And 47 Miles of Rope (Trace 2)

by Warren Murphy

  Then, when I’d walk out of the bathroom, Bruno would make believe she was just strolling by and she’d throw her arms around me, as if she was overwhelmed with a sudden feeling of love for me, and she’d frisk me, trying to find out what pocket I was hiding my secret mail in.

  I think I was the only American in history who hoped that one day, even in peacetime, he’d get a letter that said, “Greetings, your ass has been drafted.” No such luck. Who needed a war anyway? I was surrounded by enemies. Bruno. What’s-his-name and the girl. God.

  Why am I doing this? What is this lust for reminiscence? I know. Anything is better than working. Come on, Trace, do your duty to God and your country, obey the Scouts’ law, keep yourself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.

  But first a drink and a cigarette.

  Okay, I’ve vamped till ready and I’m still not ready, but I’ve got to do this anyway.

  Why? Chico says that Walter Marks is up to something. It must be a very short thing for him to be up to it. Haha, Trace, there’s been no one wittier than you since Noël Ca’ad. What’d Groucho say? “I’ve got the bastard now.” Chico heard him, and who else could he mean but me? And Swenson told me the same thing when he woke me up today. I don’t need this crap.

  I think I handled R. J. Roberts beautifully. I didn’t hit him. I didn’t rip off his plaid shirt and strangle him with it. I didn’t grab him by the hair and march him off to a public bath for ablutions.

  On the other hand, I didn’t get any information out of him either—at least not anything that I couldn’t have gotten by reading the papers. But negative information is information in a way. Now I know a thousand things that don’t work.

  It’s nice and consoling to think that even an unprincipled bastard like R. J. Roberts has labor problems. Lip Service, his head hooker, is obviously being eased out. It’s got to be tough, hooking, turning forty, watching the wrinkles start to show. What do you do when you reach the end of the line and you still haven’t gotten anywhere, especially in a town without one visible stretch mark? Someday I’ll point this out to Chico. She’s got fourteen years left.

  Hell, in fourteen years, that woman will own the western world. As well as me.

  Anyway, I didn’t think it was possible for Roberts to be embarrassed by anything, and I was right. He wasn’t embarrassed at all by Lip Service coming in to bitch at him for getting somebody younger to run his stable of whores. “Stable” might be exactly the right word in this case.

  So what does Roberts know? He knows that Jarvis called Spiro from the airport, but he wasn’t there when Spiro arrived. And Roberts said he hasn’t heard anything about the jewels being fenced, and as a working fence, he’d be in a position to know. So maybe he’s right. Maybe it wasn’t a local thief who hit the plotzo. The insurance company hasn’t heard anything yet either from any thief, and I’ll have to ask Groucho to stay in touch with them for me.

  How do people like Roberts stay out of jail? I’d suspect that he’s got a very large budget item called incidental expenses and it greases a lot of palms.

  And then, on that same tape we’ve got Dan Rosado. Danny’s my friend, but he’s a lousy detective. I always get this feeling too that he knows that. He can’t figure anything out and he’s reached a decision in life: he doesn’t want to figure anything out. What you don’t know won’t hurt you. Put in the years, take the pension, and sit home and play opera records.

  What’s he got? Zilch. The countess got her jewelry as gifts. So what? When you look like she does, it would be very strange not to get a lot of things as gifts.

  The Jarvis suitcase: shaving kit, aspirins, airline magazine. A man after my own heart, traveling light.

  And Danny’s got pictures. Jarvis lying facedown near the goldfish pond in enough blood to make Quincy sick. What the hell was he wearing gloves for? I’d like to publish a book. Great Police Photos. Pictures of people lying on railroad tracks with their heads cut off. Disemboweled hookers. Dead junkies with needles still sticking in them. Mangled car-crash victims. Make it coffee-table-size. People sitting around, sucking up a cocktail, and they look at these pictures and upchuck. What the hell. If pictures of cats sell, this ought to be a runaway. Cats make me throw up.

