Night Lady

by William Campbell Gault

  “So do I, but not to drink. How was your dinner engagement?”

  “I didn’t have one. I was annoyed with you. Why do you always have to talk about rich girls, rich people, wealth. It’s an obsession with you.”

  “Isn’t it with you? Don’t you feel superior to most of the people you meet?”

  “No,” she said.

  My phone rang and it was Greg Harvest. He asked, “Can I see you in about an hour? I have to talk with you.

  “I don’t want to see anybody,” I told him. “Talk.”

  “Joe, don’t be difficult. What happened was all very innocent and I don’t want Mrs. Schroeder to get into trouble.”

  “Is that your secretary, Mrs. Schroeder?”

  “Yes. I wouldn’t mind going to the police right now and telling them about my visit to Hansen’s. But I’d have to implicate her.”

  I said nothing.

  “Can’t you see that, Joe?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry, I promised her I wouldn’t go to the police until you and I talked. Tomorrow morning at your office be all right for that? Say about ten o’clock?”

  “Why can’t I come over tonight?”

  “Because I’m sick. My stomach is still sore from those hoodlums’ kicks and it’s starting to act up. The doctor is coming in a few minutes and then I’m going to bed.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, Joe. Will you be all right in the morning?”

  “I’m sure I will. Your office, ten o’clock?”

  “Right. And thanks, Joe, for your — discretion.”

  “That’s what I sell,” I told him. “Keep it in mind.”

  The new Greg Harvest, the humble halfback. I hung up and turned to find Deborah staring at me.

  “That was Greg Harvest,” she said. “I recognized his secretary’s name.”

  “How shrewd of you.”

  “What was that about going to the police? Who is the woman you promised? What’s Greg trying to pull now?”

  “Deb,” I said patiently, “I’m a private investigator.”

  “And I’m your client and I have a right to know what’s going on. You’re making some kind of deal with Greg, aren’t you? I’m your client, Joseph Puma.”

  “At the moment. Will you be tomorrow? Were you this afternoon? You’re my client but not my wife.”

  She glared at me. “If you don’t tell me exactly what all that was about, I’m leaving right now.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Don’t forget your whiskey.”

  “And I’m going to report you, too, to whoever issues your license.’

  ‘The Attorney General of the State of California,” I told her, “and tell him everything.”

  She stood rigidly, hate burning in her eyes. “You damned, arrogant dago.”

  “You’re upset,” I said. “Relax. Grow up.”

  “I’m leaving,” she said. “It’s your last chance.” I smiled at her. “You sound like a bus. Don’t threaten me, Deborah. Take your whiskey and fire me for the second time today and leave with dignity, if you want to leave. But don’t storm and rant; it’s been a depressing day.”

  She glared for a few more seconds and then left without another word, taking her whiskey with her. I sat in front of the television set with the tomato juice and tried to relax again.

  Why had I handled her the way I had? Why hadn’t I smoothed her over and explained about Greg some way and saved both her and the Jack Daniels for myself.

  She was attractive, intelligent, worthwhile. In her rational periods she was fun, witty and delightfully malicious. I had courted a number of girls with a lot less; why hadn’t I saved her for tonight?

  There was nothing good on television, as usual, and I was now too disturbed emotionally to enjoy my own company. I turned off the set and picked up a book and it bored me. All the other books in sight I had read at some time.

  I got a big piece of paper and put down all the characters in this muddled murder and tried to connect them with lines of meaning, tried to find in the web of interconnecting lines, some road to revelation. Again, something flickered in my mind and I thought of a funeral, but it wouldn’t come into full reason.

  I was feeling very frustrated when my doorbell rang.

  I was sure it was Deborah and I was glad, because I was not good company for myself tonight.

  Sheila Gallegan stood there, a small overnight bag in one hand. She looked at me timidly. “I — was frightened. I thought one more night wouldn’t put you out too much, would it?”

  “Not at all,” I said, “if you’ll help me with the beds.” She sighed and smiled. “Let’s not go through that ritual again. One bed’s all right with me if it is with you.” I assured her it would be a pleasure.

