Day of the Ram

by William Campbell Gault

  Headlights from Sunset kept coming, holding steadily on us until they started the swing of the curve. I said, “It could be.” I turned to study a small monument behind me. “What’s this?”

  “A grave,” Gnup said.

  The light was bright here and I went over to read: Moira Quirk. Born March 3, 1901. Died September 8, 1941.

  “Johnny’s mother,” I said. “He told me she died when he was nine.”

  Gnup nodded. “And did you notice the day she died. September eighth?”

  I looked at him blankly and then realized that today was September eighth.

  An officer went by, rolling up the heavy-duty cable that had fed one of the lights. A breeze from the east rattled the leaves of the eucalyptus trees and a few pods fell on the grave. On Sunset, the cars slowed and then sped up again as the occupants saw there was no movie being shot under the lights.

  Gnup said, “Well, I guess we can’t do any more good here. The word is that you’ll be working with us, Callahan.”

  “I hope to,” I said. “What about that girl Johnny was with Sunday night? What’d she tell you?”

  “We never got her name. That kid could be stubborn.”

  I started to tell him her name and then realized I didn’t really know whether Jackie Held had been with Johnny Sunday night. I could always tell him later; I remained silent.

  We were going up the slope to the house now. Gnup said, “You must be in pretty solid with old man Quirk.”

  “I guess so,” I said. “Does it bother you, Sergeant, to have to treat me like a human being?”

  He said wearily, “I can get along with anybody. But don’t get the idea we’re afraid of any of the local citizens, Callahan. The Chief can have my job any time he wants it.”

  “Okay, Sergeant. Let’s hope he won’t want it.” I left him at the front door and went over to my car.

  A reporter and a photographer were standing next to it. “Mr. Callahan?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Jest, from the Mirror. You going to work on this?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Make a good story, you know, former Ram star to hunt down killer of the new Ram wizard.”

  “I guess it would.”

  A flash bulb went off and then the reporter said, “You don’t seem very interested. You could use the publicity, couldn’t you?”

  “I’m not sure,” I told him. “A boy has just been killed. Do you think this is the proper time for me to make hay out of that?”

  Silence for a few seconds and then the photographer said, “C’mon, Hank, you won’t get anywhere with this square.”

  They went away and I climbed into the Ford. Johnny Quirk was dead; the significance of it was growing in me. Rich, young and about to be famous, now dead.

  And why?

  If Rick Martin had had anything to do with it, he wouldn’t have come up to the house to report himself on the scene. And he wouldn’t set up a kill where he was sure to be involved, in view of all that traffic on Sunset Boulevard. As a matter of fact, it was probably the traffic that had motivated Martin’s trip to the house to report. The natural impulse for a man in his position would be to get away from the scene and set up an alibi.

  Either Martin was innocent or he was imaginative and clever. I didn’t think he was imaginative or clever.

  I saw the butler’s sad, black face again and heard the words: “You never should have left Johnny, Mr. Callahan.”

  More than that, I should have talked to Johnny longer that Monday he came into my office. I should have explained that I sold privacy and that the Ram management had enough prestige in this town to insure that privacy. He was a kid in trouble, and he had come to me. And I’d dragged him down to the cops.

  There was probably a Johnny Quirk story nobody would ever know now. Young men have a tendency to regard their sins as unique and beyond understanding, to feel a shame the sins don’t warrant.

  I’d been heading toward the police station but I changed my course. I headed toward Pico, and an address I’d been phoning but hadn’t reached. It was in West Los Angeles, within a block of the huge Twentieth Century-Fox Studios.

  It was a triplex of redwood trim on gray stucco, on one level, staggered back from the quiet street in front. The rear unit was the one I’d been phoning. There was a light showing now.

  It was a little short of eleven o’clock and I didn’t think any citizen would relish being bothered by a private investigator that late. So when the blonde opened the door to my ring, I told her who I was and added, “I’m working with the Beverly Hills Police.”

  Her face should have been young, because she was, but too much plucking and preening had made it old. Her voice was midwestern. “This isn’t Beverly Hills. Why are you here, Mr. Callahan?”

