Night Lady

by William Campbell Gault

  “She picked a bad man for those,” I admitted. “Where did I fail, Greg?”

  He stared at me quietly. I had a feeling we were about to get to the meat of this conversation. But he said nothing.

  So I asked, “Were you a particular friend of Duncan Guest’s?”

  “A casual friend. I’m a very good friend of Deborah Huntington’s, Joe. I — I’m very, very fond of her.”

  The word “love” he couldn’t use. Psychic block? Her money he was very, very fond of.

  “She’s a wonderful girl,” I said.

  “She’s a vulnerable girl,” he answered.

  And aren’t those the kind you like best? I thought. Rich, pretty and vulnerable girls? I said nothing.

  “She was under psychiatric treatment for almost a year,” he went on. “That’s a family secret and I’m breaking a confidence. I wanted to impress on you the importance of your behaving with discretion and dignity.”

  “I’m not sure,” I said slowly, “whether you’re warning me or reprimanding me.”

  “Both, Joe. And my advice is respected by the Huntingtons. A word from me and you’d be off this case immediately.”

  I shrugged. “So give ‘em the word. What do you want from me?”

  He took a breath. He leaned forward with his forearms on the desk. “I had a date with Deborah last night.”

  “Have fun? Where’d you go?”

  His round face was like a marble. “She didn’t make it. She didn’t phone and break it. She simply didn’t make it.”

  “That’s awful God-damned tough,” I said, “but I’m not Dorothy Dix. What’s it to me whether she made it or not?”

  “Don’t be arrogant,” he said. “Don’t think your — Latin charm has you in so solid you can’t be replaced.”

  I stood up. “You’re talking like a child. I’ve just come from Curtis Huntington’s office, so I know he’s there. Let’s go in and you can tell him you want me off the case. And you can tell him why. Or I will. Let’s go.”

  He sat there glaring at me, making no move.

  I smiled. “If I showed two small pairs right now, or even a pair of kings, you’d run and hide, wouldn’t you?”

  “You arrogant — ” He expelled his breath.

  “Dago?” I supplied. “Look, even if you did get me thrown off the case, there’s still that three grand Adonis has posted. And I’m not busy on anything else right now. You’d still be investigated, along with the rest.”

  “Get out of here,” he said hoarsely. “You’ll hear from the Huntingtons, I guarantee you.”

  “Calm down, for Christ’s sake,” I said. “You’re acting way out of character, Greg. You’re making an ass of yourself.”

  “Get out,” he said almost shrilly. “Get out right now!”

  The door behind me opened, and his secretary stuck her head in. “Is everything all right, Mr. Harvest?”

  “Close that damned door!” he shouted.

  The door closed quickly and I stood there, watching him breathe, meeting his glare with wonder.

  “A time may come,” he said evenly, “when I decide to find out exactly how tough you are. I met a few tough ones at SC, you might remember.”

  I shook my head. “Relax, halfback. You need the men with whistles, the men with the penalty flags.” And you need your mother, I thought. A mama’s boy, he had been.

  “Will you go now?” he asked in a subdued voice.

  “Of course,” I said. “And I apologize if it was my insolence that gave you your seizure.” I nodded and went out.

  The secretary glared at me as I went through the outer office. I said, “Mr. Harvest asked me to tell you to get Curtis Huntington on the phone. He has some important information for him.”

  She stared at me rigidly. “I’ll check with Mr. Harvest first, sir, if you don’t mind.”

  “You were listening,” I accused her gently. “You were eavesdropping again. I’m a detective and I can tell.”

  She colored slightly and went back to her typing, ignoring me.

  I went out into an overcast day. It was almost noon but the sun hadn’t broken through yet. I thought about the smooth Gregory Harvest. He had acted like a high school boy in love, a jealous high school boy. Could a man get that furious over something as dull as money?

  He couldn’t believe his beloved was a virgin; it had to be the money that infuriated him. Or perhaps I had not been properly servile and his momentary loss of dominance had cracked him. It had been a side of him I had never expected to see, I wouldn’t have believed existed.

