Night Lady

by William Campbell Gault

  “No. I didn’t know him. Do you remember what Deborah Huntington was wearing when Guest brought her in here?”

  “Hell, yes. The police already asked me that. She was wearing a light blue sweater and skirt and a light blue gabardine topcoat. No hat. She’s sure a beauty, huh?”

  “She certainly is. Would you consider her a … well, I suppose I want to say nice girl?”

  He looked up from the onions, his eyes watering. “Whatever that means. She was smart, pretty and not snobbish. How do I know if she was nice, whatever that means?”

  “Would you consider Duncan Guest nice, whatever that means?”

  He stepped back from the onions. He dried his eyes with a clean dish towel. “Duncan was my friend. We went all over that last time you were here. He played good chess and told good jokes and lent me money a couple of times and let me use his nookie haven. I don’t know what kind of guy he was. To me, he was a good friend.”

  “Did you know that girl in the apartment next door, that Sheila Gallegan?”

  He nodded. “I don’t know her real well. I know her a little.”

  Behind us, the door opened, and two men came in. Both of them were shorter than I was and both of them were as broad. I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that both of them were tougher. They looked tougher.

  They sat down a few stools from me. They could have been wrestlers, but I didn’t think they were. They looked like a different brand of hoodlum.

  Einar asked, “What’ll it be, gents?”

  “Just coffee,” one of them said.

  Einar looked at me and went over to pour two cups of coffee.

  I said, “Well, I’ll be seeing you again.” I stood up.

  One of the men turned to ask, “We’re not rushing you, are we, dago?”

  I faced him. “My name is Puma. No, you’re not rushing me. Were you trying to?”

  He turned to his twin and back to me. “No. Matter of fact, we just came in to eavesdrop. Your nose doesn’t look as big as it is, does it?”

  I stared at them and both of them now stared at me. From the corner of my eye, I could see Einar Hansen pick up the big knife he’d been slicing onions with. It was a razor-sharp knife.

  He came over to stand in front of the men with the knife in his hand. He said calmly, “I’m skinny and non-combative, but I’ve been serving arrogant and muscle-bound creeps for seven years. And they’ve all learned not to mess with me. Now, I don’t want any trouble in here.”

  They looked at Einar Hansen and at the knife. He looked at them with the noncommittal air of a man about to carve a turkey. He seemed at the moment less nervous than anyone in the place, including yours truly.

  Then one of them laughed. He said, “We heard about you, Einar. We don’t want any trouble with you, either. So we’ll just go along with Puma.”

  Einar Hansen shook his head slowly. “No, you won’t. He’ll go now and you’ll finish your coffee. You ordered it; you’ll drink it.”

  Silence. Nobody moved. Even from outside, there was no sound.

  One of the twins finally asked, “Aren’t you crowding your luck a little bit, Einar? You made your play; don’t milk it.”

  Einar said nothing.

  The other man asked, “What’s the wop to you?”

  “A man on the right side of the law. And I’m a citizen.” He lifted the knife. “I’m a respected businessman in this community.”

  “Shall I go?” I asked Einar. “Are you going to be all right?”

  He nodded without taking his eyes from the men. “You go. I’m going to be all right.”

  I went out, leaving the tableau behind. I saw a blue Lincoln convertible parked on the lot near the stand and I took down the license number.

  I drove mine off the lot quickly and parked it down a side street behind the Devon Tennis Club. I walked to the beach from there, and stayed out of sight where I could see the Lincoln.

  In a few minutes, the two men came out and climbed into it. They drove away and I walked over to where I could see Hansen. He was again slicing onions.

  I finally had a show of interest. Triggered by what? By my questioning of Mike Petalious? That seemed the most logical guess. I had talked with Adonis and Petalious and Hansen so far today. Hansen was out, which left — wait, I had forgotten yesterday. I had done some questioning then, too, though I hadn’t known Duncan Guest was dead. Perhaps my yesterday’s questioning had prompted this interest the hoods were now taking in me.

