Million Dollar Tramp

by William Campbell Gault

  “I guess I’m not going to fall asleep,” Fidelia said finally. She came over to stretch out next to me.“Be gentle.”

  Chapter Ten

  Rich foods and indolence; her body should be soft and white, sagging and passive. But her body was golden and firm, resistant and demanding.

  Slow now, easy and gentle….Above us, on the wall, the reflections of all those seeking headlights came and went, came and went….

  And then the great shudder and the great sigh and she murmured, almost too quietly to hear, “I don’t need him, I don’t need him, I don’t need him, any more.”

  I didn’t ask her whom she didn’t need. I hoped it was Foy.

  She fell asleep and I covered her with a blanket and slept in my own bed, slept straight through until morning. I didn’t even open my eyes until almost nine o’clock.

  There was no overcast in the morning. The sun was out and the smog light. I went into the living room, but the studio couch was unoccupied. My lady had left in the night. On the rumpled pillow, one auburn hair glistened in the morning sunlight.

  I was getting out my king-sized frying pan when the doorbell rang. I went to the door and asked, “Who’s there?”

  “Loepke,” he said, and I opened it to let him in.

  “I’m just about to fry some eggs,” I told him. “Could you go for a couple?”

  He shook his head. “I could use a cup of coffee, though.”

  I made him a cup of instant coffee. He sat at the end of the table in the kitchen and said, “We gave Los Angeles that slug that killed Delsy and they compared it with the one that nicked you.” He paused. “Same gun.”

  I turned from the stove where I was frying my eggs. “That should nail Tampett — if we can find him.”

  “It should,” he shrugged, “but Tampett’s covered for the time Delsy died.”

  “How could he be? He told me he left the bar and came home. He lives alone. How could he be covered?”

  “He came back to his apartment house, but not home. There was a party going on two apartments down the hall and he spent the next three hours there.”

  “He didn’t tell me that. He said he came home.”

  “That’s what he told us, at first, too. I suppose he didn’t want to tell us about the party because his neighbors would know what he was when we questioned them. Well, since he disappeared, we went back and questioned the neighbors anyway.” He held out his hands, palms up. “And we come up with this. Which leaves us where?”

  “With lying neighbors,” I answered.

  He shook his head. “Two of the people at the party were real solid citizens. Now, with you, Tampett figured to kill you, I’m sure, so there still wouldn’t be any lead to the gun. And most of the time, the slugs are too smashed up to compare, anyway.”

  I sat down with my eggs and toast.

  Sergeant Loepke said, “Ye gods! how many eggs did you fry?”

  “Six,” I said. “I’ve been sick, Sergeant. I was shot. I have to regain my strength if I’m going out to hunt Tampett.”

  For the first time, he half smiled. “What a man. Could I make myself another cup of this coffee?”

  “Be my guest,” I said. “The water’s still hot.”

  As he was mixing the coffee, he said musingly, “I suppose a man needs to know you a long time in order to like you.”

  “You never would,” I told him. “You’re an honest man, Sergeant.”

  He came back with the cup of coffee and sat down. “And you’re not?”

  “I am, but at a different level. Nothing personal, but it’s a higher level. I may use shoddy means to achieve a worthwhile end.”

  “That’s not right, and you know it. That’s not honest.”

  “Of course it isn’t, not in the old-fashioned sense. Basically, it’s wrong. But it’s the only possible way to survive in this world of today and still sleep nights.”

  He shook his head stubbornly.

  “It’s the way,” I told him, “this world has been kept in one piece since 1932. It’s the new mid-century honesty, Sergeant, and you’ll starve if you don’t go along with it.”

  “I’m not starving,” he said.

  “For a man of your abilities, you are. You should have been a lieutenant six years ago, and you know it.” He was silent. He studied me. I smiled at him.

  “I always figured you for a dumb, loud, tough wop, and nothing more,” he said finally.

  “I am,” I said simply. “Dumb, loud, tough — and hungry.”

  He sipped his coffee and closed his eyes wearily.

