End of a Call Girl

by William Campbell Gault

  She came back to sit at the table while I went to the phone to call Dora Diggert.

  I told Dora, “Miss Cefalu had a phone call from a man who claimed he was Jean’s brother. He said he and Jean were going to Palm Springs for a few days. So I guess you get one of your hundreds back.”

  “Not so fast, Puma. I hired you to find Jean, not dig up hearsay. You find her.”

  “I’d be getting into trouble, Ma’m,” I said. “The law frowns on private men who get involved in homicides.”

  “Jean isn’t involved in murder if she’s in Palm Springs. And you’ve got to protect me, too, Puma.”

  “Protect you from what?” “From the police.”

  “And the best way to do that,” I pointed out, “would be for me to withdraw from the case this second. I’m involved with the police. But you, thanks to an assist from Miss Cefalu, are not.”

  “I don’t need anything from Mary Cefalu. And what about that office girl of Ryerson’s? What was her angle?”

  “I don’t know, but maybe some mild blackmail. I mean, she might want a little something for keeping your name out of the mess.”

  “Well, you find out what her angle is.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll check her and finish the day.”

  “And report back to me,” she said crisply.

  “Yes’m,” I said meekly. “Yes’m, I’m on the way.”

  The station Lehner worked out of was Hollywood and I could get there easily from Ryerson’s office. I decided that would be my schedule.

  At the table, Mary stared at me tearfully.

  “I won’t leave until I’m sure you’re all right,” I offered.

  The enormous brown eyes were brimming and her long, beautiful hands trembled on the glass table top. “Some of the men she knew,” she said hoarsely, “some of the monstrous men she — ” She inhaled heavily. “Jean was a — nice girl.”

  “I’m sure she’s not in the past tense yet.”

  “I didn’t mean that. And I didn’t mean she was — is moral. Whatever that means. I meant she was generous and friendly and bright and fastidious. She — ”

  “So okay,” I said. “This town is full of nice girls who get involved with swine. All towns are but this one more so, because there are more wealthy swine here. Let’s not jump to any tragic conclusions, honey.”

  Mary put both hands to her temples. “But murder — ? Oh, God!”

  “The second that I locate Jean,” I told her gently, “I’ll insist that she phone you.” And when, I asked myself, did I decide to continue looking for her?

  Mary said, “You told Dora you weren’t going to look any longer.”

  “I’ll look because of you and Dora can pay for it. It’s simple reciprocity after what you did for her.”

  She wiped her eyes and tried to smile. “Did I lie all right? I’m not very good at it, am I?”

  “You were superb,” I said. “Some night, could we go to a movie, or like that?”

  She nodded gravely. “We could. Be careful, paisan.”

  “Okay, Tulare. And some other day, we’ll take a trip up that way, won’t we?”

  She nodded. “My folks are still there. You have Jean phone me, hear? You tell her I think she’s a fool.”

  I promised I would. I made a face at her and left.

  • • •

  The redhead was still at the office when I got back to Ryerson’s. Her name, I learned, was Eileen Rafferty. She had recovered from the shock of Ryerson’s death, she told me.

  I said respectfully, “I had no idea you had been in shock, Miss Rafferty. You certainly showed poise in immediately phoning Dora Diggert.”

  She said heatedly, “I thought it was important. Don’t you?”

  “Both Dora and I do,” I admitted. “We wondered why you did.”

  “Because George Ryerson has a lovely wife and two wonderful children. Why else?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to determine. You told the police about me. Weren’t you afraid I might have to tell them I was working for Mrs. Diggert?”

  She nodded. “I worried about it. But my first instinct was to protect Mrs. Ryerson and the children. Are you going to tell the police about Mrs. Diggert?”

  “I may have to.” I paused. “I’m thinking of Jean Talsman’s reputation. We’ve told the police she was a model. She lives with a model.”

  Eileen Rafferty made no comment about that. She began to sort papers for filing.

  I asked, “Any theories about what happened?”