  Strong and angry men don’t frighten me nearly as much as weak and angry men. The weak ones have too much to prove to themselves and it extends them beyond sanity. The thought of Greg Harvest made me uneasy.

  I ate lunch in Santa Monica and drove over to Venice from there. I didn’t stop to chat with Einar Hansen today. I could see the sign on the door. The place was closed; Einar had undoubtedly gone to Duncan Guest’s funeral. That had been scheduled for this morning.

  I continued toward the heart of Venice, toward the apartments over the four-car garage.

  The red-head was parking an ancient and battered Chev as I pulled into the vacant lot next to the garage. She was in deep blue with a hat and gloves, demure and formal. She stood waiting for me as I came across the lot.

  She said nothing, studying me. “Shopping?” I asked.

  “I was at the funeral. Your friend was there. Miss Huntington. Why don’t you talk to her about Duncan Guest?”

  “Rich people hold things out on me. They don’t always tell the truth. Of course, for all I know, you’re rich, too.”

  “Rich? And living here?”

  “You don’t work, I explained. “I was here yesterday and the day before and you were home.”

  “I work nights,” she told me.

  “Oh?” I smiled. “You were a friend of Duncan’s, weren’t you? Or you wouldn’t have gone to his funeral.”

  “I was a friend of Duncan’s,” she admitted quietly, “for about a week and a half. I was more than a friend for that week and a half.”

  “He must have been a charming man,” I said. “I’m sorry I never met him while he was alive.”

  She said wearily, “You may as well come up. There’s still some of Deborah Huntington’s whiskey in the cupboard.”

  I said jokingly, “You sound jealous.”

  “Don’t give it a thought,” she said. “You’re not my type at all. You big, sweaty slobs are repugnant to me.”

  I laughed as we walked up the steps. I said, “The start of a beautiful friendship.”

  Before we got to her door, she was smiling.

  I sat in the wicker chair while she went to the kitchenette. She called, “Is 7-Up all right with it?”

  “Just tap water,” I said.

  She mixed hers with 7-Up and mine with tap water. She had taken off her hat and gloves and the golden red of her hair was haloed by the afternoon sun.

  I thanked her and leaned back in the chair. I said, “Guest must have had a lot of girls over in that operating room of his.”

  She sat on the armless love seat. “He had a lot of girls everywhere, I imagine.”

  “Who followed you?” I asked. “Who took your place?”

  She was quiet a moment. And then she said softly, “Deborah Huntington.”

  “And yesterday, you and Deborah were sorting out old memories, or something like that?”

  She didn’t answer. She sat there looking at me dully.

  I asked, “Did Duncan ever have any of his boy friends over there?”

  She frowned. “I’m not sure I understand you.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  She sipped her drink and looked past me. “That was a side of Duncan’s life I’d heard about but was not familiar with. There were men there from time to time.”

  “Had you heard about that side of his life before you started to go with him?”

  Her chin lifted and I saw her st
iffen but she didn’t answer.

  “I’m not judging you,” I explained. “You’d better not.”

  “And I’m not investigating you,” I went on. “Nor trying to invade your privacy. I’m simply searching for a murderer.”

  She nodded.

  “Do you know Einar Hansen?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I’ve gone out with him once or twice. Don’t tell me he’s double-gaited too?”

  “I’m sure he isn’t. I don’t know him very well, but I like what I’ve seen of him. And yet, he claims to have been a very good friend of Duncan Guest’s. I should think Einar would have more discernment.”

  “How about Miss Huntington? How about me? A lot of fairly decent people liked Duncan Guest. I’ve heard that his best friend, this wrestler who offered the reward, is a very fine man.”

  “And where did you hear that?”

  ‘“Around. I don’t remember. It’s — common knowledge.”

  “Maybe. Uncommon knowledge, maybe. I’m a — little biased about wrestlers. I could be wrong about Devine.”

