Convertible Hearse

by William Campbell Gault

  “That’s the girl.”

  “I don’t know her well. I met her at some parties.”

  “At Tomsic’s place?”

  “That’s right. What are you doing, Callahan? Are you sober?”

  “I’m sober. Have you heard from Tomsic?”

  “I …? Why should I? Mary Macarty is the girl who would hear from him, if anybody did. He was sweet on her.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t mutual. She’s a very fine girl.”

  “Oh, Callahan, you athletes can be so naive. Why don’t you ask the girl what rent she’s paying?”

  “She’s got a break on her rent,” I said, “because she’s his — his color consultant.”

  A chuckle. “Whose color consultant are you, muscles? Would you like to be mine? I’ve a bedroom that needs attention.”

  “The charcoal and pink one, where you two deserted me? You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”

  “A little. Come on up and talk to me. Curt is making the rounds with his agent this afternoon. Come on over and play detective. It might even prove to be enlightening.”

  “Isn’t this the day of the funeral?”

  “The funeral, such as it was, took place this morning. Leo was cremated, and that makes for a simple funeral. And maybe that’s why I’ve been drinking a little. Can you understand that, athlete?”

  I said nothing.

  “Leo buried this morning and this afternoon Curt is out with his agent and I sit here in this house having a little nip. Because I’m only twenty-seven and goddamned glad I’m alive. Are you still with me, Callahan?”

  “Call me Brock,” I said. “I think we’re friends.”

  “We might be. You’re not from Iowa, are you?”

  “Fresno and Long Beach,” I said. “Though Long Beach is really Iowa.”

  “Isn’t it, though? I’ll be waiting, Brock. Bring some of that Einlicher, if you want to.”

  I didn’t take any Einlicher along. And as I drove over, I wondered if the large, efficient, national agencies offered this kind of service.

  The maid looked worried as she opened the door to my ring. She seemed to be ready to say something, but evidently decided not to. She led me to the living room, where Mavis Dunbar sat on the tapestry davenport, a drink in her hand, and her gaze directed out toward the pool.

  When I came around where I could see her face more closely, I saw that she had been crying. She said, “Mix yourself a drink, Irish. You know where the booze is.”

  I didn’t mix one; I filled a glass with quinine water and two ice cubes and pretended to put some gin in it.

  I came over to sit in the chair opposite the davenport.

  Mavis Dunbar said, “Why did you ask about George Tomsic? Aren’t you working for him?”

  I said, “I could be working for him and still not know where he is. He’s a very sly fellow, isn’t he?”

  “He’s come a long way on a fairly small brain. But then, so did Leo.”

  I said nothing.

  She sipped her drink. “I’ve been crying. I’ve been missing Leo. That must be the alcohol, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe. That picture of you in the paper was faked then? You were hysterical in that, crying like a baby.”

  “I was hysterical. I was shocked. Now I’m sad. Don’t you think that’s different?”

  “Yes.” I sipped my drink and liked it. Gin wouldn’t have made it any tastier.

  She reached forward to put her drink on the coffee table. She asked, “Have you learned anything?”

  “Nothing sensational. Anything you want to tell me?”

  She didn’t look at me for a few seconds. Then she said softly, “I can give you a name, a name I heard George Tomsic use one time when he was drunk.”

  I said nothing, waiting.

  “Horace Wilding,” she said.

  I knew the name. He’d run for mayor twice and almost made it the second time. He had a piece of a Las Vegas pleasure trap and two local boxers and had tried to form a syndicate to buy the Rams. It was a big name in this town.

  “I think,” she said, “that he is the head of this stolen-car ring the police have been worrying about. Now, do you have to tell the police I told you that?”

  “No. Don’t you want me to?”

  “I told you before, I’m twenty-seven and glad to be alive.”

  “It seems incredible,” I said. “Did George just toss off the name, or imply that Wilding was in the ring?”

  “The impression I got — and we were all drunk — was that Horace Wilding was a big man in the ring. I mentioned the name to Leo, one time, and he said Wilding was one of the most respected men in this town.”

