He sat down again, laced both hands on top of the desk, and faced me as candidly as an insurance salesman. “I not only handled our estate; I handled the financial affairs of some of our friends. And made some—unwise investments for them. It was only honorable to see that these losses were recompensed. This had to come out of Dad’s estate, including what you have a right to think of as your share. It’s been rather sadly depleted. You’ve caught me at a particularly embarrassing time and though—”
Words, words, words and not once did he mention horses. Should I mention horses? He’s my brother. That’s what I said. “We’re brothers, John. Save the long words. What you’re saying is, there’s no eight grand. At the moment.”
He smiled. “That’s it, in a nutshell. And with these madmen running the country—”
I stood up. Had Truman bet my money on the ponies? I try to be a Republican, but it gets more difficult every day. Since Willkie died.
“Don’t apologize, John,” I said. “I’ll get by.”
“Need some money now, Pete? Your allowance—”
“Save it,” I said. “If I get in a jam, I’ll holler. I’m fairly flush right now. Stay sober, kid.”
“What’s your hurry, Pete?” He came around the desk. “Are you—angry?”
“Of course not,” I said, and ran my fist along his jaw. “I’m almost happy. I’ll be seeing you.”
We went out together and Martha looked up from her position on the davenport. Her eyes were grave.
John said, “I’ve talked him out of it for the moment. We’ll think of something better than a filling-station for our Pete. I’m going to talk to some of our friends. We’ll find an opening.”
Yackety, yackety, yak. Martha’s eyes remained grave on mine, and was there shame there, was their humiliation? Martha, no. Never feel that way. The Marthas must never know shame nor humiliation.
I smiled at her. “John’s trying to make a gentleman out of me. He’s been trying for years. Look hopeful, kid; it could happen.”
“Luck, Pete,” she said quietly. “A lot of luck.” Her eyes were still serious.
I got out from under John’s hand at the door, and shook it, and walked down to the Merc. The fun loving Rover Boy, Dick—
I drove the Merc down the drive, and there was the Lincoln, parked across the street. Mike Kersh behind the wheel.
He tooted his horn as I pulled onto Sunset. I waved and drove on. In my rear-vision mirror I saw the Lincoln start up and come after me. Just before Bedford he pulled alongside, blowing his horn, motioning me over to the curb.
I shook my head and waved him on.
A car was coming and he should have dropped back, but he didn’t. He goosed the black car and cut in front and toward me. I jerked the wheel toward the curb and jammed the brakes.
The front right wheel went into the curb as he stopped the Lincoln on an angle, blocking me very smoothly.
I got out as he did and started toward him.
“You crazy punk,” he said. “Nick wants to see you.”
“I don’t want to see Nick,” I said. “And I’m getting sick of the sight of you. Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Listen,” he said, and put a hand on my arm. I knocked it off.
He smiled. “Well, it’s one of our bad days again. Nick wants to see you, junior. I’m to bring you, and I don’t much care how I do it.” He put his hand on my arm again.
I pushed him. I put the flat of my hand in the middle of his round face and pushed.
What a left hand he had. Hooking in fast, without warning, landing just on the edges of the ribs and almost stopping the spectacle right there.
The left was still in when I threw my right over it. I aimed for his mouth, and that’s where it landed. I could feel a tooth break and see the blood dribble from the lip hooked over the sharp edge of that broken tooth.
And I saw the right he threw and came in on it. His right hand went around my neck, and I threw the top of my head into his bleeding mouth.
Then I had him by the collar, and I had the reach. I had him by the collar with my left hand, and I caught him very cleanly with a roundhouse right. I felt him sag. and I let go.
As he went to his knees one of mine went into action. It caught him flush on the tip of the nose, and I heard another crack, the bone in his nose.
Cars were stopped, and people gaping. But not a cop in sight. I opened the back door of the Lincoln and put him in there and closed the door again.