  And perhaps Duncan Guest had followed this same inquisitive pattern to his death.

  There was a tinge of smog in the air as I drove down Venice’s Main Street. Usually, we don’t get smog this far west of downtown, but the breeze was from the east today. It was hot in my Plymouth.

  Duncan Guest, like everyone else, had been many things to many people. The Huntingtons and Einar Hansen liked him; Adonis liked him even more. Mike Petalious and his woman didn’t share that sentiment. I wondered what Sheila Gallegan had thought of him.

  She came to the doorway in a toweling robe over a swimsuit, her red hair pinned high on her head.

  “Weren’t you the man who was here yesterday?” she asked. “Aren’t you the private detective who found him?”

  “That’s correct, Miss Gallegan. I’d like to ask you a few questions about him.”

  “I’m going to the beach,” she said. “I haven’t time for any questions. I’ve already told the police everything I know.”

  “Not everything,” I told her. “You didn’t tell them you were a friend of his. You lied about that.”

  She stared at me. She seemed to be holding her breath.

  “I’m not planning to cause you any trouble,” I said. “All I want is some information.”

  Her voice was edgy. “Who told you I was a friend of his?”

  “Does it matter? I haven’t told the police. There probably won’t be any reason for me to ever tell the police.”

  “All right,” she said finally. “Ask your questions.” She came out a step and started to close the door behind her.

  And from the apartment, a feminine voice said, “Bring him in, Sheila. He probably saw my car out there, anyway.”

  Sheila Gallegan shrugged and stepped back again, opening the door behind her. “Come in.”

  I came in to see Deborah Huntington sitting on an armless love seat, a cigarette in one hand and a highball in the other. She smiled at me. “You did see my car, didn’t you?”

  “I saw a Continental down there,” I said, “but I didn’t know you drove a Continental. Would it be impertinent of me to ask what in hell you’re doing here?”

  “I’m doing what you’re doing,” she answered. “I’m trying to learn about Duncan Guest. Though we have different reasons.”

  “Mine’s money. What’s yours?”

  “Intellectual curiosity. The memory of the man refuses to die. He intrigues me more every minute. Have a drink?”

  I looked inquiringly at Sheila Gallegan. She shrugged and said, “It’s her liquor. She brought it.”

  I went to the kitchen sink to mix a drink. I brought it back and sat down in a wicker chair. I sipped it and asked Deborah Huntington, “You don’t happen to have a white sheath dress, do you?”

  “One or two,” she admitted. “But among all my minks, I can’t find a single cerulean stole.”

  “That isn’t what I heard,” I lied. “I heard only today that you had a heavenly cerulean mink stole.” I had meanwhile learned that cerulean is a shade of blue.

  She said evenly, “Either you’re lying, or the person who told you that is lying. Which is it?”

  “It must be the person who told me.” I lifted my glass. “Do you want me to withdraw from the case, now that you’re getting into the profession?”

  She smiled. “Of course not. I’m sure you’re much more competent than I could hope to be. What have you done today?”

  Sheila Gallegan said, “You two don’t need me, do you? I’d like to get to the beac
h.”

  I said, “I’d prefer to talk with you alone, Miss Gallegan, so I’ll probably be back. But it would be presumptuous of us to stay here while you’re away.”

  “Sheila doesn’t mind,” Deborah Huntington said easily. “Do you, Sheila?”

  The girl shook her head. “Just close the door when you leave. It’s a spring lock and I have a key. I’ll be gone the rest of the day.” She nodded and went out.

  There was a silence for a moment after the door closed. Miss Huntington smoked and sipped her drink.

  I said, “Are you a friend of Miss Gallegan’s, or is today the first time you’ve met her?”

  ‘Today is the first time we were really friendly. I’ve met her before.”

  I took a breath and asked, “When you were next door with Guest?”

  She smiled. “Maybe. You’re blushing a little.”

  “My peasant blood,” I explained. “I always think of the female maidens of the upper classes as virginal.”

  She considered me quietly. Then she asked, “Learn anything?”

