Convertible Hearse

by William Campbell Gault

  “Well, to guard against the possibility, do what you did last time we worked together. Make an extra copy of each day’s work report and send it over to us. Okay?”

  I nodded. “Fair enough. I liked the way you said we were working together. I can use that as a club, maybe, with a reluctant witness?”

  “You can like hell. You’re a private man. Just remember that every second of the day and walk on eggs. We can put you out of business.”

  “Not in Beverly Hills, you can’t. And that’s where I operate from. Why don’t you get as nice as Caroline is getting?”

  “Caroline’s gone soft,” he said. “He’s eating too good.”

  I turned to go, and he said, “Thanks for what you’ve brought in, Brock. And that was a good thought of yours about the man who owned the stolen Cad.”

  I winked at him. “Together, Sergeant, we’ll clean up this whole damned county. Carry on.”

  I went out, feeling important again, alive and ready. The day was cool and overcast; the damp breeze moved in off the ocean.

  Back at the office, my phone-answering service informed me I’d had a call from a Miss Jan Bonnet. My knees trembled and my hands shook as I dialed her number. My Jan …

  Her voice was cool. “I simply wanted to tell you that the police asked me if I had warned Loony Leo about my car and I told them I hadn’t.”

  “You didn’t have to lie for me, Jan. I could have explained it.”

  “It wasn’t a lie. I phoned to ask him about my car, but he had already left, that salesman told me. So you can apologize, if you want, for criticizing me.”

  “I apologize,” I said humbly. “Dinner at Cini’s tonight?”

  “Of course not. Nothing has changed, Brock. Nothing!”

  “Jan — for gosh sakes …”

  But I was talking to a dead line. I replaced the receiver and went to work on my reports.

  Outside, the big cars moved by. So many of them were convertibles, and how many of them were paid for? Convertible hearses, carrying their owners to financial graves. The automobile had been invented as a means of transportation. It was more than that now; it was a symbol of the owner’s importance. So the small cars got bigger and bigger and the big cars impossible for the financially sane. Nobody wanted a small car today; the smallest was bigger than the luxury cars of a decade ago. I thought to myself, I must remember to get the muffler replaced on my flivver.

  I’d had only coffee for breakfast and I was hungry when I finished typing up the reports. I went over to the drug store to eat.

  There was an Examiner on the counter here and I read this version of the Dunbar murder. The Examiner had spiced the story more than the conservative Times. There was a theatrical portrait of Mavis Dunbar as a chorus girl in some picture and she was a very shapely woman. Leo’s divorce was given a full resumé treatment; evidently Dorothy Dunbar and her avaricious lover had not been as circumspect as one would expect from Pasadena people.

  Behind the counter, my fan said, “I’ll bet you know plenty about that gang, right, Brock? You found Dunbar, right?”

  I nodded. “How’s the hotel management course?”

  “It’s coming right along. Once I get it finished, I’ll be moving among those kind of people, right? Get me a job at some big luxury hotel and see how the rich swine live, right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  He shook his head. “You mix with ‘em, huh? You’ve got the life.”

  My knee throbbed and my head ached and my ribs hurt. “I’ve got the life,” I admitted. “How about some more coffee?”

  He was pouring it when somebody took the stool next to mine, and said, “I missed you at the office and figured you’d be here.”

  I turned to gaze into the marred face of Hans Deutscher. He had a black eye and a puffed lip and his nose looked a little awry, but maybe it always had. I asked, “Get all that last night?”

  He nodded. “Do you want to know about George Tomsic?”

  “I certainly do. So do the police.”

  “I’ll give it to you. He was the mob’s number man.”

  “Number man …?”

  “That’s right. He changed the body numbers and the engine numbers. He changed all the numbers for the mob at so much a car. He did that nights, after his regular workday was over. He has fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of dies. I’ll bet they’re hidden in that garage of Dunbar’s, somewhere. He could match the dies of any automobile manufacturer.”

