Cat and Mouse

by William Campbell Gault

  I bought a copy of the Times and went up to the room. I couldn’t concentrate on the print. All the people I had met, all those names, kept running through my mind. A tidbit here, another there, learning almost everything about Big Bear but his true name. He had to be on the run, either an escapee from prison or a man who had violated his parole. He hadn’t revealed his true name to anyone we had questioned; if there was a price on his head, a reward for his capture, Lenny’s criminal associates were not likely to have learned it.

  I phoned Aram and asked him if he had gone through his mug shots. All of them, he told me, and they had reviewed all the wanted posters they had. They were still keeping a watch on the tobacco store in town that sold Corinth cigarettes.

  The man had to be sadistic. Why the warning? Why this cat and mouse? Without the warning I would have been an easy target and his mission would now be accomplished. But the dead don’t suffer; that is reserved for the living. He wanted me to sweat.

  I went back to the Times. The front page informed me that the Valley Intruder had pleaded innocent to all charges. The sports page revealed that the Dodgers were on a losing streak, the Angels breaking even, a win for each loss. The financial page gave me the sad news that, like the Dodgers, I was also on a losing streak.

  At ten o’clock I told the clerk that I would be out at the pool if any call came in. I took a bottle of Beck’s with me.

  They were mostly kids in the pool, laughing and splashing in the shallow end, innocents. And tomorrow, even if they stayed innocent, the ghost of that mushroom cloud would be hovering overhead. That could be the major reason that their high school siblings were so heavily into drugs.

  I was in the room when Harley came back. It had taken him almost two hours to locate our last juvenile hope and only minutes to learn we now knew no more than we had known.

  “We still have Lenny,” I pointed out.

  “Do you trust him?”

  “I trust his sense of self-interest. Patience, man!”

  He stretched out on the bed. “It was so simple in the Corps. Your superior told you what to do and you did it—or wished you had. They run an orderly world. But this—this dog eat dog—” He took a deep breath.

  I thought of pointing out that prisons also ran an orderly world. But I said, “It’s called free enterprise. You’ve been out in it for five years, Harley.”

  “I know. I must be a slow learner.”

  “Let’s eat lunch.”

  “I’d rather drink it,” he said. “But that’s another problem I had better watch. It was the only diversion we had in Sun City.”

  Lenny phoned when we were back in the room. There was a man named Vince Columbini, he told me, who ran a combination restaurant, bar, and bookie joint in town who might have some information on Big Bear. The place was named The Hangout. He gave me the address.

  “But he won’t be there until eight o’clock tonight. He had to go to Ventura on business. He remembers you. He’s a Rams fan. It could be nothing—but I’m still asking around.”

  “That’s good of you. Thanks, Lenny.”

  When I relayed the information to Harley, he suggested, “Why don’t we take a run on the beach and then come back for a swim?”

  “I didn’t bring my running shoes or swimming trunks.”

  “There’s a sports store a little more than a block from here. And for the swimming you could use my jock strap and your underwear shorts.”

  “They’ll probably have swimming trunks there.”

  He nodded. “And my jock strap would probably be too big for you.”

  “What a funny, vulgar person you are!” I said.

  They had swimming trunks and running shoes. I also bought a sweat shirt and wore it with a pair of well-worn cords I had brought for possible undercover work.

  The afternoon had turned cool; the beach was thinly populated. Mr. Macho Marine set a fast pace for the outgoing two miles. I trailed behind, giving him a false sense of security.

  On the return run, I edged closer, waiting for him to falter. His stride grew ragged in the last half mile. I turned on my supercharger and beat him by almost ten yards.

  “You sure fooled me,” he admitted. “A man your size!”

  I smiled modestly.

  “Let’s go back and take a shower and splash around in the pool,” he suggested. “We could use a change. I’m getting tired of running into dead ends.”

  We splashed around in the deep end while the young kids splashed around in the shallow. Then we stretched out on pads in the returning sun.