  “You could be wrong about Deborah Huntington, too, couldn’t you?”

  “Certainly. I’ve no illusions about her, if that’s what you mean. I guess I’m just naturally compassionate.”

  She said stiffly, “I have a friend on the Santa Monica Police Force who insists that private investigators are the nastiest, meanest, most dishonest people alive.”

  I laughed. “He must be the man who gave you the character reference on Devine. Miss Gallegan, some of us are almost human. And most of us are closer to it than anyone in a certain police department I won’t mention. You could be as wrong about me as I’m sure you were about Duncan Guest. I can give you any number of better references than your friend on the Santa Monica Police Force.”

  She sipped her drink and said nothing.

  I asked, “Don’t you want Duncan’s murderer to be found?”

  Her eyes flared. “Of course! What a nasty question!”

  “You’re not very co-operative.”

  “I was co-operative with the police.” She paused. “I’m — not sure you’re on the same side, Mr. Puma.”

  “Phone Captain Bixby down at Headquarters,” I told her. “Phone Sergeant Macrae right here in Venice. I’m working completely with the Los Angeles Police Department on this murder.”

  “Then you must have access to the information I gave them. And why are you questioning me?”

  “Because,” I explained, “I’m still a private investigator. And certain important facts that might point to a killer remain a secret with me, so long as they don’t interfere with justice. The Department can’t be that discreet. They need the support of the newspapers and the newspapers relish those indiscreet, circulation-building bits of smear the private man withholds from them.”

  “Or sells to a scandal magazine,” Sheila Gallegan added.

  “Ouch!” I said. “That was a fair blow, but still painful. Would you like another drink?”

  “Why? What good would that do you? I’m not Deborah Huntington.”

  I stood up. “You keep telling yourself. I’ll bet you’d like to be.”

  She glared at me and her voice was shaky. “Don’t bother to mix yourself another drink.”

  “I didn’t intend to.” I looked at her coolly. “I’m going. I apologize for my insolence. But you’ve been — frustrating. Take care of yourself.” I went to the door.

  I opened it and looked down across the runway and a pair of faces looked right back at me. Faces I had seen only once before. The malevolent twins were standing in the empty lot below, watching this door.

  I closed it.

  SIX

  “CALL THE POLICE,” I told Sheila Gallegan, and she looked up, startled.

  “No, wait,” I added. “Maybe they only want to talk. Maybe I’d learn more if you didn’t call the police.”

  “Who?” she asked. She stood up. “What’s the matter?”

  “A couple of — hoodlums who tried to start a fight with me in Hansen’s place yesterday are standing down in that lot. I’m sure they’re waiting for me.”

  She stared at me and swallowed.

  I said quietly, “You can watch them through that window. If they start to get rough, or I start to walk off with them, call the police. I won’t walk off with them under my own volition.”

  She chewed her lower lip. “Do you think that s wise? Wouldn’t it be better to call the police right now?”

  “No, Sheila. That’s what I was trying to explain to you before. They might say things to me they wouldn’t say to the police. That’s my edge, you see.”

  She took a deep breath. “Are you armed?”

  “No. You don’t happen to have a gun around, do you?”

  “I have a knife, a hunting knife, sharp as a razor.”

  “I’m not good with a knife,” I told her. “You watch from the window, now.”

  She nodded. She put a hand on my arm. “Be careful, won’t you?”

  I grinned at her. “I knew, under that protective mask, you really cared, Irish. Now, don’t blank out on me if things get rough down there. You’re my liaison man; you’re my best hope.”

  “You’re a damned idiot,” she said, “but be careful.”

  I opened the door and went out. I closed the door behind me and looked down at my friends and waved.

  They looked up and smiled. One string could have worked both smiles.

  It was like one of those western movies where the hero goes out into the lonely street to meet the man at the far end. Only it was two men I was meeting, not one man. And maybe they only wanted to talk.

  I only wanted to talk.

