Dalmas said: “No, thanks.”
Walden found the cigarette in his mouth and threw it on the floor. He drank. “What the hell!” he snorted. “You’re a private detective and you’re being paid to make a few motions that don’t mean anything. It’s a clean job—as your racket goes.”
Dalmas said: “That’s another crack I could do without hearing.
Walden made an abrupt, angry motion. His eyes glittered. The corners of his mouth drew down and his face got sulky. He avoided Dalmas’ stare.
Dalmas said: “I’m not against you, but I never was for you. You’re not the kind of guy I could go for, ever. If you had played with me, I’d have done what I could. I still will—but not for your sake. I don’t want your money—and you can pull your shadows off my tail any time you like.”
Walden put his feet on the floor. He laid his glass down very carefully on the table at his elbow. The whole expression of his face changed.
“Shadows? . . . I don’t get you.” He swallowed. “I’m not having you shadowed.”
Dalmas stared at him. After a moment he nodded. “Okey, then. I’ll backtrack on the next one and see if I can make him tell who he’s working for . . . I’ll find out.”
Walden said very quietly: “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you. You’re—you’re monkeying with people that might get nasty . . . I know what I’m talking about.”
“That’s something I’m not going to let worry me,” Dalmas said evenly. “If it’s the people that want your money, they were nasty a long time ago.”
He held his hat out in front of him and looked at it. Walden’s face glistened with sweat. His eyes looked sick. He opened his mouth to say something.
The door buzzer sounded.
Walden scowled quickly, swore. He stared down the room but did not move.
“Too damn many people come here without bein’ announced,” he growled. “My Jap boy is off for the day.”
The buzzer sounded again, and Walden started to get up. Dalmas said: “I’ll see what it is. I’m on my way anyhow.”
He nodded to Walden, went down the room and opened the door.
Two men came in with guns in their hands. One of the guns dug sharply into Dalmas’ ribs, and the man who was holding it said urgently: “Back up, and make it snappy. This is one of those stick-ups you read about.”
He was dark and good-looking and cheerful. His face was as clear as a cameo, almost without hardness. He smiled.
The one behind him was short and sandy-haired. He scowled. The dark one said: “This is Walden’s dick, Noddy. Take him over and go through him for a gun.?’
The sandy-haired man, Noddy, put a short-barreled revolver against Dalmas’ stomach and his partner kicked the door shut, then strolled carelessly down the room toward Walden.
Noddy took a .38 Colt from under Dalmas’ arm, walked around him and tapped his pockets. He put his own gun away and transferred Dalmas’ Colt to his business hand.
“Okey, Ricchio. This one’s clean,” he said in a grumbling voice. Dalmas let his arms fall, turned and went back into the room. He looked thoughtfully at Walden. Walden was leaning forward with his mouth open and an expression of intense concentration on his face. Dalmas looked at the dark stick-up and said softly: “Ricchio?”
The dark boy glanced at him. “Over there by the table, sweetheart. I’ll do all the talkin’.”
Walden made a hoarse sound in his throat. Ricchio stood in front of him, looking down at him pleasantly, his gun dangling from one finger by the trigger guard.
“You’re too slow on the pay-off, Walden. Too damn slow! So we came to tell you about it. Tailed your dick here too. Wasn’t that cute?”
Dalmas said gravely, quietly: “This punk used to be your bodyguard, Walden—if his name is Ricchio.”
Walden nodded silently and licked his lips. Ricchio snarled at Dalmas: “Don’t crack wise, dick. I’m tellin’ you again.” He stared with hot eyes, then looked back at Walden, looked at a watch on his wrist.
“It’s eight minutes past three, Walden. I figure a guy with your drag can still get dough out of the bank. We’re giving you an hour to raise ten grand. Just an hour. And we’re takin’ your shamus along to arrange about delivery.”
Walden nodded again, still silent. He put his hands down on his knees and clutched them until his knuckles whitened.
Ricchio went on: “We’ll play clean. Our racket wouldn’t be worth a squashed bug if we didn’t. You’ll play clean too. If you don’t your shamus will wake up on a pile of dirt. Only he won’t wake up. Get it?”
