Murder in the Raw

by William Campbell Gault

  “But you know where he was last night?”

  “I think we both know that.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t. Are you sure it was Red who killed that girl?”

  I hesitated — and shook my head.

  He leaned back in his chair. “Well — ? And yet the papers are screaming for his scalp this morning and there is an extensive police search for him. Doesn’t it frighten you, Mr. Callahan, this hounding of an untried man?”

  I shook my head. “You frighten me, though, a man who spends all that time in law school just to learn how to circumvent the law.”

  His smile was tolerant and patronizing. “You’re not a lawyer, Mr. Callahan?”

  I shook my head.

  “I didn’t think so. Lawyers have more concern for the law. Your concern is probably with your idea of what is called justice. That’s a word open to too many interpretations. I’m content to operate within the law.”

  I smiled at him. “At least when you have to. Don’t you think it was deceitful to get me up here on the pretext of hiring me, when all you wanted to know was the case against Red Nystrom?”

  “You’re guessing, again,” he said. “You’re judging without a trial. Facts, facts, facts — that’s what the law deals with, Mr. Callahan.”

  “All right, here are a couple. Red Nystrom tried to muscle me at that motel. He phoned me and threatened me. You know and I know he’s knee-deep in murder. If you had as much concern for the law as you claim to have, you’d turn him over to the police, right now.”

  “Mr. Callahan, my first duty is to my client.”

  “Well, my first duty is to the law. So I guess we’ve no ground to meet on, have we?” I stood up.

  He looked at me thoughtfully. “You’re new to your trade, aren’t you? You’ve a lot to learn, Mr. Callahan. I could be very valuable to you.”

  “I hope you never will be,” I said. “I hope things never get that rough.”

  He sighed, and stood up. His smile was distant. “Are you annoyed because the police have no case against Red? Are you petulant because your conscience won‘t permit you to railroad a man you personally dislike?”

  “That could be it,” I said, and grinned at him. “You can deliver him to the law, now, Mr. Lange. There’s no case against him.”

  The thin smile faded and doubt came to his cold eyes. “You’ve been briefed, haven’t you? You came up here to lay a trap.”

  I grinned some more. “I can not swear on the witness stand that the man I saw running down that alley was Red Nystrom. Isn’t that what you wanted to hear?”

  “But there’s more you’re not telling me.”

  I shook my head.

  “You talked to this Sue Ellen, didn’t you, before she was shot?”

  That hadn’t been in the papers. I said, “Not that evening, Mr. Lange.”

  Which was a lie, but a lie is concerned with justice, not the law. Wendell Lange’s declared dedication was to the law.

  “Are you lying?” he asked me.

  “Lieutenant Trask has my statement,” I said. “If he wants to release it, he will.”

  The blue eyes were indignant “You came here in bad faith, Mr. Callahan.”

  “I came here at your request. You lied to get me here. My stomach won’t permit me to stay any longer. Good day, Mr. Lange.” I gave him my proud and honorable back and marched out to the sound of unheard trumpets.

  10

  IN THE BIG WAITING ROOM, the receptionist was taking off an earphone. She had a shorthand notebook on the desk in front of her.

  I asked, “Did you get it all? I hope I didn’t speak too fast for you.”

  Some color in the scrubbed face.

  “He must pay well,” I said.

  She looked at me coolly. “Adequately. Was there something else, Mr. Callahan?”

  “Nothing.” I stood a moment, looking at her.

  Her chin lifted, and she faced me defiantly. “Mr. Callahan, you are now in Hollywood. Adjust!”

  “Yes’m,” I said humbly, and went out.

  It was a little after one-thirty and I couldn’t think of a place to go. The flivver seemed to steer itself back to Beverly Hills and to an open spot at the curb in front of the shop of Jan Bonnet.

  The wormwood door opened, and a stout woman came out. I waited a few moments, and then went in.

  Jan was in rough linen, today, black and yellow, the hair severely back and in a horse’s tail. Outdoorsy, with Vogue overtones.