  I told her about the people I had questioned. I told her about the two men who had been in the hamburger stand.

  She looked at me anxiously. “What does it mean? Who could they have been?”

  “Muscles, working for the wrestling syndicate, I suppose. You see, I’m trying to get to Mr. Big in that dodge and I told Petalious that. He undoubtedly passed the word along. Well, if a Congressional committee were investigating, they wouldn’t be that crude. But private operatives are considered expendable. By the hoodlums and the police.”

  She nodded in understanding, staring past me.

  I said, “Now, do you want to tell me what you’re doing here?”

  “I told you, trying to get some information from Sheila.” She paused. “And … well, maybe revisiting old scenes.” Her face was suddenly bleak. “You know, I think I loved Duncan Guest.” Her chin quivered.

  “Easy,” I said. “Don’t build yourself into an alcoholic funk.”

  Her voice was rough. “All right, all right, all right He was a tomcat, I know. But not since we met. For Christ’s sake, could he help it if he was attractive to women?”

  I shook my head and said calmly, “No. The part I’m beginning to despise him for was being attractive to men.”

  She stared at me, her mouth open, her face slack. “No,” she finally whispered.

  “That’s the way it looks,” I said. “I’ve no proof, but it would be a safe bet. He is shaping up as an opportunist.”

  “No.” She shook her head violently. “No!”

  “Yes,” I said.

  She finished her drink and went to the kitchen to mix another. I called, “You’re in a bad emotional state to start a binge.”

  “Shut up,” she said. “I’ll listen to my psychiatrist.”

  “You can’t hide in a bottle,” I said. “They’re made of glass.”

  She came back to the living room with a full drink. It appeared to be about ninety percent whiskey. She said, “You’re being very dull, Mr. Puma. You’re not my adviser; you’re just an employee.”

  “Yes’m,” I said. “Are you going to the funeral?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t stand funerals. I didn’t even go to my mother’s.”

  Silence. She sipped her drink. I suddenly wanted another one. I lifted my empty glass and asked, “If you wouldn’t mind?”

  “Go ahead,” she said. “It’s cheap liquor.”

  I stood up. “It is, isn’t it? And your brother mentioned something about your drinking it last night. Why?”

  “It’s a cheap habit,” she said. “People who buy good liquor are making a cult out of a cheap escape. This much I like to believe about myself, I’m not phony.”

  I smiled. “Strange thing, I’ve known a lot of drunks. And eventually, if you’re with them long enough, that line will come out — at least I’m not a phony. Why is that?”

  Her face was blank. “I’ve no idea. I’ll ask my psychiatrist. Go get your drink and shut up.”

  I went into the kitchen and mixed myself a drink. I brought it back to the living room and shut up. The silence hung in the room like fog. Dimly, from outside, we could hear the waves breaking on the beach.

  Deborah Huntington started to cry.

  I didn’t move toward her. I sat where I was. She sat with head lowered, her drink in both hands in her lap, while the tears streamed down her face. She didn’t sob or move.

  After a few minutes I went to the bathroom and soaked a clean washcloth in cold water. I wrung it out and brought it to her. I took her drink from her.

  She took the washcloth and wiped her face. She mumbled a thanks.

  I said, “He wasn’t worth that. I’m sure he wasn’t.”

  She got up and went to the bathroom. I went to the window and looked down, expecting to see my two friends with the blue Lincoln convertible. But there was only my Plymouth and her black Continental below.

  I’d see them again. Somewhere, they were undoubtedly waiting for me. I always get the nasty ones, I thought. I always get the jobs where muscle is important. What a lousy racket.

  From behind me, she said, “What are you looking for?”

  “Those broad and ugly men from the hamburger stand. I’m sure they haven’t given up on me.” I turned around.

  Her face was Suffed a little, but her lips were bright red again. She asked, “What makes you think Duncan’s death was connected with wrestling? Are you overlooking that girl in the white dress entirely?”

