Come Die with Me (4 page)

I said with dignity, “Let’s keep it clean, Caroline, if that’s within your powers.”

“Huh!” he said. “Look who’s talking!”

Pascal said, “You are going to cooperate two hundred percent, aren’t you, Muscles? I think it would be fair to say we have you where the hair is short.” His sardonic glum face was cold.

“Don’t push me,” I said, “either one of you. You guys have both needed me a hell of a lot more than I have ever needed you. We all know that, don’t we?”

Caroline sneered, Pascal stared coldly. I stared back at Pascal just as coldly.

Finally, Pascal said, “Where’s Miss Bonnet?”

“In the bathroom. Listen to me before you talk with her. I have a very, very high regard for Miss Bonnet and her reputation. If anything should happen to diminish that reputation, I would make it a lifetime mission to destroy the responsible parties.”

Pascal still stared and now Caroline’s sneer had changed to a stare.

Pascal’s voice was tight. “Are you threatening me?”

“I am stating my case as simply as I can,” I said, “consider it a threat or any goddamned thing you want. It is a solemn promise.”

“I ought to run you in right now,” Pascal said. “Damn you, you’re talking to a police officer.”

I said nothing.

Caroline said, “Let’s run him in and give his alibi to the newspapers.”

“Alibi?” I asked. “I haven’t offered anyone any alibis. And I haven’t been informed by anyone official that I need an alibi. If I need one, tell me for what hours I need it and for what reason.”

They were both silent.

“Shall I phone my attorney?” I asked. “You fellows can wait out in the car.”

“We can take both of you over to the station,” Pascal said.

I nodded. “It’s your decision, Sergeant. I’ve stated my case.”

Another silence, and then he asked, “What got you so worked up?”

“Officer Caroline’s opening remark. I consider it vulgar and demeaning.”

“Demeaning …?” Caroline asked. “What’s that?”

Pascal permitted himself a thin smile. “You love the girl, huh?”

I didn’t have time to answer. From the archway behind me Jan asked coolly. “What is going on in here?”

I turned to face my lady, dignified and lovely and looking taller because she was standing so proudly.

Pascal said, “Good morning, Miss Bonnet. I don’t know if you remember me or not. …”

“I remember you,” she said. “You’re Sergeant Pascal. You’re the man Brock solved the Dunbar murder for.”

He said nothing, staring at her for a change. Caroline was smiling.

I said, “Why don’t we begin all over like civilized human beings? I suppose you want me to start from where I talked with Captain Apoyan yesterday?”

Pascal took a deep breath. “I want you to start further back than that.”

Jan asked casually, “Will you be needing me? I should be getting to the shop.”

There was another silence. This one was longer and the most important of all the silences we had endured this morning. Finally Pascal said, “No, I guess we won’t be needing you, Miss Bonnet.”

“That was too bad about Mr. Malone,” she said. “I decorated his father-in-law’s house. Mr. William Duster—do you know him?”

“I—have heard of him,” Pascal said. “I—don’t know him personally.” He looked at me. “A friend of yours, too?”

“I never met the man,” I said steadily.

Pascal looked back at Jan. “Did Mr. Duster, by chance, ever mention to you his feelings about his son-in-law, his general attitude toward him?”

Jan shook her head. “Until Brock told me, I had no idea Mr. Malone was Mr. Duster’s son-in-law.”

“Thank you,” he said and looked at me. “Where will we talk?”

“Right here,” I suggested. “There’s still some coffee left and you boys look like you could use some.”

They sat down and Jan said good-bye and Caroline waited until she had closed the door to say, “A lovely girl like that and a crummy private eye. How come you don’t get married?”

“Because she won’t marry a crummy private eye. Do you boys use sugar and cream?”

They told me what they used and I brought the coffee and told them all about my yesterday, every word, and even showed them the letter Jan had written to Mr. Duster for me.

“Why’d she write this?” Pascal asked.

“She wanted me to solicit his business. I explained to her that reputable agencies don’t solicit.”

“You’re not an agency; you’re a man.”

I said nothing.

He asked, “How do you figure the Petroff brothers in this?”

“So far as I know, what they told me made sense. How do you figure them generally?”

“Clean, for gamblers. Never heavy and never involved with any syndicate.”

“So,” I said, “what have we got? Duster, his daughter, Gina Ronico, maybe Harry Adler, but biggest of all—Frank Giovanni. Adler we can eliminate, probably.”

“We, we, we …” Sergeant Pascal said. “What do you mean—
we
?”

“Brock Callahan and the L.A.P.D.,” I explained. “Are you telling me to stay out of this?”

“You don’t work for nothing. Who’d pay you?”

“Somebody, eventually,” I answered. “Somebody always does, eventually.”

Caroline smiled. “I thought you didn’t solicit? Not much!”

“I never solicit,” I said firmly. “But being locally prominent and practically incorruptible, I am frequently solicited by those in trouble. In this particular case I have already had contact with a number of the principals, and one or more of them will undoubtedly try to hire me.”

“Lah-de-dah,” Caroline said. “Ain’t we something?”

“I am trying to give this miserable racket some dignity,” I explained patiently. “I am trying to be articulate and forthright and informative.”

Pascal shook his head. “God help us. I can never tell when you’re serious.”

“Does it matter? Have you ever wondered when I was honest? Have I ever been anything else?”

“Yes,” Caroline said.

Pascal frowned. “Basically, you have always been honest so far as my experience with you goes. And I’ll admit when you cut a cute corner, it’s on the side of the angels. But also basically, you’re in a dishonest business.”

“He hath brought many captives home to justice,” I reminded him. “A number of them to the West Side Station.”

“Stop it,” he said. “Don’t get coy; a man is dead.”

There was another of our nonpregnant silences and then Caroline said wearily, “Why do we fight the slob, Sarge? We’re going to ride with him, anyway. We always do.”

“I know, I know,” Pascal said. “Okay, Brock, you go see Duster.”

I frowned. “See Duster? Solicit him, you mean? No?”

“See him. Don’t solicit him. Tell him you’re working for another client and investigating his son-in-law’s murder. Get his reaction.”

“And who pays me for this?”

He stood up and smiled. “To use your words—somebody always does, eventually.”

“Cut it out,” I protested. “You’re asking me to work for nothing, that’s what you’re doing.”

“You could use a couple of friends, couldn’t you? Friends who are decent enough to keep your romantic escapades from the newspapers, friends that only half an hour ago you threatened to destroy?”

I stood up and so did Caroline. I said, “It’s blackmail.”

Sergeant Pascal shook his head. “It’s friendly persuasion.”

“It’s an alliance,” Caroline said. “It’s good citizens working together, that’s what it is.”

Pascal looked wonderingly at Caroline and then accusingly at me. “Ye gods,” he said, “now you’ve got
him
doing it.”

J
AN HAD STACKED THE
dishes. I washed them before driving over to the office. It was a beautiful, sunny day, with only a few fleecy clouds in the sky and nowhere any indication of our recent deluge. The flivver hummed to herself and I sang quietly and melodiously.

At my office there were three bills and one check. I filed the bills and put the check in my wallet and dialed my answering service. The nasal, disembodied voice of the poor man’s secretary informed me that a Mr. Harry Adler had phoned twice and would phone again.

I could guess why he wanted to talk with me, so I typed up my interviews of yesterday. If Harry was acting as Mrs. Malone’s agent, he probably wanted to hire me to investigate the case. And this case had really started yesterday. It was logical to guess Mrs. Malone wouldn’t have the time nor the inclination to see me today. There was a funeral to be arranged.

Harry didn’t phone. He came in around ten-thirty and confirmed what I had told Sergeant Pascal—somebody would eventually pay me. Mrs. Malone wanted me to investigate the death of her husband.

Harry said, “If the Police Department doesn’t object. They probably will, won’t they?”

“Possibly not. They’ve already talked to me about it, because of my investigation yesterday. Any favorite suspects, Harry?”

He shrugged and looked bleakly past me, toward the window. “I’m no Hawkshaw. Like I said yesterday, though, Giovanni could be the man to start with.”

“Why?”

His eyes came back to me. “He’s the only hoodlum Tip knew, ain’t he?”

“I doubt it,” I said. “From what I heard yesterday, this Malone man must have been quite a little monster.”

“Nobody’s perfect.”

“Did you like him, Harry?”

He frowned. “What difference does that make? This world is full of fine people I don’t like.”

“Did you like him?”

“I didn’t have any feeling about him either way, except financial.”

“Are you going to the funeral? Are you going to send flowers?”

“Get off my back, Callahan.” He took a deep breath. “You figuring me for a suspect, or something?”

“Not officially,” I said. “Everybody’s a suspect. Shall I bill Mrs. Malone directly or through you?”

“Bill her.” He stood up. “Did you see Giovanni yesterday?”

“No. He wasn’t home.” I paused. “Harry, I did learn something yesterday when I went to see Giovanni. I put it into yesterday’s report. But it just occurred to me that it isn’t something I want Mrs. Malone to know right now. Would it be honest to leave it out?”

He smiled sadly. “Your honesty is your problem. I got enough to do trying to figure my own.” His voice was quieter. “A broad?”

I nodded.

“You could hold off for a couple of days with that kind of information. Until after the funeral, at least.”

I nodded. I said, “I never should have left the Church. Then I wouldn’t have to make my own moral decisions.”

“If you’d have stayed with the Church,” he told me, “you’d have to find a new profession.” That was his exit line.

There was no reason for him to be superior; his profession was as scorned as mine by laymen. Though we both rendered a highly important service in a civilization as complex as ours.

If Gloria Duster Malone was naïve enough to believe Tip’s tomcat inclinations had ended with their marriage, it would be logical to guess she had nothing to do with his death. I was certain she hadn’t, anyway, just as I was certain Harry Adler couldn’t be involved. But today’s certainty is tomorrow’s incredulity; it was bad practice to assume innocence because of an apparent lack of motive. It is usually the motives that are hidden, not the killers.

I phoned Giovanni’s apartment and a maid answered. She told me Mr. Giovanni had left for Las Vegas late yesterday afternoon. And then, on what must have been an extension, another voice broke in to ask, “Who is this, please?”

“Brock Callahan,” I answered. “Is this Miss Ronico?”

There was a click and the maid was off the line. Gina Ronico said softly. “The police were here to talk with me this morning. Why were they here?”

“Don’t you know?”

A momentary silence, and then, “Did you tell them? Did you tell them I was with Tip yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes. Were you with him last night?”

“Of course not! You shouldn’t say things like that. Why would I be?”

“I have no idea, but it seems likely somebody was. I’m sure he didn’t go up there to play solitaire.”

A longer pause and I thought I could hear her breathing. Finally, “Are you—are you still working for Mrs. Malone?”

“I could be.”

“I suppose the police will tell her where Tip was yesterday afternoon …?”

“Not unless it’s important. Is it?”

“It—wasn’t anything—serious. He …” A long pause. “I don’t like to talk over the phone. Could you come over here?”

I told her I’d be right over.

Maybe yesterday hadn’t been wasted; my actions then were stirring up reactions today, and today I was being paid. Without official status, with no big stick to wave, the private operative can work only on the reaction of the people he investigates. Only in their reaction can he hope to find revelation.

So far Miss Ronico had been the only person to reveal her concern. But there would be others. There always were.

She was wearing black velvet Capri pants and a white cashmere pullover when she opened the door to my ring. In the white and gold room this was very effective. Even if she had been flat-chested, it would have been effective. She was wearing also a tremulous smile, Hollywood Drama School No. 3, and an appealing air of adolescent concern.

“How old are you?” I asked.

She frowned. “Why …? I’m twenty-seven. Why?”

“You look much younger. Tip Malone built his reputation on ladies much younger.”

Her chin trembled. “His wife isn’t younger. Can’t you stop hating him, now that he’s dead?”

“I don’t hate him. I never even met him until yesterday.”

She stared at me. I stared at her. She turned and looked out at the city, giving me her facial and mammary profile. Something stirred in me. …

“You’re a beautiful woman,” I said.

She turned back. “And you’re a cynical and probably vulgar man. I don’t now why I asked you to come over.”

I stood patiently where I was, waiting for her mood to change. She said, “I suppose you’ve already told Mrs. Malone about yesterday afternoon?”

I shook my head. “What was there to tell? Tip was here and I put that into my report but only a low mind would read anything into that. And I’ll probably take it out of the report I send to Mrs. Malone.”

“Why? Why should you do that?” She waved at the davenport. “Sit down, Mr. Callahan.”