Murder in the Raw

by William Campbell Gault

  I came back into the bar the front way, and a woman pointed at me and screamed, “That’s him, that’s him — ”

  The bartender shouted, “Shut up, all of you! I’ve phoned the police. This man’s a cop.”

  A man near the doorway who’d lifted a chair set it down again and smiled shakily. I went to the phone and asked for the West Side Station.

  Pascal wasn’t there, nor Caroline, nor Trask. They were off duty. Captain Apoyan happened to be in, and I finally got through to him.

  I told him what had happened, and suggested he call Trask. I finished the call as the uniformed men from the prowl car arrived. They were followed, a few minutes later, by a detective from the Venice Station. By the time Trask and Pascal got there, the ambulance had come and gone.

  The patrons had been shooed out by this time, but they were still outside and blocking traffic. The barroom was filled with photographers and reporters.

  Flash bulbs popped and reporters yacked and the cops grumbled. Pascal and Trask took me into the room where Sue Ellen had died.

  “You’d go into court and swear it was Nystrom?” Trask asked me.

  “I didn’t see his face. I saw that build of his and the red fringe on top. There aren’t many men who look like he does.”

  “That still wouldn’t be enough. How about the car?”

  “I didn’t get the license number. It was a black ‘34 Ford coupe. Chopped and channeled, with twin tail-pipes.”

  “That’s the kind those two hoodlums drive,” Pascal said.

  “And dozens of others,” I said. “It’s a popular model. I thought you guys had a tail on Nystrom.”

  Trask didn’t answer that. He shook his head and rubbed one cheek tiredly. “We know it’s Nystrom. But we can’t sentence people. Will the judge accept it, or a jury?”

  “I haven’t told you all of it,” I said. I went on to tell them the story Sue Ellen had given me before she’d died.

  Dave Trask looked less tired. “Well, now, that’s a little better. We take that into court and — ” He looked at me meaningly. “ — your memory gets a little better, we’ve got a case. You saw his face, all right, didn’t you?”

  I shook my head.

  Pascal said contemptuously, “A square we’ve got, Lieutenant. We all know it’s Nystrom. We’d all stake our lives on it. But Callahan, he likes to see guys like that run loose. What’s justice to a hairsplitter like Callahan?”

  I looked at Pascal. “You’re too far gone to have me explain justice to you, Sergeant. By the time you get through with Red, he’ll probably confess to starting the Civil War. You don’t need me.”

  “Shut up, both of you,” Trask said irritably. “We’ll get around to you, Brock, after we catch Nystrom. How come this Sue Ellen tells you things she didn’t tell the police?”

  I said, “She had an unwarranted lack of faith in the police, for some reason. I told her she’d better bring it right to you and she told me she had better connections than that to take it to. I would have told you, of course.”

  “Of course,” Pascal said.

  “Lieutenant,” I said quietly, “get that son-of-a-bitch out of my hair.”

  Trask said, “Watch your language, Brock.” He looked at Pascal and back at me. “Who were the connections?”

  “I don’t know. They must have been hangovers from a happier time, because she explained that she hadn’t always been this unattractive. The only reason she opened up to me is because she knew I was looking for Rosa, and she was a friend of Rosa’s.”

  “You’re armed?”

  I shook my head.

  “And you went down that alley after a man with a gun?”

  “It was a shotgun, and it didn’t look like a repeater.”

  “It could have been a double-barreled shotgun. Could you see it that well?”

  I shook my head.

  Trask shook his, too. “Amateurs — You’re the luckiest man in the world. What brought you over here tonight?”

  “My search for Rosa Carmona. This seemed to be the best place to concentrate on.”

  Pascal said, “How do we know he wasn’t fingering the girl for Nystrom?”

  Trask frowned. “Slow up, Sergeant. Drop it.” He turned back to me. “Okay, Brock. Come in tomorrow and make out your statement. Get there by ten. And if you’ve got any sense, you’d better wear a gun until we find Red Nystrom. And don’t go down any dark streets.”