  All right. More photos, more blood, overturned tree, dirt all over the floor, that’s what you get for having trees in houses. And Jarvis bled to death. So it might not have been a murder. Technically No prints anywhere. What did I expect? An easy one?

  Jarvis really did travel light. Wallet, couple of bucks, a photo of him and Felicia, driver’s license, American Express card. Keys to the house and the rented car. Why the hell did he leave the car on the road and not just drive up to the house?

  And where was his passport? Poor Danny didn’t even think of that, but how do you get into the country without a passport? I don’t know, but at least I thought of it. God, does this mean I’m going to become a good detective? Are people going to come beating a path to my door? Like Banacek. “Our center fielder vanished on a long fly to the outfield. Can you find him before his next turn at bat?” I don’t want to be a detective. I’m not one. I piddle around for the insurance company and sometimes for other people, but this is not what I do well. What I do well is be a retired accountant. A formerly married man. Father of two creatures. Maybe they’ll be detectives. They deserve it, not me.

  Now, my father. Sarge would like to be a detective. He’d like to be anything that gets him out of the house, away from my mother. Sarge. Please. The woman’s my mother. One bullet in the brain will do. You don’t have to make a mess of her. And don’t do it right now. They’re changing the trapeze act at Circus Circus. The last trapeze act I saw was something where there was this mechanical dummy and it was all alone on the stage, hanging from this bar. The bar went through holes in the dummy’s hands. And then, I guess by radio controls or something from offstage, it started to swing and it did handstands and flips and giant slaloms or kips and tucks, whatever they call those things and I never know what they’re talking about. Anyway, I’m sitting there with Chico and this stupid audience is applauding. I want to jump up and yell, Why are you applauding a mechanical dummy? You think it’ll make it work harder? You think it’s listening? Stop it, you morons. Save it for Wayne Newton. But Chico wouldn’t let me.

  Anyway, my mother likes trapezes and hates Chico and thinks my apartment is ugly and she’d rather be in Miami and she hates me too. I asked Sarge once why that was. He’s a very wise man sometimes. He told me that she never forgave me for my divorce. He said she had this big picture of herself, in a flowered apron, being family matriarch at Thanksgiving dinners and like that, with her grandchildren bringing her boxes of chocolate, and I screwed it all up by getting divorced.

  To hell with that.

  Felicia killed no one. You can’t prove a negative; that’s one of the rules of science. Prove that there aren’t flying saucers. You can’t do it. All I can do is prove somebody else killed Jarvis, but I’m not off to much of a start.

  I didn’t learn anything at Felicia’s, except I met some wonderful people, really the salt of the earth. There were Francis and Frances, the non-talking mules who are into shipping and not into insurance. From now on, I think I’m going to be into not being into anything. Paolo Ferrara abuses Willie, the servant, and I don’t think that’s the only reason I might like to take a slice out of Paolo Ferrara. And then there’s our nosey friend, Baron Hubbaker. His theory sounds right—burglar surprised, burglar cracks head, burglar grabs jewels and runs, Jarvis dies—but I still don’t trust him.

  I trust National Anthem, though. I’d trust that woman with anything. I mean, can a woman who loves animals be all bad?

  Asses Up? It’s one movie I will not miss. I’ve missed every Academy Award-winning film of the last twelve years. I have intentionally missed every Jane Fonda and Shirley MacLaine movie made since they were old enough to open their mouths. I don’t want to encourage them. Add Warren Beatty to the list. I me
an, how can you plunk down four dollars to go see the history of Communism written and directed by Shirley MacLaine’s brother, for Christ’s sake?

  Visiting the scene of the crime never does any good. I mean, I saw it all on police photos and I never see anything at the scene that isn’t in the photos. I could stay home, like Mycroft Holmes, and have them mail me reports and pictures and then solve everything just by the overwhelming power of my intellect. Screw this nose-to-the-ground, tail-up-in-the-air kind of search for the truth. That’s for pigs digging up truffles. Give me photos every time.