I should now feel like some depraved beast, but I felt great. I had finally found someone to swing on. I climbed into the Merc and backed it out of the V he’d made with the Lincoln and the curb. I swung her clear and continued down Sunset. No siren, no uniforms, nothing but the soreness in the ribs and that released feeling.
Sunset curved here around the Los Angeles Country Club, and I followed the curve. The wind of it to Westwood Boulevard, and turning left.
I didn’t go right home. I was still hungry. I went to the pancake and steak spot, and this time I had steak. On Nick, on a part of the three hundred Nick had given me.
Find a killer, he’d said, but I hadn’t promised to come when he called.
After the steak I walked over to look at Bullock’s. Looked at the outside of it and visioned Miss Ellen Gallegher inside, selling lingerie to the carriage and non-carriage trade. I should demand a showdown with her, but I couldn’t. I didn’t think I could take a final “No” from her as yet.
My brilliant idea that had crawled into my mind this morning, that had been fashioned of a word here and an attitude there, that had been born of nuances and nourished by resentment, this now-voiced absurdity was taking stature in my mind. Starting with an idea, but being built by the check-back.
I had parked in front of the apartment building and was just stepping from the Merc when a familiar Caddy pulled up behind. Jake stared at me unsmilingly as I walked back.
“What’s on your mind, Jake?” I asked him.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Going up to the apartment?”
“Mmmm-hmmm. C’mon along if you’ve got words. But don’t talk too loud. I’m probably no longer what you’d call an ideal tenant.”
He came along with no dialogue. I fished some more cards out of my mailbox, Christmas cards, and some ads from liquor stores.
Walking up the steps I said, “I haven’t had a Christmas card from you yet, Jake. And me one of your best customers.”
“I’ll have Vicki mail you one,” he said.
A remark of significance, of protest and bitterness? I kept my face at its dull norm and proceeded up the steps. At my door I paused, wondering what soul-stirring sight would greet me this time.
Nothing but the empty room. We went in, and I closed the door. Jake said, “I know you were over to see Vicki that afternoon last week. She told me you were there.”
I looked directly at him. “Was it supposed to be a secret?”
His face was gray and quiet. “What happened, Pete?”
“She slipped me a reefer. Great girl.”
“What were you doing there?” He stood just inside the door, his face serious, but no particular belligerence in his attitude.
“I wanted to talk to her about the death of Tommy Lister. Tommy was the lad next door, the lad who was killed.”
“I know that. But why Vicki?”
“Hunch. I don’t know. Jake, you know more about it than I do. You work for Nick, and you know what’s going on.”
“Like hell. You work for Nick, too, don’t you? You’re a damned sight closer to him than I am.”
“I don’t work for Nick. You could ask Mike about that. I just broke his nose and at least one of his teeth Would I do that if I were working for Nick?”
“Mike Kersh? You broke his nose?”
“Correct.”
“Are you crazy? Holy gosh, Pete— What got into you?”
“He gave me a bum steer on a horse,” I said. “And what’s your beef, Mr. Schuster?”
His smile was thin. “I don’t scare, so stop showing your biceps. Vicki’s my beef. You went over to see her because Nick told you to, didn’t you?”
“No,” I said. “No, I went there to see what I could learn. I didn’t know you were out of town. Mike didn’t want me to talk to her, and that was lead enough for me.”
Jake went over now, to sit on the studio couch. “Mike?”
“Mike. You must have him scared. He said you’re jealous, that you’d misunderstand.”
“Of Mike, I’d be jealous? That would be something. Look, Pete, Vicki’s scared, scared green. Am I making sense to you?”
“A little. Not much. You want to make more?”
He looked at me without answering. Then, “You tell me. You’re the crown prince now. You’re the fair-haired boy with Nick.”
“Maybe I can guess something,” I said, “but it’s nothing Nick told me. I’m not guessing out loud, not right now. If you feel for Vicki as much as you claim, what’s wrong with sharing any of your little secrets with me?”
“Why you?”
“I have the ear of the law, the respect and regard of a guy named Hovde.”
