The Third Figure

by Collin Wilcox

  “That, too,” Gross said, “is a rather beguiling point and one that you haven’t stumbled across, apparently.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well it seems that the police were tipped before Mrs. Hanson arrived on the scene. According to her story, she’d only been on the premises a few minutes when the police arrived.”

  I felt a quick lift of excitement as I asked, “What time did the phone call come in, do you know?”

  “Just a few minutes before eight, if I’m not mistaken. And Mrs. Hanson said that she arrived about eight-fifteen. Is that what she told you?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what she said.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  I thought about it, finally saying, “Yes, I do. As nearly as I can see, she told me a completely straight story. She even seemed anxious to tell it all. Everything.”

  “Did she mention the anonymous phone call?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Not a word. But then I didn’t ask. Somehow it never occurred to me.” I sat silently for a moment, thinking about it. “Did the police make any effort to find out who phoned?”

  “Sure. But they didn’t get very far. They questioned everyone who was living nearby or who might’ve been on the beach.”

  “I wonder,” I said slowly, “whether it could’ve been the murderer who called.”

  Gross nodded, eyeing me ironically. “One wonders indeed. It’s a pity your vision faded so soon.” He smiled. “I still think that’s a nice touch, that cloak.”

  “But why would he have called—and so soon? What time did the witness think she heard the shots?”

  “Between seven thirty and eight. She wasn’t sure.”

  I shook my head. “It’s crazy.”

  “What’s crazy?”

  “That the murderer would call. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “That’s true, if you assume he called merely to lighten the policeman’s burden. However, there’s another explanation.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He might’ve known that Mrs. Hanson was due at the beachhouse.”

  “You mean he might’ve wanted to frame her for the murder?”

  Gross spread his hands. “Can you think of a better reason? Nothing else makes much sense, that I can see.”

  “But there wasn’t any other effort made to frame her. Nothing of hers was left at the scene of the crime.” I paused. “Was there?”

  “No. There were things of hers in the house, of course. But there wasn’t any embroidered handkerchief under the body.”

  “What kind of a gun was used?”

  “A .32,” he answered, watching me. “What’s known in the trade as a woman’s gun. Unlike the more efficient .38 or .45, universally favored by cop and hood alike.”

  “All in an eight-inch circle, you said.”

  He nodded. “All in an eight-inch circle. Then he got in his car, drove to the nearest phone and called the police. Then he disappeared. Assuming, of course, that he was alone. We mustn’t forget about the lady in the long cloak.”

  I shook my head. “That’s hypothetical. It doesn’t necessarily have any relation to what might’ve actually happened—or how it happened.”

  “What does it relate to?”

  I snorted. “I’ve never known. And I’ve never said.”

  He looked at me for a long, silent moment. Then, thoughtfully, he said, “You know, I don’t think you’re really so different from any good, experienced cop who, after a few years on the force, can take one look at someone in the street and tell whether the guy’s ever done time. The only real difference,” he continued, “is in the effectiveness of your subconscious. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Well, I—”

  “You learn in Psychology 101,” he continued, obviously warming to the subject, “that the subconscious is like a—a computer, filing a million punch cards of memories and impressions, only a very few of which register at any one time as conscious thought. In your case, though, I figure that you simply get a better alignment of cards than the rest of us. You don’t necessarily have access to any more cards, it’s just that the alignment is better. So, at some unpredictable moment, bingo: you’ve got the picture of the lady in her long flowing cloak.”

  “I guess that’s probably true. I’ve never claimed that—”

  “It could be that you’ve actually got a short circuit somewhere,” he said, his familiar flippancy returning. “Did you ever think of that? It comes to you all at once, instead of gradually. The poor, plodding, underpaid, overworked cop trudges on and on, painfully gathering three facts a day, five days a week, until he’s got fifteen: the magic number. You, on the other hand, plod on for the same five days, four of them big fat blanks. Then, on the fifth day, bingo: it all comes at once. The shock is such that you feel light-headed, naturally. You swoon. Then you call up headquarters, and then the Sentinel. Everyone thinks you’re a phenomenon from the netherworld—completely forgetting the detective who’s still out there somewhere in the night, racking up his three facts, then calling it a day—returning to a wife who’s already been sound asleep on the sofa since halfway through the early late show.”

