Murder in the Raw

by William Campbell Gault

  She sat stiffly erect once more and looked at me beseechingly. “I’m frightened, Mr. Callahan.”

  “I could guess that,” I said quietly. “Are you frightened of the person who — killed Roger Scott?”

  She nodded. “Mostly — ” She looked down at her hands in her lap. “Do you know, do the police know who killed him?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure about the police. Do you know?”

  She looked up, startled. “Of course not. How could I?”

  “I wondered why you were here.”

  “If I knew,” she said softly, “I would have gone to the police. It’s — it’s Roger’s background I want investigated.”

  “Why?”

  She looked at me defiantly. “My — friends didn’t think much of him. And now this has happened and there’s this horrible rumor about some — woman being involved, and — ” She put a hand on the desk. “Don’t you see? I want to know about him.”

  “Rumors can’t touch him,” I said gently. “Not now. And the police will be looking very thoroughly into his background. They have more facilities for a search like that than I have. You’d be spending your money for a doubtful service, Miss Christopher.”

  Her face was white. “I’m not concerned with money. And you, obviously, don’t want my patronage.” She rose. “Could you tell me why?”

  “Please, hear me out, Miss Christopher,” I said. “You are the second client I’ve had in my short investigative career. The first one walked in here yesterday morning. That’s what involved me in the death of Mr. Scott. I was warned, yesterday, by the Los Angeles Police Department to stay very far away from any murder case. I would hate to start out on the wrong side of the fence from them.”

  She stared at me for seconds. “I have to have someone to turn to, Mr. Callahan. Bobby and I are alone in the world. And he thought so much of you. And then, when we read you were involved, somehow, in this, it seemed like a stroke of luck, in a way, almost — ” She stopped and shook her head annoyedly. “I’m sorry. I’m being a pest.” She nodded, and turned toward the door.

  “Wait,” I said.

  She stopped, and turned back.

  “Sit down,” I said, “and tell me about Roger Scott.”

  It was all standard enough. She had met him at a Hollywood party. He was amusing, he was handsome and that was enough for the first attraction. Later, she learned he was also sensitive and talented and bitter. And broke.

  She looked beyond me. “My friends got pathological about him. I don’t know why they should take such an interest in my affairs, but I was constantly being warned about him. They considered him a fortune hunter and a fraud.”

  “So now you want to know if they were right about him?”

  “I’d like to prove them wrong. But I want to know the truth.”

  “Why?”

  “You asked me that before,” she said. “Isn’t it enough that I want to know and I’m willing to pay to find out?”

  “It should be enough for me,” I admitted. “My rent is due this week. What surprises me is that you didn’t have him investigated before he died.”

  “Would you have someone you love investigated?”

  “If I were wealthy enough to attract a fortune hunter, I certainly would. This is a community property state, Miss Christopher.”

  She looked at me coldly. “I wasn’t interested in his friends before — yesterday. But now I am — and I’m frightened. I guess we’re right back where we started, aren’t we, Mr. Callahan?”

  “Not quite,” I said. “I’ll check him for you. Two days should handle it. I’m working on another case now, but they may be related.” I paused. “And if they are, I guess that would make it illegal to work on both of them.”

  She said quickly, “Related — ? In what way?”

  “I can’t tell you any more than the newspapers have. You came to me, didn’t you, because of the newspaper stories?”

  “Partly,” she said. “But mostly because of Bobby. He thinks you’re some kind of — god.”

  “He must be the first halfback in the history of the game to admire a guard,” I told her. “But thank you. And I’ll report to you as soon as I get anything substantial.”

  She stood up, “Thank you, Mr. Callahan.” She went out, leaving the faintest tinge of her fragrance behind.

  Below, at the curb, Bobby waited in an Austin-Healey. From above, the car looked low enough for the driver to drag his hand on the pavement. The lime-colored shantung suit came into view from the building entrance below, and Bobby reached over to open the door for his sister.