  She looked at me candidly. “George — Mr. Ryerson has always handled a number of, well — I suppose they could be called doubtful accounts. Not that everything wasn’t legal, you understand?”

  “Hoodlums’ accounts, do you mean?”

  She shrugged.

  “How did that happen?”

  “Well, he used to be a gambler, you know.”

  “George Ryerson — ? That — ”

  “Square?” she supplied. “Yes. He’s a whiz with figures. I mean he was. And right after he graduated from college, he thought he could invade Las Vegas with a system he and a friend had worked out. For almost a year, it looked like it would work. But then it began to fail them.”

  “For almost a year, in Las Vegas? Couldn’t he retire on that?”

  She shook her head. “You misunderstand. Any system that’s based on sound mathematical principles is geared to show a very small profit over a long period of time. I mean a small percentage of profit. It requires a lot of money to show any worthwhile profit.”

  “You’re quoting,” I accused her.

  She nodded. “I’m quoting George Ryerson. I heard that speech often enough.”

  “Maybe he planned to go back there and try it again.”

  “I don’t think so. Some of the wheels around Vegas got interested in his experiment and that’s how he got friendly with them. And when he opened this office, he convinced a number of them he could save them important money on their income taxes.”

  “And,” I added, “keep them out of jail too.”

  She smiled acidly. “I didn’t say it. Well, I’m about ready to lock up, Mr. Puma. Anything else?”

  “Only the same question I asked before — any theories on who might have killed him?”

  “None,” she said.

  “And will you be out of a job? Or will the firm continue?”

  “The firm will continue. George had an order of succession all written up. He was a very careful man.”

  Not quite careful enough, I thought. I asked casually, “Did you know George — socially?”

  She looked at me a moment before answering. Then: “I’ve been to his house for dinner. Is that what you meant?”

  “I guess,” I said. “Good luck, Miss Rafferty. Take care of yourself.”

  “I always have,” she assured me.

  At the station, I was told that Sergeant Lehner and his partner were not in, but I could dictate my statement to a stenographer and drop back to sign it after it had been typed.

  That took less than half an hour and it was still too early to eat dinner. I was restless and irritable for no reason I could think of. This afternoon’s violence had happened countless times before; murder was nothing new.

  What had probably bothered me this afternoon was the public apathy toward hoodlums and the public support of this scum in such gilded cesspools as Las Vegas and Reno. Crime was now respectable; it was even admired.

  I went up to the office and made out a report of the day’s doings. From the office next door, I could hear the whir of Dr. Graves’ drill and from the street below came the muted sounds of the fat-tired traffic on Beverly Drive.

  We were in a money time again. Was that why I was so depressed: because I wasn’t getting my slice of it? Why this adolescent petulance? I was a big boy and I had earned a hundred dollars today. I was no poet; I was a big, tough wop.

  Suddenly my door opened and a man stood there. He was a big man. He stared at me with
out speaking.

  “The washroom is at the end of the hall,” I told him.

  “Don’t get smart, shamus,” he said tightly.

  I studied him, the breadth of his shoulders, the broken nose in the otherwise personable face, the costly tailoring and the clenched fists at his sides. I figured him to go about 190 pounds.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Never mind that. Where’s my sister?”

  “If your name is Kelly,” I said, “your sister’s in Monaco. If your name is Falkenburg, she’s in New York. If — ”

  “I warned you not to get smart, shamus. My name is Tom Talsman.”

  “Oh,” I said, and stood up. “As far as I know, then, your sister is in Palm Springs. Maybe the police would know by this time. Shall I call Sergeant Lehner and ask him?” I reached for the phone.

  He came over swiftly and clamped one big hand around my wrist.

  We stood there glaring at each other like a pair of juvenile delinquents.

  “You’re big,” I said reasonably, “but I’m bigger. Take your hand off my wrist or I’ll belt you.”

  The back of his other hand came around to sting my cheek.

  The rest I dislike to relate. My only excuse is the afternoon’s depression and the peeve against hoodlums I had been building in my mind. I’m not normally pugilistic without cause.

