Carnival of Death

by Keene, Day

  “How long has he worked for you, Mickey?”

  “Not long. If he’d shown up yesterday morning, it would have been the fourth stand he’d played.”

  Chapter Eleven

  THE ADDRESS wasn’t difficult to find. The landlady was cooperative but not helpful. Yes, she had a lodger named Tommy Banks. No, he wasn’t home. Yes, she’d known for the last few weeks that he had been working for a small carnival, or group of rides, that played shopping center parking lots.

  No, she didn’t know when he would be home. She hadn’t seen him since late Friday afternoon. No, he hadn’t told her where he was going but, judging from the way he was dressed and the fact that he’d strapped his skis on the roof of his Volkswagen sedan, she imagined he’d gone to one of the mountain resorts, possibly Big Bear or Mammoth Mountain.

  No, there hadn’t been anyone with him, male or female. She didn’t allow her lodgers to entertain girls in their rooms. No, she didn’t know the license number of his car. No, she didn’t know the name of any of his friends. She had, however, heard him boast that he had a lady friend who had a cabin near Big Bear City. Yes, it was possible he’d gone there.

  Daly asked the woman for permission to use her phone and called Charlie Schaeffer and asked him to have one of his men check with the Bureau of License and get the license number of a 1960 or 1961 Volkswagen registered to Tommy or Thomas Banks.

  “Whatever you say, Tom,” Lieutenant Schaeffer said. “But you and Gene are wasting your time. We just ran a quick polygraph on Laredo and while our expert says it is inconclusive, we feel it’s at least indicative that he’s in this thing up to his neck. Every time the dead guard’s name was mentioned, the writing arms almost jumped off the graph.”

  “That was to be expected,” Daly said. “Mickey explained that to us. He hated Kelly for making a pass at his wife. Hated him enough to kill him. But that doesn’t prove he did, nor does it prove that he either planned the caper or in any way participated in the looting of the truck.”

  “No,” the homicide man admitted, “it doesn’t. But you and Gene do me a favor, will you, Tom?”

  “If we can.”

  “When you find some other way that Tim Kelly could have gotten that lethal dose of chloral hydrate except in the cup of pink lemonade that Mrs. Laredo served him, call back and let me know.”

  “I’ll do that,” Daly promised. “But right now Gene and I are going out to the shopping center and see if we can pick up anything there.”

  There was little about the new East Valley Shopping Plaza to distinguish it from any of the dozens of other shopping centers in the Greater Los Angeles area. Nor had the incident of the day before done anything to impede the swarms of Sunday bargain hunters.

  As Daly parked his car DuBoise asked, “Just what are we looking for?”

  Daly admitted, “I haven’t any idea. But, if possible, I want to talk to the public relations man who took that picture. I also want to ask around the neighborhood and try to find out if anyone knows anything about the mysterious Dr. Alveredo.”

  “You think he could have been in on this?”

  Daly shrugged. “It could be. Kelly died seconds before, or after, he gave him an injection. And you heard Schaeffer on the phone. If we hope to pry the Laredos out of this, we have to find some other way that Kelly could have been given that chloral hydrate.”

  “But can it be injected intravenously?”

  “I don’t know. Right now the only thing I’m certain of is that Kelly didn’t commit suicide.”

  They crossed the parking lot to the open square of stores. The branch bank was closed but all of the stores were open and crowded with shoppers. The only signs of the tragedy of the previous day were Mickey Laredo’s three canvas covered rides and the gaily painted but untenanted pink lemonade stand.

  By inquiring of one of the counter girls at the open counter of the pizza palace, Daly learned that the public relations office for the center was in the back of a greeting card and job printing plant on the far side of the square. There was no one in the front of the store but he and DuBoise could hear a man whistling and the busy thump of a small printing press in the rear of the building. Daly parted the matchstick curtain separating the two areas and the thin-faced man running the press shut it off and introduced himself.

