“Maybe more, if I can put it on the expense account. Be careful, though, Snip. You get a couple belts in you and you run off at the mouth too much.”
“Job like this, I drink later,” he assured me. “I’ll get in touch.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “And don’t tell Aggie you gave me the buck.”
I promised him I wouldn’t.
The pattern was in my mind, now, the pattern that revolved around Fidelia Sherwood Richards. And it made Tampett a key figure, the tool of the Machiavellian Foy, a man with no local record who had risked killing me. The stakes must be high to drive Tampett to murder.
As I went to my car, Aggie called, “How much did you give him?”
“Nothing yet,” I answered. “He has to earn it, first.”
She sniffed suspiciously. “That’ll be the day.”
I smiled at her and got into my car and headed downtown, toward the forty-per-cent Santa Claus.
Chapter Eleven
All I had was the pattern. Perhaps a case could be tailored from it and perhaps not. People lie for a number of reasons, as I have said before. Out of ego and spite, malice and petulance, people lie. But if the truth can save their necks, they finally resort to it.
Chubby Willis Morley was no fool and perhaps he could be pressed to give me more truth than he had so far if I pointed out that the percentage might be in his favor.
Intangibles I had, but intangibles are meaningless in court. There was no point in finding a killer unless he could be convicted.
The smog grew stronger and the traffic heavier. There had been very little smog in Beverly Hills but the sky was yellow ahead. I should have phoned; it was a miserable trip to take for nothing.
But it wasn’t all for nothing: Willis Morley was in his office, talking earnestly with an elderly and apparently nervous woman. The door to his waiting room was open; he came over to nod to me and then close it.
I sat with a copy of Life, framing my approach in my mind, checking back for inconsistencies and contradictions, a lever to use on this pompous pirate.
The only opening I had was his claim that Fidelia’s lawyers had approached him on Foy. That wasn’t much, and easily open to argument. Well, I’d tell him what I had and await a reaction.
Lacking the authority of the municipal man, reaction was my only weapon. I could nose around and nose around until somebody got nervous and made a foolish move. Tampett had already made one, but it had hurt me more than it had him.
I had left Life and was working on Newsweek when Willis brought the elderly woman through and to the door to the corridor. “Don’t you worry, now,” he told her. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”
His smile faded as he closed the door behind her and turned to face me. “Well, Mr. Puma?”
“I thought we could talk,” I said. “I have an interesting theory for your slide rule.”
He frowned. “I have another appointment in ten minutes. How much time do you need?”
“Ten minutes might do it — if you don’t interrupt?”
His frown deepened. “You’re not making much sense, Mr. Puma.”
I stood up. “Let’s go into your office and I’ll try to.”
He stood there quietly in indecision, his blue eyes probing my face. Then he nodded toward the door to his office. He followed me in and closed the door behind him.
He went over to sit behind his desk and I sat in the chair recently occupied by the elderly woman.
“All right, Mr. Puma,” he said solemnly, “let’s hear this theory of yours.”
“It concerns a rich and emotionally erratic girl,” I began, “who went to a quack psychologist for treatment. She developed an unhealthy attachment for this man. And the quack, being what he was, put his cunning mind to work. There should be, he figured, some way to get into the girl’s money a lot faster than he could through his fees for treatment.”
In his chair, Willis Morley stirred and his blue eyes blinked nervously. He said nothing.
“This quack,” I went on, “had a friend who knew his way around money, a loan shark with a most benevolent exterior, and the quack sent his patient to this knowing man, generously aware that the girl had enough money for two needy pirates and it would be smarter to have her estate robbed by an expert.”
Willis Morley bristled. “Just one second, Mr. Puma!”
“It’s only a theory,” I said soothingly. “There’s no need to be alarmed unless it’s true.”
He subsided in his chair, glaring at me.
“However,” I continued, “under treatment, the girl became more and more dependent on the quack. And it occurred to him that if he married the girl, and it certainly seemed possible, he would be in a position to enjoy her money without the need of sharing with outsiders. Avarice entered the picture.”