  He was holding my right wrist; I put my weight into the left I hooked in under his heart. He said “oof” and caught the edge of my mouth with a wild right hand.

  I had turned now and he was still wavering from the hook. His back was to my desk and the route to his chin was unimpeded. I threw the big right hand.

  He went down and the back of his head caught the edge of the desk with a sickening thunk. He was out before he hit the floor.

  THREE

  IT HAD BEEN a short battle. I stood there breathing hard, looking down at him and ashamed of the animosity bubbling in me. My office door was still open.

  And from there, Dr. Dale Graves looked in to ask, “What the hell is going on in here, Joe?”

  “My friend and I were trying some judo and he fell.” He looked at Tom Talsman on the floor and back at me. “Don’t con me, Joe. Shall I call the police?”

  “No,” I said. A tooth had cut my lip; I could taste the blood in my mouth.

  Dr. Graves said acidly, “Fearless Fosdick!” and went back to his office. I went to the cooler for a paper cup of water.

  In a few seconds the sound of the drill resumed and the traffic was again audible on the street below. Tom Talsman didn’t stir and I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. I set the cup of water on the edge of my desk and knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse.

  There was a pulse and I stood up again, rubbing my aching right hand.

  He moaned finally and his eyes slowly opened. I knelt again and held the cup of water to his lips. He paused only a second before drinking it.

  Uncertainly, he got to his feet. He stood quietly a moment, rubbing the back of his head. “You’re a lucky son-of-a-bitch,” he said.

  “That’s my history. Had enough, Mr. Talsman?” I smiled. “I mean enough water, of course.”

  “I’ve had enough water. I’m not through with you, though, shamus. When I get my bearings, we might go around once more.”

  “Why?” I asked. “What’s your beef with me, Talsman?”

  “You tell me,” he said bitterly. “A man is killed and my sister disappears and the police grill you about it. It’s been my experience that when a private eye is mixed up in a mess like that, he’s usually at the bottom of it. I know your breed.”

  “Easy, now,” I warned him. “I don’t like any kind of hoodlum, either. Pushers or pimps or gamblers or guns or fixers or frauds, I don’t like any of ‘em. And I can take you again and again and again; have no illusions about that. You came here and asked a question and I was courteous enough to offer you the best answer I had. If you have any more polite questions, ask ‘em.”

  His palm massaged the back of his head. He looked around and saw my customer’s chair and went over to sit in it. He stared at me doubtfully. “That was one hell of a lucky punch.”

  I said nothing.

  “Who’s Jean with now?” he asked.

  “Believe me, I haven’t the faintest idea. I was sent to find her and the best description I have of the man she met is this: He was a fairly short, stocky man with a full head of black hair and he was dressed in the kind of clothes George Raft used to wear. That could be any one of a number of hoodlums. It’s the description I got from the desk clerk at the Beverly Canyon Motel.”

  He appraised me quietly.

  I said, “It must be a man who knew she worked for Dora Diggert and who knew George Ryerson and who also knew you and Jean were not friendly. He used your name when he phoned Jean’s roommate and he said they were going to spend a few days in Palm Springs. Jean must have gone with him willingly because she came back to the apartment for some clothes when her roommate was out.

  “What makes you think Jean and I weren’t friendly?”

  “Just hearsay,” I answered. “I heard she resented your going into the rackets and assumed she might have gone into her — profession as a sort of rebellion. Could that be possible?”

  He had the grace to color. “Who knows?” “Well, were you friends?” “That wouldn’t be your business,” he said. “No, it wouldn’t,” I agreed. “And gassing with you wouldn’t be profitable, either, but that’s what I’ve been doing. Good-by to you, glass jaw.”

  He asked quietly, “How tough are you against a gun?” “As tough as my.38 and my luck can keep me. Nobody lives forever.” I went over to sit behind my desk. “Now beat it before I call the police.”

  He stood up. “You’ll see me again, Dago.” “Wait,” I said, and came out from behind the desk. “That word. You didn’t mean it, did you?”