  Even from this view, she was compellingly attractive, a flame for any vagrant moth, Add a few dollars and you had a package eagerly sought for in towns far less predatory than this one. Name me a man not attracted by beauty and money, name me one.

  Where do you check an author? The Screen Writers’ Guild had no record of any screen credits for Roger Scott. The Authors’ Guild was not active in this area. The MWA’s local vice-president had never heard of him, but he promised to check with New York.

  He had also been a literary agent, and I found him in the phone book under that listing. The office was in Hollywood.

  It was a white stucco building on Vine Street, and the office of Roger Scott, Literary Agent was not closed.

  A young man sat at a typewriter in the inner office and he was clacking away at a phenomenal speed. I stood in the doorway from the outer office, watching him. The noise of his typing had prevented him from hearing the hall door open; I studied the room.

  There were four desks in the room, but only one of them was occupied. Manila manuscript envelopes, unopened, were piled on two of the desks.

  I said, “Business must be good.”

  The flying fingers stopped, and he looked at me, startled.

  “I guess you didn’t hear the outer door open,” I said.

  He nodded, studying me. “I guess I didn’t. How can I help you, sir?” He took a cigarette from a package on the desk and lighted it.

  I came farther into the room. “You can tell me about Roger Scott.”

  He inhaled deeply and looked at me curiously. “He’s dead. We were partners. Could I ask why you are interested in him?”

  “My name is Brock Callahan. I’m a private investigator. I’m working for a client who is interested in the reason for Scott’s death.”

  The young man stood up, and I saw that he was tall, as well as thin. He threw his shoulders back and took a deep breath and massaged his neck muscles with a long-fingered hand. The first two fingers of his right hand were yellowish-brown with tobacco stain.

  “Sit down if you want,” he said. “The police have already gone over Rog’s history with a magnifying glass. He was twenty-eight years old, six feet tall. I suppose he could be called handsome. He had three books published.”

  I sat down on a straight-backed chair. “You were his partner, you say. The listing in the phone book and on the board downstairs seems to indicate it was Roger Scott’s business.”

  “It was under his name. To be candid with you, I did 80 per cent of the work. But Rog founded the agency. He’s dead now, and I intend to carry it on.”

  “I see. Who published his books?”

  The thin man’s smile was wry. “A firm by the name of Studio Press. We like to call them a cooperative publishing house. Some cynics use the term ‘vanity press’ but we don’t encourage it among our clients.”

  “I’m not following you,” I said.

  He sighed. “It’s very simple. You are a hopeful author and you want someone to publish your book, naturally. So all you have to do is pay for it, and firms like Studio Press will publish your book.”

  “I see. And then the author can hope that he will make enough on the book to cover his publication expenses.”

  “He can and does. Not that it matters too much, though. He does have a published book, doesn’t he? There’s some prestige in that, isn’t there?”

  �
�I suppose,” I said. “What Roger Scott wanted was prestige, then?”

  “I’m not sure. All three of those books were published before I met him. They were published before he opened this agency.”

  “From the looks of things,” I said, “the agency is doing a fine business.”

  He frowned. “From the looks of what things?”

  “All those scripts you haven’t opened, yet. Was that just today’s mail?”

  He nodded. “There’s another thing you might not understand. This is an agency that advertises for clients, looks for clients. And we charge a reading fee to amateurs. We charge them for what we call an analysis. In our profession, we occupy about the same position that advertising dentists and physicians do in theirs.”

  “That’s frank enough,” I said. “Quack is the word, isn’t it?”

  He looked at me levelly. “To some. I figure I do all these amateurs a lot of good. I’ve brought a few of them to important sales. I’m not ashamed.”

  “Was Roger Scott?”

  “I don’t know. He was cynical. I honestly don’t know how much conscience he had.”

  “Maybe he was killed by a disgruntled client,” I said.

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “He’s been described to me as sensitive and talented and bitter and broke.”

  “He was bitter. Maybe he was sensitive; I’m not sensitive enough to judge. He wasn’t talented and only a wealthy person would consider him broke.”