  “Well, what do you know?” he smiled, pleased. “I must live right. If it isn’t Tom Daly in person. You don’t know me, Mr. Daly, but I watch your show every night, five nights a week. I wouldn’t miss it.” He offered his hand to Daly, then to DuBoise. “The name is Carver, Jim Carver. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  Daly accepted the offered hand. “As I understand it, you’re the public relations man here?”

  Carver grinned. “That’s right. Chief flack and bottle washer. Right now I’m running off some throwaways to try to offset the bad press we got yesterday.”

  DuBoise indicated the crowded parking lot and the stream of people passing on the walk. “I wouldn’t say that it hurt you too badly.”

  “Not too badly,” Carver admitted. “There are always the morbidly curious. But what can I do for you gentlemen? I’m certain this isn’t a social call.”

  “No,” Daly said. “We’re just poking our noses into something that really isn’t any of our business, hoping to come up with a good story.” He took the by now dog-eared copy of the newspaper that Schaeffer had given him in Las Vegas from his pocket and unfolded it. “I understand you took this picture of Paquita and Mickey Laredo.”

  Carver was pleased with Carver. “That’s right, Mr. Daly. And I could have taken and sold a dozen more if that hadn’t been the last frame in my camera.”

  “Then you did take other pictures?”

  Carver sighed. “Several dozen of them. But I’m afraid I wasn’t where the action was. I was inside the bank immortalizing local merchants opening accounts. Then someone yelled that the armored truck was being robbed and I dashed out and shot the first action I saw. But as I said, that was the last frame and by the time I could put another film in my camera everything was over.”

  Daly was disappointed. “Then I don’t suppose you got a picture of the dying guard or of the clown standing in the open money compartment of the truck?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t. And I could have sold them, too. The Examiner gave me two hundred dollars for that one shot. And I’ll make five times that from the wire service. That’s being printed all over the country.”

  “Then tell me this,” Daly said. “Did you happen to count the number of men in clown costumes?”

  Carver shook his head. “Sorry again, Mr. Daly. The police asked me the same thing. But while I’ve talked to people who claim they saw at least a dozen clowns, I took a picture of the only one I saw.” He produced a copy of the original print and studied it critically. “I should have used a little faster shutter speed. The Laredos came out all right — and just look at those kids on the carousel. But the two bodies in the foreground are a little fuzzy.”

  Daly wasn’t interested in photographic technicalities. “Then tell me this, if you will, Mr. Carver. In the picture there are some adults standing in back of the carousel, presumably parents of the children on the horses. Some of them must have seen the clown who shot the roustabout and young Mrs. Wilson. Do you recognize any of their faces?”

  Carver studied his own print of the picture. “No, I can’t say I do. You see, while I have been handling publicity for various shopping centers for a number of years, this particular neighborhood is new to me and if I did recognize their faces I wouldn’t know their names.” He put an ink-stained finger on the chubby legs of the big-eyed five-year-old Mexican-American girl riding the rearing pony directly behind Mickey and Paquita Laredo. “But if it will do you any good, I can tell you who this kid is.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Daly said. “Children are frequently more observant than adults.”

  The public relations man consulted a card file, fingering through it until he found
the card for which he was looking. “Here we are. Her name is Luisa Vinifreda Teresa Garcia. And she lives at 4780 Bougainvillea Court. That’s about two blocks from here.”

  “How do you happen to know this particular child?” DuBoise asked.

  Carver grinned. “Because, as one of our publicity stunts, we’re running a kiddy bathing beauty contest to elect a Miss Junior East Valley Shopping Plaza. I’ve been prowling the neighborhood for a week, taking pictures of little girls, then asking permission from their parents to enter them in the contest. And this little doll is a shoo-in. Except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, you know how these people are. Sometimes you can get through to them, sometimes you can’t. Especially if you don’t speak Spanish. And while I don’t know what she thought I was up to, when I tried to talk to Luisa’s mother, a good-looking babe in her early twenties, boy, did she tell me off. Then, to make certain I understood, she threw a plate of enchiladas at me.”

  Daly laughed. “I’d like to have a picture of that. I’d run it on my show. Well, maybe she’ll talk to us.”

  Carver hesitated, then asked, “I wonder if I might ask you a question, Mr. Daly?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “What’s your angle? You’re not known as a bleeding heart. Why are you so interested in this business?”

  “I’ve several angles. It’s a good human interest story.”

  “That I’ll buy.”

  “On top of that, as you undoubtedly know, the Laredos are being held on suspicion of murder and grand larceny. The way things stand right now, Laredo, at least, looks pretty good for the lethal chamber. If he does go to trial, on what evidence has been turned up so far, he’s almost certain to be convicted.”

  “I’ll buy that, too.”

  “And having met and talked to both of them, it’s difficult for me to believe that either of them had anything to do with the killings or with planning the robbery of the truck.”

  Carver was amused. “Oh, come off it, Mr. Daly. I didn’t figure you to be so naive. Sure the Laredos are nice people. I talked to them, rather to him, four or five times while we were arranging his contract with us. And I feel sorry for the guy. I feel sorry for her. But I’ve also talked to most of the reporters and teevee men covering the story and we’re all pretty well agreed that Laredo planned this whole thing with some of his old buddies. You know, as a quick way of raising a pot full of money to equip another invasion brigade.”

  “I see,” Daly said. “You think he wanted to try it again? On one leg this time?”

  Carver shrugged. “He doesn’t have to go. There are a lot of guys, not all of them Cubans, who’d like to take a crack at Castro. I would myself. I don’t like this bit about the Russians being only ninety miles from Key West. But if I were in charge of an invasion, believe me, I’d handle it a lot differently than the first one was handled.”

  “I believe you,” Duboise said. “There are two things we always have with us. Armchair generals and admirals.”

  The remark was meant to be facetious, but the public relations man took it as a personal affront. “Okay. If you know so much about fighting, why don’t you join the army?”

  DuBoise smiled wryly. “No, thank you. I was in one.”

  Daly returned the newspaper to his pocket. “Cool down, both of you. We didn’t come here to fight, we came to ask questions. Tell me one more thing, will you, Mr. Carver? This Dr. Alveredo who attempted to give Kelly first aid and wound up sending one of the guards for a stomach pump for a dead man. Are you familiar with his name? Do you know if he practices in this neighborhood?”

  “No,” Carver said. “I don’t.” He looked back at his copy of the picture. “I didn’t even see him. By the time I took this he’d disappeared. Why?”

  “I‘d like to talk to him,” Daly said.

  Chapter Twelve

  IF BOUGAINVILLEA, or any other flowers, had ever grown in the small yard, countless feet had long since pounded them into the sunbaked adobe. With DuBoise a few paces behind him, Daly climbed the wooden stairs to the sagging porch of 4780 Bougainvillea Court and rang the bell marked Garcia.

  Holding a piece of jelly bread in one small hand, the five-year-old pictured on the rearing pony in the front page four column cut, opened the door and studied the two men soberly.

  “Si, senores?”

  Daly took a five dollar bill from his wallet and tucked it into the pocket of her stiffly starched pinafore. “I’d like to ask you some questions, honey.” He took the newspaper from his pocket and unfolded it. “Is this your picture?”

  “Si.”

  “And you were riding on the pony when the trouble started at the new shopping plaza yesterday?”

  The child took the bill from her pocket and admired it. “Si.”

  Daly equalized the difference in their heights by squatting in front of her. “Then think carefully, honey, and tell me how many clowns you saw.”

  The little girl thought a moment, then returned the bill to the pocket of her pinafore and counted the clowns she’d seen on her chubby fingers. “Uno, dos, tres.” She identified them. “The sad bufón who belongs to the pink limonada senora. The one who started the little train and got off. And the bufón who was throwing the money from the truck.”

  DuBoise said, “That checks with Laredo’s story.”

  Daly made a point of being gentle with the child. “Now can you tell me this, Luisa. Which of the bufóns used the pistola to shoot the nice old man and the young senora with the baby?”