Dalmas said contemptuously: “And if he pays up—I suppose you turn me loose to put the finger on you.”
Smoothly, without looking at him, Ricchio said: “There’s an answer to that one, too . . . Ten grand today, Walden. The other ten the first of the week. Unless we have trouble . . . If we do, we’ll get paid for our trouble.”
Walden made an aimless, defeated gesture with both hands outspread. “I guess I can arrange it,” he said hurriedly.
“Swell. We’ll be on our way then.”
Ricchio nodded shortly and put his gun away. He took a brown kid glove out of his pocket, put it on his right hand, moved across then took Dalmas’ Colt away from the sandy-haired man. He looked it over, slipped it into his side pocket and held it there with the gloved hand.
“Let’s drift,” he said with a jerk of his head.
They went out. Derek Walden stared after them bleakly.
The elevator car was empty except for the operator. They got off at the mezzanine and went across a silent writing room past a stained-glass window with lights behind it to give the effect of sunshine. Ricchio walked half a step behind on Dalmas’ left. The sandy-haired man was on his right, crowding him.
They went down carpeted steps to an arcade of luxury shops, along that, out of the hotel through the side entrance. A small brown sedan was parked across the street. The sandy-haired man slid behind the wheel, stuck his gun under his leg and stepped on the starter. Ricchio and Dalmas got in the back. Ricchio drawled: “East on the boulevard, Noddy. I’ve got to figure.”
Noddy grunted. “That’s a kick,” he growled over his shoulder. “Ridin’ a guy down Wilshire in daylight.”
“Drive the heap, bozo.”
The sandy-haired man grunted again and drove the small sedan away from the curb, slowed a moment later for the boulevard stop. An empty Yellow pulled away from the west curb, swung around in the middle of the block and fell in behind. Noddy made his stop, turned right and went on. The taxi did the same. Ricchio glanced back at it without interest. There was a lot of traffic on Wilshire.
Dalmas leaned back against the upholstery and said thoughtfully: “Why wouldn’t Walden use his telephone while we were coming down?”
Ricchio smiled at him. He took his hat off and dropped it in his lap, then took his right hand out of his pocket and held it under the hat with the gun in it.
“He wouldn’t want us to get mad at him, dick.”
“So he lets a couple of punks take me for the ride.”
Ricchio said coldly: “It’s not that kind of a ride. We need you in our business . . . And we ain’t punks, see?”
Dalmas rubbed his jaw with a couple of fingers. He smiled quickly and snapped: “Straight ahead at Robertson?”
“Yeah. I’m still figuring,” Ricchio said.
“What a brain!” the sandy-haired man sneered.
Ricchio grinned tightly and showed even white teeth. The light changed to red half a block ahead. Noddy slid the sedan forward and was first in the line at the intersection. The empty Yellow drifted up on his left. Not quite level. The driver of it had red hair. His cap was balanced on one side of his head and he whistled cheerfully past a toothpick.
Dalmas drew his feet back against the seat and put his weight on them. He pressed his back hard against the upholstery. The tall traffic light went green and the sedan started forward, then hung a moment for a car that crowded into a fast left t
urn. The Yellow slipped forward on the left and the red-haired driver leaned over his wheel, yanked it suddenly to the right. There was a grinding, tearing noise. The riveted fender of the taxi plowed over the low-swung fender of the brown sedan, locked over its left front wheel. The two cars jolted to a stop.
Horn blasts behind the two cars sounded angrily, impatiently.
Dalmas’ right fist crashed against Ricchio’s jaw. His left hand closed over the gun in Ricchio’s lap. He jerked it loose as Ricchio sagged in the corner. Ricchio’s head wobbled. His eyes opened and shut flickeringly. Dalmas slid away from him along the seat and slipped the Colt under his arm.
Noddy was sitting quite still in the front seat. His right hand moved slowly towards the gun under his thigh. Dalmas opened the door of the sedan and got out, shut the door, took two steps and opened the door of the taxi. He stood beside the taxi and watched the sandy-haired man.
