The Third Figure

by Collin Wilcox

  She nodded. Her earlier defiance had gone—dissolved, perhaps, in a wayward moment of disillusioned, self-pitying introspection.

  “Did Dominic ever tell you much about his business, Mrs. Hanson?”

  “Never. At least, nothing about anything beyond real estate. Dominic had a passion for real estate. He owns—owned—several buildings in town. And he speculated in land, too.”

  “But he never mentioned the Outfit.”

  “No. Never.”

  “Were you aware that he was connected with organized crime?”

  “Yes, of course. I read the papers, Mr. Drake.”

  “And did you realize that his, ah, affair with you might have caused him trouble?”

  “Dominic was used to trouble. That was his business.”

  I hesitated. Then, abruptly, I asked, “Do you have any idea why he was killed, Mrs. Hanson?”

  She raised her eyes to mine, looked at me for a long, silent moment and then shook her head.

  “I’ve no idea. Beyond what I read in the papers.”

  “How did it actually happen, that you were the one to discover him?”

  Her answer came almost too quickly, as if she’d been prepared for the question—almost as if her answer might have been overrehearsed.

  “I always met Dominic at the beachhouse Sunday nights, when Johnny was visiting me. Johnny would usually leave about six thirty, for school. As soon as he’d left I’d change my clothes and pack a bag and then drive out to the beachhouse.”

  “Does your son have his own car?”

  “Yes. He—Dom had just bought it for him. A Mustang.”

  “Does your son spend every weekend with you?”

  “No. He—” She bit her lip. “He usually visits me every second or third weekend.”

  “Is he here this weekend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he visiting you three weeks ago? When Dominic was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  I nodded. “What time did you actually get to the beachhouse, Mrs. Hanson?”

  “It was quarter after eight. Maybe a little later.”

  “What time did you leave here?”

  “About seven thirty. It’s a forty-five-minute drive on Sunday nights.”

  “And what did you find at the beachhouse? From the outside, was there anything unusual?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. I parked the car in the carport and took my suitcase and walked around to the front door, just as I always did. It wasn’t until then that I realized anything was wrong.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The door was standing open.”

  “I see. What happened then?”

  “Well, I—I just went inside. And …” She blinked. Her hands, I noticed, were once more twisting in her lap. Her body was rigid, and her chin was tilted painfully upward.

  “And then I saw him,” she finished. “He was lying in the center of the living room. He was …” Again she blinked, rapidly. “He was staring up at the ceiling. Dead.”

  “Did the police say how long he’d been dead when you found him?”

  “Less than an hour, they said.”

  “He’d been shot, is that right?”

  “Yes. In the—the chest. Three times.”

  “Did all of the bullets strike him? I mean, did the police find any bullets that missed—went wild?”

  “I—I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Did any of the neighbors hear shots?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you any idea who called the police?”

  “No. I don’t think the police know, either.”

  “Did Dominic mention any enemies?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Did he seem worried, just before he was murdered?”

  “No. In fact, he’d closed a deal the day before that netted him almost forty thousand dollars. We were going to drive to Malibu that night and celebrate.”

  “And you don’t have any idea who might’ve killed him?”

  She shook her head. “No, Mr. Drake, I don’t.” She was more relaxed now. She’d told her story. Obviously, she had nothing more to tell. And, just as obviously, she was telling the truth, with nothing to hide. She saw herself and her life with a painful clarity—just as she saw Dominic and their affair with the same uncompromising clarity, almost masochistically. Watching her simply sit staring at me, waiting for my next questions, I wondered whether Faith Hanson might enjoy suffering. I wondered how many of her wealthy, successful, aggressive men may have mistreated her, either emotionally or physically.

  I decided to put the theory to the test.

  “Did Dominic ever mention his family to you, Mrs. Hanson?”

  Momentarily she closed her eyes, as if braced for a blow. But her answer was steady.

