No glass flew. When he looked again there was a jagged round hole in the glass and the windshield in a line with it was starred but not broken.
He slammed the gun at the edges of the hole and managed to knock a piece of glass loose. He was getting the gas now, through the handkerchief. His head felt like a balloon. His vision waved and wandered.
The hawk-faced driver, crouched, wrenched the door open at his side, swung the wheel of the car the opposite way and jumped clear.
The car tore oven a low embankment, looped a little and smacked sidewise against a tree. The body twisted enough for one of the rear doors to spring open.
De Ruse went through the door in a headlong dive. Soft earth smacked him, knocked some of the wind out of him. Then his lungs breathed clean air. He rolled up on his stomach and elbows, kept his head down, his gun hand up.
The hawk-faced man was on his knees a dozen yards away. De Ruse watched him drag a gun out of his pocket and lift it.
Chuck’s gun pulsed and roared in De Ruse’s hand until it was empty.
The hawk-faced man folded down slowly and his body merged with the dark shadows and the wet ground. Cars went by distantly on Riverside Drive. Rain dripped off the trees. The Griffith Park beacon turned in the thick sky. The rest was darkness and silence.
De Ruse took a deep breath and got up on his feet. He dropped the empty gun, took a small flash out of his overcoat pocket and pulled his overcoat up against his nose and mouth, pressing the thick cloth hard against his face. He went to the car, switched off the lights and threw the beam of the flash into the driver’s compartment. He leaned in quickly and turned a petcock on a copper cylinder like a fire extinguisher. The hissing noise of the gas stopped.
He went over to the hawk-faced man. He was dead. There was some loose money, currency and silver in his pockets, cigarettes, a folder of matches from the Club Egypt, no wallet, a couple of extra clips of cartridges, De Ruse’s . 38. De Ruse put the last back where it belonged and straightened from the sprawled body.
He looked across the darkness of the Los Angeles river bed towards the lights of Glendale. In the middle distance a green neon sign far from any other light winked on and off: Club Egypt.
De Ruse smiled quietly to himself, and went back to the Lincoln. He dragged Chuck’s body out onto the wet ground. Chuck's red face was blue now, under the beam of the small flash. His open eyes held an empty stare. His chest didn’t move. De Ruse put the flash down and went through some more pockets.
He found the usual things a man carries, including a wallet showing a driver’s license issued to Charles Le Grand, Hotel Metropole, Los Angeles. He found more Club Egypt matches and a tabbed hotel key marked 809, Hotel Metropole.
He put the key in his pocket, slammed the sprung door of the Lincoln, got in under the wheel. The motor caught. He backed the car away from the tree with a wrench of broken fender metal, swung it around slowly oven the soft earth and got it back again on the road.
When he reached Riverside again he turned the lights on and drove back to Hollywood. He put the car under some pepper trees in front of a big brick apartment house on Kenmore half a block north of Hollywood Boulevard, locked the ignition and lifted out his suitcase.
Light from the entrance of the apartment house rested on the front license plate as he walked away. He wondered why gunmen would use a car with plate numbers reading 5A6, almost a privilege number.
In a drugstore he phoned for a taxi. The taxi took him back to the Chatterton.
FOUR
The apartment was empty. The smell of Shalimar and cigarette smoke lingered on the warm air, as if someone had been there not long before. De Ruse pushed into the bedroom, looked at clothes in two closets, articles on a dresser, then went back to the red and white living room and mixed himself a stiff highball.
He put the night latch on the outside door and carried his drink into the bedroom, stripped off his muddy clothes and put on another suit of somber material but dandified cut. He sipped his drink while he knotted a black four-in-hand in the opening of a soft white linen shirt.
He swabbed the barrel of the little Mauser, reassembled it, and added a shell to the small clip, slipped the gun back into the leg holster. Then he washed his hands and took his drink to the telephone.
The first number he called was the Chronicle. He asked for the City Room, Werner.
A drawly voice dripped over the wire: “Werner talkin’. Go ahead. Kid me.”
De Ruse said: “This is John De Ruse, Claude. Look up California License 5A6 on your list for me.”