  “No, I’m not overlooking her. But I’m sure Duncan Guest made enough enemies in the wrestling game to warrant some investigation there. And I’m sure the wrestlers he knew might give me a lead to his love life. Which would bring me back to the girl in the white dress. She could be somebody’s wife, you know.”

  “Some rich man’s wife, and Duncan was blackmailing her?”

  I shrugged. “What made you think of blackmail? Did he try it with you?”

  “Of course not. How could he?” Her chin lifted. “My reputation isn’t good enough to be valuable, Mr. Puma.”

  “Do you cherish that bad reputation?”

  She studied me calmly. “Why do we have to wrangle all the time? God, isn’t there enough friction in the world?”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re a lot like Curt,” she said, “do you know that? You’re remote. You’re — insulated.”

  I shook my head. “That’s the last thing I am. I’m Italian. I bleed easily.”

  “All right, then,” she said, “call it self-sufficient.”

  “I’ve had to be,” I said. “I made my own way since I was twelve. I put myself through college. I ask no favors. And I don’t like to be asked favors. Except by friends.”

  “Call me a friend, Puma, and take me to dinner, then.” She paused. “I’ll pay.”

  “It’s too early for dinner. Let’s sit and talk for a while. Should we go to the beach?”

  “All right. But I’m paying for the dinner, remember.”

  “No,” I said.

  “I insist,” she said.

  “I’m not a flunky,” I said. “I’ll pay for the dinner. Now, shut up.”

  She looked up and smiled. “You don’t even know how to say ‘shut up.’ Don’t you ever say it?”

  “Not as often as you do,” I told her. “Let’s go look at the water. It’s a great sedative.”

  There was not only the water. There was the sun and a nice breeze from the ocean, and dozens of bathers. Toward the north, Muscle Beach was visible, and even at this distance I could see the bulbous calves and biceps of the cavorting freaks.

  We brought a blanket from her car and sat on the sand and talked of everything but death. We talked about Malibu and Balboa, about Arrowhead and Venice, about Hemingway, Cozzens, Frost, Algren, Kazan, Stevens and Brando. She tried to take me up to Camus, Gide, and Kafka but that was a foreign country to me, so we came back to Steinb
eck and Saroyan.

  Nice clean talk and I enjoyed every second of it but was aware of her through all those enjoyable seconds. It is one of my curses — I always exist at two levels around attractive women.

  Sex appeal oozed out of her, and I wondered if that was what had sent her to a psychiatrist. She was attractive and probably vulnerable. In this town, or any town, it’s a regrettable combination.

  At six o’clock she said, “Aren’t you hungry yet? I’m starved.”

  I nodded and helped her up.

  She said, “Look, the reason I wanted to pay, I want to eat some nice place, some expensive place. And — ”

  “I’m earning a hundred dollars a day,” I told her. “I can handle it.

  “Two hundred today? All right?”

  “God damn it,” I said, “shut up!”

  She smiled. “You’re learning how to say it. You’re getting better. Race you to the car.”

  She had her shoes in her hand and she made pretty good time through that heavy sand. I let her win. I figured it was good for her to win once in a while. We ate in Cini’s in Beverly Hills. She wanted to leave her car where it was, but I explained to her how fast a parked Continental would be stripped in Venice, once the sun went down. So we took both cars to Cini’s.

  They have the best Italian food in America at Cini’s, and people who should know have told me it’s superior to the Italian food in Italy, too.

  Deborah wanted to know how a crummy private eye could afford to know about a place like this, and I explained that even the crummiest of us occasionally get millionaire clients.

  We ate and drank Vino Cini and talked about a number of trivial things. And toward the end of the meal, she asked again, “Why aren’t you concentrating on the girl in the white sheath dress? Don’t you believe Sheila Gallegan?”

  “Not completely.”

  “She seems to be a very nice girl.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm. But even if she did see the girl in the white sheath dress, does it follow that the girl was the murderer? Couldn’t it be possible that the killer was just waiting for the girl to leave? Where can I start looking for an unidentified girl? First I want the pattern of Guest’s life. Murder needs a motive, Deborah.”