Willis Morley said stiffly, “My books are open to any authorized accounting at any time.”
“You’re interrupting,” I chided him. “So the first thing the quack does is convince the girl she shouldn’t reveal that he had sent her to the loan expert. And then he has her move to another address, to confuse the loan man further. The loan man begins to see the picture, so he hires a private investigator to look up the girl and find out what’s cooking. In comes Puma.” I paused. “Blind.”
“Borrowers,” said Willis stiffly, “are required to inform their creditors of any change of address.”
“A solid point,” I agreed. “So, back at the ranch, an unfortunate patient of the quack’s named Brian Delsy learns of this alliance between the psychologist and the loan broker and realizes what is happening to a girl whom, for some perverse reason, he admires.”
Willis fidgeted and looked at his watch.
“At a bar in Venice,” I breezed on, “this troubled man tries to get the girl to his booth so he can inform her of the alliance, but he is not successful. The girl leaves and the patient is thrown out of the joint by the bartender. He is a little drunk by this time and still determined to reveal all to the girl. However, it takes him a while to learn her new address.”
Willis looked at his watch again.
“If it’s time for that appointment,” I said, “I can leave.”
“Go on,” he said. “I’m listening.”
“But,” I said ominously, “the man named Delsy is not careful. He doesn’t realize the stakes involved and possibly doesn’t know that a friend of his, a hustler named Robert Tampett, is actually in the employ of the quack. And this Tampett knows that if the girl learns about the alliance, all the girl’s lovely money will stay at home, where he figures it doesn’t belong.”
“So Robert Tampett killed Delsy, then?” Willis Morley asked.
“It seems logical, doesn’t it?” He didn’t answer, staring into space. “But Tampett’s covered, accordng to the police,” I said. “So who’s our next choice, Mr. Morley?” He stared at me and said nothing. “Note shaving and usury aren’t likely to get you into trouble,” I said gently. “They’re the order of the day. But murder, Mr. Morley?”
His round face was like rock. “Don’t be absurd. Certaintly, you don’t think me capable of murder.”
“Why did you lie to me?” I asked him.
“Lie? When did I lie to you?”
“When you told me Mrs. Richards’ attorneys suggested to you that you influence her away from Foy. I talked with Mr. Gallegher this morning and he assured me that was not the way it happened. You suggested it to Mr. Gallegher.”
“I did nothing of the kind. Certainly, you don’t expect a man of Mr. Gallegher’s station to admit he was interfering in the medical treatment of a client?”
I said nothing.
Morley took a deep breath. “You have a theory, involved and fictional. That’s all you have and it would be laughed out of any court in the state. Why did you bring it here?”
“Because I think it’s possible you are not the murderer. And if you aren’t, it might be in your best interest to help me find out who is.”
He looked a
t his watch for the third time. “I’ve given you all the time I can, Mr. Puma. Good day to you.”
I stood up. “You’re underestimating me, Mr. Morley. I’m not something you can figure with that slide rule. I’m human, and there’s vengeance in me.”
“You’re being melodramatic,” he said, “and adolescent. Good day, sir.” He stood up.
He wasn’t frightened. He glared at me, a bristling, overweight rooster, ferocious and unfrightened. So far as I could tell.
“Don’t strike me,” I murmured. “I’ll go quietly.”
“And don’t come back,” he said.
Another account lost. I went out into the smog and down the dirty street to my car. Where was I? Nowhere.
I was a simple Fresno peasant, unequipped to cope with the sharp and cunning tigers I met in my trade. All I had were my muscles and my mouth and my hazy peasant intuition. They weren’t enough.
Of course, I had this elusive Latin charm that occasionally served as a weapon. But never with men, damn it!
Except with men like Brian Delsy, possibly, but Brian was dead.
“Dead, dead, dead,” I repeated to myself, and passers-by on the sidewalk looked at me curiously, compassionately or scornfully, depending on their moods and personalities.