“Must be a bloody politician,” the drawly voice said, and went away.
De Ruse sat motionless, looking at a fluted white pillar in the corner. It had a red and white bowl of red and white artificial roses on top of it. He wrinkled his nose at it disgustedly.
Werner’s voice came back on the wire: “1930 Lincoln limousine registered to Hugo Candless, Casa de Oro Apartments, 2942 Clearwater Street, West Hollywood.”
De Ruse said in a tone that meant nothing: “That’s the mouthpiece, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. The big lip. Mister Take the Witness.” Werner’s voice came down lower. “Speaking to you, Johnny, and not for publication—a big crooked tub of guts that’s not even smart; just been around long enough to know who’s for sale . . . Story in it?”
“Hell, no,” De Ruse said softly. “He just sideswiped me and didn’t stop.”
He hung up and finished his drink, stood up to mix another. Then he swept a telephone directory onto the white desk and looked up the number of the Casa de Oro. He dialed it. A switchboard operator told him Mr. Hugo Candless was out of town.
“Give me his apartment,” De Ruse said.
A woman’s cool voice answered the phone. “Yes. This is Mrs. Hugo Candless speaking. What is it, please?”
De Ruse said: “I’m a client of Mr. Candless, very anxious to get hold of him. Can you help me?”
“I’m very sorry,” the cool, almost lazy voice told him. “My husband was called out of town quite suddenly. I don’t even know where he went, though I expect to hear from him later this evening. He left his club—”
“What club was that?” De Ruse asked casually.
“The Delmar Club. I say he left there without coming home. If there is any message—”
De Ruse said: “Thank you, Mrs. Candless. Perhaps I may call you again later.”
He hung up, smiled slowly and grimly, sipped his fresh drink and looked up the number of the Hotel Metropole. He called it and asked for “Mister Charles Le Grand in Room 809.”
“Six-o-nine,” the operator said casually. “I’ll connect you.” A moment later: “There is no answer.”
De Ruse thanked her, took the tabbed key out of his pocket, looked at the number on it. The number was 809.
FIVE
Sam, the doorman at the Delmar Club, leaned against the buff stone of the entrance and watched the traffic swish by on Sunset Boulevard. The headlights hurt his eyes. He was tired and he wanted to go home. He wanted a smoke and a big slug of gin. He wished the rain would stop. It was dead inside the club when it rained.
He straightened away from the wall and walked the length of the sidewalk canopy a couple of times, slapping together his big black hands in big white gloves. He tried to whistle the “Skaters Waltz,” couldn’t get within a block of the tune, whistled “Low Down Lady” instead. That didn’t have any tune.
De Ruse came around the corner from Hudson Street and stood beside him near the wall.
“Hugo Candless inside?” he asked, not looking at Sam.
Sam clicked his teeth disapprovingly. “He ain’t.”
“Been in?”
“Ask at the desk’side, please, mistah.”
De Ruse took gloved hands out of his pocket and began to roll a five-dollar bill around his left forefinger.
“What do they know that you don’t know?”
Sam grinned slowly, watched the bill being wound tightly around the
gloved finger.
“That’s a fac’, boss. Yeah—he was in. Comes most every day.”
“What time he leave?”
“He leave ’bout six-thirty, Ah reckon.”
“Drive his blue Lincoln limousine?”
“Shuah. Only he don’t drive it hisself. What for you ask?”
“It was raining then,” De Ruse said calmly. “Raining pretty hard. Maybe it wasn’t the Lincoln.”
“ ’Twas, too, the Lincoln,” Sam protested. “Ain’t I tucked him in? He never rides nothin’ else.”
“License 5A6?” De Ruse bored on relentlessly.
“That’s it,” Sam chortled. “Just like a councilman’s number that number is.”
“Know the driver?”
“Shuah—” Sam began, and then stopped cold. He raked a black jaw with a white finger the size of a banana. “Well, Ah’ll be a big black slob if he ain’t got hisself a new driver again. I ain’t know that man, sure’nough.”