  “Only to people who worship money,” I said.

  She smiled. “Not people like you, eh? When are you going to get smart, Brock?”

  “I don’t know. My girl keeps asking me the same question.”

  “You mean you’ve only got one girl, a good-looking Irishman like you?”

  I nodded. “Curt and I, we’re the faithful type.”

  She stared at me thoughtfully. “And you’re the sarcastic type, too, aren’t you?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s been a bad day and I’m not up to my usual polite self. Wilding — that’s no name for me to go up against. George might have been drunker than you thought.”

  “He might have been. I offer it to you for what it’s worth.” She held up her glass. “Would you mix me another? Bourbon and water.”

  “Don’t you think you ought to rest, take a nap?”

  “Don’t be dull. Half and half, whiskey and water.”

  I mixed one a little weaker than that and brought it back to her. There was a tear in one blue eye. “Leo was dull at times, too. But not always. I wish I had been older when I met him.”

  I said nothing. I didn’t think she needed prompting.

  “He wasn’t crooked,” she said. “Not any more than he had to be. You’ve got to believe that.”

  I nodded sympathetically and sipped my tonic.

  “George, now — well, I don’t know. It looks like he could be, doesn’t it?”

  “It seems fairly certain.”

  She stared at me. “You’ll never tell George I mentioned Horace Wilding’s name, will you?”

  “Never.”

  She chewed her lower lip. “I mean — at these parties, there would be — hints, remarks … I never got the complete picture, but I’ve trained myself to keep my eyes and ears open, you know. I mean — how else can a girl make her way? I wasn’t born to the purple, as you probably have guessed. I’ve made my own way since I was fifteen.”

  She had gone from feeling sorry for Leo to feeling sorry for herself. I wondered how long she’d been on the booze. Her complexion and figure suggested it couldn’t have been for long.

  She patted the seat beside her. “Couldn’t you sit here? I don’t want to keep shouting at you.”

  I went to get more tonic and then came over to sit on the davenport. She asked, “Have you a cigarette?”

  “I don’t smoke,” I said. “If Leo went to those parties at George’s place, wouldn’t it be likely he’d meet some of the hoodlums?”

  “Oh, they weren’t that. I mean, they didn’t look like hoodlums. And Leo didn’t make a practice of attending George’s parties. It was at that bad period, you know, when his wife had just left him …”

  “I see,” I said. “And Mary Macarty …? I get a feeling you don’t like her.”

  “I don’t know her well enough to dislike her. Again, it was just a word I picked up here and there.” She put a hand on my knee. “Is Mary a favorite of yours?”

  I smiled. “I play no favorites. It wouldn’t be fair, a good-looking Irishman like me …”

  She put her face close to mine. “You are, you know. And exceptionally virile-looking. Don’t kid me that you don’t make out, Brock the Rock.”

  “I don’t, so help me. I’m naturally reticent. Are you going to marry Curtis Winthrop King?”

>   Her voice was cloyingly coy. “Would it bother you?”

  Drunk, I attract them. When they’re sober, I could be the tax collector. I said, “I want only the best for you, Mavis Lillian Dunbar. You’ve come a long way in twelve years.” I nodded toward her glass. “You don’t need that liquid courage.”

  She smiled. “I’m not an alcoholic, don’t worry. I’m not even a compulsive drinker. But the last few days have been trying. And Curt hasn’t been any help. He’s — horribly insensitive.”

  “Are you being fair? He seemed exactly the opposite to me.”

  She chuckled. “You don’t know him. It’s all front with him.” She looked at me mockingly. “You’re not afraid of him, are you?”

  I smiled back at her. “Of course not.”

  “Then kiss me,” she said.

  How drunk was she? Was I taking advantage? A kiss could lead us to a more complicated situation; it would have to, we were not children. No, it wouldn’t have to. And maybe I’d want it to, if she wasn’t drunk.

  I leaned forward to kiss her.