  “Yes, he did. Several times.”

  “Did he ever tell you that, when his wife moved out, she put away certain letters that might have sent Dominic to prison?”

  She shook her head. “No, he never told me that.”

  “But he did talk to you about his wife.”

  “Yes.”

  “And he had two children, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he ever talk about them?”

  “He talked about his girl, Charlene. Often.”

  “Was he fond of her, would you say?”

  “Yes, he was. They fought a lot, probably because they were so similar. But he loved her. It was obvious.”

  “Did she love him?”

  She shrugged. “If you’ll define ‘love’ for me, Mr. Drake, I’ll answer the question.”

  I smiled. “I withdraw the question. How old is Charlene?”

  “Twenty-six, I believe.” She thought about it, then nodded. “Yes, she’s twenty-six.”

  “Does she live here?”

  “She lives in Los Angeles.”

  “Is she married?”

  Momentarily she hesitated before shaking her head.

  “Is she a pretty girl?”

  “Yes. Very.”

  “Then why isn’t she married, I wonder.”

  Again came the intriguing hesitation. Finally she said, cautiously, “I wouldn’t know.”

  “I think you do, Mrs. Hanson.”

  She looked at me, then sighed. “Charlene is going around with one of Dominic’s associates. That’s the only thing he ever told me about his—his other business, when he mentioned Larry Sabella in relation to Charlene. Apparently Dominic had forbidden her to have anything to do with Sabella—or with any of those—men.”

  “But she defied her father. Is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Sabella married, do you know?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t believe so. That would’ve been the last straw, as far as Dominic was concerned.”

  “I see.” I decided to shift my ground. “Is Dominic’s other child a son?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Angelo is thirty, I think. Maybe thirty-one. He lives in Phoenix.”

  “What does he do, in Phoenix?”

  “I’m not sure. But I gathered that he might be in the—the same line of work that Dominic was in.”

  “He works for the Outfit, you mean?”

  She shrugged. She would say no more.

  “Did he get along well with his father?”

  Slowly she shook her head. “No, I don’t believe they got along very well together. I think—I’m sure, really—that Dominic wanted Angelo to go into some—other line of work.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “No.”

  “Was Angelo capable, would you say? Intelligent?”

  “I’ve never met Angelo,” she answered. “But I’d say, offhand, that he probably isn’t as intelligent as Charlene. Nor as—as fiery. I gather that Angelo is a lot more sullen than his sister. Both of them were problem children as teen-agers. But, of the two, Dominic always thought Charlene was high-spirit
ed. Angelo, apparently, was just mean. He’s even been in prison if I’m not mistaken. For manslaughter. Or at least he was indicted. Dominic never liked to talk about it.”

  “What kind of person was Dominic Vennezio, Mrs. Hanson?”

  She looked at me, surprised.

  “Didn’t you know him?”

  “I’d like to hear you describe him.”

  She looked at me speculatively. I wondered whether she might be considering some questions of her own. But finally she said, “Dominic was a simple, straightforward man. As long as you didn’t antagonize him, he was just like anyone else. But, once he was crossed, he was a devil. If anyone lied to him or tried to get the best of him, fairly or unfairly, Dominic would do anything to get even. That’s the way he operated in real estate, and I’m sure that in his—other business, he was even more ruthless.”

  “Was he intelligent, would you say?”

  “He was intelligent enough. He had a good instinct for which people he could trust. And he was very shrewd. It took him a long time to figure out something, but when he finally made a decision it was usually right. And, too, he had a tremendous vitality. When he decided to enjoy himself, he went all the way. He was a high liver and a big spender. He wasn’t ostentatious about it, especially, but he loved the feeling of being able to buy almost anything he wanted. And he did. I remember one time we were in a grocery store, and some children were buying candy. Dominic watched them. One boy bought five sticks of black licorice and left the store. Dominic went over to the candy counter and bought two whole boxes of black licorice. When I asked him why, he couldn’t explain it, except to say that he remembered, as a kid, the thing he’d wanted more than anything else in the whole world was enough money to buy all the black licorice he wanted.”