  In the hallway, flash bulbs popped and a pair of reporters blocked my passage. “What’s the story, Callahan?” one of them asked.

  “The lieutenant has it,” I told them. “He asked me not to talk to the press.”

  “To hell with him. He’s not giving us orders, Callahan.”

  I nodded sadly. “But he’s giving me orders. I don’t have a powerful job, like you fellows.”

  “C’mon, Callahan,” one of them said, but I shouldered my way past arid got through the barroom without being accosted.

  The night was still warm. The crowd was in knots on the sidewalk here and across the street. A uniformed man was keeping Main Street traffic from turning down this way.

  I had the jitters. I sat in the Ford for seconds, afraid to turn on the key. Then I finally got a flashlight and opened the hood to check the motor. Nothing had been gimmicked; no bombs were in evidence.

  Getting in, again, I looked in the back seat and found nothing. Too many B pictures, Callahan, I told myself. I turned on the radio, and drove past the gesturing policeman, back toward home. There was no reason to scorn myself; a wild man like Red Nystrom carrying a shotgun is a threat to consider.

  He was no suave Las Vegas hoodlum working the angles, mixing with the pseudo-elite, wearing Hollywood strip tailoring. He was a direct and violent man and not open to pressure or reasoning. His was the tornado approach. And he had the wild, young punks behind him who played the way he did.

  Young savages in the geranium jungle, spawned by uncaring parents in the pause between wars. Born in the depression and hating the world now growing rich on defense spending, minority group toughies who meant to get theirs, one way or another.

  Red knew just enough to keep them loyal, the shysters, the quack doctors, the better-paying fences. Red would see that they got the best deal they could on that side of the law.

  The radio music came on softly. It was only about eleven o’clock, but most of the houses were dark, the solid citizens in bed. While the young wolves prowled.

  I was hungry. I pulled into a drive-in on Olympic and went inside to eat. I tried to blank the face of Sue Ellen from my mind and the memory of that big-shouldered man running down the alley with a shotgun in his hands.

  Outside, I heard the rumble of a steel-packed muffler and I flinched, my nerves twitching. In a circular booth, some square-dancers were gabbing happily, in a world of their own.

  Two hamburgers later, my stomach felt better, but my nerves were still jumpy. I nursed a cup of black coffee and thought back on the past three days.

  It was logical to suspect Scott’s death could be connected to Red, one way or another. I was sure in my own mind that Red had killed Sue Ellen; whether I’d swear to it in court or not. Which left me with my original pursuit, the finding of Rosa Carmona.

  I wondered, if I hadn’t gone out for Sue Ellen’s drink, if I, too, would now be on a morgue slab? The window had been partially open when I’d left the room, if my memory hadn’t failed. Had Sue Ellen gone over to open it wider or had she seen the killer out there?

  I doubted that Red had been listening, or he would have sent me into eternity with Sue Ellen. She’d been the weak link in his chain and Red had a standard remedy for that.

  He probably didn’t know I’d gone out the window after him. If he learned it, through the newspapers, his primitive mind might consider me a threat.

  The flivver took me home without comment and went to sleep with a sigh in the garage. There were night shadows in the court as I went up the iron steps. Somewhere a baby cried and a g
arbage grinder whirred.

  Outside my door, I paused. I don’t remember ever having paused there before. When I went in, I snapped the light on quickly. My apartment was vacant and innocent and hot.

  I bathed my face with cool water and sat up for a while, trying to read the paper. But emotional fatigue took over; I was yawning and nodding within a half hour.

  In the morning, the Times gave it the full front page treatment. There were pictures of Sue Ellen and of me and of Red Nystrom. It must have been an old picture of Red; he had all his hair. An extensive search was being made for him.

  Which made two the police were seeking, Red and Rosa. And gave them a hotter prospect for the gas chamber than they’d had in Rosa. Whether Red had killed Scott or not might not matter too much; if he was gassed for Sue Ellen’s death, they could write off Scott on him, too. Randall would testify that Red had threatened Scott, and I would testify as to what Sue Ellen told me. Very few juries would split hairs over Red Nystrom.