  Her lips clung and her free hand went around my neck and my blood stirred and …

  And from the entry way to the hall, a voice said, “Well, an orgy! The minute I’m out of sight for an afternoon …”

  We turned to face the wrathful gaze of Curtis Winthrop King.

  EIGHT

  MAVIS CHUCKLED. “A one-kiss orgy. Come in and clam down, pretty boy. Tell us about your afternoon in the celluloid world.”

  He ignored her, glaring at me. “I think I’ll punch you right on the nose, Fearless Fosdick. How would you like that?”

  I stood up. “I wouldn’t. I’m heavier than you are, Curt. And sober. No harm’s been done.”

  He must have had a bad afternoon. He came around the end of the davenport and started a right hand swing from behind his hip. I moved in and put my arms around him, locking his arms at his sides.

  His eyes were inches from mine now, full of anger and frustration. He was breathing heavily and there was whiskey in the breath.

  “Will you be good if I release you?” I asked him. “Or should I break your back?”

  He grunted something, and I released him. He stood there, glaring at me.

  Mavis said, “A friendly kiss, no more, Curt. What happened today?”

  In the aggrieved tone of a small boy, he said, “You’ve taken all the kick out of it now. I landed a part, a small part, but a good one.”

  “Wonderful!” she said. “Oh, Curt, we must drink to that.”

  Her voice was perfectly sincere, free of cynicism or satire. She was happy for him.

  He appeared slightly mollified as he went to the liquor cabinet.

  “A western,” he explained, “but one of the big ones, an epic western. I play a gambler. It’s at Columbia.”

  “Wonderful,” she said again.

  I said, “Well, I must be running along. Thanks for all you’ve told me, Mrs. Dunbar.”

  Curt didn’t look my way. Mavis came to the door with me. There she said, “It wouldn’t have been wise, anyway, would it? We’ve no future together, have we?”

  “It’s hard to tell,” I told her solemnly. “I’m not too proud to live on a woman’s money.” I smiled sadly. “Particularly with a woman as attractive as you.”

  She smiled. “Well, neither of us is dead yet. Stay out of drafts, won’t you?”

  I promised her I would and went out through the late afternoon sun to my flivver. The house behind me was peaceful and quiet in the afternoon stillness and the golf course below was deserted. A tourist, driving along this sumptuous street, could imagine this was the upper crust, this was the solid California money.

  Some of it was, but most of it was post-war money, inflation earned and precarious. The husbands had learned to make it and the wives to spend it. They were people living in the present, trying to forget the past and afraid to look into the future.

  I drove directly over to the West Side Station and caught Pascal in Lieutenant Trask’s office.

  I told them, “I’ve a name for you, but I can’t tell you where I got it.”

  Pascal looked at Trask and Trask at me. “Why not? Are you starting to work it close, Callahan, both sides of the street?”

  I shook my head. “You know I’m not, Dave. And never will. I promised my informant secrecy, and I intend to keep the promise. I didn’t have to bring the name here, you know. I could have forgotten it.”

  “All right,” Trask said irritably. “What’s the name?”

  “Horace Wilding. He’s supposed to be very big in that stolen-car ring, possibly the head man.”

  Trask grimaced. “Oh, come on … That’s a proud name in this town, Brock.”

  Sergeant Pascal said, “We’ve got an inkling of something along the same general lines, Lieutenant. It might not be as crazy as it sounds.”

  Trask said, “I don’t want to be responsible for putting a tail on Horace Wilding. I’m getting too old to change jobs.” He looked at Pascal meaningly.

  Pascal nodded.

  I said, “Nobody can fire me. Are you denying me the right to investigate him?”

  Trask said, “As far as I’m concerned, nobody’s given me any name. So you’re free to go, Brock.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll keep in touch.”

  “With Sergeant Pascal,” Trask told me. “And remember, Brock, you might be working with us, but you’re not working for us. Is that clear?”

  “It always has been,” I said. “At times, too clear. See you, gentlemen.”

  A police officer’s job is to defend the law and keep the peace, including the political peace. I went over to the office, to see if anyone had called.