  “Can you document all this, Hans?”

  “Hell, no. But if the police find the dies, that would prove it, wouldn’t it?”

  “Not quite. It wouldn’t prove a mob tie-up. Was Dunbar one of their retail outlets?”

  Hans shook his head. “George pulled a cutie on that Cadillac, working one for himself, selling the car to Leo. Even with the extra moola he was making, George could never get enough money.”

  I studied Hans Deutscher. “Either you’re a better man that I thought you were, or you’re in with the mob. Or were.”

  He shook his head. “I’m a better man than you think I am. I’ve had a lot more experience than you have, Callahan.”

  “I’ll grant you that, but I’m still not overlooking the obvious.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean — the obvious?”

  “Why would you tell me this? Why not take it right to the Department?”

  “With my record, and my reputation? They’d have me in San Quentin before I could turn around.”

  I shook my head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you got your license back. You’d better take it to them, Hans. Because I’m going to, and I’d have to tell them where I got the information.”

  “Nice guy,” he said, but there was no anger in his voice.

  “Believe me, it would do you some good to take the story to the Department. I’ll go along with you, if you want.”

  He expelled his breath. “I’ll go. Maybe you’re right. I think I’ll have a cup of coffee first, though.”

  My fan poured him a cup, and I asked, “Then you figure George got out of line with the mob, working on his own?”

  “Hell, yes. Especially since it uncovered the steal on that Cad. I would give you seven to three right now that George is not alive.”

  “How about those two guys you fought with? Recognize either of them?”

  He nodded. “The shorter one. It was Louis Reno.”

  “What kind of car were they driving?”

  “Black Lincoln four-door.”

  “The same two that hit me, I’ll bet, last night.”

  “You got it, too? It wasn’t in the papers.”

  “I’m friendly with the Department. Reno, Reno — wasn’t he in Siegel’s gang?”

  “No. He’s only been out here a year. St. Louis mobster, originally. Did you get the license number?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not very experienced, as you said. Look, Pascal’s probably got the call out for you right now. Because I told him you were questioning me. So I’ll phone from here, to put you in the clear. We won’t even take time to go to my office. I’ll tell him you’re on the way over with some information. Okay?”

  He sipped his coffee. “Okay. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it will do me some good.”

  “It could. Especially if you tell them where you got your information.”

  He smiled. “I’ll tell ‘em. I might not tell ‘em the truth, but I’ll give ‘em a name to play with.”

  I phoned and caught Pascal still in. I told him Hans was coming over with important information, but that I was too busy to come along.

  Hans left, and I headed for Crenshaw.

  It was logical to expect Hans would learn about mob shenanigans before I would. Hans had undoubtedly worked for some mobsters in his time. But what mob? We had one name, Louis Reno. But even in the unlikely event Reno would be picked up, there was little chance the police could extract any information from him. Not if he was a professional criminal.

  And why, why, wh
y had Hans brought the information to me?

  Did he want me to know about it? If he told the police, there was a chance I might never learn it. If he told me first and I told the police, we’d both know.

  Quite possibly, if Hans was working for George Tomsic, he could come in with a cock-and-bull story that would never convict George, but would send us off on another trail. George could easily be a lone wolf with no organization tie-up. And the name Louis Reno could send us off on a wild-goose chase.

  At Loony Leo’s, business was proceeding as usual. I found the salesman who had first approached Jan and me out on the lot, trying to sell a Roadmaster convertible to a man in dungarees and sweat shirt.

  I told him, “I’m working for Sergeant Pascal of the West Los Angeles Police Department. I’d like a look at George Tomsic’s locker.”

  He took out one of his cards and wrote something on the back of it. He said, “Give this to Jack Woolgar in the service department.”

  Jack Woolgar was a bald little man in a white coverall coat. He read the card and said, “George cleaned out his locker the day he was released. Came in here with a couple of fellows and they helped him lug all the stuff to their car.”