  So I saw where Jarvis’ body was found and where he hit his head on that ceramic fish, and I saw the holes in the safe. Hold it. None of the holes ever got through into the safe, so how’d the thief get the safe open? Felicia says that she and Jarvis were the only two with the combination. Every time somebody tells you something like that, they’re wrong. Sure, they’re the only two. Except one of them wrote it down on the inside cover of the phone book and the other one painted it in nail polish on the bedroom mirror. I know what people are like. They don’t have any sense.

  Probably somebody from out of town did steal the stuff. Everybody at the place is out of the pool of suspects ’cause they were all in London with Felicia when Jarvis got it. Poor Felicia. She seemed more concerned about her tree getting knocked over than about Jarvis getting knocked off. And her missing ashtray.

  Then we’ve got Spirakos Spirakodopolous, and he makes you realize what a debt we all owe Cassius Clay. What’s that, you say? What debt? Well, he changed his name to Muhammad Ali and now all fighters are named Muhammed to imitate him. Suppose he had changed his name to Spirakodopolous? How would you like to hear Howard Cosell broadcast a fight between Willie Spirakodopolous and Tyrone Spirakodopolous? It’s truly frightening.

  I called the TV station before. The midnight movie that night really was Mildred Pierce. But I’d better remember to check Spiro’s record. Just in case.

  Why, dammit, why was Jarvis wearing gloves? In July. Where is his passport? Felicia doesn’t know and neither do I. I wish National Anthem knew. I’d get it out of her, someway. Why didn’t Jarvis wait at the airport for Spiro? Why’d he park on the road instead of in the driveway?

  So many questions, so few answers. I have been very good all day and I think it’s time to go now to an insurance party and see if I can figure out anything else and watch Chico complain and hear my mother whine and watch my father suffer. What a world. Beam me up, Scotty. This one sucks.

  Even though this is my home town and I’ve got my reputation to protect and therefore I should be expected to spend a little extra on tips and stuff to buy information, I’m just going to stick with my usual hundred-and-fifty-dollars-a-day expenses. Until further notice.

  10

  Trace had just finished dressing and reloading his tape recorder when the telephone rang. It was Dan Rosado.

  “Trace, is your father in town?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “I met him today.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. He came down to headquarters. He said he wanted to register his hands as deadly weapons.”

  “Was he drinking?”

  “I don’t think so. I think he just wanted to look around. I think he misses being on the job,” Rosado said.

  “He misses being out of the house. He’s with my mother. Did you meet her?” Trace asked.

  “No.”

  “If you do, register her mouth as a deadly weapon.”

  “I’ll give her a wide berth. Anyway, Trace, I thought you’d just like to know.”

  “Thanks, Dan.”

  Trace was at the front door when the telephone rang again.

  “Trace, this is Bob,” Swenson’s voice growled. “Where are you?”

  “On my way to that reception.”

  “Get here fast. There’s a woman here that you won’t believe.”

  “I know her,” Trace said. “She’s into donkeys.”

  “Hee haw, hee haw,” Swenson said. “Will that do?”

  “That and maybe your checkbook if you’re interested in financing fuck films.”

  “As long as I don’t have to be in them,” Swenson said. “Oh, by the way.”

  “I hate your by-the-ways. They always mean trouble for me,” Trace said.

  “I think I figured out what Marks is up to,” Swenson said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The insurance company that had those jewels insured? I was talking to the president today and he told me they’ve got a big fancy detective here to investigate the theft.”

  “So what?” Trace asked.

  “I think Marks figures that the guy will show you up and you’ll look like an idiot.”

  “What change would that effect? I always look like an idiot.”

  “You know that and I know that,” Swenson cheerfully agreed. “But I think what Walter has in mind is that if you are really made to look like an imbecile, he can come at me and complain about why I keep you on retainer when, for the same amount of money, we could get somebody really good.”

  “So this is the way it is,” Trace said. “Tossed aside like an old shoe after years of service. Your faithful watchdog. Now I’m old and my teeth are going and my breath is bad, so it’s off to the city dump. That’s it, huh?”

  “Are you rehearsing for the school play or what?” Swenson asked. “How could I ever let you go? You mean too much to me.”