He swore. “It’ll be a cold day in August when I work with the law. I wish I knew how much truth was in you, Pete.”
“You’ve dealt with grifters and mugs all your life,” I said. “That’s your trouble. You wouldn’t know an honest man when you saw one.”
“I never saw one. Damn it, what made you check on Vicki?”
“Hunch, hunch, hunch. And the way Mike was avoiding her, and the way Nick worried when you were out of town.” I paused. “What was the name of that sanitarium again?”
The second I’d said it, I realized it had been a mistake. Hovde had mentioned the sanitarium, but not, I was sure, for publication.
Jake’s face was rigid and gray, his eyes hard and shiny. “I thought you knew something. Sticking your nose into her history. For who, Pete? Who you working for?” Low. his voice, and raspy.
“For me. For Tommy Lister. For Sergeant Hovde. For all the lambs and against the wolves. Is that a gun in your jacket pocket, Jake?”
He didn’t answer my question. “And how much do you know?”
“The more you talk, the more I know. Keep talking, Jake.”
His breathing was quick and shallow, his face stone. One hand was picking, picking, picking at the cover of the studio couch.
He had some difficulty speaking. “What’s going to happen to her? You know, damn you. You can’t fool me with your bull shit. You’re inside all this.”
Did he love the woman? He must. Now it was Jake’s turn to amaze me. I watched the picking hand, and said nothing.
My phone rang.
I jerked, and Jake’s head swiveled toward the sound. I rose and turned my back to him, and walked to the phone.
A woman’s voice said, “Tom? Tom, is this you?”
I said, “Hello, Sergeant. Just talking to a friend. Yup. Jake Schuster. No. I’ll do that, Sergeant. Thanks for letting me know. So long.”
I put the phone in its cradle and watched the drop of sweat running along my wrist. I turned to face Jake.
Anticlimactic. No gun in Jake’s hand. His eyes dead on mine. “What’d he want now?”
“A tip on a horse.”
“You’re a wise son-of-a-bitch, aren’t you?”
“You won’t come in or stay out, Jake,” I told him I’m not working with you.”
“Nor the law, either, I’ll bet. Nor for Nick. Who is it, Worden? Manny Gonzales? He getting big ideas?”
“I told you once,” I said. “You only believe what you want to believe, Jake. I’m sick of arguing with you. Beat it. Go some place.” I was close to him now, tensed for any move of his.
He stood up, but neither hand was clenched, and neither hand moved toward the jacket pocket.
“I’ve got a feeling it’s Vicki next,” he said hoarsely. “If it is, I’ll come for you. Everything that’s happened since the party has happened right here. You started all of it. If anything happens to Vicki, I’ll come for you.”
“Do that,” I said. “But get out now.”
He went out, and the door slammed behind him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I LOCKED THE DOOR, and lay down on the couch. The radio next door, the incessant one, was operating. Jake, the great lover. The bookie with the knobby knees, burning for his love.
I’d locked the door. When had I ever done that before? Only once, and that at Sergeant Hovde’s request. What do you fear, Worden? Jake? Mike? Nick? Vicki? Or Ellen’s big “No"?
Somebody knocked at my locked door. Not fear, but caution, prompted my “Who’s there?”
It was the Scandinavian neck-rubber, the jet-propelled cop.
I opened the door and he came in.
“Checked that Lily and that character you gave me. Things are adding up. Want to go up to Hollywood now?”
“You’re the boss, Sergeant.” I told him about my tiff with Mike and about Jake Schuster’s visit.
“We got a report at the station about your little trouble with Mike. From the Beverly Hills Department. You’re a real tough guy, aren’t you?” He was smiling, studying me.
“No,” I said. “Mike and I don’t seem to hit it off. I’d expected I’d hear from Nick by this time.”
“Maybe Mike couldn’t get to a phone yet. They’ve got him in the can at Beverly Hills.”
“He’s going to love me,” I said. “Jake seems to think Vicki’s next on the list.”