  “You — ” she said.

  “The persistent suitor. Have you read the morning papers?”

  She nodded. “A regular Tarzan, aren’t you? All muscle and no sense.”

  “Have you had lunch?”

  “I was just going out. Something I could show you?”

  “That eyetooth. It fascinates me.”

  She stood erectly, her arms stiffly at her sides. “Why all the persistence, Mr. Callahan? Because I’m — easy? Because you think I’m a round-heels?”

  “You need to be slapped,” I said. “That was vulgar.”

  “All right then, why — ? Because I was a friend of Roger Scott’s?”

  I said earnestly, “Only because I thought you were a friend of mine. I promise not to bother you again.”

  I did the big turn, toward the door and took two slow steps, waiting for the call. But she waited until I had my hand on the knob and the door partially open.

  Then she said, “All right, you bum. You can cut out the theatrics.”

  I turned back, smiling. “I’ll buy you a lunch any place you want it. And you can direct the conversation.”

  “I’ll go. But just tell me why.”

  “You’re attractive,” I said, “but I don’t think it’s love, yet. I honestly don’t know, Jan. Do I have to have reasons to like you?”

  She sniffed. “You do like me?”

  “Of course. And you know it. Everybody likes you, I’ll bet. You’re so — so genuine. Why, you don’t even dye your hair.”

  “I’m thinking of it,” she said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  She went through a door in the rear wall of the shop, and I leafed through the books of wallpaper samples. That proved dull, and I went over to finger the fabrics.

  I heard Jan laugh and turned back to see her standing in the doorway she’d gone through.

  “You’re certainly a strange one,” she said. “Why were you doing that?”

  “I don’t know. I have to be doing something. I can’t seem to sit and do nothing.”

  “You and Bobby Christopher,” she said. “Is it the athlete’s cross, or something?”

  “Maybe. Bobby’s going to S.C. That kid could make it in his sophomore year, I’ll bet.”

  “Make what?”

  “All-American. He’s the hottest prep-school prospect in ten years out here.”

  She shook her head. “All that and All-American, too. Do you like Cini’s?”

  “I’ve never been there,” I told her. “Remember, I’m new to Beverly Hills.”

  A small and quiet place and she had spaghetti Neapolitan with Chianti and I had a pizza. I didn’t want to tell her I’d already had lunch; it might seem to indicate I was hounding her.

  The place was quiet and the cushioned booth soft and Jan pleasant to look at. It probably wasn’t the time or the place to talk about murder.

  But I said, “Glenys tells me she’s no longer interested in who killed Roger Scott.”

  Nothing from Jan.

  “When she first came into my office,” I ploughed on, “she told me she was vitally interested and she was also frightened. I can’t understand her change in attitude.”

  Jan’s voice was soft. “Are you questioning me, Brock Callahan, or making casual conversation?”

  “I don’t honestly know,” I said. “And I guess I haven’t any reasons for worrying about Roger Scott if Glenys hasn’t. The man’s dead and he was no friend of mine. I didn’t even know him.”

  Jan sipped he
r coffee, not looking at me.

  I sipped my coffee and looked at her. “I should think you’d be happy about my suspicions of Glenys Christopher.”

  “I’ve had a lot of business through Glenys. I don’t really hate her. I think I pity her.”

  “Don’t hand me that poor-little-rich-girl line.”

  “All right, I won’t. Glenys would give every nickel of it to be talented in some way, though.”

  “Would you trade with her?”

  Jan shook her head. “I eat, Callahan. And get an occasional compliment. And create some beauty, here and there. I’m content.”

  “You should be married, a sweet girl like you.”

  She smiled at me. “Is that an offer?”

  “Fatherly advice. Then, when this great therapeutic need hits you, you’d have your own medicine chest.”

  “Easy, Callahan,” she warned me.

  “I’m surprised Glenys hasn’t married,” I said. “She’s pretty, and rich, too.”

  “And suspicious, too. So many smart, rich girls are.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve a two-thirty appointment. We must flee, Callahan.”