  “My client is a wealthy person.”

  “I can imagine. A wealthy, feminine person. Rog knew a lot of them.”

  “I’ve heard him described as a fortune hunter and a fraud, too,” I continued.

  The thin young man shrugged. “That’s opinion and one man’s is as good as another’s.”

  Silence, for a few seconds, and then I asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Joe,” he said, “Joe Kramer. Why?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose a competent investigator would ask that first. I’m new at this racket.”

  Kramer smiled. “I’m fairly new at this one. I hope we both make out, don’t you?”

  I stood up. “I do. You seem to have a good start. Anything else you can tell me about Scott?”

  “He gambled some. Maybe he didn’t pay off. What the hell he was doing at that motel, we can only guess about. We’d probably both guess the same thing if your mind is as dirty as mine.”

  I nodded. “And who were his best friends, male and female?”

  Kramer shook his head. “I can’t help you much there. I didn’t travel in his set. There was a girl named Glenys, one of those Beverly Hills bombs and some new one — I forgot her name. She was an actress or singer, or something–”

  “Rosa?” I asked. “Rosa Carmona?”

  “That’s it. The rest of Rog’s friends were just some names I’ve forgotten now. If any of them drop in, do you want me to keep a list of their names for you?”

  “I’d appreciate it. Thanks a lot, Joe.”

  He smiled. “Don’t mention it. Any time you work up a salable script, bring it in; I’ll read it for a fin.”

  The typewriter was clacking again by the time I got to the door.

  Outside, we had a lot of sun and no smog. The seat of my flivver was warm and the steering wheel was hot. I tooled it through the late morning Sunset traffic to Ken-more and turned left, to a six-unit apartment building.

  There was an elderly man trimming the hedge that bordered the sidewalk here. He wore khaki dungarees, held up by faded elastic suspenders, and a blue work shirt. He wore a stained panama hat and an air of disinterest in the work he was doing.

  I told him who I was and asked him if he’d known Roger Scott.

  “Should,” he said. “Tenant of mine. You got anything to chew on you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Even a cigarette?” he asked. “I can chew ‘em. The old lady won’t give me a dime for tobacco, not a dime.”

  “Here’s a half,” I said. “Buy some tobacco.”

  He looked at me coldly. “I’m no panhandler, mister. I own this apartment building.”

  “I know,” I said. “And this half dollar isn’t mine. It will go onto the bill of my client. Do you know where Scott lived before he lived here?”

  He didn’t answer. He kept looking at the half dollar, still in my hand. Then he glanced toward the house. Lady Nicotine won another one. He took the coin and nodded his thanks.

  He set the long clippers atop the stiff hedge. “Let’s sit in the shade. That sun’s murder today.”

  There were some redwood chairs in the shade of a huge parasol, and we walked over and sat down. There, he said, “Cops have been here, asking about Roger. The old lady talked to ‘em, mostly. I’ve no idea about his previous address.” He looked at me slyly. “Woman chaser, wasn’t he?”

  “I don’t know. Did he bring quite a few of them here?”

  “Here — ? The old lady would skin him alive. She don’t miss anything.”

  “You really don’t know much about him, then,” I said.

  “Nothing much. We weren’t his — kind of company, I guess you’d say.”

  “What made you think he was a woman chaser, then?”

  “Well, the way he dressed, I guess, and he was gone overnight quite a lot and he always smelled mighty good and the way the papers have been talking about that mystery woman supposed to have stabbed him — Well, a man can add two and two, I guess.”

  “Paid his rent on time?”

  The old man nodded. “Good pay for nowadays.” Suddenly, the old man sat more erectly in the chair. “Say, wait, there was a thing happened yesterday morning. Mr. Scott told me he was expecting a call and would I listen for it on his phone. He left his door unlocked, and I’m around here most of the time, anyway. He said he was expecting a call from a woman and to tell her the woman’s friend was all right, that there wasn’t anything to worry about. He said this woman who phoned might be nervous, but to be sure and tell her there was nothing to worry about, that somebody named Juan or something like that, he didn’t frighten either one of them.”

