“In the basement garage.”
“That’s an idea.”
We went on down the steps and came out into the shadowy basement. The lanky Negro came out of the little office and I gave him my car check. He looked furtively at the police uniform on Shorty. He said nothing. He pointed to the Chrysler.
Degarmo climbed under the wheel of the Chrysler. I got in beside him and Shorty got into the back seat. We went up the ramp and out into the damp cool night air. A big car with twin red spotlights was charging towards us from a couple of blocks away.
Degarmo spat out of the car window and yanked the Chrysler the other way. “That will be Webber,” he said. “Late for the funeral again. We sure skinned his nose on that one, Shorty.”
“I don’t like it too well, lieutenant. I don’t, honest.”
“Keep the chin up, kid. You might get back on homicide.”
“I’d rather wear buttons and eat,” Shorty said. The courage was oozing out of him fast.
Degarmo drove the car hard for ten blocks and then slowed a little. Shorty said uneasily:
“I guess you know what you’re doing, lieutenant, but this ain’t the way to the Hall.”
“That’s right,” Degarmo said. “It never was, was it?”
He let the car slow down to a crawl and then turned into a residential street of small exact houses squatting behind small exact lawns. He braked the car gently and coasted over to the curb and stopped about the middle of the block. He threw an arm over the back of the seat and turned his head to look back at Shorty.
“You think this guy killed her, Shorty?”
“I’m listening,” Shorty said in a tight voice.
“Got a flash?”
“No.”
I said: “There’s one in the car pocket on the left side.”
Shorty fumbled around and metal clicked and the white beam of the flashlight came on. Degarmo said:
“Take a look at the back of this guy’s head.”
The beam moved and settled. I heard the small man’s breathing behind me and felt it on my neck. Something felt for and touched the bump on my head. I grunted. The light went off and the darkness of the street rushed in again.
Shorty said: “I guess maybe he was sapped, lieutenant. I don’t get it.”
“So was the girl,” Degarmo said. “It didn’t show much but it’s there. She was sapped so she could have her clothes pulled off and be clawed up before she was killed. So the scratches would bleed. Then she was throttled. And none of this made any noise. Why would it? And there’s no telephone in that apartment. Who reported it, Shorty?”
“How the hell would I know? A guy called up and said a woman had been murdered in 618 Granada Apartments on Eighth. Reed was still looking for a cameraman when you came in. The desk said a guy with a thick voice, likely disguised. Didn’t give any name at all.”
“All right then,” Degarmo said. “If you had murdered the girl, how would you get out of there?”
“I’d walkout,” Shorty said. “Why not? Hey,” he barked at me suddenly, “why didn’t you?”
I didn’t answer him. Degarmo said tonelessly: “You wouldn’t climb out of a bathroom window six floors up and then burst in another bathroom window into a strange apartment where people would likely be sleeping, would you? You wouldn’t pretend to be the guy that lived there and you wouldn’t throw away a lot of your time by calling the police, would you? Hell, that girl could have laid there for a week. You wouldn’t throw away the chance of a start like that, would you, Shorty?”
“I don’t guess I would,” Shorty said cautiously. “I don’t guess I would call up at all. But you know these sex fiends do funny things, lieutenant. They ain’t normal like us. And this guy could have had help and the other guy could have knocked him out to put him in the middle.”
“Don’t tell me you thought that last bit up all by yourself,” Degarmo grunted. “So here we sit, and the fellow that knows all the answers is sitting here with us and not saying a word.” He turned his big head and stared at me. “What were you doing there?”
“I can’t remember,” I said. “The crack on the head seems to have blanked me out.”
“We’ll help you to remember,” Degarmo said. “We’ll take you up back in the hills a few miles where you can be quiet and look at the stars and remember. You’ll remember all right.”
Shorty said: “That ain’t no way to talk, lieutenant. Why don’t we just go back to the Hall and play this the way it says in the rule book?”