  “Did he eat it?”

  She smiled, her first expression of a genuine humor. “He ate a lot of it. And I helped him. I always liked licorice myself.”

  I answered her smile, then said, “If you had to guess, Mrs. Hanson, who would you say killed him?”

  “I have no idea, Mr. Drake. There was a lot in Dominic’s life that I didn’t know anything about. I’m sure the police think someone in organized crime killed him. Don’t you?”

  “I don’t know. And I don’t think anyone else does, either. Did it ever occur to you, though, that you might’ve been killed yourself, if you’d arrived at the beachhouse maybe a half hour earlier?”

  “Yes, I’ve thought about that. Often.”

  “Does the thought frighten you?”

  “No, Mr. Drake, it doesn’t. When I was a lot younger, and a lot happier, the thought of death used to terrify me. But now …” She smiled sadly and looked away.

  I rose to my feet and thanked her. Politely she showed me out, primly and properly. I was surprised to see the shadows dark and lengthening across the bright green lawn. We’d talked longer than I’d thought.

  I’d covered almost half the distance to the sidewalk before I noticed a dark green Mustang convertible parked just behind my own car. A blond teen-age boy sat motionless at the wheel, watching me as I approached.

  Could it be the son, Johnny? The mother had mentioned a Mustang. And the driver was watching me with a kind of languid attentiveness, as if more than casually interested, yet unwilling to surrender to open curiosity.

  But how could I begin a conversation? A newspaperman’s routine questioning might be the best pose, yet I’d given his mother another story.

  I stopped at the side of my car, hand on the door handle and allowed my eyes to rest fully on him. He was returning my gaze; he hadn’t stirred. I frowned, as if suddenly struck by a puzzling thought. Then, pretending to act on an almost breezy impulse, I walked back to the Mustang, smiling as I went.

  “Are you Johnny Hanson, by any chance?” I asked, still smiling.

  “Yes,” he answered in a soft, low voice. He didn’t return my smile, but only looked at me with steady, inscrutable blue eyes. He was a pale, handsome boy with a serious, compressed mouth. Had Faith Hanson said sixteen? His manner seemed much older.

  “Mind if I talk to you for a minute?” I waved my hand toward the house. “I’ve just been talking to your mother. You might be able to help me, too.”

  “Help you with what?”

  “Well, ah …” I cleared my throat. “The fact is that is that I’m investigating the, ah, murder of Dominic Vennezio, three weeks ago. Your mother knew him, I understand. And …” I hesitated. How much did the boy know of his mother’s affair with the gangster?

  “Get in if you want to,” he said, moving his head toward the Mustang’s passenger seat.

  “Thanks.” I circled the car, covertly glancing at the house. Almost without doubt, Faith Hanson was watching us.

  “Are you a detective?” he asked, turning in the seat to face me.

  “Private investigator,” I answered, swinging the door closed.

  “Were you questioning Mother about Vennezio’s murder, did you say?” Now he was frowning, as if trying to comprehend.

  I nodded. Then, in an effort to put him at ease, I took out my cigarettes, vainly offered him one and leisurely lit one for myself.

  “Is Mother a …” He blinked. “A suspect?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. But, as I’m sure you know, she’s an important witness. She found the body. You …” I hesitated. “You knew that, didn’t you?”

  His mouth twisted into a brief, wounded mockery of a smile. “Yes, Mr. …” He paused, looking at me with a kind of arch elegance.

  “Drake,” I supplied. “Sorry.”

  He nodded gracefully. More and more, his manner was assuming a Noel Coward quality—or at least he was acting out a fair imitation.

  “Thank you.” He sighed, allowing his eyes to wander as he said, “Yes, Mr. Drake. I knew she’d found the body. I didn’t know until I read it in the papers next morning, at school. But at least I knew.”

  “Well, I’m sure your mother was very upset. And, besides, she probably didn’t finish with the police until late at night.”

  “Yes, that’s what she said.” He seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. For a time, I was content to sit merely smoking—studying his too-delicate profile, waiting for him to speak. I was trying to imagine what kind of a life Johnny Hanson must live, attending his boarding school in the exclusive Ojai Valley. At best, his mannerisms must often make him the butt of much teen-age humor.

  At worst, I decided, he might be ensnared in the beginnings of homosexuality. Certainly his features lacked masculine solidity; certainly his loose little hand gestures and elaborate little sighs hinted at sexual ambivalence.

  He was running a finger over the steering wheel, dreamily.

  “He gave me this car,” he said finally. “Just a month before he died. It was for my sixteenth birthday.”

  “Mr. Vennezio, you mean?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you know him very well?”

  He seemed to consider his answer before saying, “Mr. Vennezio used to make it a point to see me whenever I was home. He spent a lot of time pounding me on the back and asking me if there was anything I needed. He always wanted me to call him Dominic. He kept asking me out to the beachhouse, so I could meet the surfing crowd. But I never went, of course.”

  I couldn’t think of a reply. So, instead, I decided to ask, “Do you think your mother has any idea who killed him, Johnny?”

  He shook his head, still tracing the rim of the steering wheel with a reflective forefinger.

  “No, I don’t think Mother knows,” he answered. Then he turned his eyes to mine.

  “But I do,” he said softly.

  “You--” I swallowed. “You do?”

  He nodded, still staring at me with his calm blue eyes.

  “You mean you think you know who killed him?”

  Again he nodded.

  “Well, who—who is it?”

  “The third man in her life,” he answered, coyly enigmatic.

/>   “The third man? What d’you mean?”

  “Well,” he said, “first there was my father. You’ve heard about my father, haven’t you?” He looked at me with quizzical mockery.

  I nodded.

  “Then, after my father,” he continued, “there were—several men. ‘Friends.’ ‘Business associates.’ They came and they went. Then, there was Mr. Vennezio. Just Mr. Vennezio—until finally my father left. And, for a long time, there was still just Mr. Vennezio. However, recently, there’s been the third man. He was beginning to overlap Mr. Vennezio.”

  “And you think this third man killed him?”

  Dreamily decisive, he said, “Yes, I do. I’m sure of it. When your mother has a long succession of—friends, you develop an instinct for these things. I’m quite sure there was a third man.”

  “But did you ever actually see him?”

  “Not really. Not his face.”

  “Then you don’t know his identity?”

  “No.”

  “And your mother never admitted having another …” I hesitated. “Another lover?”

  “How could she?” he asked. “She never even admitted that Mr. Vennezio was her lover. They were just—” his lip slightly curled. “—just good friends.”

  I thought about it, disappointed. It all seemed a meaningless fantasy. Yet he was willing to give me information. My obvious tactic was to get everything I could from him, then sort out fact from fancy.

  “Do you have any idea where your father is, Johnny?”

  “At this moment, you mean? Now?”

  “Well, not—not especially right now. But I just wondered whether you’d seen him, lately. Your mother hasn’t, but I thought that maybe you’d—”

  “No,” he said quickly, his tone slipping up to a harsh treble. “I haven’t seen my father for two years. Almost exactly two years. Since he left, I haven’t seen him.”

  “The reason I asked,” I said slowly, “I was wondering whether he might be the third man. I’m not suggesting that he was the murderer. I’m just wondering whether he might’ve been—in the background, watching.”

  He promptly shook his head. “No, no. It wasn’t my father.”

  “But how can you be so sure, if you’ve never seen this person? I mean, it all seems to be a—a feeling you have. Nothing more.”

  “A feeling?” He arched an elaborate brow, burlesquing a sophisticated irony.