhere, a door clanged and a water pipe rattled under pressure. Through the barred window, I could hear the traffic outside. Dust motes sparkled in the ray of light coming through the window.

  A few minutes of this made me nervous; I thought of the boys who had years of it behind them and ahead of them. I wondered if that was what kept me narrowly on the right side of the law. I had some of the instincts of the criminal, certainly, though I hated most of the criminals I had met.

  I heard footsteps and looked up expectantly, but the turnkey went past and down another corridor. Damn it, how long was this absurd situation going to last?

  Perhaps they were waiting for Fidelia’s attorney to get here. It wasn’t likely the big man would come; he would send one of his lesser associates.

  I heard footsteps again. The turnkey was coming back. I went to the steel door. “I’d like to make a phone call,” I said. “Would you tell Captain Amos that?”

  He nodded, smiled, and went on. Annoyance mounted in me. It would build to resentment and peak to rage if I didn’t fight it. I went back to the bunk, sat down and tried to think sweet thoughts.

  The drunk began to cry quietly and hopelessly.

  Me and my damned muscles! If I weighed a hundred pounds less, I would have avoided a number of bruises and a whole mess of trouble. I didn’t take enough lip.

  The drunk sniffed, blew his nose, and turned to ask me, “What you in for?”

  “Arrogance,” I said.

  “Me, too,” he said. He turned back, his head bowed.

  He couldn’t have weighed over a hundred and forty; maybe it wasn’t my muscles that had made me arrogant. Maybe it was my Italian heritage.

  Or maybe the state of the world, a world where hoodlums ran the government through their unions and the citizens crowded Las Vegas to support the hoodlums the unions had overlooked. It was a great time for hoodlums, foreign and domestic.

  While a sweet saint like Joe Puma rotted in jail.

  Footsteps again, and it was Captain Amos this time. He stood in the corridor and considered me sourly.

  “He called me a stinking, lousy dago,” I explained.

  �
��What am I supposed to do, cringe?”

  “No. You’re supposed to report him to his superior. That is, if you consider yourself a citizen.”

  “I am a citizen. I shouldn’t have to tell you that, Captain.”

  “Sure, sure,” he said wearily. “Well, her lawyer’s here now and we can get the great debate started.”

  The turnkey came and unlocked the door and I went along with Captain Amos to the Chief’s office. There were half a dozen people in there: Loepke, the Mayor, the Chief, Braun, Fidelia and a young Ivy League type who was probably an associate of Fidelia’s attorney.

  Loepke looked at me grimly as I entered; the others viewed me with less interest. Except for Fidelia, who smiled and winked.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I said.

  Chief Nystrom said, “We can do without any levity, Mr. Puma. Take that chair next to Detective Braun. Captain, that chair next to Sergeant Loepke.”

  When we were seated, he said, “And now, Mr. Puma, your story.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t care to speak unless my attorney is present.”

  There was a silence. Chief Nystrom’s face was composed but his eyes burned dangerously.

  I asked, “Has any charge been made? This is all a little too informal for me.”

  Loepke said, “I can give you two — adulterous conduct and assaulting a police officer.” He paused. “And perjury.”

  The young lawyer said quickly, “Just one moment, Sergeant.”

  The Mayor raised a hand. “Just one moment, everybody,” he said. “Let us all remember that our important concern is a murder that took place last night and the only possible perjury we are concerned with at this moment is perjury that might have retarded or interfered with the investigation of that murder.”

  Loapke asked quietly, “What about the assault, sir?”

  It took a lot of guts for Loepke to say that, and I gazed at him admiringly.

  The Mayor said stiffly, “We are not concerned with that at the moment, Sergeant. First things first.” He looked at me. “I understand you’ve been hired to investigate the murder.”

  I nodded. “And I’d be glad to give Sergeant Loepke all I’ve learned so far.” I took a breath. “I’m sorry I hit him, but he shouldn’t have called me what he did.”

  Captain Amos said mildly, “If Mr. Puma intends to do any investigating in our town, he will have to work very closely with the Department. He understands that.” He looked at me.

  I nodded. “Though we can’t be sure, of course, that the murder happened in this town. So far as we know now, the last time Brian Delsy was seen alive he was in Venice.”

  There was another silence. I looked over to see Loepke glowering and Mel Braun staring glumly into space.

  The Mayor looked at Loepke uncertainly and then at Captain Amos hopefully. The Captain was the peacemaker here.

  Captain Amos said, “I’m sure we’re all agreed that Mrs. Richards has been the victim of unfortunate publicity too often. It is not our job to feed a sensational Los Angeles press with further defamatory material. And certainly not at the risk of a lawsuit.” He cleared his throat. “Mr. Puma’s attack on a police officer was lamentable and unwarranted. Sergeant Loepke used improper language, but that still doesn’t excuse Mr. Puma.”

  They all looked at me, now. I looked at Loepke and Loepke looked off into space.

  I said, “What I did was wrong, but I can’t guarantee I won’t do it again to the next man who calls me that.”

  The Chief said, “Perhaps Mr. Puma hasn’t cooled enough. We’ll hold him for a while and decide his fate later. You may go, Mrs. Richards.”

  My Fidelia, my faithful, shook her head. “I need him.”

  The Chief looked startled, the Mayor frowned.

  The young attorney said, “Mrs. Richards, I think Chief Nystrom has been more than fair in this and I urgently suggest that you accept the — ”

  “No,” she said firmly. “I need Joe Puma. And I should think the Department here would welcome him as an ally. Certainly, you’re all familiar with his impressive record?”