  I asked, “How late did you work last night?”

  He shrugged. “What difference does it make? I like to work. What else is there?”

  “A whole big, fat world full of wine, women and song.”

  “Not for me,” he said. “Are you going after this Tampett?”

  I smiled. “With both hands, Sergeant. As soon as I finish these eggs.”

  “You remember,” he warned me, “you’re not the law. You remember that, Puma.”

  “I am the law, Sergeant. Every citizen is the law. The others don’t work at it like we do, but we’re the only law there is.”

  He stood up. “Who can talk sense to you? Thanks for the coffee. You — mug! At least, be careful. You can promise me that much, can’t you?”

  I winked at him. “Sergeant, believe it or not, my first instinct is self-preservation. I’ll be very careful.”

  “Don’t open any doors, from either side, without a gun in your hand.”

  I nodded. “You should have told me that yesterday morning. Carry on, Sergeant. You’re a good man and we need you.”

  “You might even be one, yourself,” he admitted. “Who can tell, today?” He went out, closing the door quietly behind him.

  A servant of the people, Sergeant Daniel Loepke. Despised, underpaid, demeaned and resented, a servant of the people, the miserable, stinking people.

  While the hoodlums ran the world. Why did I hate the hoodlums so much? Because so many of them were Italian, and I hated myself? How could I hate myself, a wonderful guy like me?

  I had just finished shaving when the phone rang. It was Mrs. Foy.

  “I read in the paper this morning about Bob Tampett,” she said. “Who’s next? Am I next?”

  “Why should you be? Has he bothered you?”

  “No. But he came for you because of Arnie, didn’t he? Because you were a threat to Arnie? And who gave you the dope on Arnie?”

  “You were a big help to me, Mrs. Foy,” I said, “but what you told me about the Doctor was something any investigator could have learned without going to you. It simply would have taken longer. A number of people know Dr. Foy is a fake. The ones he worries about are the people who know it and intend to do something about it.”

  “You think I’m safe, then?”

  “I couldn’t guarantee you that. If you can afford it, you might get out of the house for a couple of days.”

  “I can afford it. I’ve got a few friends left. Puma, will they catch him? Tampett, I mean.”

  “I’m sure they will. I’m looking for him, too.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Fine.” A pause. “Some day, when this is all over, drop around, huh?”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” I said. “Chin up, now.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Good luck, Puma.”

  A number of people had undoubtedly lied to me; I should have recorded my conversations in a notebook for cross-verification. Some day, I would have to get organized and be an efficient investigator.

  One statement that seemed like a lie had been voiced by Willis Morley, and there was only one place to check that — the law offices of Gallegher, Hartford and Leedom in Beverly Hills.

  They were dignified and impressive offices and so was the girl in the waiting room — her manner dignified, her body impressive. I wondered which of the partners had chosen her.

  “Mr. Puma?” she said, and frowned. “Did you have an appointm
ent with Mr. Gallegher?”

  “No. I’m here in the interest of Mrs. Fidelia Sherwood Richards. Why don’t you tell him that?”

  She didn’t use the phone on her desk; she excused herself and disappeared down a corridor.

  While she was gone, a young man came in, looked at me in doubtful recognition and then came over to where I was standing. It was the attorney who had represented Fidelia in Chief Nystrom’s office.

  “Mr. Puma,” he said genially. “Could I be of service?”

  “I’m waiting to see Mr. Gallegher,” I told him. “Nothing personal, but he probably knows more about what I want to know.”

  “I’m sure he does,” the young man agreed. “How is Mrs. Richards reacting to all this recent publicity?”

  “Like a Marine sergeant,” I said. “I think she needs that Foy like I need fifty more pounds.”

  He laughed. “One thing you must remember about Mrs. Richards, she’s an extremely loyal girl. It’s her dominant trait.”

  From the mouths of babes … I looked at him in awe. “By golly,” I said, “I’ll bet you would have graduated cum laude from Sunset College of Clinical Psychology.”

  His smile put me back into my peasant world. “I did — from Harvard.” He nodded. “Good morning, Mr. Puma.”

