Day of the Ram

by William Campbell Gault

  “Not very much, Mr. Quirk.”

  “You will, though, won’t you?”

  I paused, trying to think of the tactful answer. I was in business in this town and he was one of the leading citizens.

  He said, “You’ve too much conscience, Mr. Callahan. That’s not always an asset in business.” He sat down at the table. “You needn’t answer my question.” He picked up the paper and ignored me.

  Well, damn him. He wasn’t a football fan, so how could I explain my position to him? And why should I have to explain my position to him? He had hired me as a bodyguard, not a youth counselor.

  I was going through the entrance hall to the front door when Moira Quirk came down the stairs.

  “Finished with the case already, Mr. Callahan?” she asked brightly.

  “I’ll be back this evening,” I answered.

  Her smile seemed superior. “We’ll be waiting.”

  Don’t hold your breath, I almost said, but didn’t. Not to the Quirks of Beverly Hills.

  In the parking area, the flivver waited patiently. The plastic seat was hot and the steering wheel almost untouchable. I opened the front windows and the left-hand vent and drove slowly down the long driveway to Sunset Boulevard.

  My office wasn’t hot; it still held the cool of the night. It’s on the east side of the street. There had been a call from Jan Bonnet, my phone-answering service informed me.

  I phoned her shop and her home, but there was no answer at either place. My mail consisted of one bill, two ads and a letter from my aunt in La Jolla. She wanted to know why I hadn’t been up to visit her and could I get her a pair of good seats for the Detroit Lion game in October? Her latest boy friend was a Ram fan, it seemed.

  I got out my books and figured my income for the year, so far, and compared it with my expenses. It would have been more profitable, I learned, for me to have gone to work at Douglas.

  But of course I wouldn’t meet people like the Quirks at Douglas. Though to balance that, I wouldn’t meet people like Sergeant Gnup, either.

  I had put the books away and was opening the Examiner to Vincent X. Flaherty when my door opened.

  The man standing there was fairly big and rather handsome and his tailoring was far superior to mine. He smiled genially. “Mr. Callahan, I believe?”

  “Right. What brings you to my humble office, Enrico Martino?”

  His smiled faded for only an instant. “My friends call me Rick, Rick Martin.”

  “I guess I’m not one of your friends. The men’s room is two doors further down the hall.”

  “Why the belligerence?” he asked me calmly.

  Why indeed? I said, “Sit down, Mr. Martino, and unfold your story.”

  “Oh, I just dropped in,” he said. He came over to sit in my customer’s chair. He took a package of cigarettes from the pocket of his beautiful flannel jacket and lighted one. “We — have a mutual friend, I believe. Miss Jan Bonnet?”

  I nodded. “I know her.”

  “Excellent taste,” he said. “She did my home. I live here in Beverly Hills, you know.”

  “I didn’t know. I’ll try to be more respectful.”

  He studied me quietly for seconds. “What’s your beef with me, Callahan?”

  “Nothing specific,” I said, “just general. I don’t like gamblers much and pimps less. Maybe I was on a clean-living kick too long. You didn’t drop in to pass the time of day, did you?”

  He shook his head, looking at me as dispassionately as a diner at a menu. He flicked some ash from his cigarette. “Not completely. I’ve been wondering about Johnny Quirk.”

  “What have you been wondering about him?”

  “What the real story is. You know it, don’t you?”

  “The story of Sunday’s game, you mean? You were there. You know as much about it as I do.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve been approached by the local police, Callahan. In a purely advisory way, I might add. Some gambler has threatened Quirk, hasn’t he?”

  “That might be.”

  He smiled. “That mustn’t happen to one of our Beverly Hills boys, right?”

  “I guess the police would figure that, if he was approached. What brought you to me?”

  “I saw you leave the Quirk house a little while ago. You’ve been called in on the case, haven’t you?”

  Silence, for a few seconds. Then I said evenly, “If there was a case, and I was called in on it, I certainly wouldn’t discuss it with outsiders.”