  At the door of her shop, where I left her, I said, “When you need a — a friend, I hope you’ll think of me, Jan Bonnet.”

  “Corny but sweet,” she said. “I’ll keep your name on file.” She patted my cheek and went through the wormwood door.

  I’d meant to ask her more, but she wasn’t a girl you could crowd. We were friends, again, and there’d be another time and I could hope she’d be less defensive.

  And then the obvious came back to me again, and I wondered if I’d mentioned it to Dave Trask. I went back to the office and phoned him and caught him in.

  I said, “These two hoodlums who cut up my upholstery — have they been fingerprinted?”

  “No. I don’t even know their names.”

  “The Venice Station would have the names. I was thinking about that one good fingerprint you found.”

  “Who told you about that?”

  “You didn’t, did you? Why didn’t you, Dave?”

  “I asked you a question, Brock.”

  “I think Randall told me,” I said, “though I’m not sure.”

  Silence, and then, “What did Wendell Lange have to say this afternoon?”

  “He gave me a lecture on the difference between justice and the law. I told him I couldn’t be sure of Red, but he’s still suspicious that you boys know more than you’re releasing to the papers.”

  “Did he get that suspicion from you?”

  “I don’t think so. His office girl made a transcription of our conversation. You could ask him for it.”

  “I see. Anything else?”

  “There was a Times reporter waiting at my office for me this morning.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “That you had my statement and would release it when you saw fit. He lectured me, too. I get a lot of lectures, even outside the Department. But not much respect from anybody.”

  A chuckle, and then, “You pore little fella — you’re being abused, aren’t you?”

  “I certainly am. Well, I don’t mean to hold up a big, busy official like you, Dave. I won’t do it again.” I hung up.

  My phone rang almost immediately, but I didn’t answer it. I went down to the flivver and turned it toward Venice. I should have stayed with the Rams. In that trade, even lovable Ed Sprinkle had respected me. He should have; I’d knocked him on his ass often enough.

  The flivver murmured consolingly. The sun tried to come out from the low overcast. I heard the bark of a rod in the lane to my left, and stole a glance in the side mirror. It was a converted Merc, and my breath came easier.

  I had a small, nagging ache under my eyes which felt like bad teeth but was probably sinusitis. The farther west I traveled, the cooler was the air coming through the inlets. I closed the left-hand one, and stopped at a drugstore in Santa Monica. I bought a box of aspirin and asked for a glass of water at the fountain.

  Looking back on my pursuit objectively, I felt there wasn’t too much reason to be dispirited. I had helped the police, whether Trask would admit it, or not. Sue Ellen had told me things she might never have told them, and I’d been the first to guess at the tie-up between Red Nystrom and the hoodlums.

  And I knew who the girl in the supposed yellow Plymouth was. But I hadn’t given that to Trask. I was playing it the Wendell Lange way, there. And why? What was she to me?

  She was pretty and emotionally erratic and probably talented but she wasn’t any one-man girl, not Jan Bonnet. Why should I stick my neck out protecting her? Simply because she was vulnerable, a lamb among wolves? I didn’t know that she was, not for sure.

  She had stuck her own neck out, a little, going to the funeral of Roger Scott. If I did tell Trask about her, he could use that as an excuse for interrogating her; he wouldn’t have to tell her that I’d been the finger. But could I trust Trask? He didn’t trust me.

  I kept telling myself.

  For that matter, Glenys Christopher hadn’t been questioned by the police, either. And she’d been a friend of Scott’s. And she’d hired me right after she’d read about the murder and my part in it. That had been awful damned coincidental.

  Venice isn’t far from Beverly Hills as the vulture flies, but it’s a million miles away on the social register map. What was the connection here?

  One came to me and made me gasp, mentally. I laughed at it, but it came back, bolstered by attitudes and fitting into the picture.

  You’re reaching for the moon, Callahan, I told myself. There hasn’t been a shred of evidence to support this ridiculous guess.