  I stood there, conscious of my thick ankles, until the girl came back to tell me Mr. Gallegher would see me now.

  T. Winfield Gallegher looked to me like an Irishman who was ‘passing'. At a certain level, these sturdy sons of common stock occasionally adopted the mannerisms and attitudes of their natural enemy. The “T” must stand for Terrence, I thought. Thomas could be mistaken for an English name.

  His accent was faintly British, his tailoring Savile Row, his manner gentle. He was tall and bony and probably hoping for warts.

  “Mr. Puma,” he said, smiling. “I’m an admirer of yours, sir. I have followed your exploits in the press with great interest.” He indicated a chair, after shaking my hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Gallegher,” I said in my Fresno best. “The man who concerns me today is Willis Morley.”

  A faint flicker of distaste showed briefly on the aristocratic face across the desk. “Oh, yes.”

  “I have reason to think he lied to me,” I went on. “He told me, in his office, that you had suggested he try to wean Mrs. Richards away from the influence of Dr. Arnold Foy.”

  T. Winfield Gallegher straightened in his chair and his Irish blue eyes flashed fire. “That is far from the truth. That is a damned lie!”

  “I thought it might be. Did he initially suggest it to you?”

  “He mentioned it to me, yes. I voiced neither approval nor disapproval.”

  “Why would he lie?” I asked.

  His face became guarded. “I have no idea. I would think it unwise to venture an opinion.”

  “Mr. Gallegher,” I said patiently. “We’re alone here. Nobody is taking dictation and we can speak in complete confidence without any fear of reprisal from anyone. Our mutual interest is the well-being of Mrs. Fidelia Sherwood Richards. It is no time for either courtroom dignity or the impediment of involved ethics.”

  He stared at me thoughtfully for a moment.

  “A man is dead,” I went on, “and Mrs. Richards is in possible peril. Both of us represent her in our separate and disparate ways. We’re allies, Mr. Gallegher — you have to believe that.”

  He opened his mouth and closed it. He opened it again and said, “I do believe that, Mr. Puma. I may have reason to regret your — your modus operandi, but never have I doubted your essential integrity.”

  “Thank you,” I said solemnly, and waited.

  He licked his lips. “Mr. Morley is a shrewd and persuasive man. His unusually benign façade is no doubt very effective in lulling his — his clients into a false sense of confidence. Mrs. Richards trusts him implicity.”

  “Does he resemble her father?”

  T. Winfield Gallegher stiffened again. “Not in any way. Mr. Sherwood was an uncommonly distinguished gentleman. Well, to get on, and this is in strictest confidence, I have a feeling Mr. Morley assumes he will be in charge of the Sherwood estate when Mrs. Richards comes into it.”

  “Brother!” I said. “And wouldn’t he milk it?”

  T. Winfield Gallegher looked bleakly into space and did not comment.

  “What possible reason,” I mused aloud, “would Willis Morley have for trying to convince me this suggestion about Foy came from you?”

  “I have no idea,” he said, “but I’m sure you have.”

  “I do,” I admitted and stood up. “Mr. Gallegher, thank you.”

  He rose and extended his hand across the desk. “Mr. Puma, good luck. Carry on, sir, in the finest Puma tradition.”

  I went out with banners flying, chin up, ego restored. I paused at the desk of the girl with the body, and asked lightly, “Do you like to dance?”

  “I love it,” she said. “Every Tuesday and Saturday night my husband and I go square dancing.”

  Square dancing! Oh, boy. What a monstrous waste.

  I was only a few blocks from the office and I called Fidelia from there.

  When she answered, I asked lightly, “What time did you leave?”

  “This morning. You were snoring.”

  “Easy, lady; this goes through the hotel switchboard.”

  “I forgot.” A pause. “I miss you. Are you working?”

  “I am. I’ve just come from your lawyer’s office. While I was there, I remembered something you told me that didn’t check with what somebody else told me.”

  “Oh?”