Horns of the stalled cars blared furiously. The driver of the Yellow was out in front tugging at the two cars with a great show of energy and with no result at all. His toothpick waggled up and down in his mouth. A motorcycle officer in amber glasses threaded the traffic, looked the situation over wearily, jerked his head at the driver.
“Get in and back up,” he advised. “Argue it out somewhere else—we use this intersection.”
The driver grinned and scuttled around the front end of his Yellow. He climbed into it, threw it in gear and worried it backwards with a lot of tooting and arm-waving. It came clear. The sandy-haired man peered woodenly from the sedan. Dalmas got into the taxi and pulled the door shut.
The motorcycle officer drew a whistle out and blew two sharp blasts on it, spread his arms from east to west. The brown sedan went through the intersection like a cat chased by a police dog.
The Yellow went after it. Half a block on, Dalmas leaned forward and tapped on the glass.
“Let’em go, Joey. You can’t catch them and I don’t want them . . . That was a swell routine back there.”
The redhead leaned his chin towards the opening in the panel. “Cinch, chief,” he said, grinning. “Try me on on a hard one some time.
TWO
The telephone rang at twenty minutes to five. Dalmas was lying on his back on the bed. He was in his room at the Merrivale. He reached for the phone without looking at it, said: “Hello.”
The girl’s voice was pleasant and a little strained. “This is Mianne Crayle. Remember?”
Dalmas took a cigarette from between his lips. “Yes, Miss Crayle.”
“Listen. You must please go over and see Derek Walden. He’s worried stiff about something and he’s drinking himself blind. Something’s got to be done.”
Dalmas stared past the phone at the ceiling. The hand holding his cigarette beat a tattoo on the side of the bed. He said slowly: “He doesn’t answer his phone, Miss Crayle. I’ve tried to call him a time or two.”
There was a short silence at the other end of the line. Then the voice said: “I left my key under the door. You’d better just go on in.”
Dalmas’ eyes narrowed. The fingers of his right hand became still. He said slowly: “I’ll get over there right away, Miss Crayle. Where can I reach you?”
“I’m not sure . . . At John Sutro’s, perhaps. We were supposed to go there.”
Dalmas said: “That’s fine.” He waited for the click, then hung up and put the phone away on the night table. He sat up on the side of the bed and stared at a patch of sunlight on the wall for a minute or two. Then he shrugged, stood up. He finished a drink that stood beside the telephone, put on his hat, went down in the elevator and got into the second taxi in the line outside the hotel.
“Kilmarnock again, Joey. Step on it.”
It took fifteen minutes to get to Kilmarnock.
The tea dance had let out and the streets around the big hotel were a mess of cars bucking their way out from the three entrances. Dalmas got out of the taxi half a block away and walked past groups of flushed débutantes and their escorts to the arcade entrance. He went in, walked up the stairs to the mezzanine, crossed the writing room and got into an elevator full of people. They all got out before the penthouse floor.
Dalmas rang Walden’s bell twice. Then he bent over and looked under the door. There was a fine thread of light broken by an obstruction. He looked back at the elevator indicators, then stooped and teased something out from under the door with the blade of a penknife. It was a flat key. He went in with it . . . stopped . . . stared .
There was death in the big room. Dalmas went towards it slowly, walking softly, listening. There was a hard light in his gray eyes and the bone of his jaw made a sharp line that was pale against the tan of his cheek.
Derek Walden was slumped almost casually in the brown and gold chair. His mouth was slightly open. There was a blackened hole in his right temple, and a lacy pattern of blood spread down the side of his face and across the hollow of his neck as far as the soft collar of his shirt. His right hand trailed in the thick nap of the rug. The fingers held a small, black automatic.
The daylight was beginning to fade in the room. Dalmas stood perfectly still and stared at Derek Walden for a long time. There was no sound anywhere. The breeze had gone down and the awnings outside the french windows were still.