  “What did the fellows look like?”

  “Pretty husky. One was about your size, the other a little shorter, I’d say. They were wheeling a ‘55 Lincoln Première.”

  “Black four-door?”

  He nodded. “And man, that George had plenty in that locker. He must have had seven boxes of punch dies, the way it looked.”

  “Number dies, maybe?”

  The little man stared at me. “Say, maybe, huh? Hey, George used to work a few nights out in that garage of his on Montana. I never could figure him making the rent on part-time neighborhood work, like he claimed.”

  “But wouldn’t he keep the dies out there if that’s where he did his work?”

  “If you and I are thinking the same way, seven boxes of dies wouldn’t do it. He might have kept the obsolete ones down here. There’s no point in stealing old cars, you know.”

  “Was George that good? I mean, good enough to be a number changer for a first-class ring?”

  He nodded. “Anything about a car George could do better than any man I ever met. He was a great mechanic. Machinist, too, you know.”

  “I read it in the papers. Do you know where this garage on Montana is?”

  “Around Twenty-second or Twenty-third in Santa Monica. It’s easy to spot, little sheet-metal shack about a car and a half wide, across from a liquor store and dry-cleaning place. There’s no sign, but it’s the only metal garage in the block.”

  I thanked him, and left.

  If George had cleaned out his locker here, it was likely he had also cleaned out the one-man garage on Montana. If the newer numbers were there, he had probably cleaned out that place first. But a good investigator overlooks nothing. Except an occasional license number.

  I got there a little late. Sergeant Pascal was there with a uniformed man from the Santa Monica Department. They had found nothing, not even a discarded license plate.

  “Which makes this guy look pretty bad,” Pascal said. “Why would he clean the joint out so thoroughly, unless he had something to hide? Damn that Samuels.”

  “Samuels …?”

  “That’s right. That solid citizen who didn’t want to put the finger on Tomsic because he wasn’t sure. If he’d have been sure, Tomsic would still be in the clink. And we’d have a chance to work on him, learn what organization’s involved.”

  “How about the original owner of that Cad? Doesn’t he remember who he contacted to have his car stolen?”

  “He hasn’t admitted he had it stolen, yet. And in Las Vegas, they sure as hell aren’t going to worry about a little rap like a stolen car. That’s a crooks’ town, you know.”

  “So, we’re nowhere?”

  He nodded. “Unless we can pick up Louis Reno. And I sure as hell wouldn’t make book on that. Look, if he bothers you again, don’t mess with him, understand? Shoot him!”

  “Sergeant,” I said quietly, “you didn’t mean that.”

  “I meant it. I get so goddamned sick of getting the runaround from hoodlums and their shyster lawyers, I’ve decided it’s the only way we can operate. Callahan, if you stay on this — and you’ve got my permission — you wear a gun. Get that?”

  I said nothing.

  “I’m serious,” he said evenly. “You wear a gun or you get your nose the hell out of this case. Is that clear?”

  I nodded.

  “Westwood wasn’t too far; I went home for my .38 and the shoulder holster. I had never seen Pascal this angry. He was underpaid and overworked, but most police officers are. In my town, they are probably worked harder because they simply have too much territory to cover. But generally they are reasonable and polite men.

  Pascal had never been polite, but he had always been reasonable. Asking a private operative to shoot without cause at a hoodlum was not a reasonable request. Though if I had to pick one to shoot at, Louis Reno would make a prime choice. If the smaller of last night’s monsters had been Louis Reno. He was the one who had given me the cantaloupe knee.

  I was strapping on the shoulder holster when there was a knock at my door. I put my jacket back on and slipped the .38 into a pocket of that before opening the door.

  My two opponents of the evening before stood there, studying me quietly. Finally, the taller one said, “You never learn, do you?”

  “Investigation is my business,” I said. I looked at the shorter one. “Are you Louis Reno?”