  He turned around to look at me. After a second, he said, “I didn’t mean it. I’ve still got a few rattles in my brain. We’ll meet again.”

  As soon as I heard his feet going down the stairs, I phoned Mary Cefalu. I told her about his visit and said, “He may be on his way to see you right now.”

  “He was here an hour ago,” she answered. “Was I wrong in giving him your name, Joe?”

  “No, that was all right. I — worried about you.” “You’re sweet,” she said. “You’re a typical Fresno fig.” I hung up and leaned back in my chair. Then I remembered I was to phone Dora Diggert and I tried her. A phone answering service informed me that Mrs. Diggert was not momentarily available but would phone me back when she was reached.

  I was lighting a cigarette when Dr. Graves came in. “Just what I’m looking for,” he said. I gave him the pack and the matches. He glanced at the floor. “I see you’ve removed the body. Where’d you dump him, Fosdick?”

  “He walked out. Tell me, do professional men also get this unholy urge to swing on people every once in a while?”

  “Everybody does. These are trying times, Joe. I guess you Latins are a little quicker on the trigger, but I’d bet almost any active person today comes close to murder now and then.”

  “No,” I argued. “Suicide, but not murder.”

  “Suicide is murder.” He smiled. “It even insures the death penalty. Pretty good crack, huh?”

  “For a molar-grinder, I suppose. Do you like your job, Dale?”

  He shrugged. “I imagine there are worse. Why’d you ask?”

  “I’ve been on the hunt for a missing call girl, all afternoon.”

  He chuckled. “Well, I’ll grant you I’d rather be a call boy, but I haven’t the charm. What do you do when you find her?”

  “Not what you’re thinking. That was her brother, here on the floor. He’s a hoodlum. And yet the girl is pretty and the brother was certainly big and handsome and not dumb. What twists them?”

  “I don’t know either one of them so I couldn’t say. What got you on this kick? You’re usually more pragmatic, P
uma.”

  I shrugged.

  He asked smilingly, “Do you like your job, Joe?” “At times. At rare times.”

  The phone rang, and I answered it. It was Dora. Dale went out as I explained to Dora about my talk with Eileen Rafferty and my visit from Jean’s brother.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” she said smugly. “Jean isn’t with her brother. That means she’s in danger.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Well, you find out, Joseph Puma. If she’s in Palm Springs, you go there.”

  “Yes’m,” I said wearily. “That will swell the expenses. Meals are expensive in Palm Springs.”

  “Find her,” she said sharply, and hung up.

  • • •

  My lower lip was bulging around the small cut. I tried to make sense out of the things that had happened today and very little sense came to mind. A man had used a C.P.A. to make a date with a girl and had later changed his false identity to the girl’s brother. That looked like kidnapping — except that the girl had gone along willingly. Or so it seemed. And the C.P.A. had been murdered.

  A nice clear and clean-cut case and it shouldn’t take too long to unravel. Maybe twenty, twenty-five years? Everybody had lied. Was the Palm Springs bit another lie? And if it wasn’t, that was still a flimsy lead. Palm Springs isn’t a big town but it’s too big a town to locate a person without an address.

  And why the brother angle? Could it be a way to smoke the real brother out of hiding? And why was George Ryerson killed?

  I didn’t even know where, but the late editions would be out now with all the information Sergeant Lehner’s sidekick had refused to divulge to me. I picked up a Herald-Express on my way to dinner at Cini’s Italian Restaurant.

  There, over my pizza, I read about the death of George Ryerson. He had been found in his car, a bullet through his temple, on a huge free parking lot in the Bluffview shopping center. He usually ate in Beverly Hills, according to his receptionist, and she had no idea what business could have sent him to the Bluffview area.

  After a visit from an unidentified private investigator, Miss Rafferty continued, Mr. Ryerson had been obviously agitated and had broken an appointment for lunch made only that morning with an important client. The murder weapon was identified as.25 calibre and a bore that small would almost need a temple shot to prove fatal. No gun had been found.