  Why, I wondered, hadn’t Big Bear made his move? I’d been out in the open enough. It had to be what I thought it was; he wanted me to sweat. I voiced this thought to Harley.

  “If you mean at the beach,” he said, “you were a moving target there. I learned that in the Marines: don’t shoot at a moving target. Because if you miss, the next shot is theirs. And that creep doesn’t have a license to kill. He isn’t about to do it in front of witnesses. What he wants is you all by yourself. Let’s not talk about him. We forgot that freak for a spell. This afternoon was fun, wasn’t it?”

  “We needed the break,” I agreed.

  Half an hour later he went up to phone his wife. I pulled my pad into the shade and tried to take a nap. It was hopeless; too many faces, too many questions, not enough answers.

  I was about to go up to the room when a tall lean old man in jeans and a corduroy jacket came over to me. “The desk clerk told me you were out here,” he said. “Are you Mr. Callahan?”

  I nodded.

  “My name is Amos Meredith. I’m Jane’s brother. Captain Apoyan told me you were the one who found Jane. I thought maybe you might know something about the man she was living with.”

  “I know some things about him—but not his name. Did your sister know it?”

  He sat down in a chair nearby. “No. And that could be the reason why—what happened happened. He told her his name was Bart Tuttle. Well, I only met him once when I was down here and I didn’t like him. He told me then that he had worked at Reilly Cartage in Oxnard for two years. That’s where Jane and I lived until she moved down here. And I learned from some of the old-timers at Reilly Cartage that no Bart Tuttle had ever worked there. I phoned Jane night before last and told her that. That could be why—”

  His voice broke. He sniffled. He reached into his jacket pocket, took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

  I said quietly, “Your sister wouldn’t be the first, Mr. Meredith.”

  I went on to tell him about Jasper Belton and the notes I had received. “Jasper’s father and I are looking for the man right now.”

  “I hope you find him,” he said. “I hope he gets what he deserves.” He shook his head. “But when I think about some of the creatures the courts have turned loose lately—”

  “Not this time,” I said—and almost believed it.

  He left. I sat and remembered that scene Harley and I had come upon, that thin old woman with the bloody face being nibbled by rats. Amos was right; the courts had turned loose some strange creatures. Not this time, I tried to tell myself…

  Harley was watching the tube when I went up to the room. The picture showed a nine-story hotel that had collapsed, all the top floors now resting on the floor below them.

  “A seven point eight earthquake has hit Mexico City,” he told me. “They don’t know how many thousands have died. Jesus!”

  The horror story went on, scene after scene. Mangled infants were now being carried from the rubble.

  “Enough!” I said and turned off the set.

  I told him about my visit from Amos Meredith and what he had told me.

  “Do you think Bart Tuttle is his real name?”

  “I don’t. The kids are one thing, but the woman he lived with sure as hell wouldn’t settle for Big Bear.”

  “Right.” He sighed. “Thank God we had our afternoon in the sun. The picture of that woman lying there in the dirt—and those rats! And then those
pictures on the tube! It could put a man over the edge. I’m going to have a stiff drink with my dinner. We didn’t have any at lunch.”

  “I’ll have one, too. Should we try that place that Lenny mentioned, The Hangout?”

  “As long as they have booze, why not?”

  It looked like my kind of place, red-and-white-checked tablecloths on rough wooden tables, a bottle of ketchup holding center stage on each of the tables. There were two male waiters in shiny black suits and black bow ties, one waitress in a short black skirt and a well-filled white blouse.

  We both ordered double bourbon over ice. There was more bourbon than ice, a welcome change from our motel bar. Harley ordered spaghetti and meat balls. I ordered fettuccini with clam sauce.

  When the waiter brought our coffee, I asked, “Is Mr. Columbini here yet? My name is Brock Callahan.”

  “He’ll be here by the time you finish your coffee, Mr. Callahan. He’s expecting you.”

  He came to our table when we finished our coffee. “Mr. Columbini will see you now.”

  We followed him down a narrow hallway past both rest rooms to a small office at the end. The door was open. We went in. He closed the door.