  “Old friendships are best,” Trace said.

  “Not really. I just want you around to introduce me to this blonde with the knockers.”

  “What about Flamma?”

  “Next to this one? Flamma could incinerate herself in my fireplace and I wouldn’t bother getting a cup of water from the kitchen.”

  “I’ll be over in a little bit,” Trace said. “By the way, what’s the guy’s name?”

  “What guy?”

  “The big insurance detective who’s going to make me look bad.”

  “That’s an interesting part,” Swenson said. “Nobody knows. He works in secret for a lot of companies but no one knows his name or who he is. They say he’s bagged a lot of jewel thieves in Europe. Just gives the information to the cops and then splits, and no one knows anything about him.”

  “When’s he coming? Maybe I can get done fast,” Trace said.

  “I’m told he’s already here in town. Hurry up over.”

  It didn’t really matter, Trace told himself as he walked from his condominium down the broad Las Vegas Strip toward the Araby Casino and Hotel four blocks away. What did he care if the ghost of Sherlock Holmes was trudging the Las Vegas streets right now, ready to swoop down on the jewel thief and murderer? No skin off his nose.

  Right?

  Definitely not right, he admitted to himself. Screw Groucho. He was just not about to be shown up, not by Sherlock Holmes, not by anybody. It didn’t have anything to do with any longing for justice or any overriding sense that murderers and jewel thieves should be brought to the bar.

  What it had to do with was pride. Trace might be the most reluctant detective who ever lived, but right now he was a detective and this was his case, and if anybody was going to solve it, it would be him. Not R. J. Grundge or Sherlock Holmes or Groucho or even Dan Rosado. Him. Devlin Tracy. Nobody else. Case closed.

  He was musing about this when a young girl planted herself in front of him on the sidewalk. She wore a short white skirt and sweater and looked like a high-school cheerleader.

  “Mister, excuse me,” she said. “I need change of a twenty.”

  Trace looked around. Sure enough, about eight feet away, casually lighting a cigarette, was a young man, about eighteen, trying very hard not to watch them.

  “Sure thing, Sweetie Pie,” Trace said. “Anything for a pretty little girl like you.”

  He pulled some bills out of his pocket and found two tens. The girl started to hand him the twenty and he put forth the two tens when the youth with the cigarette made h
is move, running forward, ready to clip all forty dollars from their hands and race off down the street.

  He was too slow. Trace swallowed up the youth’s hand in his and squeezed. Hard.

  “What are two nice children like you doing, trying to run a stupid stunt like this?” Trace said.

  The girl started to back away. “I don’t know him,” she told Trace. “I never saw him before.”

  “Sure. And everybody who believes in fairies should clap.”

  The young man was squirming, trying to pull his hand free from Trace’s.

  “Sonny,” Trace said, “spend some time in the minors before you try to make it in the bigs.” He released the youth’s hand.

  The youth backed off about ten feet and snarled, “Prick.”

  “That just cost you twenty dollars,” Trace said. He pocketed his own bills and the girl’s twenty and walked up the drive toward the Araby.

  He was feeling good. Let Sherlock Holmes come to town. He might find out pretty quickly that Las Vegas had very little in common with foggy streets in London Town.

  The Garrison Fidelity hospitality suite spread out over three connecting rooms on one of the upstairs floors of the hotel. The bar was situated in the center of the three rooms, manned by a uniformed bartender whom Trace recognized because he worked generally in the casino lounge bar downstairs.

  “Hi, Trace. Usual?”

  “Just Perrier, Richie. I’m tapering off. Seen Chico?”

  “Wandering off in that direction with some greasegun in hot pursuit,” Richie said.

  “Thanks.” Trace took his drink, sipped it, hated it, and tipped Richie his twenty dollars of stolen money. He stood by the bar and looked to see who was in the room. He didn’t recognize anyone. They were mostly men with a sprinkling of women who had the happy part-of-it look of convention wives. The insurance men traveling alone would be in the other two rooms, trying to engage whatever passable-looking woman they could find in conversation.