“To hell with the rule book,” Degarmo said. “I like this guy. I want to have one long sweet talk with him. He just needs a little coaxing, Shorty. He’s just bashful.”
“I don’t want any part of it,” Shorty said.
“What do you want to do, Shorty?”
“I want to go back to the Hall.”
“Nobody’s stopping you, kid. You want to walk?”
Shorty was silent for a moment. “That’s right,” he said at last, quietly. “I want to walk.” He opened the car door and stepped out on to the curbing. “And I guess you know I have to report all this, lieutenant.”
“Right,” Degarmo said. “Tell Webber I was asking for him. Next time he buys a hamburger, tell him to turn down an empty plate for me.”
“That don’t make any sense to me,” the small cop said. He slammed the car door shut. Degarmo let the clutch in and gunned the motor and hit forty in the first block and a half. In the third block he hit fifty. He slowed down at the boulevard and turned east and began to cruise along at a legal speed. A few late cars drifted by both ways, but for the most part the world lay in the cold silence of early morning.
After a little while we passed the city limits and Degarmo spoke. “Let’s hear you talk,” he said quietly. “Maybe we can work this out.”
The car topped a long rise and dipped down to where the boulevard wound through the parklike grounds of the veterans’ hospital. The tall triple electroliers had halos from the beach fog that had drifted in during the night. I began to talk.
“Kingsley came over to my apartment tonight and said he had heard from his wife over the phone. She wanted some money quick. The idea was I was to take it to her and get her out of whatever trouble she was in. My idea was a little different. She was told how to identify me and I was to be at the Peacock Lounge at Eighth and Arguello at fifteen minutes past the hour. Any hour.”
Degarmo said slowly: “She had to breeze and that meant she had something to breeze from, such as murder.” He lifted his hands lightly and let them fall on the wheel again.
“I went down there, hours after she had called. I had been told her hair was dyed brown. She passed me going out of the bar, but I didn’t know her. I had never seen her in the flesh. All I had seen was what looked like a pretty good snapshot, but could be that and still not a very good likeness. She sent a Mexican kid in to call me out. She wanted the money and no conversation. I wanted her story. Finally she saw she would have to talk a little and told me she was at the Granada. She made me wait ten minutes before I followed her over.”
Degarmo said: “Time to fix up a plant.”
“There was a plant all right, but I’m not sure she was in on it. She didn’t want me to come up there, didn’t want to talk. Yet she ought to have known I would insist on some explanation before I gave up the money, so her reluctance could have been just an act, to make me feel that I was controlling the situation. She could act all right. I found that out. Anyhow I went and we talked. Nothing she said made very much sense until we talked about Lavery getting shot. Then she made too much sense too quick. I told her I was going to turn her over to the police.”
Westwood Village, dark except for one all-night service station and a few distant windows in apartment houses, slid away to the north of us.
“So she pulled a gun,” I said. “I think she meant to use it, but she got too close to me and I got a headlock on her. While we were wrestling around, somebody came out from behind a green cu
rtain and slugged me. When I came out of that the murder was done.”
Degarmo said slowly: “You get any kind of a look at who slugged you?”
“No. I felt or half saw he was a man and a big one. And this lying on the davenport, mixed in with clothes.” I reached Kingsley’s yellow and green scarf out of my pocket and draped it over his knee. “I saw Kingsley wearing this earlier this evening,” I said.
Degarmo looked down at the scarf. He lifted it under the dashlight. “You wouldn’t forget that too quick,” he said. “It steps right up and smacks you in the eye. Kingsley, huh? Well, I’m damned. What happened then?”
“Knocking on the door. Me still woozy in the head, not too bright and a bit panicked. I had been flooded with gin and my shoes and coat stripped off and maybe I looked and smelled a little like somebody who would yank a woman’s clothes off and strangle her. So I got out through the bathroom window, cleaned myself up as well as I could, and the rest you know.”
Degarmo said: “Why didn’t you lie dormy in the place you climbed into?”