The Plymouth seemed to sneer at me as she coughed into life. Where was I? On Figueroa Street, heading for Olympic. I could have used the freeway, but I never do. That was where the real tigers roamed, the wholesale killers.
Tampett. I had to find Tampett. I had to find him and get his throat between my hands and choke some truth out of him. How else was I equipped to operate, a peasant like me?
My sore side itched and my sinuses ached and I reflected that I was working on this miserable case at half-pay. What a jerk was Joe Puma!
The Plymouth seemed to steer itself to Santa Monica and the Avalon Beach. Fidelia was having lunch on the deck above the pool.
She wore a terry-cloth robe over her Bikini and she wore a smile for her glowering knight.
“Well?” she asked.
“Nobody, nothing, nowhere,” I said. I sat in the chair across the table from her. “I’ve got to find Tampett.”
“Of course you do,” she agreed. “So you can bruise and batter him and hear him cry out for mercy.”
“Right!” I said.
“My lion,” she said, “Joe Puma.” “Your dope, Joe Puma. I’m stupid and meaningless.” “Of the three, only arrogant,” she said. “Joe, you need a drink.”
I nodded and leaned back.
“Gin and tonic,” she told the waiter, “in a tall, tall glass. And bring a luncheon menu for my guest.”
The waiter went away and Fidelia smiled at me. “My fort, my shield, my good right arm and tender lover, Joe Puma.”
Your new Doctor Foy, I thought, but didn’t say. Was that why Tampett tried to kill me? I was less of an investigative threat than a substitute perhaps, but a substitute could be more damaging to their cause.
“What are you thinking?” she asked me.
“Everything and nothing. Did you have any visitors today?”
“Lou Serano phoned. He said he’d phone again. He wants to talk with you.” She grimaced. “I like him less every minute.”
The waiter came back with my drink and a menu. I ordered the beef Stroganoff.
At the far end of the pool, poised on the diving board, a girl with an exquisite figure drew my attention. Fidelia turned to examine the target of my glance and then looked sharply back at me. The blue-green eyes glinted, but she said nothing.
Her fort, her shield, her tender lover — and her proud possession? I smiled at her; her answering smile was forced.
“Muscles and mouth, I called you,” she reminded me. “I forgot you also have an eye.”
“I try not to miss anything,” I said agreeably. The cool drink went down, easing my tensions.
“It would be hell, married to you,” she said, after a few seconds. “You were never married, were you?”
“Not even once,” I admitted.
“You have all the instincts of a tomcat,” she continued. Her fort, her shield and her tender lover — and her pin cushion?
I said, “You’re working yourself up into a peeve. Would you want to tell me why?”
“Did you have to say you weren’t married even once. Was that a nice thing to say to me?”
“No. But it had no meaning. I just said it.”
“Did you have to look at that girl on the diving board?”
“Yes. For some reason I can’t stop smoking or looking at girls on diving boards. Fidelia, it’s pleasant here and this drink has helped me and the food will help even more. Do we have to quibble?”
A pause, while she looked at me gravely. Then she smiled and said, “Not if you sit in this chair and I sit in yours.”
So we changed chairs and now she was facing the board and the most pleasant thing in my line of vision was she. The waiter brought my food and her iced coffee.
We were silent for minutes, which I didn’t mind, because I was hungry and it was first-class beef Stroganoff. The electricity of emotional turbulence was in the air, though, and I had a sense of uneasiness.
She said, “You slurp when you eat. Can’t you stop that?”
I smiled at her. “I’ll try. I come from a family of slurpers. Am I no longer your fort, your shield, your tender lover and good right arm?”
She looked down at the table. She was trembling slightly. Her voice was low. “I don’t know what gets into me. I think I’d better phone Dr. Foy.”
“You’ve gone through a bad time,” I told her, “and handled it all without him. You’re loyal and beautiful and courageous and even fairly intelligent, for a woman. Don’t expect to be perfect; even Dr. Freud never expected people to be that. What do you need that you haven’t got?”