  THIRTEEN

  GREG HARVEST’S right hand was in a partial cast, across the knuckles.

  I said, “My God, I didn’t do that, did I?”

  He nodded. “Sit down, Joe.”

  I sat down. We were in his office and his secretary had greeted me cordially, for a change, and so had Greg, for a change. I looked at his hand and couldn’t look into his eyes.

  “You’re embarrassed,” he said. “That’s a switch.”

  “I’m a pugnacious ass,” I said, “a vulgar wop.” I met his gaze. “Not that you haven’t a few faults, yourself.”

  He leaned back in his chair and looked at me thoughtfully. “Maybe. I went over to see Hansen Monday night because I thought he might know something about the murder. I didn’t see his car there and nobody answered the door, so I assumed he was out. I wasn’t there for more than a few minutes.”

  “A few minutes is all it would take to kill a man.”

  “That’s true enough. Do you think I killed him, Joe?”

  “I don’t think about it either way. Is there more you wanted to tell me?”

  He fiddled with a gold football on his desk. It was meant to go on a watch chain but he didn’t wear a watch chain. He looked like he was coming to an important decision.

  When he met my gaze again, he said, “I guess I’m through with the Huntingtons, finished. Do I have you to thank for that?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t frame you. Every man makes his own mistakes, Greg.”

  “Yes. And I suppose mine was loving Deborah too much. She’s a sick woman, Joe.”

  I said nothing.

  He said, “That’s why I went over to see Einar Hansen. I felt that he knew who the murderer was and I wanted to protect her any way I could.”

  “Her …?”

  “Deborah Huntington. Who else?”

  “You think she killed Guest?”

  “I repeat, who else?”

  “You’re forgetting,” I said, “that she’s alibied for the time. By servants and by neighbors. By a neighbor with a first class reputation. The police have checked her very thoroughly, Greg.”

  “The police can never check as thoroughly as they should. There aren’t enough police in this town and there are too many murders. Joe, I know her psychiatrist and he trusts me. I’m going to phone him and explain to him the importance of his telling you about Deborah Huntington.”

  I sat quietly, despising him. He had been thrown out by the Huntingtons and now he was trying to get back at them. I shook my head and smiled pityingly at him.

  “What in hell does that mean? She got you on the hook, now?”

  I shook my head again. “You hate her, now. You want to get back at her through me. That’s adolescent. Grow up, Greg. Forget the glory of the past and be adult.”

  Irritation moved across his handsome face. “You’re not getting me. I have grown up. This isn’t resentment. All along, I’ve been trying to protect her.” He took a breath. “Legally, if possible. But if that wasn’t possible, any damned way I could. I tell you, I loved her.”

  “And still do,” I said. “And if you can’t have her, you intend to destroy her. Jesus, man, she hired me to find the killer.”

  “No. She hired you to check the trail to the killer so she could
learn if there was any concealment she overlooked. She trusted her body to gain your loyalty. She probably figures any private investigator can be bought, one way or another.”

  His phone rang, and he picked it up irritatedly and said, “I told you I didn’t want to be interrupted.” A pause and then, “Oh, I’m sorry, Ruth. Put him on.”

  Another pause and he said, “Yes.” A pause. “I’m busy now.” A pause while he frowned nervously. “All right. I’ll be there in an hour.”

  He replaced the phone and stared quietly at me.

  “Deborah?” I asked.

  “No. A man named Kranyk.”

  “Who has a friend named Koski,” I added. “And the pair of them work for a man named Giampolo and he is worried about an ambitious young athlete named Gregory Harvest and you are due for some lumps.”

  He continued to stare at me. He licked his lips. “How much, Joe?”

  “How much what?”

  “How much do you want to go along?”

  I looked at his hand in the narrow cast. “Nothing. I owe you a few hours, I guess.”

  He lifted the damaged hand. “Because of this.”