  My phone rang and I answered it. The voice was masculine, genial and confident. “Mr. Brock Callahan?”

  “Speaking.”

  “My name is Wendell Lange, Mr. Callahan. I’m an attorney, with offices in Hollywood, here, and I wondered if it would be possible for me to see you some time this morning?”

  “What about, Mr. Lange?”

  “Well, it so happens that I frequently have need of a capable private investigator, Mr. Callahan. There is no such need at the moment but if you aren’t busy, it could be to your future advantage to drop in for a little — chat, shall we say?”

  “Could you make it this afternoon, Mr. Lange? I think my morning is going to be taken up.”

  “This afternoon will be fine. Shall we say two o’clock?”

  “Two o’clock will be fine. What is the address?”

  He gave it to me, and I hung up, trying to think where I’d heard of that name. The famous lawyers in this area are divorce lawyers and I was sure he wasn’t one of those.

  At the West Side Station, where I filled out my statement, Dave Trask enlightened me.

  “Criminal lawyer,” he said. “He never got the big boys’ business, but he’s represented a lot of the independent hoods, the mavericks. He’s handled enough of them to make a fair reputation for himself.”

  “Why do you think he wants to see me?”

  “To find out how much you know about Red Nystrom. Why else?”

  “How much do I tell him?”

  Dave looked at me thoughtfully. “Are you asking for instructions?”

  “In a way. What if he asks me if I really saw Red Nystrom last night?”

  “You can tell him the same thing you told us. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “And that’s what you want me to tell him?”

  “Why not? We want Red to stay around town. And if we haven’t got a witness who can positively identify him, he will stay around town.”

  “And if you haven’t got a witness like that, what good will it do you to pick him up?”

  Trask smiled. “We have some pretty good lawyers on our side, too. Men who know how to build a case for a jury or a judge. If you were on a jury and Nystrom was brought before you, how would you vote?”

  “I don’t know, Dave. I’d have to give it more thought than I have.”

  “You wouldn’t be picked for our jury, then. Keep in touch with us, Brock. Let me know what Lange tells you.”

  I promised I would, and went out into a day about fifteen degrees cooler than yesterday. Yesterday, instead of booking Red, he’d been released. Because they’d wanted him free and moving around, as Dave had said.

  Because of that, Sue Ellen was now dead. And I hadn’t noticed any signs of a strained conscience on the face of Lieutenant Dave Trask. There couldn’t be, in his business. It was no trade for introverts or philosophers. The decisions came piling up, one on the other, and they had to be made against the exigencies of the moment. If they weren’t made, and quickly, the machinery of the law would halt and the hoodlums would be in complete command.

  Criminal lawyers knew that and they used it for making their “deals,” for getting a prosecutor to water down the charge in return for the criminal’s admission of guilt to the lesser charge. That kept the courts from being swamped with legal tangles that would put the calendar years behind. It changed justice from a finely balanced scale to a quick rule of thumb decision. It occasionally resulted in some spectacular miscarriages which the newspapers loved to belabor.

  But none of the critics could come up with a better solution. The original crime was society’s, not the law’s. The law didn’t even get to them until society had perverted them.

  There was a reporter waiting in front of my office door. He was from the Times and he wanted more than the others had been given last night.

  “This is headline stuff, Callahan, and you’re right in the middle of it. Don’t you think the public’s entitled to some facts?”

  “I’ve just filled out my statement at the West Side Station,” I told him. “I’ll let Lieutenant Trask decide how much the public’s entitled to.”

  “I see. You’re playing Pontius Pilate, is that it?”

  I smiled at him. “And you’re playing God. Who are you to judge what the public’s entitled to know?”

  “I’m the guy who tells them.”

  “And I’m a guy who likes to eat. And in order to eat, I have to get along with the police. That’s clear enough, isn’t it?”