  I smiled, shrugged and spread my hands. “You’ve hit it, Dick. You’ve discovered my secret: a short circuit in the head. More coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Doughnut?”

  “No. I’d spoil my appetite for tuna salad.” He looked at his watch, then began gathering up his cigarettes and matches. “What’re you going to do?” he asked, toying with his hat.

  “Just plod along, I guess, waiting for a short circuit.”

  “Are you still going with your mysterious couple on the beach?”

  “According to what you’ve just said, I guess I should.”

  He nodded. “I think you should, too. However you do it, short circuit or not, you’re a proven performer. From what you’ve told me, there’re three women in Dominic Vennezio’s life, either one of which could’ve got a mysterious male friend to do the job, for a cut of the swag.”

  “I’m not so sure Mrs. Hanson qualifies on that basis, especially if she has to cut up the swag. Ten thousand dollars isn’t much money these days. Besides, she probably got that much from Dominic every six months—and had someone to keep her warm besides.”

  He rose to his feet, adjusting his hat.

  “Maybe. Still, I wouldn’t check off Mrs. Hanson just yet. Not until you’re certain someone wasn’t trying to frame her. That could be motive enough in itself, you know. Everyone isn’t preoccupied with money. Take Russo, for instance. He could have done it for pure, red-blooded love—with a borrowed .32.”

  I reached in my pocket, searching for loose change. “I think you’re reading too much into that .32, Dick. I’ve heard of hired professionals using .22’s because of the noise. After all, it’s a matter of accuracy. A .22 in the right spot can be deadlier than a .45.”

  “No argument. In fact, I can even top your own point. Two or three weeks ago a moderately successful pimp was murdered with one of these compressed-air pellet guns. He was playing poker, and no one knew he’d been shot till his head hit his chips.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not kidding. Those pellet guns’re the newest wrinkle in underworld armament. They’re made in .22 caliber, as you know, and there’s a new gun just on the market that’s as powerful as a regular .22 rifle, at distances up to twenty feet. And, of course, there’s the no-noise advantage.”

  “True.” I left a tip, and we walked together to the door. “Say, will you do me a favor?”

  “Why not?”

  “See if you can find out what Larry Sabella said to the police when he was questioned. He had as much motive as anyone—more than most, when you think about it.”

  Gross smiled. “You mean when you double think about it. One time around, he’s a lot better with Russo pulling the trigger.” He opened the restaurant door, and we stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Neverth
eless, I’ll see what I can find out. Where’re you staying?”

  “The Prescott Motel.”

  “Okay. Thanks for the snack. If you don’t get both legs broken, why don’t you come out to the house for dinner tonight?”

  “Thanks, Dick. But to be honest, I’d as soon get this business finished and get back to San Francisco. The longer I’m here, the jumpier I get.”

  “I see what you mean. All right, I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thanks again.” I stood for a moment watching him stride away. I was turning toward my car when I caught a brief glimpse of a familiar profile in the driver’s seat of a white sedan parked halfway down the block. It was Carrigan. The large nose and protuberant eyes were unmistakable.

  8

  I LEFT DICK GROSS about 4:30, got into my car and for the next fifteen minutes aimlessly drove, watching Carrigan’s white sedan in the rear view mirror. He made no particular effort at concealment; he drove directly behind me rather than allow the usual one or two cars between. As I watched him, I became increasingly annoyed. He must know that his presence endangered me. Yet he obviously didn’t care.