  The walls were paneled in cedar, the wall behind the desk crowded with photographs, some of them signed. Deacon Jones, Crazy Legs Hirsch, Bob Waterfield, Tom Fears, Tank Younger, Norm Van Brocklin, and on to the newer Ram stars and our current superstar, Eric Dickerson.

  Columbini stood up from behind his desk, a man as short and wide as Lenny but not quite as ugly. His stiff hair was iron gray. “The Rock!” he said. “Finally!”

  He picked up a photograph from his desk and a pen. “Please?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  When I had autographed it, he hung it on one of the few bare hooks on the wall and said, “Sit down, gentlemen.”

  We sat in a pair of straight-backed chairs near his desk. He said, “I’ve been phoning around since Lenny told me what you wanted. I’m sorry to say that I haven’t come up with much.”

  “Neither have we. This is Jasper Belton’s father.”

  “I guessed that. I mean to help as much as I can, Mr. Belton.”

  Harley nodded. “Thank you.”

  “From my reliable sources,” Columbini told us, “I learned that this man is a compulsive gambler and a steady loser. His favorite gambling game seems to be craps. We don’t have much of that in town. I also learned that he once mentioned a younger brother who was in prison, but that was some time ago. From my less reliable sources, but still a logical guess, he also must have been in prison and escaped or possibly violated his parole.”

  “That’s my guess, too,” I said. “Especially if there’s a reward out for his capture.”

  “Exactly. Unfortunately, that’s all I have learned. I’ve exhausted my sources of information.”

  I thanked him and we left. In the car, Harley said, “He talks like a banker and he’s a bookie.”

  “They’re both in the money game,” I explained. “We’ve probably learned all we can here. He could be up in San Valdesto now.”

  “Not while you’re here and your house there is guarded.”

  When we came into the motel, the desk clerk told me somebody had left a message. It was an envelope without a stamp or postmark, only my name typed in capital letters.

  The file card inside was also typed: You’re getting closer. Start digging your grave.

  CHAPTER 11

  SEVEN WORDS AGAIN. I asked the clerk, “Did you see the person who left this?”

  He shook his head. “I was in the washroom. It was on the counter when I came back. But one of our guests told me he saw the boy who put it there. He didn’t get a glimpse of his face, only his back. He was a skinny black kid. Trouble, Mr. Callahan?”

  I nodded. “A threat.”

  Harley said, “It was probably some kid he saw outside and paid to bring it in.”

  The clerk asked, “Should I phone the police?”

  I shook my head. “Not if we can’t identify the boy. We’re working with the police.”

  “And you have no idea of who might have sent it to you?”

  “Everything but his name,” I said. “If we get any phone calls be sure not to give the caller our room number.”

  He assured me that it was house policy to give no caller or visitor a guest’s room number.

  In the room, Harley asked, “How in hell did he learn that you’re still here?”

  I shrugged. “But we know he’s here now.”

  “We should. But with a kook like him, how can we be sure?”

  This was Friday. I said, “We’ll stay over tomorrow and hope we have better luck. Then I’m going home. Let him come to me.”

  “I’ll be going there, too,” he said. “I’ll be at the Sheraton.”

  “Nope. You’ll stay at our house. I need you around, buddy.”

  “I’ll bet your wife will love that.”

  “She won’t complain. I guarantee it.”

  He went over to the windows and looked down. “There’s no way he can climb up here. I think we should move one of our beds in front of the door.”

  We did that. Then he went to his grip and took out a big black Colt .45-caliber semiautomatic. “One of us has to be armed,” he said.

  “Both of us are,” I told him. “I lied to Apoyan.”

  Fatigue and frustration fought each other in me when I went to bed. Fatigue finally won; I fell asleep.

  Harley was shaving in the morning when I woke up. He had pulled his bed away from the door and the complimentary copy of the morning Times was lying on it.