“What was the use? I guess even a Bay City cop would have found the way I had gone in a little while. If I had any chance at all, it was to walk before that was discovered. If nobody was there who knew me, I had a fair chance of getting out of the building.”
“I don’t think so,” Degarmo said. “But I can see where you didn’t lose much trying. What’s your idea of the motivation here?”
“Why did Kingsley kill her—if he did? That’s not hard. She had been cheating on him, making him a lot of trouble, endangering his job and now she had killed a man. Also, she had money and Kingsley wanted to marry another woman. He might have been afraid that with money to spend she would beat the rap and be left laughing at him. If she didn’t beat the rap, and got sent up, her money would be just as thoroughly beyond his reach. He’d have to divorce her to get rid of her. There’s plenty of motive for murder in all that. Also he saw a chance to make me the goat. It wouldn’t stick, but it would make confusion and delay. If murderers didn’t think they could get away with their murders, very few would be committed.”
Degarmo said: “All the same it could be somebody else, somebody who isn’t in the picture at all. Even if he went down there to see her, it could still be somebody else. Somebody else could have killed Lavery too.”
“If you like it that way.”
He turned his head. “I don’t like it any way at all. But if I crack the case, I’ll get by with a reprimand from the police board. If I don’t crack it, I’ll be thumbing a ride out of town. You said I was dumb. Okay, I’m dumb. Where does Kingsley live? One thing I know is how to make people talk.”
“965 Carson Drive, Beverly Hills. About five blocks on you turn north to the foothills. It’s on the left side, just below Sunset. I’ve never been there, but I know how the block numbers run.”
He handed me the green and yellow scarf. “Tuck that back into your pocket until we want to spring it on him.”
CHAPTER 35
It was a two-storied white house with a dark roof. Bright moonlight lay against its wall like a fresh coat of paint. There were wrought-iron grills against the lower halves of the front windows. A level lawn swept up to the front door, which was set diagonally into the angle of a jutting wall. All the visible windows were dark.
Degarmo got out of the car and walked along the parkway and looked back along the drive to the garage. He moved down the driveway and the corner of the house hid him. I heard the sound of a garage door going up, then the thud as it was lowered again. He reappeared at the corner of the house, shook his head at me, and walked across the grass to the front door. He leaned his thumb on the bell and juggled a cigarette out of his pocket with one hand and put it between his lips.
He turned away from the door to light it and the flare of the match cut deep lines into his face. After a while there was light on the fan over the door. The peephole in the door swung back. I saw Degarmo holding up his shield. Slowly and as if unwillingly the door was opened. He went in.
He was gone four or five minutes. Light went on behind various windows, then off again. Then he came out of the house and while he was walking back to the car the light went off on the fan and the whole house was again as dark as we had found it.
He stood beside the car smoking and looking off down the curve of the street.
“One small car in the garage,” he said. “The cook says it’s hers. No sign of Kingsley. They say they haven’t seen him since this morning. I looked in all the rooms. I guess they told the truth. Webber and a print man were there late this afternoon and the dusting powder is still all over the main bedroom. Webber would be getting prints to check against what we found in Lavery’s house. He didn’t tell me what he got. Where would he be—Kingsley?”
“Anywhere,” I said. “On the road, in a hotel, in a Turkish bath getting the kinks out of his nerves. But well have to try his girl friend first. Her name is Fromsett and she lives at the Bryson Tower on Sunset Place. That’s away downtown, near Bullock’s Wilshire.”
“She does what?” Degarmo asked, getting in under the wheel.
“She holds the fort in his office and holds his hand out of office hours. She’s no office cutie, though. She has brains and style.”
“This situation is going to use all she has,” Degarmo said. He drove down to Wilshire and we turned east again.
Twenty-five minutes brought us to the Bryson Tower, a white stucco palace with fretted lanterns in the forecourt and tall date palms. The entrance was in an L, up marble steps, through a Moorish archway, and over a lobby that was too big and a carpet that was too blue. Blue Ali Baba oil jars were dotted around, big enough to keep tigers in. There was a desk and a night clerk with one of those mustaches that get stuck under your fingernail.