  I noticed that the traffic was becoming much heavier as the rush hour approached. On an impulse I turned onto a convenient freeway, with no idea where it led. Quickly I accelerated, watching Carrigan follow, but now with a car between. I was in the right-hand lane; ahead was a turnoff. I waited until the last safe moment, then took the turnoff. As I swung into the cloverleaf, I could still see the white sedan in my mirror, two cars behind. I stayed on the cloverleaf, then cut in front of a furniture van. With the van shielding me, I turned back onto the freeway, going in the opposite direction. It worked. Smiling, I lit a cigarette and then settled back, switching on the radio. As I did, I noticed a Malibu sign. In all the years I’d lived in California, I’d never been to Malibu, just a few miles down the road. Now, I decided, was the time for a good seafood dinner, preceded by a martini, accompanied by a good bottle of wine and followed by cognac.

  All during my excellent dinner the puzzle of Dominic Vennezio’s murder ceaselessly revolved in my thoughts. Who would have murdered him, then called the police? Certainly no one in organized crime. Certainly no one hoping to gain directly by the murder. And how should I interpret my last night’s vision? Who was the woman? What was her actual role in the ghostly tableau? Had she been a grim, silent witness—or a conspirator, directing the assassin?

  Who was the woman? Charlene? Her mother? Mrs. Hanson? And what of the theory that the murderer had actually aimed the crime at Mrs. Hanson? According to that theory, Mrs. Hanson could have been the cloaked figure on the beach, but she might have been an unwilling spectator, tortured and tormented, responding to the murderer’s diabolical whim.

  Who, then, would have desired both the death of Dominic and the anguish of his mistress? Aidia Vennezio, my employer, was an obvious suspect. But there were others—Charlene, perhaps, aided by Larry Sabella, with his own compelling reasons. Russo could have done it—for love or for a different motive, secret still. But then came the matter of the phone call. If the murderer had indeed phoned, Sabella and Russo were eliminated. Because the murderer, according to Dick Gross’s theory, was willing to gamble his life against Mrs. Hanson’s—hoping to incriminate her. Who would have conceived such a gamble? The husband, John Hanson—a loser with nothing more to lose? Someone fanatically devoted to Aidia—Reggie Fay, perhaps? Angelo Vennezio might have done it, both to avenge his mother and to inherit a hundred thousand dollars.

  Yet none of it seemed logical. The more I considered, the more I was inclined to doubt that the murderer had actually intended to incriminate Mrs. Hanson—or, at least, it seemed improbable that incriminating her was his primary purpose. Rather, the phone call might indicate the murderer’s actual willingness to be captured—a death wish.

  Who, then, could have been completely indifferent to his own fate, yet had hated Dominic Vennezio enough to kill him? Who could have known precisely when and where to strike—expertly, perhaps even professionally?

  The more I thought about it, the more confusing the puzzle seemed. Logic had never been a specialty of mine. I could easily conceive the questions. But sorting them out and then arranging them into a coherent pattern had always been difficult for me.

  So, over dessert, I turned my attention to the view out over the ocean—and to a statuesque blonde three tables away, dining with a repulsively fat little man wearing a nubby silk sports jacket, sunglasses and two large diamond rings.

  By seven o’clock I’d finished my dinner and drinks. A little after seven thirty I was turning into Mrs. Hanson’s block, parking across the street from the house and three doors down. Her house was darkened. I switched off the engine, rolled up the window and prepared to wait. I’d decided on a double martini before dinner and a double cognac later—and I’d had a split of white wine with the dinner, instead of just a glass. I was feeling drowsy and was surrendering to the luxury of allowing my eyes to close when a car turned the corner and came toward me. As I watched, the car pulled to the curb in front of the Hanson house. I turned in my seat for a better view. I could see two figures inside the car: a woman on the passenger’s side and a man driving. They seemed to be talking together. Then the passenger’s door opened. The woman got out, nodded to the driver and began walking slowly to the front door, fumbling in her handbag, head bent. The car began pulling away. As it gathered speed, I realized that the car was a Buick—a new Buick sedan.

  Mr. Russo gets two new Buicks a year, Montez had said.

  Quickly I looked again, trying to make out the license number. But at that moment the car turned a nearby corner.