  Chief Chandler Harris had weaseled himself some big-city ink. He had explained in an interview with a Times reporter that the Meredith murder in Santa Monica and Jasper’s murder in San Valdesto had undoubtedly been committed by the same man. He went on to compare it with the Valley Intruder.

  Sheriff McClune, when interviewed by the same reporter, said simply, “I think we should wait until all the facts are in.”

  When Harley came out I asked, “Did you read this?”

  He nodded. “When I was there, McClune told me Harris was more politician than cop.”

  “He told you the truth. Harris ran for Congress two years ago and got swamped. Maybe he’s running for governor now.”

  “I liked McClune,” he said.

  “He’s a good cop,” I agreed, “and content to be just that.”

  “And I was content to be a good Marine,” he said. “But that’s not easy to explain to a wife, is it?”

  “I guess not. I had to get solvent before I got married.”

  Apoyan didn’t work on Saturdays. His weekend substitute did and we were semi-friends. Harley stayed at the motel to take any calls. I took last night’s warning to the station.

  “There probably won’t be any useful fingerprints on it,” I explained, “but it should mean the man is still in town, shouldn’t it?”

  He shook his head. “We had a call at four o’clock this morning from Ventura. Jane Meredith’s Pontiac was found abandoned there. The plates had been changed but the registration slip was still in the glove box. That’s pretty dumb for a car thief.”

  I told him what we had learned last night without mentioning Columbini’s name.

  “I suppose, as usual, you aren’t going to give me the name of your source?”

  “I would if I could. But I don’t know it. I got the information over the phone.”

  He smiled. “You know, Brock, if anybody else had told me that he’d wind up in the sweat box. But I know what a stubborn bastard you are. How are you and Chief Harris getting along?”

  “Not as well as I got along with you and Aram.”

  “I can imagine. What’s he running for now—senator?”

  “He doesn’t confide in me. Give my best to Aram. I’m going home.”

  “If you intend to make a stop in Ventura, I’ll put in a call for you.”

  “Thanks. But I’m sure he’s
heading for San Valdesto.”

  Harley was reading the paper when I came to the room. I told him what I had learned and that I thought it was time to head for home.

  He agreed.

  “You can follow me,” I told him. “Most good drivers agree that the proper distance for the following car should be one car length for each ten miles per hour of speed.”

  “Yes, sir!” he said and saluted.

  There was no way he could follow that procedure. The Ventura Freeway was jammed and the sports-car pukes kept switching lanes, crowding into any open space that gave them a clearance of more than six inches, slowing the normal flow of traffic as the citizens backed off to give them room.

  His Camaro went zipping past soon after we left Oxnard. Sixty miles later he was waiting for me at the Montevista turnoff.

  From there up the long winding road to home he maintained the good-driver distance.

  Corey was sitting in a deck chair in the shade at the north side of the house, keeping his eagle eye on the road in front. He came over as we drove in.

  I introduced him to Harley and asked, “Is Jan home?”

  He shook his head. “I took her to work this morning before the guard left. Vogel doesn’t work on Saturdays.”

  “I thought the guard left at seven o’clock?”

  “Not today. Mallory has decided I’m not a suspect. I cost you money, Brock; you don’t have to pay more for security. I’ll watch the place.”

  I was tempted to remind him that he was the one who was paying for the bond by working for me. But that would have spoiled a happy homecoming.

  Mrs. Casey was preparing lunch in the kitchen. “Thank God you’re home!” she said.

  “I brought a guest for lunch. He’ll probably be staying over.”

  “That’s all right. Just so you’re home.”

  Harley went out to try the pool after lunch. Corey went back to his vantage point, taking a paperback mystery along. I stayed in the house, recording all I had learned on the trip. The pattern of the man was beginning to emerge.

  Leaving Jane Meredith’s registration slip in her car could be another of his ploys, luring me to a fruitless hunt, stretching out my sentence of apprehension and frustration.

  He knew where we were staying in Santa Monica but had not made his move. Why not? If I was his target, why not? I knew why, damn him! I put the papers away and went out to the pool.