  “It’s clear enough for me,” he said. “When you opened this office, you stopped being a citizen.” He left me on that line.

  Fine, brave words, but the reality was that the Times had its own evaluation of the news and on its scale, Hedda Hopper ranked considerably above any trivial facts that might be coming out of the U.N. or Europe or Asia. The Times didn’t even know what to do with the news it did receive.

  There was no mail of any importance. I phoned Juan Mira.

  His voice was plaintively hopeful. “You find my Rosa?”

  “No, Juan, I haven’t. Have you read the morning papers?”

  “Yes. The old bag got hers, huh?”

  “Do you know Red Nystrom?”

  “No. He’s got my Rosa?”

  “I doubt it. But he might know something about her. That wasn’t Rosa who phoned me that day from the motel; it was Sue Ellen.”

  “So — ?”

  “So Red brought Sue Ellen over there for that job. And now he’s killed her, I’m sure. I hoped you might know something about him.”

  “Nothing. He is rich, this Nystrom?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “If he is not rich, the police will find him. Then we will learn what happened to Rosa. You want more money?”

  “I’ve plenty, Juan. I haven’t done you much good so far, have I?”

  “I am not kicking. Keep looking, Brock Callahan.”

  I phoned Glenys and her voice sounded tight, strained. “Migawd, you went through something last night, didn’t you?”

  “It was pretty rough,” I admitted. “I guess those are the perils of this trade.”

  “And you went out after him, after a man carrying a shotgun.”

  “I’m a little punchy,” I admitted. “How did you first get to know Jan Bonnet?”

  A momentary silence. “Let’s see — I think it was through Les Hartley. He’s an interior decorator, too. Though I can’t believe Jan would be really interested in him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, Les is — I mean, girls are not for him. And, of course, Jan is — I mean, she’s all woman, which I’m sure you know, and — Oh heavens, why all this interest in Jan Bonnet?”

  “Because I have a feeling she knows more than she’s telling me. She was very close to Roger Scott.”

  “I can imagine. Have you two fought?”

  “She’s not speaking to me at the moment.”

  Another silence, longer this time. Then, “To tell you the truth,
Brock, I’m really no longer interested in who killed Roger Scott. And I’m sure we can both agree that Jan is no criminal.”

  “Not a professional criminal, you mean. All right, Glenys; you asked me to call today, and I did. I’ll get that contract drawn up.”

  “I’ll be waiting for it,” she said, which could have had meaning or could have been meaningless. I decided it was the latter.

  The special was wieners and kraut; I had a steak sandwich and a milk shake. The counterman was full of woe the horses had given him a licking yesterday. He bent my ear with the story of his financial fall.

  I was glad to get away. From a booth, I phoned Wendell Lange and asked if it would be all right for me to come in a little early. It was only one o’clock.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll be waiting.”

  That made two of them. I was over there ten minutes later.

  The offices were large and clean, but more utilitarian than ornamental. The large reception room also contained the files and all the files were locked.

  The receptionist was a scrubbed young woman with severe hair styling and horn-rimmed glasses. She ushered me into Lange’s office as soon as I identified myself.

  He sat behind a gray-enameled steel desk in a room with gray carpeting and gray walls. He could have been a warden or a conservative politician.

  He had a well-shaped head on a rangy body. He had a close-cut crop of gray-black hair and cold blue eyes. He stood up to shake my hand and sat down again. The scrubbed girl left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  I said, “Doesn’t your office scare away clients?”

  He frowned. “I don’t understand, Mr. Callahan.”

  “It has a prison feeling,” I said. “All the gray and the lack of ornament.”

  His smile was cool. “I never thought of it. I’m partial to gray, I guess. I see you’ve been inquiring about me.”

  I said nothing.

  “Lieutenant Trask, no doubt?” I nodded.

  He locked his long, bony fingers together and leaned forward on the steel desk. “Frankly, my major concern was Red Nystrom, but I do need an investigator from time to time.”

  “I can’t help you with Red Nystrom,” I told him. “I don’t know where he is.”