“Maybe she is. Let’s go.”
We went in a department car, and he briefed me as he drove. It certainly wasn’t standard police procedure and I wondered if he had an angle in mind.
I asked, “Do all homicide cases get this much of your undivided attention?”
“No. Don’t you figure this one’s a little unusual?”
“I don’t know much about it,” I said. “The papers are filled with all kinds of cases, every day.”
“Simple cases. Involving jealousy or anger or money. And not showing the fine hand of Nick Arnold. And very rarely involving innocent people.”
“Like Tommy Lister, you mean? He couldn’t have been so innocent.”
“He was until Calvano was killed, if you’re guessing right about him. And if you’re guessing wrong, he was all the way. And you’re kind of innocent yourself.”
I agreed with him on that, but not vocally. He wheeled that department car like an Iowa farmer, but the red lights were there even though they weren’t flashing, and the lettered identification, which gave us room for error.
“You’re sure a busy man, Sergeant,” I said. “What drives you?”
“My high salary. Don’t forget now, Lawrence Elgin is the man you want. He’s the director. Here.” He handed me a card.
An engraved business card. Philip Craven—Attorney-at-law.
One of the old Colonial places, a former residential showplace from the days of Mack Sennett. Converted to a san, with a small sign to the right of the driveway: The Elgin Curative Home.
How corny can they get? Hovde parked the department car about a half block down and killed the motor. I got out.
“Holler if you need me,” he said. “You see, if he won’t admit this Vicki was ever there, we’ll know he’s likely to lie about the rest of it. I can get Jaekels to sign anything I need to seize the records if he plays cagey with you. Get what I want now?”
“More or less. I’ll probably botch it, but it was your idea.”
He was frowning when I left him.
The drive was green macadam with a curve to it, and a parking-space at the far end of it. What kind of attorney would park in the street and walk up? This was a dumb idea.
There was a sign in the upper panel of the huge front door: Please Enter. I entered into a long and carpeted hall, and double glass doors to my left held a sign: Lawrence Elgin—Director.
I could see through the curtains on these doors and what
I saw was a girl at a typewriter in a fairly large room. From the upper regions of the house I heard a low and persistent moan.
I opened the door from the carpeted hall and stepped into the carpeted room.
The girl was thin faced, dark-eyed, and her glasses had yellow rims. Her dress was black and looked expensive. She smiled and said, “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” I said. “Would it be possible to see Mr. Elgin this afternoon?”
“I’m quite sure it would. Your name, please?”
I handed her the card.
She disappeared through a walnut door at the rear of this room, taking my card along. A few seconds and she was back, holding the door open.
“Mr. Elgin will see you now, Mr. Craven.”
I went into another carpeted room, and she closed the door quietly behind me. Mr. Lawrence Elgin sat behind a walnut desk in this walnut paneled room. The carpeting was light green, a nubby material. The face of Lawrence Elgin was walnut, his suit a deep-blue flannel. He had a snow-white handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket.
His face was all soft lines and gracious curves. Unctuous was the word for Larry. He smiled at me. “A very depressing afternoon, Mr. Craven.”
I nodded, and shook the hand he extended. I sat down in the occasional chair on this side of his desk and said. “I’m representing a former patient of yours, Mr. Craven, a Miss Vicki Lincoln.”
No surprise on his face. A faint frown, and, “Oh, yes. Red hair she had, didn’t she?”
“She may have at the time. It’s blond now.”
We both smiled at my little joke, and I went on. “My business this afternoon also concerns another former patient of yours.” I paused.
He waited, his face bland.
“A girl named Jean Reynolds,” I said.
And watched the surprise on his face now. She’d been a former patient, but it wasn’t a name he’d been expecting. His surprise at a name he knew was the tip-off to me. He’d been building up his facial defense for another one.
“The names of our patients,” he said quietly, “are not something we reveal to every passer-by, Mr. Craven. Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me just what your purpose is in seeking this information.”
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