  He looked at his companion and back at me. He said nothing, but I thought I saw a trace of fear on his pock-marked face.

  The other one asked, “Can’t we come in and talk this over sensibly?”

  I shook my head.

  Then suddenly the larger man was in front of me, shouldering me back into the apartment. The shorter one was right behind him, and he closed the door.

  Silence for a taut second and then the shorter one smiled. “How’s the bum knee? We heard you had a bum knee.”

  “I won’t take any more of that,” I said, and my voice was almost femininely high. “If either of you lays a hand on me, I’ll kill you.”

  Both of them smiled. The big one said, “You’re the boy who doesn’t wear a gun. What will you kill us with, a chair?”

  They had me figured, I felt sure. I was big enough to fight anybody, but killing takes an attitude of mind I didn’t have.

  The short one said, “That Macarty broad tell you about me? Is that where you got my name?”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “That broad next door to George’s dump. You spent enough time in there. We can get it out of her, you know. Maybe you’d like to tell us and save her a slapping around.”

  I said, “That’s your speed, eh, Shortie? Slapping women is your size of operation. Men must give you a lot of trouble.”

  His face was blank. “You didn’t.”

  “You weren’t alone, last night. Try me alone.”

  He started to move closer, but the taller one said, “All right, take it easy. We came here to talk sense.”

  “If you want to talk to me,” I said, “it will have to be down at the police station. I don’t talk to thieves without witnesses.”

  The shorter one said, “You see what I mean? This guy doesn’t learn. Talk will get us nowhere. He’s got to be worked over better.” He put a hand in his pocket and brought out a switch knife. The blade snicked open.

  I put a hand in my own pocket and brought out the .38. I pointed it at Shortie. I said, “One step, and I shoot.”

  I had never killed anybody. Even in the Army during the war, I had never killed anybody and dreaded the moment there when I might have to. I couldn’t consciously kill this man facing me with the knife. I could shoot perhaps, hoping to catch him where it would stop him without killing him. But I couldn’t aim at a vital spot.

  Did they
know that? God knows they weren’t the smartest men in the world, but did they have a sixth sense about those who could kill and those who couldn’t? Was that why they were still alive?

  At any rate, he paused and then came closer with the knife, and he was smiling and the man behind him was smiling. Because he had taken the step I had warned him against. He had taken it and I had not shot him.

  He held the knife low and put out his left hand. “I’ll take the gun now, gutless.”

  “I’ll give you part of it,” I said. “The lead part. In the belly. This is the last warning. Both of you leave, right now.”

  He paused, took another step, and started to swing the knife.

  And I pulled the trigger.

  It sounded like a cannon; the room seemed to shake. He went slamming back into the far wall, and I knew I had hit bone. In that dazed moment, I was aware that the taller man had scampered out, slamming the door behind him.

  Shortie was on the floor, up against the opposite wall, the open knife a yard from his limp hand. I went over and knelt beside him, feeling for his pulse.

  From there, I went to the bathroom and was sick. For the first time in my life, I had killed a man.

  SEVEN

  PASCAL SAID, “YOU’RE not going to be sick again?” He watched me as I got off the studio couch and headed for the bathroom. “Jesus, man, you are in the wrong business.”

  “I know. Get off my back, Sergeant.” Through my mind ran the words I hadn’t voiced for years. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

  In a minute, I came out of the bathroom and he said, “He came for you with a knife, remember that. Always remember that.” His voice was softer. “Brock, was it because I told you to?”

  “No. Absolutely not. I didn’t mean to kill him. I wanted to stop him, sure; I aimed for his big belly.”

  “You hit his spine. Look, it’s over. I’ve gone through this thing myself. It’s over. He was no credit to society.” The long, bloodhound face of Sergeant Pascal was thoughtful. “You’re Catholic, right? Go to your priest.”

  “I haven’t been to Mass for years, Sergeant. I’ll be all right. It’s wearing off. Don’t fret about me.”