  Hey, what a girl! I stared at her in unadulterated reverence — a discerning, forthright, loyal and delectable doll.

  The Chief coughed, the Mayor frowned. Captain Amos said, “I’m well aware of Mr. Puma’s qualifications, Mrs. Richards. And I must admit his record is as clean as his trade will permit. However, his license does not give him the right to assault an officer. Mr. Puma combines an awesome physique with an atrocious temper and his arrogance is infamous.”

  It wasn’t a bad analysis; this Captain Aaron Amos was sharp.

  Another long silence and Loepke finally broke it. “I guess it’s fair to say both Puma and I were out of line. I’m willing to forget it if everybody else is.”

  The Mayor beamed, the Chief looked relieved. Fidelia smiled, her lawyer sighed, Mel Braun frowned and Loepke continued to glower.

  “I apologize, Sergeant,” I said. “I goaded you at a bad time. The whole thing was really my fault.”

  The Chief asked, “A bad time? What does that mean, Mr. Puma?”

  “In a world run by hoodlums,” I said, “the Sergeant is old-fashioned enough to try to be honest. I guess the rest of us know that’s impossible, today.”

  The Mayor said stiffly, “Speak for yourself, sir. I’ve managed it.”

  Captain Amos said, “Mr. Puma is both physically and orally arrogant. And his standards of alleged honesty are perhaps more distorted than ours. Well, sir, we can use him, despite that.”

  That Amos, he was a one.

  There was a sense of relaxed tension throughout the room now. The Mayor rose and said, “Do you see what an open discussion can do? That’s the American way.”

  He smiled at all of us and went out to the imagined sound of a Marine band.

  The Chief rose, said, “Captain, you will brief Mr. Puma and he’ll report to you if he stays on this case.”

  Amos nodded and the Chief left the room. Loepke and Braun left without comment. Fidelia said, “We’ll need a ride back, Captain.”

  Her attorney said, “My car’s here. I can drop both

  you and Mr. Puma off, Fidelia.”

  “Mr. Puma will be out soon,” Amos told them. “Come with me, Joe.”

  I went with him to an office he shared with Lieutenant Carlson and there I gave him the résumé of my day’s interviews. He took down what seemed pertinent in a self-invented shorthand he used.

  When I had finished, he looked up and smiled. “Okay, these are the facts. What’s your hunch?”

  “You don’t work on hunches, Captain.”

  “I respect yours,” he said.

  “I think this Robert Tampett should be sweated. I wouldn’t tag him as a murderer; he’s too cute for that. But he sure as hell knows more than he told me.”

  “We’ll lean on him,” he said. “And Joe, watch your mouth around Sergeant Loepke. That’s a warning.”

  I nodded.

  He smiled. “Adulterous conduct. What a mild phrase to use about a satyr. So long. Keep in touch night and day.”

  I waved good-bye and went out into the sun again. In her attorney’s car, my Fidelia was waiting for me with a big smile. I certainly picked some dandies.

  Chapter Six

  It had been a full day, starting with my discovery of Delsy’s body this morning. I was emotionally and physically fatigued. And I was hungry.

  At the cottage, Fidelia asked, “Why don’t we have dinner together someplace? You can put it on the expense account and I can owe you.”

  “Fine,” I said. “But I have to go to the office to check the mail and my answering service. And I need a clean shirt and like that.” I computed it in my mind. “How about six-thirty?” It was now five o’clock.

  She shook her head. “I want to go along. I don’t want to be alone, Joe.”

  So she went along. In Westwood, she waited in the car

  while I managed a quick shave, shower
and change in my apartment. In Beverly Hills, she came up to my office with me.

  There was a check and two bills in my mail, the check bigger than the total of the bills. So that was all right. My phone answering service reported that a Lou Serano had phoned me, but left no number to call.

  Lou Serano was the hoodlum who had sat with Bob Tampett in the booth at Eddie’s last night. None of the various local phone books helped me with him, nor could “Information.” I had a feeling he would call again.

  In and around Beverly Hills there are a number of fine restaurants, but Fidelia said, “Why don’t we go to Eddie’s? His steaks are pretty good. And we can listen to Pete’s piano.”

  “With Pete off the soup,” I asked, “will he still be at Eddie’s?”

  She nodded. “His contract runs until the end of the week and he always honors a contract.” She sighed. “I wonder how long he’ll stay on the wagon.”

  “Was the booze the big item in your breakup?” I asked her.

  She shrugged. “It could have been. He’s one of those drunks who hates you unless you drink along with him. God, the things he’d call me when I wouldn’t!”

  I asked, “If he ever got on the wagon permanently, would you go back to him?”

  She shook her head. “We can’t go back.” She looked up at me wistfully. “We can’t ever go back, can we?”

  “Never,” I agreed. “That’s what finally kills us, one way or another. Let’s go.”

  We went down the steps and into the early evening sun. She stood on the curb and looked at my dusty Plymouth and said, “You could wash it, at least. Why do you have to be the professional poor man?”

  “It helps me maintain my sanity,” I explained. “Let’s go! I’m hungry.”

  She was silent for most of the trip. Some thoughts she must have been thinking. Because when we were almost to Eddie’s, she asked quietly, “Joe, you didn’t kill Brian, did you?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “What a hell of a question!”

  “Don’t be shocked,” she said. “You know anyone can kill. You must have realized that, by now.”

  “It’s not true,” I said. “I’ve known people who can’t even kill flies or spiders or ants. This morning, I was suspicious of you. But I know now, Fidelia, you’re another person who can’t kill.”