  No one had, not even the one I’d hoped for. So I phoned her and there was no answer. How long would she stay angry this time? How much of this could I take? Did she think I was stone? Was she? No, she wasn’t.

  Because I was working, I ate at Cini’s, a fine little restaurant specializing in Italian food. I hadn’t had a first-rate dinner since Sunday, and I’d earned this one.

  It was dark when I came out again, full of pizza, lasagne and minestrone soup. I stood for a moment on the curb, looking out at the traffic, and a couple almost bumped into me.

  I said, “I beg your pardon,” and turned to face Jan — with Les Hartley.

  Les said genially, “My, my, the muscular Mr. Callahan. I do hope you’re not angry because I’m buying your lady a meal.”

  I smiled at both of them. “Of course not, Les. She’s in good hands, isn’t she?”

  “She certainly is,” he agreed. “How was the lasagne?”

  “Excellent,” I said. “Be good, you two.”

  I had left the flivver in front of the office, and I walked that way. The night was already cool; the wind from the ocean had blown the smog back toward downtown. All of them went through my mind, Leo and his two wives, George Tomsic, Curtis King, Louis Reno and his partner, Hans Deutscher and Mary Macarty.

  And now Horace Wilding. If what Mavis had told me was true, this lead could help to break up the ring. But it wouldn’t necessarily uncover a murderer. No hoodlum would admit to that and no member of the mob would be likely to inform on the killer.

  I wasn’t being paid to break up a stolen-car ring. I was being paid to find the killer of Dorothy Hartland Dunbar’s first and only husband.

  Jan with Les Hartley … Was that the best she could do when I wasn’t around? Or maybe that was a way to go out and still be faithful. Jan, Jan, Jan, damn her …

  The damp air made my swollen knee ache and brought some pain to my sinuses. I went up to the office and looked up Horace Wilding in the phone book. Fortunately, it was not an unlisted number, unusual for a man of his prominence.

  The address was Sunset Boulevard and I recognized it as the estate section of that meandering thoroughfare. Which meant the comings and goings of Horace Wilding’s visitors would be easy to watch.

  To what avail, though? It wasn�
�t likely the big man in the Lincoln would be visiting him now, hot as he was. And with the numbers man, George Tomsic, hiding out, Horace Wilding would be lying low during this period. If Wilding was what Mavis Dunbar claimed him to be.

  Pascal couldn’t come in here and put a tail on the man without checking in with the Beverly Hills Police Department first. And they, I was sure, would be very hesitant about giving the LAPD permission to annoy such a prominent citizen.

  So it seemed an evening of camping within view of the Wilding driveway was a futile way to kill the hours. But I had nothing better to do with them and nowhere else to go.

  The driveway was on the north side of Sunset; the house was not visible, but must have been up in the hills, screened from the road by Lombardy poplars. I parked on the south side of Sunset, almost opposite the driveway, far enough from either curve so I would not be a traffic hazard.

  I turned on the radio and sat there and nothing happened. My knee and sinuses ached and traffic streamed by me on both sides of the winding street, but nobody turned in at the driveway of Horace Wilding.

  I had no authority to question but I had one ace the police didn’t have in this town. I had the doubtful advantage of running a one-man office in a profession where the runners of one-man offices are considered both shabby and shady.

  And because of this, we quite often get offers of bribes that the briber would hesitate to offer to a Department man. A private man who asks questions has a chance to get some wheels rolling and some gears turning. A policeman who asks questions is more likely to stop the wheels and the gears until the heat is off.

  Why didn’t I run in and talk to Horace Wilding? And see what the aftermath would bring? Why didn’t I go in with a few big and perhaps troubling lies?

  I started the flivver and waited for a traffic break before cutting across the road and heading up the driveway to the big, two-story Colonial house I could now see at the top of a crest ahead.

  The housekeeper who came to the door was broad and short and unmistakably Irish. I handed her my card, and said, “Mr. Tomsic phoned my office and asked me to meet him here. Is he here now?”

  She frowned. “Tomsic? I’ve never heard the name, sir. Are you sure you have the right address?”