  “I’m investigating Johnny Quirk’s whereabouts on last Sunday evening.”

  She studied me silently. Then she opened the door wider and I saw she was wearing a maroon flannel robe and mules. Her bleached hair was up in pins. Even the robe couldn’t hide the slightly overlush breasts and hips. She was a woman designed for the bed and nothing beyond.

  She nodded for me to come in, and I went into a living room crowded with too much chintzy furniture. A gas jet burned in a high hearth fireplace in one corner of the room.

  “Sit down anywhere,” she said.

  I sat on a maple davenport with flowered upholstery. She went over to sit in a wing-back maple chair. There was some nervousness in her glance as she studied me. Then she asked, “Has something happened to Johnny? He’s missing, isn’t he?”

  I nodded. “He was with you Sunday night, wasn’t he? He told me he was, Monday morning.”

  “Did he? He told me not to tell anybody, and especially the police. He told me he was mixed up in trouble and he didn’t want me involved in it.”

  “He didn’t tell me as a policeman,” I said. “I used to play football for the Rams, too.”

  Her face looked less wary. “I see.” She chewed her lower lip. “Restless damned kid … He probably just took off on a little trip.”

  I shook my head. “I think it’s more serious than that, Miss Held. He’s a wealthy boy, you know. He might have been kidnaped. This much I know, his dad would pay plenty for any information that might help to bring him back.”

  The gas jet sputtered in the quiet room. Jacqueline Held stared at me.

  I said, “When did you hear from him last?”

  She picked nervously at the glazed surface of the chair’s upholstery. “He phoned me yesterday, right after practice. I don’t know from where. He told me he might not be over for a couple of days because the police were guarding him.”

  “And Sunday night?”

  “We went to the Orleans Room. Johnny’s crazy for that Dixieland band. He was all worked up. I guess he had a big day at the Coliseum.”

  I nodded. “He tried to con me that he took you to a movie. That wasn’t true, eh?”

  She frowned. “Movie? Gawd, no, not for Johnny. I like ‘em, being in the trade and all, and I figure a girl can always learn, you know. But Johnny — ” She shook her head.

  “I thought I recognized you,” I lied. “I’ve seen you on TV, haven’t I?”

  She blossomed slightly. “No kidding? Big Town, maybe? I had three lines in that.”

  “That’s it,” I lied. “Just that one glimpse, and man, did you ever project. The whole screen seemed to come alive when you came on.”

  “That’s what I’ve got,” she agreed. “And that’s what I’ve got to make them see. And I will, don’t worry. Once I get an agent with — ”

  “I wonder why Johnny lied about the movie,” I interrupted.

  She stopped talking, her mouth open. Some of the light went out of her face. “Gee, I’ve no idea. He’s kind of a — a secretive kid, you know. I can’t always figure Johnny.”

  “Did he drink?”

  “Sunday night? Not much. He never does. A couple of highballs, and he’s
had it.”

  “How about the note that was left in his car?” I asked.

  “Note?” She stared at me blankly. “What note?”

  “He told me he found a typewritten note in his car. He showed it to me in my office.”

  Her face was as thoughtful as its artificiality permitted. And then she nodded. “I remember he picked something off the seat. I asked him what it was, and he told me it was just an advertising folder, probably. But he put it in his jacket pocket, I remember.”

  “He didn’t read it before he put it into his pocket?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. It wasn’t light enough, and he didn’t look at it long. What’d the note say?”

  “It wasn’t clear to us. Johnny may know what it meant. We think it was from some gamblers.”

  She stared. “A — a threat?”

  “No, not exactly. An offer to do business. Have you had much experience with gamblers, Miss Held?”

  She started to answer, and then she stopped and the wariness was back in her face. “What do you mean by that, mister?”

  “Do you know any?”

  “What if I do?”

  “We’d be interested. You can tell me about it here, in the privacy of your home, or you can get dressed and come over to the station and tell it to some less sympathetic officers.”