  “And did the woman phone and did you give her that message?”

  “I sure did.”

  “What was the woman’s name?”

  The old man closed his eyes. “Let’s see now — it’ll come, just a second now. Right pretty name. Ah — Sue Ellen, that was it. She didn’t give a last name.”

  There was nothing further he could tell me; I thanked him, and left. Back on Sunset, I headed west.

  Roger Scott and Rosa made a strange combination, but beds make strange bedfellows. And, of course, I had never met Roger and had yet to meet Rosa. People are not always as their friends and enemies see them.

  Glenys Christopher had come to me because she’d seen my name in the paper connected with the Scott kill. That hand-wringing bit of corn about Bobby’s adulation was only a bit designed to get me emotionally involved on their side.

  I could be representing parties of diverse interests in the same case, and collecting from both of them. I could lose my license. I could even conceivably lose some front teeth if Pascal and Caroline caught me sticking my bent nose into a murder case.

  On Doheny, I cut down to Santa Monica Boulevard and rode that all the way to Santa Monica. I cut over to Wilshire, then, and had lunch at Bess Eiler’s new place.

  And from there back to Venice and Windward Avenue, and the man behind the bar told me Sue Ellen wasn’t around, but she was due.

  I ordered a bottle of Eastern beer and put a couple of dimes into the juke box. At the end of the bar, a Mexican was reading the Racing Form. At a corner table, a wino dozed, his head cradled in his arms atop the table.

  It was dim in the place and voices and traffic noises from outside seemed to come from another world. From the juke box came Fats Waller’s Honeysuckle Rose, played by the composer.

  The bartender said, “He’s dead, ain’t he?”

  ‘I looked up, star
tled. “Who?”

  “Fats Waller.”

  “Oh — Oh, yes — for some time. Yes, he’s dead.”

  The bartender poured himself a short beer. “Couple guys had an argument about it in here the other night. Had to bounce one of them, finally.”

  I smiled at him. “You’re big enough to do it. On this street, the bartenders have to be big or armed, don’t they?”

  He shrugged. “A drunk is a drunk on any street. They bounce a lot of them up there on The Strip, too, you notice. I go two-twenty.”

  I sipped my beer. Fats finished and Ellington came on.

  The bartender said, “You’re no midget, yourself. Don’t I know you from somewhere? You wrestle or fight?”

  I shook my head. “I played some guard for the Rams.”

  He stared at me suddenly. “The Rock — That’s who you are. Brock the Rock — Brock Callahan, that’s who you are.”

  I nodded modestly.

  “What happened last year?” he asked. “Them lousy Forty-niners.” He shook his head. “We knock off the champs twice, but can’t lick the Forty-niners. It looked fishy to me.”

  “It wasn’t,” I said, and reached for a pretzel.

  The door opened and a couple of young fellows came in. Both of them were wearing T shirts and blue jeans. Both of them were swarthy, husky and arrogant looking.

  They both ordered rum and Coke.

  The bartender looked at them disdainfully. “Cut it out, boys. We’d lose our license for sure. Neither one of you are old enough.”

  Both of them reached into their hip pockets. It was like a dancing team, almost. Two worn, Western-style wallets came out and were flopped onto the bar.

  “Read ‘em and weep, Pops,” one of the boys said.

  The bartender shook his head. “I’ve seen stolen driver’s licenses before. So long, boys.”

  Silence for a moment, and then one of them said, “You refuse to serve us? Maybe it’s because you don’t like Spanish-Americans, huh?”

  The bartender looked at them levelly. “Nothing like that, boys, and you know it.”

  From the end of the bar, the Mexican who’d been reading the Racing Form spoke in soft Spanish, his eyes moving from one lad to the other as he talked.

  The bartender came over to stand in front of me. “Hot-rod hoodlums,” he said quietly. “Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble — ”