The Third Figure

by Collin Wilcox

  “That’s right.” I decided to light a cigarette—also deciding not to offer one to Sabella.

  “Who else’ve you seen?” His smile had faded; the tone of his voice suggested a practiced intimidation.

  I drew on the cigarette, considering. Finally, deliberately, I said, “Mr. Russo told me that I was supposed to report directly to him. And he warned me that I’d better remember it.”

  Sabella gave his creases a final small tug, then slowly raised his head to stare at me. With a small shock, I saw that his face had completely changed—darker, with muscles taut and bunched, eyes snapping in sudden, suppressed fury. It was as if his actor’s smile had been a fragile mask now torn away, revealing a sadistic brutality.

  “Russo isn’t here now. Just you and me. And I’m asking you who else you’ve seen.”

  “And I’m—” I was forced to pause and clear my throat. “And I’m telling you, Mr. Sabella, that I have orders to report to Russo—and to Russo only. Now …” Uncertainly, I realized, I pointed to the nearby phone. “Now, if you want to call up your boss and clear it with him, I’ll gladly tell you all I know. But until then, I’m afraid I—”

  “Listen, Drake,” he interrupted, “don’t give me this crap about clearing it with Russo. In the first place, friend, you’re a little out of your own territory down here—and a little out of your depth, too. I hear, though, that you’re a crime reporter. If you are and if you know your job, you should realize that there’s …” He paused, searching for the right phrase. “There’s a lot going on, down here. Lots that you don’t know about—and lots that maybe Russo doesn’t know about, either. Now …” He raised a slow, threatening forefinger, in a gesture similar to Russo’s the day before. “Now, if that gets back to Russo, from you, I’ll break both your legs for you. I’ll deny it, of course, to Russo. But I’ll break both your legs. And don’t make the mistake of thinking that’s just a threat. I’ve given it a lot of thought. I wouldn’t kill you, because it’s bad business, killing cops and newspapermen. But I would break both your legs. Then we’d put you in a car and run you into a tree. And if you know what’s good for you, you’d tell the police it was an accident—and they’d believe you.” He spread his hands, smiling his actor’s smile—adjusting the mask with practiced ease. “Clear?” he asked.

  I managed to keep my eyes on his. I didn’t reply, but finally was compelled to nod.

  He returned my nod. “Good. So let’s have it. What’ve you found out, about Vennezio’s death?”

  “Nothing,” I answered. “Not one thing, that’d interest you. I’ve only talked with Faith Hanson and—” I waved a hand around the room. “—and to Miss Vennezio, just now. And neither one of them gave me any information that you probably don’t have already.”

  “You talked to Russo, too. What’d he say?”

  I sighed. Somehow I didn’t really fear him—perhaps because I’d taken an instant dislike to him. I didn’t doubt that he had the means and the capacity to break my legs—or even to have me killed. But, strangely, it didn’t worry me. Perhaps I was experiencing a delayed reaction to the fear I’d recently felt—a kind of confused, exhausted exasperation, completely irrational. Some called it courage; others called it a coward’s blind, violent protest to his own terror. I’d seen it happen often, in Korea. I’d felt it in myself.

  “Russo said,” I replied, “that he didn’t know who killed Vennezio. He didn’t think it was a—a professional job, but he wasn’t sure. He’s willing to find out, though, providing the authorities don’t get the information first.”

  Inscrutably he nodded. Now the smile was a private one—and as ugly as his unmarked face.

  “What’d the Hanson woman say?” he asked.

  “She just repeated the story she told to the police. She didn’t—”

  “She knows a lot more than she’s telling,” he interrupted. “A hell of a lot more.”

  “Well, is she does, she hasn’t told me. I’m no FBI man, you know. If she doesn’t want to tell me anything, she doesn’t have to.”

  “Did you talk to anyone else? Besides Charlene and Faith Hanson?”

  “Well …” I hesitated, remembering the strange, pale face of Johnny Hanson.

  “Well, what? Who was it?”

  “I talked to Mrs. Hanson’s son. Briefly.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, what’d he say? Briefly.”

  I drew a deep breath. For a brave moment I was tempted to refuse an answer. But finally I replied, “He said that he thought his mother had another lover, besides Vennezio.”

  As soon as I said it, Sabella seemed to relax, as if he’d carefully rehearsed me in a speech I’d just delivered perfectly.

  “Did he say who the guy was?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Sabella rose, standing above me.

  “Well, Drake,” he said softly, “there I think I can help you. The man you’re looking for …” He paused, for the effect. “The man happens to be my boss.”

  “You mean …?”

  He nodded. “That’s right. Russo. For some time, now, he’s had quite a yen for Mrs. Hanson.”

  He turned and walked to the door. “You’re doing better than I thought, Drake,” he said from across the room. Then, about to open the door, he paused, turning back to face me fully.

  “Don’t forget,” he said softly, his voice friendly and almost fey, “don’t forget about those two broken legs, now. And don’t forget to lock up, when you leave.”

  He opened the door and disappeared.

  7

  I LEFT CHARLENE VENNEZIO’S apartment just after two o’clock, and from a roadside phone booth called Dick Gross, an old friend and colleague, recently elevated to featured crime reporter on the Los Angeles Advance. He agreed to meet me for coffee at three thirty, which gave me a comfortable margin in which to cross Los Angeles, lose myself twice on the freeway and still make the appointment with time to spare.

  Despite the twenty-odd years he’d spent recording the human capacity for vice, depravity and violence, Dick was a cheerful optimist. His quick gray eyes, crew-cut graying hair, ebullient disposition and pixie’s sense of wry, subtle humor seemed to reflect the successful sales manager’s view of life rather than the crime reporter’s. As we settled down to face each other across our coffee and doughnuts, Dick spoke first:

  “My paid informants have passed the word that you and Big Frankie have been hoisting highballs beside the pool of his $50,000 home overlooking scenic La Palada.”

  I was surprised. I’d been in town less than forty-eight hours.

  “So,” he continued briskly, “I’ve decided to do a feature story on your collaboration with organized crime. My headline’ll be Journalist Takes Services to a Higher Bidder. The story’s in rewrite at this very moment.”

  I swallowed. “You’re joking.”

  “Precisely.” He bit into his doughnut. “I’m joking. You hope.”

  “Come on now, Dick. I’ve got enough on my mind without playing word games.”

  He waved a hand, smiling. “You blanched, old boy. You really blanched. If we weren’t drinking buddies—or if I had any suspicion that you were going to try and stick me with this coffee and these doughnuts—I’d certainly work up a story on you. After all …” He gave me a brief sidelong glance. “After all, I haven’t had a really crowd-pleasing story for more than three weeks. Ever since Dominic Vennezio got neatly shot three times in the chest.”

  “You want a refill?” I asked, pointing to his empty cup.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. My wife is going to her bridge club this afternoon. And that means one thing: tuna fish salad.”

  “You’d better have another doughnut, then.”

  “Thanks, I will.” He gave the order to the waitress, looked at his watch and then said, “How can I help you, old clairvoyant buddy?”

  I grimaced as I finished my coffee.

  “You still don’t like that phrase, eh?” he said.

  “No, I don’t.”<
br />
  “That’s because you’re a creation of mass media, my boy. Like movie actresses. Do you know what directors call movie actresses in the privacy of their lushly appointed offices?”

  “No.”

  “It’s just as well. Somehow, Steve, you’ve managed to retain more of your innocence than most. Perhaps that’s the secret of your success. I’ve always been very interested in the plight of the village idiot. The townsfolk think he’s in touch with the netherworld, because his mind’s uncluttered by temporal considerations. Maybe they’re right. Maybe you’re—”

  “Come on, Dick. I told you: I’m too jumpy to play games with you.”

  “I can see that. However, you’ve recovered some of your color, after my innocent little sally.”

  “Do you know anyone in the local CIIB?” I asked abruptly.

  “Certainly.”

  “The head man?”

  “Among others.”

  “Well, listen, do me a favor and ask him to take his boy off my tail.”

  “Who’s the boy?”

  “A creep named Carrigan.”

  “Carrigan?” He frowned. “There’s no Carrigan in this office. Not unless he’s a junior file clerk.”

  “He operates out of Sacramento.”

  He shook his head. “You’re out of luck, friend. This Carrigan probably outranks the local bureau chief—or at least they’re coequals. Are you talking about Russo and company? Is that Carrigan’s assignment?”

  “I guess so. Either that, or Vennezio’s murder.”

  “Could be both. If they could hang Vennezio’s murder on Russo, this Carrigan would probably be running for governor next election.”

  I thought about Carrigan’s repulsive profile, but decided to let it pass.

  “How’d you happen to get mixed up in all this, Steve?” For the first time his voice was serious—or at least not flippant.

  As briefly as I could, I told him. When I finished he slowly nodded, absently folding and refolding his napkin.

  “I’ve always felt,” he said finally, “that it’s really money that conquers all. Love might have some appeal to the very young, but in the long run money talks. As one of the characters in your narrative observed.”

  “I guess I’m not in any position to argue the point.”

  “No,” he answered quietly. “No, you’re really not.”

  I sighed. Then, still as concisely as possible, I told him everything that I’d discovered or suspected since arriving in Los Angles. Finally, after some hesitation, I finished with a description of last night’s vision.

  “Well, graphically that’s very good,” he said judiciously. “I like that bit about the woman in the long, flowing cloak. That scans.”

  “Listen, Dick—”

  “So now you want my theory on the murder of Dominic Vennezio,” he continued. “Is that it?”

  “Yes, that’s it exactly.”

  “Well, I can give it to you in one concise, quotable statement. I don’t think it was a contract job. However, contract job or not, the Outfit obviously doesn’t want the La Palada police loitering around their executive suite a moment longer than’s necessary to preserve appearances. So, as a result, the murder will probably never be solved, simply because the Outfit doesn’t want it investigated. Not, at least, until you arrived on the scene. And if you want my private, unprofessional opinion, I think Russo’s simply indulging a whim where you’re concerned. Either that, or he’s throwing a bone to Mrs. Vennezio. Or maybe, in view of his alleged attraction to Mrs. Hanson, he’s trying to run a bluff.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, let’s assume for the moment that Johnny Hanson’s somewhat dubious testimony is true. Let’s assume there’s another man in Faith Hanson’s life. Then let’s assume that this man is, in fact, Russo. Now, if those two assumptions—however farfetched—are the real goods, then we’ve got a very interesting situation. Russo has got himself involved in precisely the same jackpot that Vennezio manufactured for himself, presumably to the consternation of the Outfit. As everyone knows, the Outfit doesn’t like scandal. Russo is vulnerable, in other words—just like Vennezio was vulnerable. So that, if there’s some kind of an intramural power-play afoot, possibly featuring Larry Sabella as the young Turk, then Russo’s got to protect himself. So, when you arrive on the scene so ingenuously, Russo’s got a choice: either send you packing, and perhaps strengthen Sabella’s hand, or try to bluff it out. Now, let’s say he decides to bluff it out. Maybe he wants time while he arranges a transfer for Sabella to the Des Moines office. Meanwhile, to keep the light touch, he acts amused at your poor efforts. He invites you to do your meager best—being careful to make very sure you report everything to him. See?”

  “Yes,” I answered slowly. “That’s all occurred to me. On the other hand, as you suggest, there’s always the possibility that both Johnny Hanson and Larry Sabella are nothing more than troublemakers.”

  “To me,” Gross answered, “that’s the most likely construction. Unless young Hanson can come up with something more than adolescent mysticism, you can’t put too much stock in what he says. As for Sabella, he’s young and ambitious. Most people think he took up with Vennezio’s daughter out of pure ambition—in spite of the fact that he was running considerable risk. So when you tell me that after hearing of this alleged second lover Sabella identified him as Russo, I’d be inclined to say it was pure spur-of-the-moment opportunism.”

  “You haven’t heard anything about it through the grapevine, then?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Have you heard anything unofficial down at headquarters about Vennezio’s murder?”

  He shook his head. “Negative. You know as well as I do, everyone in law enforcement would like to pretend the Outfit doesn’t exist. Most of the time they succeed. Brilliantly.”

  “But you must’ve heard something.”

  He thought about it before saying, “Well, one friend of mine on the Los Angeles force seems to think there’s a personal motive involved. Something in Vennezio’s love life, which we’ve already covered, or his family or his past.”

  “What about Vennezio’s son?”

  “Angelo?” He snorted. “I doubt it. Angelo’s one of these hysterical tough guys; he’s not for real. And, believe me, whoever pulled the trigger on Dominic had to be for real. Angelo is a punk, nothing more and nothing less. The Mafia blood thins rapidly, you know. Apparently it can’t stand long exposure to the American way of life.”

  “When you say the motive’s personal, though, you’re forgetting how professional the murder looks. Even Russo thinks so. And you said it yourself: three neat holes in the chest. The ordinary person keeps shooting until the gun’s empty, an then he’s lucky if he scores twice—and at that it’s usually one shot in the left thigh and one that just happens to sever an artery or something.”

  “I can’t argue with you there, Steve boy. And I did get it straight from the horse’s mouth: Vennezio was shot by three bullets placed in an eight-inch circle. No wild shots, nothing in the room disturbed. No fuss, no flurry. The police reconstruction is the essence of simplicity. The murderer rang the bell. Dominic answered. Then he got shot. Then the murderer disappeared into the mists. One witness thought she heard the shots, and another witness thought he remembered seeing a car leave the community parking area about that time. But that’s all.”

  “Could the witness identify the car?”

  “Of course. It was a medium-size, dark sedan. Maybe a Ford, or possibly a Chevrolet. Or it could have been a Pontiac, he finally decided, or maybe a Mercury—or a Plymouth, or a Dodge.”

  “No license number.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Do the police think Vennezio was shot at the door, as soon as he answered it?”

  “Now, that’s a rather beguiling point. It seems that official opinion is divided on exactly where he stood when he got shot. The body actually lay, as I remember it, with the feet toward the door and th
e head in a direct line away. In other words, he was lying as if he might have fallen directly on his back as he faced the door. However, the feet measured maybe ten or eleven feet from the door, and there was a certain amount of blood on the carpet between the feet and the door, indicating that he might possibly have been shot as he stood at the door, then staggered back, then got shot again and finally fell in the living room. Of course, there’s also the possibility that he could have walked back into the room, then got shot.”

  “It makes a difference, though, which way you figure it. If he got shot at the door, the chances are that he didn’t know the murderer—or at least didn’t know him very well. If the shooting actually occurred while Vennezio was inside with the door closed behind him, that’s a different matter.”

  “Very good.” Dick nodded, burlesquing a ponderous approval. “Very sound detection. I will only correct you on one point.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, it’s already been established that Vennezio wasn’t in the habit of unlocking the door at night until he looked through a peephole. So we can assume that he knew the murderer. We can also assume that the better they knew each other, the farther the murderer probably got inside before firing the fatal shot. As you said.”

  “I wish I could see the police photos,” I mused.

  “I can probably get copies for you. If not, we’ve got pictures in our files. I don’t think they’ll help much, though. There wasn’t any sign of a struggle. Neither was there a package of Egyptian cigarettes on the coffee table, nor a woman’s embroidered handkerchief lying beneath the body.”

  “Do you know how many people were questioned?”

  “As I remember it, I’d say most of your cast of characters was questioned, more or less perfunctorily. Russo made a state appearance at headquarters, flanked by two well-tailored lawyers. Sabella was there, too. It was all very convincing—and very brief.”

  “What about Mrs. Hanson?”

  “She was questioned at the scene of the crime and then later at her place. I don’t think she went down to headquarters.”

  “What about the anonymous phone tip?”