De Ruse poked the rolled bill into Sam’s big white paw. Sam grabbed it but his large eyes suddenly got suspicious.
“Say, for what you ask all of them questions, mistah man?”
De Ruse said: “I paid my way, didn’t I?”
He went back around the corner to Hudson and got into his black Packard sedan. He drove it out on to Sunset, then west on Sunset almost to Beverly Hills, then turned towards the foothills and began to peer at the signs on street corners. Clearwater Street ran along the flank of a hill and had a view of the entire city. The Casa de Oro, at the corner of Parkinson, was a tricky block of high-class bungalow apartments surrounded by an adobe wall with red tiles on top. It had a lobby in a separate building, a big private garage on Parkinson, opposite one length of the wall.
De Ruse parked across the street from the garage and sat looking through the wide window into a glassed-in office where an attendant in spotless white coveralls sat with his feet on the desk, reading a magazine and spit over his shoulder at an invisible cuspidor.
De Ruse got out of the Packard, crossed the street farther up, came back and slipped into the garage without the attendant seeing him.
The cars were in four rows. Two rows backed against the white walls, two against each other in the middle. There were plenty of vacant stalls, but plenty of cars had gone to bed also. They were mostly big, expensive closed models, with two or three flashy open jobs.
There was only one limousine. It had License No. 5A6.
It was a well-kept car, bright and shiny; royal blue with a buff trimming. De Ruse took a glove off and rested his hand on the radiator shell. Quite cold. He felt the tires, looked at his fingers. A little fine dry dust adhered to the skin. There was no mud in the treads, just bone-dry dust.
He went back along the row of dark car bodies and leaned in the open door of the little office. After a moment the attendant looked up, almost with a start.
“Seen the Candless chauffeur around?” De Ruse asked him.
The man shook his head and spat deftly into a copper spittoon.
“Not since I came on—three o’clock.”
“Didn’t he go down to the club for the old man?”
“Nope. I guess not. The big hack ain’t been out. He always takes that.”
“Where does he hang his hat?”
“Who? Mattick? They got servants’ quarters in back of the jungle. But I think I heard him say he parks at some hotel. Let’s see—” A brow got furrowed.
“The Metropole?” De Ruse suggested.
The garage man thought it over while De Ruse stared at the point of his chin.
“Yeah. I think that’s it. I ain’t just positive though. Mattick don’t open up much.
De Ruse thanked him and crossed the street and got into the Packard again. He drove downtown.
It was twenty-five minutes past nine when he got to the corner of Seventh and Spring, where the Metropole was.
It was an old hotel that had once been exclusive and was now steering a shaky course between a receivership and a bad name at Headquarters. It had too much oily dark wood paneling, too many chipped gilt mirrors. Too much smoke hung below its low beamed lobby ceiling and too many grifters bummed around in its worn leather rockers.
The blonde who looked after the big horseshoe cigar counter wasn’t young any more and her eyes were cynical from standing off cheap dates. De Ruse leaned on the glass and pushed his hat back on his crisp black hair.
“Camels, honey,” he said in his low-pitched gambler’s voice.
The girl smacked the pack in front of him, rang up fifteen cents and slipped the dime change under his elbow, with a faint smile. Her eyes said they liked him. She leaned opposite him and put her head near enough so that he could smell the perfume in her hair.
“Tell me something,” De Ruse said.
“What?” she asked softly.
“Find out who lives in eight-o-nine, without telling any answers to the clerk.”
The blonde looked disappointed. “Why don’t you ask him yourself, mister?”
“I’m too shy,” De Ruse said.
“Yes you are!”
She went to her telephone and talked into it with languid grace, came back to De Ruse.
“Name of Mattick. Mean anything?”
“Guess not,” De Ruse said. “Thanks a lot. How do you like it in this nice hotel?”
“Who said it was a nice hotel?”
De Ruse smiled, touched his hat, strolled away. Her eyes looked after him sadly. She leaned her sharp elbows on the counter and cupped her chin in her hands to stare after him.
De Ruse crossed the lobby and went up three steps and got into an open-cage elevator that started with a lurch.