“Stability,” she said. “Emotional stability.”
“Jesus!” I said.
“And what’s wrong with that?”
I shook my head. “You’ve just told me you want to be a cow. Honey, you haven’t the build for it.”
“You’re a bull,” she said, “and you seem happy.”
“I’m not a bull. I never paw around. I’m a tomcat and a hedonist, a voyeur and an idiot, but I’m not a bull. Is that iced coffee any good?”
“It’s excellent,” she said, “Mr. Stomach!”
I signalled the waiter and ordered some iced coffee.
She leaned back and closed her eyes. I turned around to see if the diving board was occupied. It wasn’t. The waiter brought my iced coffee and Fidelia’s eyes were still closed.
“Do you want me to quit looking for Tampett?” I asked her.
Her eyes opened and she stared at me curiously. “Why should I? What a strange question!”
“I was simply trying to get the dialogue back to the subject that should be concerning us.”
She closed her eyes again. “The subject bores me.
Sending a man to the gas chamber won’t bring Brian back. I may take you off the case.” She opened her eyes. “And then you’d have to scratch up another client.”
“Don’t patronize me, Fidelia Sherwood Richards. Not at half-pay and on the cuff.”
She continued to stare at me. I stared back. She smiled and I didn’t.
“Do I apologize now?” she asked quietly.
“I’m just an employee, Mrs. Richards. Suit yourself.”
“Damn you!” she said fiercely. “You’re a self-sufficient son-of-a-bitch, aren’t you?”
I shook my head. “Self-reliant, maybe. Like you’re getting, more every day. Let’s be nice. It’s too hot to fight.”
“All right,” she said tiredly. “All right, all right. Could we go and hear Pete play tonight?” “At Eddie’s? Is he still there?” She nodded.
“I’ll buy the steaks, tonight,” I soothed her. “I’ll be your tender lover.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I want to — to own people. Joe, you fi
nd that Bob Tampett and shake the truth out of him. And don’t despise me.”
“Never,” I promised. “Even at half-pay, I love you, Fidelia Sherwood Richards.”
She blew me a kiss and I kept my eyes carefully away from the diving board as I smiled at her and went back to my working world. Lou Serano had left no number to call and I couldn’t hang around indefinitely. From a phone in the lobby of the Avalon Beach, I called my answering service.
Snip had been busy; he had left an address and a message. The address was 218 Alta Canal and the message was Don’t forget the sawbuck. I’m thirsty.
I had given him a dollar and the stuff he drank was only eighty-nine cents a half-gallon. How could he be thirsty?
The address was east of Main Street in Venice, not too far from the lodging house where Snip lived, though on a different canal. It was a tiny and ancient pseudo-Spanish structure, the stucco cracked and peeling, half the tiles missing from the roof.
On the gray grass side yard, an ebony Cadillac convertible was parked. It looked like Lou Serano’s car to me.
I took out my gun and went carefully along the walk that led to the front door, which faced on the canal.I could hear footsteps in the house as I went along that side of it,and as I got to the front of the house,Lou Serano came out onto the porch
I stopped and he stopped. He was pale and his glance went nervously to the gun in my hand and then up to meet my gaze.
“I’m looking for Tampett,” I said. “Is he in there?”
He nodded.
“Is this your house, Lou?” He shook his head.
“What’s the matter?” I asked him irritably. “Can’t you talk?”
He nodded toward the door, still open behind him. “Take a look.”
I went up the steps and through the open doorway into a small living room, furnished in wicker and rattan. Robert Tampett was lying on his side on the raffia rug in there.
There was a hole above his left ear. There wasn’t an awful lot of blood; he had died quickly.
Chapter Twelve
I came out to the porch again. Lou stood there, staring at the dry, trash-littered canal.
“Who did it, Lou?” I asked.
He shrugged, still staring at the canal.
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