Degarmo lunged past the desk towards an open elevator beside which a tired old man sat on a stool waiting for a customer. The clerk snapped at Degarmo’s back like a terrier.
“One moment, please. Whom did you wish to see?”
Degarmo spun on his heel and looked at me wonderingly. “Did he say ‘whom’?”
“Yeah, but don’t hit him,” I said. “There is such a word.”
Degarmo licked his lips. “I knew there was,” he said. “I often wondered where they kept it. Look, buddy,” he said to the clerk, “we want up to 716. Any objection?”
“Certainly I have,” the clerk said coldly. “We don’t announce guests at—” he lifted his arm and turned it neatly to look at the narrow oblong watch on the inside of his wrist—“at twenty-three minutes past four in the morning.”
“That’s what I thought,” Degarmo said. “So I wasn’t going to bother you. You get the idea?” He took his shield out of his pocket and held it so that the light glinted on the gold and the blue enamel. “I’m a police lieutenant.”
The clerk shrugged. “Very well. I hope there isn’t going to be any trouble. I’d better announce you then. What names?”
“Lieutenant Degarmo and Mr. Marlowe.”
“Apartment 716. That will be Miss Fromsett. One moment.”
He went behind a glass screen and we heard him talking on the phone after a longish pause. He came back and nodded.
“Miss Fromsett is in. She will receive you.”
“That’s certainly a load off my mind,” Degarmo said. “And don’t bother to call your house peeper and send him up to the scatter. I’m allergic to house peepers.”
The clerk gave a small cold smile and we got into the elevator.
The seventh floor was cool and quiet. The corridor seemed a mile long. We came at last to a door with 716 on it in gilt numbers in a circle of gilt leaves. There was an ivory button beside the door. Degarmo pushed it and chimes rang inside the door and it was opened.
Miss Fromsett wore a quilted blue robe over her pajamas. On her feet were small tufted slippers with high heels. Her dark hair was fluffed out engagingly and the cold cream had been wiped from her face and just enough makeup app
lied.
We went past her into a rather narrow room with several handsome oval mirrors and gray period furniture upholstered in blue damask. It didn’t look like apartment house furniture. She sat down on a slender love seat and leaned back and waited calmly for somebody to say something.
I said: “This is Lieutenant Degarmo of the Bay City police. We’re looking for Kingsley. He’s not at his house. We thought you might be able to give us an idea where to find him.”
She spoke to me without looking at me. “Is it that urgent?”
“Yes. Something has happened.”
“What has happened?”
Degarmo said bluntly: “We just want to know where Kingsley is, sister. We don’t have time to build up a scene.”
The girl looked at him with a complete absence of expression. She looked back at me and said:
“I think you had better tell me, Mr. Marlowe.”
“I went down there with the money,” I said. “I met her as arranged. I went to her apartment to talk to her. While there I was slugged by a man who was hidden behind a curtain. I didn’t see the man. When I came out of it she had been murdered.”
“Murdered?”
I said: “Murdered.”
She closed her fine eyes and the corners of her lovely mouth drew in. Then she stood up with a quick shrug and went over to a small, marble-topped table with spindly legs. She took a cigarette out of a small embossed silver box and lit it, staring emptily down at the table. The match in her hand was waved more and more slowly until it stopped, still burning, and she dropped it into a tray. She turned and put her back to the table.
“I suppose I ought to scream or something,” she said. “I don’t seem to have any feeling about it at all.”
Degarmo said: “We don’t feel so interested in your feelings right now. What we want to know is where Kingsley is. You can tell us or not tell us. Either way you can skip the attitudes. Just make your mind up.”
She said to me quietly: “The lieutenant here is a Bay City officer?”
I nodded. She turned at him slowly, with a lovely contemptuous dignity. “In that case,” she said, “he has no more right in my apartment than any other loud-mouthed bum that might try to toss his weight around.”
The Collected Raymond Chandler Page 85