  No resentment in the bland face. “You can’t be that rich. The pros don’t pay that much to guards. You could use a friend who might have work for you from time to time.”

  “I certainly could,” I agreed. “But if I want to stay in the honest end of this business, there are certain companions I’d better avoid. You’d be one of them. Good day to you, Enrico.”

  He was silent. Then he stood up and looked down at me condescendingly. “You poor, cheap slob.”

  “Beat it, Martino,” I said. “It’s been a bad morning.”

  He snorted in disgust. “Look, muscles, before I got smart, I spent three years as an amateur fighter. Don’t try to scare me.

  I stood up slowly and leaned across the desk. I reached a right hand out and slapped him sharply on the left cheek. “Run, Enrico, run for help.”

  I saw his right fist clench and then his left. I waited for his Latin temper to boil over. But the veneer held; Rick Martin was now a respected citizen of Beverly Hills.

  He said softly, “You’ll have reason to regret that, Callahan. I’m sure we’ll meet again.” He went out and left a quiet deep enough for me to hear the pound of my heart.

  That was Tuesday, and the only other important thing that happened was a phone call from Lieutenant Remington. He told me that I wouldn’t be needed at the Quirk home that night; they would take over that end, too.

  I said stiffly, “Mr. Quirk hired me, Lieutenant. You didn’t.”

  His voice sharpened. “He authorized me to tell you this. And I have. Don’t be belligerent, Callahan. Men in your profession need all the police co-operation they can get.”

  “I’ve sure been getting a hell of a lot of it,” I said, and hung up on him.

  My phone rang again almost immediately, but I ignored it. I looked in the phone book and saw that David Keene had a bookstore not too far from here.

  I walked over. One of the clerks directed me to a small office at the rear of the store, and I found David Keene there, going over a stamp album.

  There was surprise on his intelligent young face. “Nothing’s happened to John, has it?”

  I shook my head. “You’re a pretty good friend of his, aren’t you?”

  He smiled and shrugged. “I suppose. It’s only recently that he’s been really friendly, though. Why do you ask?”

  “You’ve known him a long time?”

  “Since we were six. What’s on your mind, Mr. Callahan?”

  “Who’s the girl he had out Sunday night?”

  Keene frowned. “I don’t know. John’s probably had a lot of girl friends I don’t know about.”

  “This must be one he was ashamed of. Is there some actress or singer he’s been seeing?”

  Keene smiled. “You’d better not let Moira hear you use that tone of voice when you talk about actresses.”

  “C’mon, David,” I said impatiently. “If Johnny’s got a hot number lined up, he’d tell the boys about it. He wouldn’t tell his dad or Moira or Miss Curtis. But I’ll bet he told you.”

  Keene looked at me solemnly and shook his head. “He didn’t tell me whom he was with Sunday night.”

  “But has he talked about some girl?”

  Keene nodded. “Yes. But in confidence.”

  I said patiently, “I have only Johnny’s interests at heart. I’m no snooper.”

  For a moment he looked uncertain. And then he said, “There’s a girl named Jackie Held he’s been seeing. I suppose that’s a nickname for Jacqueline. She’s a TV b
it player, I heard, and without any noticeable talent. Dramatic talent, of course, I mean.”

  “Do you think he had her out Sunday night?”

  “I don’t know. Any other questions, Mr. Callahan?”

  I inclined my head toward the books in the store. “Have you read all those?”

  He smiled. “More than I should have, perhaps.”

  “Then maybe you could tell me what ‘day of the ram’ means?”

  He closed his eyes in thought. “Let’s see — it was a Baby-Ionian feast day. And — now, wait — ” He grimaced. “It was in honor, I’m sure, of some man of great physical prowess, though I’ve forgotten the man, now. You see, the Babylonian calendar was divided according to reigns, and — ”

  “I know,” I told him. “Believe it or not, I went to Stanford. And thanks a lot for the girl’s name, David. I don’t think you betrayed a confidence. I’m sure the police got her name from Johnny.”

  He nodded. “They probably did. Well, Mr. Callahan, if you should ever need a good book — ”

  “I’ll know where to get it,” I finished for him. “Thanks a lot.”

  • • •

  Wednesday I worked on another job, a rather detailed credit and character check on a man who was courting a local heiress. The girl’s papa wanted a good job done and he was willing to pay for it. Thursday morning I was still working on it. I’d found Jackie Held’s address and tried to phone her intermittently through this period. But without success.

  Thursday noon I had lunch with Jan. I told her about Rick Martin’s visit and most of the conversation we’d had.

  Jan sighed. “You couldn’t be nice, I suppose?”

  “Why should I be nice to a man like that?”

  “Rick explained why. Because he might have use for a man in your profession from time to time. And also because Mr. Martin is a wealthy member of this community.”

  “Jan, I simply haven’t your tolerance, I guess. Or maybe I’ve seen more of Mr. Martin’s kind.”

  She looked at me suspiciously. “What did all that mean?” I said nothing.

  Her eyes were beginning to flare. “Because he’s handsome, is that why you think I like him?”

  I said rigidly, “That isn’t why. Stop talking like that.”

  Her voice was softer. “All right. I’m sorry.” She looked at me frowningly. “But you must learn to get along with people, Brock, all kinds of people, if you’re in business. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes’m,” I said. “I try to get along with them. But they don’t try to get along with me.”

  “Well, try harder,” she said.

  And I agreed I would.

  Thursday afternoon I continued on the case of the doubtful suitor and found enough to give my client cause for doubt. Which was probably all he wanted. I felt faintly shamed of my role as a possible romance wrecker, but the size of the fee would salve a lot of conscience.

  I still hadn’t been able to reach Jackie Held.

  Thursday evening, around eight-thirty, I was taking a shower when my phone rang.

  It was Lieutenant Remington. “I’m over at the Quirk residence. Mr. Quirk wants you to come immediately.”

  “Right. Has something happened, Lieutenant?”

  “Something’s happened. Johnny Quirk’s dead. He was murdered.”

  four

  THE AMBULANCE was coming down the driveway as I went up it. In that ambulance was a man now dead who had known his greatest day only four days ago. I’m not unduly sentimental, but my eyes were wet when I pulled the Ford into the parking area. It was loaded with police cars.

  Gnup was at the door, keeping the reporters and photographers out of the house. He looked at me bleakly and signaled me in.

  I remembered the morning Mr. Quirk had told Gnup that Johnny was his responsibility and could guess why Quirk had asked for me.

  The Negro butler led me to a study I hadn’t previously seen. It was in one of the wings at the end of the outdoor pool, with doors that led to the pool and the patio. It looked more like an office than a study and Joseph Quirk sat in a swivel chair behind a desk.

  He was like rock. Only his eyes moved as he considered me. “I listened to the bastards,” he said hoarsely. “What bastards, Mr. Quirk?”

  “Remington and that flat-nosed idiot. They convinced me you weren’t necessary to John’s safety.”

  I said nothing. Quirk looked to me like he was holding himself together by a prodigious effort of will. I could sense that when he broke, it would be like the powdering of a rock.

  Quirk’s voice grew more labored. “And then Johnny convinced them that note was some kind of joke perpetrated by former teammates.”

  “I see, sir. He tried to give me the same story.”

  Quirk nodded like a robot. “But you didn’t believe it, did you?”

  I shook my head.

  “And if he had insisted to you that it was true, what would you have done?”

  “I would have checked with the players Johnny claimed were in on the hoax.”

  “Of course you would. And until the time you checked with them, you would have maintained your vigilance, wouldn’t you?”

  Honesty now? Or what he wanted to hear? I could imagine Jan holding her breath and waiting for me to say the smartly commercial thing. I said slowly, “I’m not sure. I hope I would have, sir.”

  “You would have. I want you to work on this, Mr. Callahan. You have a one-man office?”

  I nodded.

  “I want you to give it all your attention. I don’t care whether you co-operate with the police or not. If they give you any hint of nonco-operation, let me know immediately. The day my son’s murderer is brought to justice, I will give you a ten-thousand-dollar bonus. I don’t want you to think …”

  He paused, gasping for breath. Tears came to his eyes and saliva flecked his lips and I went to the door and found the butler quietly standing there.

  “A doctor, quickly!” I said, and the man nodded and told me, “He’s been standing by, sir.”

  He gestured, and a tall man with a doctor’s bag came down the hall from the shadows at the far end.

  I told the butler, “He won’t need me right now. I’ll talk to the police.”

  The butler nodded. “You never should have left Johnny, Mr. Callahan. No matter who told you to, you shouldn’t have left Johnny.”

  I didn’t answer him. I went into the big living room. Moira was talking to a uniformed man. Lieutenant Remington was just going out of the room.

  And with him was Enrico Martino, now known as Rick Martin.

  I crossed over to intercept them, but Remington waved me away. “I’m busy, Callahan. You can get the story from Sergeant Gnup or Officer Boldt.”

  Rick Martin looked at me speculatively as they went past.

  Officer Boldt was the uniformed man who was talking to Moira Quirk. I went to the doorway to talk to Gnup.

  Most of the reporters and photographers were piling into their cars, ready to follow Remington and Martin to Headquarters. That was the big news.

  Gnup looked at me and down at the cars. “Stinking vultures.”

  “People like to read about it. They just supply a need.”

  “Brassy bastards.” His soft mouth looked petulant. “They’ll sure try to make me look bad.”

  That shouldn’t be hard, I thought. But I said, “How did it happen?”

  “Martino’s story is that Johnny phoned him to meet him down there in that grove near the bend on Mira Road. You know, near the intersection with Sunset Boulevard. That’s the end of this property.”

  “I know the spot. Why should Johnny phone Martino?”

  “The guy claims Johnny was being bothered by gamblers and he wanted Martino to help him.”

  “It sounds phony to me,” I said.

  Sergeant Gnup spit on a nearby bougainvillaea. “And me. So the Martino parks on Sunset and starts walking over toward where he sees Johnny waiting, and — blowie — !”


  I stared at Gnup blankly. “Blowie? What do you mean?”

  “Young Quirk drops like he’s been shot through the head. Which figures, because he was shot through the head.”

  “And Martin?”

  “He ran right up here, he claims, and told the butler about what happened. The butler phoned us.” Gnup sniffed.

  “Why didn’t Johnny meet Martin in the house if he wanted to talk to him?”

  “You tell me,” Gnup answered.

  “What’s Martin’s story on that?”

  “He says Johnny told him that he didn’t want his dad to know about it.”

  Silence for a moment, and then I said, “So?”

  “So the boys at the station will work it out of him. No weapon on him, see, and no weapon found yet. But he could have been fingering him for somebody in a passing car, right?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Though it would take some marksman to shoot a man through the head from a moving car.”

  “Not an approaching car, at a straightaway angle. A passing car, hell yes, but not an approaching car.”

  “How about the bullet? What caliber?”

  “We haven’t got it yet. But they’ll find it. They’ve got a floodlight rigged up down there now and they’re going over the area inch by inch.”

  Boldt came to the door then, and Gnup told him, “Stay here for a few minutes. I’m going down to see what the boys have found.”

  I went along with him to where one corner of the estate glared under the floodlights. One of the lights blinked off as we came closer, and a uniformed man saw us coming and waved us over.

  The bullet had gone into a tree, and they were not attempting to dig it out. As the uniformed man explained, “It’s a job for Doc Guerny. If we try to pry it out, we’ll scratch it up and maybe spoil the chances for identification.”

  Gnup nodded. “Leave one of the lights on and send a man up to the house to phone Doc.” Gnup’s glance went from the road to the tree and then he went over to stand at a spot about ten feet away. He beckoned me over.

  “Here’s where young Quirk fell. Do you see that it’s right in line with the road before the turn and that tree where the bullet is? Do you see what an easy shot it would be?”