Dalmas took a pair of thin suede gloves from his left hip pocket and drew them on. He kneeled on the rug beside Walden and gently eased the gun from the clasp of his stiffening fingers. It was a .32, with a walnut grip, a black finish. He turned it over and looked at the stock. His mouth tightened. The number had been filed off and the patch of file marks glistened faintly against the dull black of the finish. He put the gun down on the rug and stood up, walked slowly towards the telephone that was on the end of a library table, beside a flat bowl of cut flowers.
He put his hand towards the phone but didn’t touch it. He let the hand fall to his side. He stood there a moment, then turned and went quickly back and picked up the gun again. He slipped the magazine out and ejected the shell that was in the breech, picked that up and pressed it into the magazine. He forked two fingers of his left hand over the barrel, held the cocking piece back, twisted the breech block and broke the gun apart. He took the butt piece over to the window.
The number that was duplicated on the inside of the stock had not been filed off.
He reassembled the gun quickly, put the empty shell into the chamber, pushed the magazine home, cocked the gun and fitted it back into Derek Walden’s dead hand. He pulled the suede gloves off his hands and wrote the number down in a small notebook.
He left the apartment, went down in the elevator, left the hotel. It was half-past five and some of the cars on the boulevard had switched on their lights.
THREE
The blond man who opened the door at Sutro’s did it very thoroughly. The door crashed back against the wall and the blond man sat down on the floor—still holding on to the knob. He said indignantly: “Earthquake, by gad!”
Dalmas looked down at him without amusement.
“Is Miss Mianne Crayle here—or wouldn’t you know?” he asked.
The blond man got off the floor and hurled the door away from him. It went shut with another crash. He said in a loud voice: “Everybody’s here but the Pope’s tomcat—and he’s expected.”
Dalmas nodded. “You ought to have a swell party.”
He went past the blond man down the hall and turned under an arch into a big old-fashioned room with built-in china closets and a lot of shabby furniture. There were seven or eight people in the room and they were all flushed with liquor.
A girl in shorts and a green polo shirt was shooting craps on the floor with a man in dinner clothes. A fat man with nose-glasses was talking sternly into a toy telephone. He was saying: “Long Distance—Sioux City—and put some snap into it, sister!”
The radio blared “Sweet Madness.”
Two couples were dancing around carelessly bumping into each other and the furniture. A man who looked like
Al Smith was dancing all alone, with a drink in his hand and an absent expression on his face. A tall, white-faced blonde weaved towards Dalmas, slopping liquor out of her glass. She shrieked: “Darling! Fancy meeting you here!”
Dalmas went around her, went towards a saffron-colored woman who had just come into the room with a bottle of gin in each hand. She put the bottles on the piano and leaned against it, looking bored. Dalmas went up to her and asked for Miss Crayle.
The saffron-colored woman reached a cigarette out of an open box on the piano. “Outside—in the yard,” she said tonelessly.
Dalmas said: “Thank you, Mrs. Sutro.”
She stared at him blankly. He went under another arch, into a darkened room with wicker furniture in it. A door led to a glassed-in porch and a door out of that led down steps to a path that wound off through dim trees. Dalmas followed the path to the edge of a bluff that looked out over the lighted part of Hollywood. There was a stone seat at the edge of the bluff. A girl sat on it with her back to the house. A cigarette tip glowed in the darkness. She turned her head slowly and stood up.
She was small and dark and delicately made. Her mouth showed dark with rouge, but there was not enough light to see her face clearly. Her eyes were shadowed.
Dalmas said: “I have a cab outside, Miss Crayle. Or did you bring a car?”
“No car. Let’s go. It’s rotten here, and I don’t drink gin.”
They went back along the path and passed around the side of the house. A trellis-topped gate let them out on the sidewalk, and they went along by the fence to where the taxi was waiting. The driver was leaning against it with one heel hooked on the edge of the running board. He opened the cab door. They got in.
Dalmas said: “Stop at a drugstore for some butts, Joey.”
“Okey.”
Joey slid behind his wheel and started up. The cab went down a steep, winding hill. There was a little moisture on the surface of the asphalt pavement and the store fronts echoed back the swishing sound of the tires.
After a while Dalmas said: “What time did you leave Walden?”
The girl spoke without turning her head towards him. “About three o’clock.”
The Simple Art of Murder Page 25