  Her face was flintlike. “Some change in you, Mr. Callahan. I’ll get dressed. And then I’ll phone my lawyer and we’ll go down to the station. Is that all right?”

  “That’s all right with me if that’s the way you want it.”

  She stood up and started toward another room, when her doorbell chimed. She looked at me and at the door and she looked less frightened than nervous.

  “Shall I go?” I asked.

  She shook her head impatiently and went past me. I stood up as she opened the door. I heard a man ask, “Miss Jacqueline Held?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m Sergeant Pascal from the West Los Angeles station. And this is Sergeant Gnup from Beverly Hills.”

  I looked around for a place to hide.

  “Come right in,” Jackie Held said. “Mr. Callahan is here, too.”

  five

  I HEARD an exclamation from Gnup and a grunt from Pascal and then both of them were in the room and facing me.

  “Co-operation, huh?” Gnup said acidly. “You conniving son-of-a — ”

  Pascal said, “Easy, Sergeant. There’s a lady present.” The dour, bloodhound face of Sergeant Pascal looked almost happy. “Now we’ve got Golden Boy in trouble in his own town.”

  Jackie said, “If you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment, I’d like to phone my attorney.”

  “Hold it a minute, Miss Held. We have some questions first.” Pascal looked at me. “Sit down.”

  I sat down.

  Pascal looked at Jackie and nodded toward me. “How long have you known him?”

  “I never saw him before about twenty minutes ago.”

  Gnup glared at me. “Co-operation, huh?”

  “It’s a two-way street, Sergeant,” I said. “You told me tonight you couldn’t get Miss Held’s name out of Johnny. And now here you are.”

  Gnup said, “I didn’t get it out of Johnny. We got it out of Martino about half an hour ago.”

  “Rick?” Jackie asked quickly. “Rick gave you my name? Well, then it’s all right.” She turned to me. “That’s the gambler I know.”

  Pascal said, “What did Callahan want from you, Miss Held?”

  “He was questioning me about Johnny. He wanted to know about Sunday night and when I last heard from Johnny. Has Johnny been found?”

  “Found?” Gnup said. Both men looked at her blankly.

  “Mr. Callahan said he was missing, maybe kidnaped. Was that a lie?”

  Both of them looked at me quietly.

  I said, “Miss Held, just before the doorbell rang, where were we going?”

  She frowned. “Down to the station. I suppose you meant the Beverly Hills station. That’s where you’re from, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “And what were you going to do first?”

  “I was going to phone my lawyer. You said I could.”

  “That’s right, Miss Held.” I stood up and faced the pair of sergeants. “Now, am I in trouble?”

  Gnup looked doubtful. But Pascal said, “With me you are. Maybe you’d better phone your lawyer.”

  “All right,” I said reasonably, and started for the phone.

  Gnup said, “Hold it, Callahan. There’ll be time for that.” He looked at Jackie. “We’d like some information from you, Miss Held.”

  “You can get it from my attorney,” she said. “Or from Mr. Callahan. I’ve told him everything I know.”

  I couldn’t help the smirk and I couldn’t help Pascal’s seeing it. His glance was murderous. He looked back at Miss Held. “Did Callahan claim to be a police officer?”

  She shook her head slowly. “Not exactly. I got the idea he was a private detective working with the Beverly Hills Police Department.”

  Pascal looked at Gnup questioningly. Gnup shrugged. “I guess.”

  I said, “Jackie, these two men are here to search for some facts. They mean you no harm if you’re not involved in what happened to Johnny. If you’re clean, your most intelligent decision would be to tell them everything you know, right here and now.”

  She looked between us helplessly and her voice quavered. “First maybe you boys had better tell me what did happen to Johnny.”

  “He was killed,” Gnup said. “He was murdered, tonight” It was the damnedest thing, That phony, hard, theatrical face seemed to come apart, to grow soft and hold for a few moments a mask of almost classic tragedy. And then she went down, blubbering.

  • • •

  Ten minutes later, Pascal had bathed her face with cold water and he and Gnup were questioning her. I went out to my car. I’d heard enough to know she had told all she could.