  “Partly.” I held my stomach. “And because of this. I owe them something, too, but being adult, I can’t strike back without reason.”

  “You certainly can rationalize, can’t you? I give you a killer and you don’t want to go after her, so you say I’m resentful. I give you a chance for violence and you consider it a license to dispense your particular kind of justice.”

  I smiled at him. “I’m a temporary ally, Greg. Even Churchill didn’t talk that way about the Russians during the war.”

  “Are you armed?”

  I nodded. “But I doubt if they’ll be. They’re out on bail, now.”

  His voice was tight and nervous. “How did you learn Giampolo disliked me?”

  “He told me. He’s dying; did you know that?” Harvest nodded.

  “Did you figure to inherit the throne?”

  He didn’t answer me. He said, “We’ll take my car over to Playa del Rey. All right?”

  “Why didn’t they come here?” I asked, “if they only wanted to talk with you?”

  He smiled at me. He looked nervous but determined. He didn’t answer my question and there was really no reason to.

  On the way over, he told me how he’d met Deborah. He’d met her in a bar and she’d been in the bar alone. And looking for a man. Greg thought, but maybe it was something he wanted to” think now. She had her faults, but he was trying to debase her even further in his memory.

  “And how did you meet Giampolo?” I asked him.

  “Through Duncan Guest. And I met Guest through Luscious Louie and Louie through Deborah. She knows a lot of wrestlers.”

  “Guest did know Giampolo, then. Maybe that’s why he died, Greg.”

  Harvest said evenly, “He died because he jilted Deborah. And you’ll find that out, eventually.”

  We rode the rest of the way in silence, a silence that seemed to grow more tense as we came closer to the Playa del Rey apartment of Koski-Kranyk. It didn’t seem logical to me that Harvest would go there at all if he thought they planned to harm him. But perhaps he had to go, committed as he was. And if he hadn’t feared them, he wouldn’t have asked me to go along.

  And then from nowhere a thought came to me and I voiced it. I said, “You didn’t play golf yesterday, not with that hand.”

  “I was up in San Francisco,” he said.

  “On business?”

  “Yes. Legal business, legitimate business.”

  “Why did your secretary say you were playing golf?”

  “Maybe she thought I was. What difference does it make, Joe?”

  I didn’t answer. Phony, phony Gregory Harvest with his new humility, his story on Deborah, his properly timed phone call. I remembered that his secretary hadn’t been in his outer office when we left. Nobody had seen us leave together.

  Of course, my car was still there and maybe I was seeing ghosts.

  But when we parked in front and he turned his back to me to climb out of the Jag, I reached in quickly, took my 38 from its shoulder holster and put it in my jacket pocket.

  What had he done in San Francisco, seen some boss higher than Giampolo?

  ‘What are you waiting for, Joe?” he asked me.

  I looked up at him, standing above me on the curb. “I’m looking for the light,” I said.

  He frowned. “Is something wrong? You sound punchy.”

  “I’m a little nervous,” I. said. “That’s a rough pair in there.”

  He smiled. “All right. A hundred dollars.”

  “My car, too,” I explained. “It’s still on Wilshire, there. I’ll get a ticket.”

  “There’s no limit there. What are you trying to say, Joe?”

  I smiled and climbed out of the car. “I guess I was trying to think of some chintzy way to say I was yellow. Let’s go, tiger.”

  His smile was dim and doubtful. He hesitated a moment before walking along with me to the apartment building.

  Kranyk came to the door. He looked at me without surprise and that verified my suspicion. I kept my hand in my pocket as we went in.

  I looked around the mail-order decor and asked, “Where’s your partner? Where’s your sister?”

  “She’s not my sister, ginzo. Koski will be along in a minute.” He looked at Harvest. “What did you tell him? How much?”

  “Nothing,” Harvest said.

  I turned to look at the bland, cold face of Harvest. He met my stare and didn’t change expression.

  Kranyk said, “Koski will be here soon and we can talk all this out. You guys want a beer?”

  Harvest shook his head. I said, “No, thanks.”