  My bartender fan was just coming on duty. He looked at me doubtfully. “I should think you’d have a bellyfull of this place. Haven’t you got any nerves?”

  “I’ve been thinking of Rosa Carmona,” I said. “Do you remember when she worked here?”

  “Sure do. If it hadn’t been for that little boy friend of hers, she’d still be working here.”

  “A major attraction, eh?”

  He nodded. “And to all kinds. We got some carriage trade, believe it or not, when that doll worked here.”

  “I wondered,” I said, “if you remember — ”

  The door opened, and we looked that way and I stopped talking. One of the hot-rodders was standing there, the door still open behind him.

  “I’ve been looking for you, footballer,” he said. “They picked up my buddy.”

  “Who picked him up, son?” I asked calmly.

  “The cops. You fingered him, huh?”

  I shook my head. “How come they didn’t pick you up, too?”

  “I wasn’t around where they could get me.”

  “How do you know he was picked up, then?”

  The door closed behind him, now, and he came my way. He had his right hand in his trousers pocket.

  I hadn’t brought a gun. Trask had warned me, but I hadn’t brought a gun. I watched him as he came closer.

  I said quickly, “That’s close enough. Stay where you are, boy.” I reached under my jacket, faking it.

  His brown eyes were scornful. “I watched you come in. I can tell when a man’s wearing a gun. Pull it out, if you’ve got one.”

  His hand came out from the pocket and it held a clasp knife. He pressed a button and the blade flicked open. He held it low, cutting edge up.

  I said softly, “Don’t be a damned fool, kid. You’re clear, up to now.”

  He smiled. “Keep talking, footballer.”

  “Red hasn’t got enough strings out,” I said. “He’s small-time and stupid. He can’t do you any good on a big rap.”

  “Who mentioned Red?” he asked me. “I want to know about my buddy.”

  “I’ll call the police and ask them,” I offered. “I don‘t know why they want him. But I could phone.”

  “Don’t whine, footballer. Just talk.”

  The bartender moved a hand toward the phone and the b
rown eyes flicked his way. The bartender brought his hand back. He gulped.

  “Talk, damn you,” the young hoodlum said.

  “To hell with you,” I said. “You come for me with that knife and I’ll make you wish you were dead, punk. Now put it away.” I edged toward a chair.

  “Stand still,” he said. He lifted the knife, as though to throw it.

  And then, behind him, the door opened, and one of the winos stood there, wavering, his shocked eyes taking in the scene.

  I said, “It’s about time, Lieutenant,” and I moved toward the chair as the kid whirled around.

  His reaction was fast, I must admit. He turned back quickly, once he saw who was in the doorway. But I had a chair, by that time, and it was a hefty one. I brought the momentum of my body turn into it and threw low and hard, toward his legs.

  One leg caught his knee and he yelped and went crashing backward into the wino. The wino went down and the kid went down with him, half in the saloon, half out on the walk. I picked up another chair and started that way, but the bartender was already over there, a sawed-off axe handle in his hand.

  I heard the “thunk” of hickory on skull and the clatter of a knife on the concrete of the walk. I heard a woman scream and the wino curse and the bartender say, “Gosh, I hope to hell I didn’t kill him.”

  I went to the phone as the bartender picked up the knife.

  11

  TRASK SMOKED and ignored me from behind his desk. Caroline came in and said, “Slight concussion. He’ll make out.”

  I asked, “Did you get his prints?”

  They ignored me.

  I asked, “Did you get the other kid’s prints, the one you picked up earlier?”

  Trask looked at me bleakly. “We did. They didn’t match.”

  Caroline said, “Lange’s still out there. He claims to be representing this kid, too. He wants him taken to a hospital.”

  “To hell with Lange,” Trask said. “Tell him to talk to Apoyan. I won’t talk to the son-of-a-bitch.”

  Caroline went out, again, and Trask looked at me. He shook his head wearily and looked away.

  A thin man in a gray suit came in with some cards and laid them on Trask’s desk. “A perfect match. It’s the right thumb of that last kid who was brought in.”