  A block away the after-theater traffic moved along Pico, but on this side of the street only the two police cars in front disturbed the night’s placidity. A clear night, getting cold.

  Where now? Two police departments in on the kill, with all the men and equipment and experience that meant. Where would Brock Callahan, a bumbling semipro, go to find the truth?

  I felt weary and futile; I went home. Men die every minute and leave very little record of their earthly existence. Johnny had died before the records could be written. And he would have hung up some records.

  Records are just ink in dusty books, but who leaves more than that behind? Kids, a man could leave some kids, but Johnny hadn’t had time for that, either.

  A hot shower and a can of High Life, but no peace. I tossed and turned and fretted and tried to see a pattern in the little knowledge I had garnered.

  I don’t remember sleeping but I must have dozed from time to time. I got up at seven and my bad knee ached. Outside, it was gray and damp.

  Somebody had described Los Angeles as a dozen shopping centers in search of a town. It isn’t quite that. Areas have names of their own out here, but Hollywood is still in Los Angeles and so is Westwood. And so are Brentwood and Bel-Air. But not Beverly Hills or Culver City or Santa Monica; they are distinct and separate municipalities, islands surrounded by the creeping fungus that calls itself Los Angeles.

  Johnny had been a roving lad, and it was likely there would be more than one police department involved in the search for his killer. None of the department men would be likely to relish the assistance of Brock Callahan.

  The Times had more of a story than I had learned last night. Johnny Quirk had been shot with a rifle. From a passing car, the theory was. Rick Martin had been released after questioning. The police were picking up gamblers like oranges at harvest and no lead was being overlooked. Remington’s name was given more prominence than a Bullock’s department store ad but there was no mention of Brock (the Rock) Callahan. I thought of the Mirror reporter last night.

>   I’d made the coffee too strong and there wasn’t quite enough milk to soak my cornflakes properly. I read on.

  Remington must have stock in the Times; there was not a word about the police guard on Johnny that had been relaxed too soon. There was a hint that perhaps “Rick Martin (Enrico Martino)” had been framed by rival gamblers. Or perhaps the shot had been meant for him and Johnny had died by mistake.

  There were a lot of theories but there was very little substance.

  There was a stone-cold lad, though, in a Beverly Hills mortuary, and somebody had killed him. By accident or design, in malice or greed, in hate or carelessness.

  I shaved and dressed and phoned the Quirk home. I asked the butler, “How is Mr. Quirk holding up?”

  “He’s resting, sir, under a sedative. Miss Moira is awake but taking it very hard.”

  “I see. I won’t bother her. When is the funeral?”

  “I think on Saturday, sir. It hasn’t been finally determined.”

  I thanked him and hung up. I put some liniment on my right knee and went down to the office.

  Sid Gillman, the new Ram coach, had refused to comment on what the death of Johnny Quirk would mean to the Rams’ season. Sid had been the best college coach in America before taking the job with the Rams; it was obvious this morning that we not only had a great coach, we had a great gentleman.

  Sid had been under fire for sticking to Johnny as long as he had; a lesser man would have made recriminatory ammunition of the bathos the sports writers were indulging in this morning.

  Sports writers assume their readers have no memories. And very little sense.

  There was a rumor that Dutch Van Brocklin would come out of retirement. Everybody was overlooking Dom Ristucci, it seemed.

  Everybody but Flaherty. Vincent X. wrote: This puts the temporary load on Johnny’s understudy, Dom Ristucci. I think the lad will come through, though I’m sure it’s a minority opinion. But then, at Notre Dame, the Midwest scribes didn’t think much of Dom, at first, either. The Fresno Flash has fooled the experts before; I’m making book that he’ll meet this new challenge.

  Dominic Peter Ristucci, son of an immigrant Italian grape grower in Fresno, was stepping into the vacated shoes of John Gallegher Quirk, son of a Beverly Hills millionaire. And of all the sports writers in the two papers I had read this morning, only Vincent X. Flaherty thought the shoes would fit.