  The child answered without hesitation, “It was the bad bufón who was throwing the money.”

  “How can you be sure?” Daly asked her.

  Luisa told him. “Because the nice bufón, the one who belongs to the pink limonada senora, was crying.”

  “Crying?” Daly puzzled.

  “Of course,” DuBoise said. “That also checks with what Laredo told us. He said he uses a classical Pierrot costume and makeup, but he always paints a sad mouth and puts a few tears on his cheek.”

  Daly nodded. “Which puts Laredo in the clear as far as the actual shooting is concerned. But whether Charlie Schaeffer will buy it is something else.”

  “But the child has no reason to lie.”

  Daly looked back at the little girl. “Look, sweetheart, if we gave you and your mother a ride in a nice big car, would you like to ride downtown and tell the police what you’ve just told us?”

  There was a flurry of motion in the hallway behind the child. A moment later a young woman in her twenties snatched the child up in her arms, spat a stream of liquid Spanish at Daly, then slammed and locked the door.

  Daly got to his feet and looked at DuBoise. “You’re the linguist. What was that all about?”

  DuBoise translated. “She thinks we’re from the police and she said she doesn’t care how many people Laredo killed. She hopes that he and his senora go free and have a wonderful time on the money they stole and that if she had a chance to steal one hundred and seventy-eight thousand dollars, she’d jump at it. Then, in closing, she said if we didn’t get off her porch and stop bothering a poor young widow and her helpless, fatherless child, she would call her boy friend, who is six feet two inches tall and weighs two hundred and twenty pounds, and he would take great pleasure in beating in our ears.”

  “She said all that?”

  “That was just the gist of it.” DuBoise was amused. “Do you want me to ring the bell again?”

  “Don’t bother,” Daly said. “My ribs are still sore from the kicking they took Friday night.”

  He led the way back to his car, spread the newspaper on the steering wheel, then ran his finger down the columns until he came to the item for which he was looking.

  … when questioned by the police, Dr. Alex Murman, whose office is less than a block from the shopping center, said that while his nurse honored the request for a stomach pump, to the best of his knowledge he didn’t know a Dr. Alveredo …

&
nbsp; Daly returned the paper to his pocket. “Let’s go talk to Dr. Murman. Maybe his memory has improved since he talked to the police.”

  The medical building was typical of the neighborhood clinics and small emergency hospitals scattered throughout Los Angeles. A small plaque to one side of the entrance carried the information that there was a qualified physician on duty twenty-four hours a day.

  “No,” the youthful Dr. Johnson on duty said in response to Daly’s question, “while it is true that we’re open twenty-four hours a day, Dr. Murman is never here on Sundays, and infrequently on Saturdays.”

  “Was he here yesterday?”

  “No, he wasn’t.”

  “Then where did the police talk to him?”

  “In Balboa, I imagine. At least that is where the doctor berths his boat and he tries to spend as much time on it as possible.”

  “Did you happen to be here yesterday?”

  “No. I have every third Saturday off. But I did talk to the nurse who gave the guard the stomach pump when he said that a Dr. Alveredo had told him to mention his name.”

  “Did she know the name?”

  “No. None of us around here have ever heard of a Dr. Alveredo. But recognizing the guard’s uniform, and being told that a man might be dying, she gave him the pump without question. In fact she alerted Dr. Case who was working the morning shift and as soon as he finished with the patient in his office, he went down to the shopping center to see if there was anything he could do. But when he got there, the armored truck guard who’d been given the chloral hydrate was dead and Dr. Alveredo had faded back into the crowd.”

  “That’s the point that sticks me,” Daly said. “If the man is a qualified physician, why did he leave before the police arrived?”

  “There could be various reasons for that.”

  “But none of them plausible. Unless, for some reason, he didn’t want any publicity.”

  Daly asked for Dr. Murman’s home telephone number and address, then used the pay phone in the reception room to dial the number without success. He used the phone again, this time to dial Central Bureau, and asked for Lieutenant Schaeffer’s extension.