  “You told me you learned about Willis Morley through an ad in the Times. He told me he was recommended to you by a mutual friend.”

  A long silence.

  “Are you still there?” I asked. “Yes, yes.” Another silence. “He told the truth. I was introduced to him through a mutual friend.” “Why did you lie?”

  I could hear her intake of breath. “Because this — this mutual friend asked me not to mention it. He said it might be misunderstood. At that time, his word was law to me.”

  “At that time? You’re talking about Dr. Foy? He was the mutual friend, wasn’t he?”

  “He was.” A pause. A long one, but I didn’t fill it. Finally, she said, “I think I’m cured of him, Joe. I’m not sure, though, but I — ”

  “You’re a very loyal girl, Fidelia. You musn’t think of that as any kind of flaw.”

  “It’s more than loyalty, though. It’s a dependence, an absurd, pathological dependence.”

  “It way.” I hesitated, and then asked, “Tell me, did you ever think of him romantically? I mean, did you ever contemplate marrying him.”

  “Not definitely. I mean, I have a feeling it eventually could have led to that. You don’t think — I mean, could he have been planning to make me that dependent on him?”

  My impulse was to say “yes,” but it might be too early. I said, “Who knows? I don’t.”

  A silence again. And then, “I think I’ll go over to the pool. Do you have to work?”

  “I do. You go get the sun. Maybe I can make it for lunch.”

  “Try to,” she said. “I won’t expect you, but try to.” I promised her I would and hung up. Who was I, the new Dr. Foy? I headed for Venice and the humble abode of Snip Caster.

  Snip lived in a ramshackle rooming house run by a retired prostitute on a back lot off one of Venice’s discarded canals. He was addicted to muscatel and at the bottom of the social ladder. But in his palmier days little Snip had enjoyed some big-league mobster associations. They had forgotten him now, luckily for Snip, but he still kept his ears open.

  His landlady, a haggard old crow, was hanging some clothes in the side yard as I parked in the packed-earth parking area behind the front of the house.

  She looked at me with suspicion. She was sweet on Snip and resented any outsiders who might make him solvent enough to leave the neighborhood.

  “Snip in his room
?” I asked her.

  “Look for yourself,” she told me. “This ain’t no hotel.”

  “Why, Aggie,” I said, “I’m not here to take him away. I’m a friend of his.”

  She sniffed and gave her attention to the clothes she was stringing on the line.

  “Snip should buy you a dryer,” I said.

  “With what?” she asked. “Empty muscatel bottles?”

  Poor Snip. As recently as fifteen years ago, he had been squiring starlets around. And now he had Aggie.

  I went up the worn steps to the small room in the rear and found him paging through a girlie magazine.

  His thin face lighted up and he asked, “You bring a bottle? Buddie, buddie, buddie! You must have brought a bottle.”

  I handed him a dollar. “I forgot. Get your own. Snip, you know where Eddie’s is, don’t you? You know the place?”

  He nodded. “I know the place. And Eddie. So?” He held up a hand. “Hey, wait! You’re working on that Delsy kill.”

  “I am.”

  “For money, big money, huh? For that Sherwood dame, I bet.”

  “It’s possible.”

  He shook his head. “And you slip me a lousy buck. Big shot Puma!”

  “The buck was for old times, Snip. How do I know if you can do me any good?”

  “Ask me and find out,” he said.

  “I’m looking for a man named Robert Tampett,” I said. “Know him?”

  “Yup.”

  “Know where he is now?” He shook his head.

  “All right, give me the buck back. Drink water this week.”

  He smiled, his thin face sly. “The buck was for old times. Maybe I could find out where this Tampett is. What’s it worth?”

  “A fin, a sawbuck, maybe.”

  “And you get?”

  “I’m working for my client at a reduced rate. This Tampett is more of a personal search. He shot me, Snip. He tried to kill me.”

  His eyes widened. “That foolish man. He should have made sure, or got out of the country, huh?”

  I said nothing, looking modestly Herculean.

  “I’ll nose around,” he said. “A sawbuck — that’s tops?”