  And then I heard a familiar sound, the tappets on my Plymouth. I went quickly to the window, my hand still in my pocket. I pulled the drape to one side and saw my car pulling up in front. Koski was behind the wheel.

  I turned back to see them both smiling at me. I smiled in return, and said to Harvest, “It’s a good thing you had me phone Sergeant Macrae. These boys mean business, just as you told me they did.”

  Kranyk whirled and there was suddenly a gun in his hand and it was pointed at Harvest. “You double-crossing bastard,” he said hoarsely.

  Greg’s face went slack and he said in near-hysteria, “He’s trying to trick you, Eddie. Use your head. I brought him here, didn’t I? He got smart too soon, that’s all. ‘

  Now Kranyk turned back toward me, and the gun swung with him. But I had my own gun in my hand by this time and I let him have one right in the belly. He went slamming back, but he was still conscious, and I dropped to the floor as his shot went into the window behind me, showering glass.

  He fell and Harvest ran toward the kitchen, and I went quickly to the front door and got to it just as it opened. Koski stood there, a gun half out of his pocket, and I said, “That’s far enough.”

  I heard a sound behind me and turned quickly and saw Kranyk on the floor, the gun still in his hand and pointing at me. I dropped to the floor once more and the gun went off.

  And Koski fell right across me, shot down by his buddy.

  Women were screaming all over the building by this time, and from in front I could hear the Jag’s sweet engine roaring and there was a squeal of tires as Gregory Harvest got the hell out of there.

  I climbed out from under Koski and saw that this partner had finally lost consciousness. I went to the phone and asked the operator for the Venice Station and thanked my lucky stars that I was still alive.

  And then from behind the oblivion came, a bull’s-eye right smack on the top of my head. It must have been a vase, because one piece of pottery beat me to the floor.

  And though I couldn’t see her, I could recognize the nasal of the stocky blonde who was neither sister nor wife. She said shrillingly, “Damn you, I warned you not to mess up the placel’

  Macrae chuckled and lighted a cigarette. He looked at the
white square of bandage on top of my head and turned more serious.

  “How are they?” I asked. “Did you get the report yet?”

  “Kranyk will pull through. It’s doubtful if Koski will. He’s bleeding internally and they can’t seem to stop it.”

  “I shot Kranyk. Kranyk shot Koski. Let’s get that on the record right now.”

  “What difference does it make? You wouldn’t go to the gas chamber for killing either one of them.”

  “It makes a difference to me,” I answered. “I don’t want to get a reputation as a killer.”

  He smiled. “Just a lady-killer, that’s enough for you.”

  “How about Harvest?” I asked. “Was he picked up yet?”

  Marcrae frowned and cleared his throat. “That’s what I want to talk to you about. Your story is a little fishy there, Joe. Want to clean it up?”

  It was uncomfortably quiet in the airless room. I said angrily “Not you! Dumb you are, but not crooked. Just because Harvest is a buddy of the D.A.’s, is that it? Or does it go higher?”

  He colored and half rose from his chair. “Puma, you’re not that big. Nobody’s that big. Take that back.”

  “When I hear your story, I’ll take it back. The floor is yours, Sergeant Macrae.”

  He sat back in his chair again, his stare holding mine. “A man from the West Los Angeles station went directly to Harvest’s office and he was there. And he claimed he’d never left with you. He claimed he’d told you he’d been threatened by Koski and Kranyk and you told him you’d go right over there to straighten it out.”

  “His word’s better than mine? Because he’s a big shot?”

  Macrae shook his head. “Because his secretary corroborated every word of his statement. You left alone, she said. And another woman said the same thing. She was pulling up in front of the building, she claimed, when you left in your car, alone.”

  “And what’s her name?”

  “Deborah Huntington,” he said.

  I said calmly, “Both women you mentioned have reason to lie and I know the reasons. If I were less of a gentlemen, I’d tell them to you. Right now, all I’m asking is your belief in me.”

  “After you called me a dumb crook?”