“Eight,” he said, and leaned against the cage with his hands in his pockets.
Eight was as high as the Metropole went. De Ruse followed a long corridor that smelled of varnish. A turn at the end brought him face to face with 809. He knocked on the dark wood panel. Nobody answered. He bent over, looked through an empty keyhole, knocked again.
Then he took the tabbed key out of his pocket and unlocked the door and went in.
Windows were shut in two walls. The air reeked of whiskey. Lights were on in the ceiling. There was a wide brass bed, a dark bureau, a couple of brown leather rockers, a stiff-looking desk with a flat brown quart of Four Roses on it, nearly empty, without a cap. De Ruse sniffed it and set his hips against the edge of the desk, let his eyes prowl the room.
His glance traversed from the dark bureau across the bed and the wall with the door in it to another door behind which light showed. He crossed to that and opened it.
The man lay on his face, on the yellowish brown woodstone floor of the bathroom. Blood on the floor looked sticky and black. Two soggy patches on the back of the man’s head were the points from which rivulets of dark red had run down the side of his neck to the floor. The blood had stopped flowing a long time ago.
De Ruse slipped a glove off and stooped to hold two fingers against the place where an artery would beat. He shook his head and put his hand back into his glove.
He left the bathroom, shut the door and went to open one of the windows. He leaned out, breathing clean rain-wet air, looking down along slants of thin rain into the dark slit of an alley.
After a little while he shut the window again, switched off the light in the bathroom, took a “Do Not Disturb” sign out of the top bureau drawer, doused the ceiling lights, and went out.
He hung the sign on the knob and went back along the corridor to the elevators and left the Hotel Metropole.
SIX
Francine Ley hummed low down in her throat as she went along the silent corridor of the Chatterton. She hummed unsteadily without knowing what she was humming, and her left hand with its cherry-red fingernails held a green velvet cape from slipping down off her shoulders. There was a wrapped bottle under her other arm.
She unlocked the door, pushed it open and stopped, with a quick frown. She stood still, remembering, try
ing to remember. She was still a little tight.
She had left the lights on, that was it. They were off now. Could be the maid service, of course. She went on in, fumbled through the red curtains into the living room.
The glow from the heater prowled across the red and white rug and touched shiny black things with a ruddy gleam. The shiny black things were shoes. They didn’t move.
Francine Ley said: “Oh—oh,” in a sick voice. The hand holding the cape almost tore into her neck with its long, beautifully molded nails.
Something clicked and light glowed in a lamp beside an easy chair. De Ruse sat in the chair, looking at her woodenly.
He had his coat and hat on. His eyes shrouded, far away, filled with a remote brooding.
He said: “Been out, Francy?”
She sat down slowly on the edge of a half-round settee, put the bottle down beside her.
“I got tight,” she said. “Thought I’d better eat. Then I thought I’d get tight again.” She patted the bottle.
De Ruse said: “I think your friend Dial’s boss has been snatched.” He said it casually, as if it was of no importance to him.
Francine Ley opened her mouth slowly and as she opened it all the prettiness went out of her face. Her face became a blank haggard mask on which rouge burned violently. Her mouth looked as if it wanted to scream.
After a while it closed again and her face got pretty again and her voice, from far off, said: “Would it do any good to say I don’t know what you’re talking about?”
De Ruse didn’t change his wooden expression. He said: “When I went down to the street from here a couple of hoods jumped me. One of them was stashed in the car. Of course they could have spotted me somewhere else—followed me here.”
“They did,” Francine Ley said breathlessly. “They did, Johnny.”
His long chin moved an inch. “They piled me into a big Lincoln, a limousine. It was quite a car. It had heavy glass that didn’t break easily and no door handles and it was all shut up tight. In the front seat it had a tank of Nevada gas, cyanide, which the guy driving could turn into the back part without getting it himself. They took me out Griffith Parkway, towards the Club Egypt. That’s that joint on county land, near the airport.” He paused, rubbed the end of one eyebrow, went on: “They overlooked the Mauser I sometimes wear on my leg. The driver crashed the car and I got loose.”
The Simple Art of Murder Page 36