  How many Buick sedans were registered in Los Angeles County? Two thousand? More?

  I got out of the car, locked it and breathed deeply as I walked toward Mrs. Hanson’s door. The air in La Palada was better than that in Los Angeles. I wondered whether the Outfit had considered the smog situation in selecting its own private town.

  I rang the bell, and as I waited I belatedly realized that I had no clear plan. But more and more it seemed Mrs. Hanson had been involved, either as a focus for revenge or because of her relationship to either Vennezio or Russo, possibly both. She …

  The door came open. She was wearing a tailored suit and house slippers. As she recognized me her eyebrows arched in surprise. Involuntarily, she stepped back a single quick pace, her hand moving to the door as if to close it.

  “I know I should’ve phoned,” I said. “But I just got back in town. If you could spare a few minutes …” I let the sentence go unfinished. For the second time that day I realized how an unwelcome salesman must feel, standing hat in hand, smiling with stiff lips.

  She looked at me, unsmiling. Then, without speaking, she turned back into the house, walking directly into the living room. I closed the door and followed her.

  How should I begin? Should I ask her about the Buick? I decided against it. Better to find some neutral ground.

  She switched on a lamp and sat on the sofa, motioning for me to sit opposite her, as we’d sat the day before.

  “I hope you’ve eaten,” I began. “As I drove up, I saw that you were just coming in. I wouldn’t want to—”

  “I ate after work,” she answered, staring at me with her calm gray eyes.

  “Oh. Good.” I nodded, smiled and cleared my throat. “Since I saw you yesterday,” I said, “I’ve learned a couple of things that I don’t think you know, concerning Dominic Vennezio’s murder. For instance, I looked into the actual time element of the murder. I discovered that the murder probably occurred not more than a half hour before you arrived at the beachhouse.”

  “I told you that yesterday,” she said tonelessly.

  “I know. But what you didn’t tell me—or at least what we didn’t discuss—is that the police were notified sometime during that half hour.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Do you have any idea who might’ve phoned the police, Mrs. Hanson?
”

  “N—no. How could I?”

  “Do you know who the police think phoned them?”

  She didn’t reply, simply staring. She sighed once, deeply.

  “They think it was the murderer.”

  “The—the murderer? But—”

  “But what, Mrs. Hanson?”

  “But that doesn’t seem—I mean …” She made a small, helpless gesture, resigned.

  “It doesn’t seem logical. Is that what you were going to say?”

  “Yes, I—I suppose it was.”

  “I thought the same thing myself. But then it occurred to me that the murderer might’ve known you were on your way to the beachhouse. He might’ve wanted the police to arrive just after you.”

  “But why should—I mean—”

  “The murderer might’ve wanted to see you blamed for the murder, Mrs. Hanson.”

  Suddenly she twisted in a swift movement of protest, her body now tensed “No—no. It couldn’t’ve been that.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, I …” She seemed puzzled, then her body again went slack. “I don’t know,” she said dully. “But I—I just—”

  “The last time we talked, we discussed what might’ve happened if the murderer had arrived a little later—or you’d arrived a little earlier. The idea that you could’ve been on the scene—perhaps even murdered—didn’t seem to disturb you. Yet, now, you can’t believe that the murderer might’ve wanted to see you framed. You seemed disturbed at the thought. Why?”

  “I told you yesterday that the thought of being dead no longer terrifies me, Mr. Drake. Maybe that’s your answer.”

  I slowly nodded, watching her as she sat with head slightly bowed, staring down at the floor.

  “I learned something else, Mrs. Hanson,” I said. “Something that also concerns you directly.”

  With an obvious effort she raised her head, meeting my eyes. “I’m very tired tonight, Mr. Drake,” she said. “Whatever it is, I—I wish you’d tell me quickly.”

  “Yes, certainly,” I answered almost solicitously—then immediately felt irked at the sympathy I felt. For a moment I looked away from her drawn face. Then, doggedly, I got on with it: “You told me last night,” I began, “that you had no idea why your husband left you. Is that right?”