  It was early afternoon and all of the lot was visible from the street and from the dwelling on every side. It didn’t seem reasonable that they would try any rough stuff, but hoodlums aren’t inclined toward reason. That’s what makes them hoodlums.

  I went down the steps with the faint taste of brass in my mouth and a slight tremor in my knees. I came around the bottom of the steps and walked toward my car and they were waiting next to it.

  They had no unusual distinguishing features. The brown eyes of one were a little lighter than the brown eyes of the other.

  When I was about four feet from the car, Light-brown said, “You’re a busy man, aren’t you?”

  I nodded. “I expected to see you boys earlier than this. You were called off for a while, weren’t you?”

  Light-brown looked at Dark-brown. “Hep, ain’t he?”

  They were both standing in front of the front door of my car, now, on the driver’s side.

  I said, “Whatever your business is, get it over with.”

  They moved a few feet apart. Light-brown said, “We wouldn’t hold you up. Get into your car. We’ll go along.”

  “No,” I said. “And if you’re armed, you’re making a stupid play. You’ll never get away with it.”

  “Why not?” Dark-brown asked.

  “Because,” I said, “I’ve already given your license number to Sergeant Macrae at the Venice Station. Call him, if you don’t believe that.”

  Light-brown looked up at the runway. “You couldn’t read our license number from up there.”

  “I know. I gave it to him yesterday. I took it when you were parked next to Hansen’s hamburger stand.”

  They both looked doubtful.

  Light-brown nodded and the other man stepped further away. Light-brown said, “Take off, then, Puma. We’ll get to you again.”

  That would be a sucker play, walking between them now. I stood where I was and said, “I’ll go when you go.”

  Light-brown smiled. “I told you he was a wise guy. Careful man, ain’t you?”

  “I have to be,” I said. “Petalious send you boys?”

  They both stared at me. Then Dark-brown looked up at the runway and said to his pal, “‘Maybe we can slap some answers out of the red-head up there. Maybe the dago told her something.”

 
; “Boys,” I said evenly, “she’s a lamb. She’s a non-combatant. And if anything should happen to her, I would consider it my personal duty to find you two.”

  Dark-brown smiled again. “Oh, tough, huh? Why is your voice shaking if you’re so tough?”

  “From anger,” I said. “I know I’m tougher than any man who needs a partner for a play.”

  “Leave me have him,” Dark-brown said angrily. “Leave me have him all alone.” He moved closer to me, on my right.

  I waited, watching them both. I misjudged the man on my left. He came in fast and he came in hooking. I backhanded him with my left and and swung a right at the other one coming in from that side.

  It was a fine start. Light-brown went stumbling to one side and Dark-brown caught my fist right smack in the middle of his teeth. I got him in the neck with a left hand before Light-brown regained his footing.

  And then I made a tactical error. I figured Light-brown deserved the immediate attention as Dark-brown had just caught two good, stiff punches. Dark-brown’s mouth was bleeding and he seemed to be wavering.

  I turned to Light-brown and he circled further to my left, bringing my attention around that way. And exposing the right side of my head to Dark-brown.

  I saw him move in, but his partner moved in at the same time and I concentrated on him — as the man to my right sapped me behind the ear.

  I went down half-conscious and caught a foot in the throat. I heard the wail of a siren right after they started to kick me.

  There was this angel coming out of the water, wet and with her wings bedraggled, and she came closer and tried to shake her wings dry and the water poured all over me and ran down my neck under my open collar.

  And I opened my eyes to look into the eyes of Sheila Gallegan. I was lying on one of those beds that pull out of the wall, and she was bathing my face with a wet towel. She was pale and the hand holding the towel trembled.

  I smiled at her. I looked past her into the thoughtful stare of Sergeant Macrae.

  “We brought you up here,” he said. “Your injuries didn’t look serious, so we carried you up here. The boys got away.” He paused. “Do you know who they were?”

  I tried to talk and only a whisper came out. My vocal cords must have been bruised by that kick. I managed, “I put their license number into a report I mailed you this morning. Maybe you didn’t get it yet.”