Murder in the Raw

by William Campbell Gault

  “Rosa started to give me the business. Said he’d told her he was an artist and wanted to paint her, and then when she got there he’d made improper advances. Man, she must have thought I was some square, huh?”

  “She had reason to,” I said. “Go on.”

  He looked at his hands. “I hit her. I’m not proud of it. I hit her. And I called her a — I called her some nasty names. I hit her and got out of there. I don’t even remember driving home.” He stared at his hands, flexing and unflexing them.

  Glenys said quietly, “And the next morning we came to you.” She paused. “For help.”

  I looked at her evenly. “And lied to me.”

  She nodded. “If it was your brother, wouldn’t you have lied?”

  I didn’t answer. I asked Bobby, “Don’t you remember anything more about that night? Were there any other cars you might have noticed on that street?”

  He frowned and rubbed one wrist with the heel of the other hand. “Let’s see — ”

  Glenys asked quietly, “Like a mustard-colored Chev, do you mean, Brock?”

  “No, I don’t mean a Chev. Was there one there, Bobby?”

  He shook his head stubbornly. “Wait — there was a rod, but I figured it was for one of the houses on that side street. It was a ‘33 or ‘34 Ford.”

  “A coupe, chopped and channeled?”

  He nodded quickly. “That’s right, a black one. Does that mean something, Brock?”

  “It could. When was the last time you saw Rosa, Bobby?”

  “That was the last time.”

  “Dead or alive, the last time?”

  He looked up quickly. “Dead — ? Rosa’s dead? Hell, she couldn’t — Tell me, Brock, is she dead?”

  I shrugged. “Nobody seems to know.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t think of her dead. She was too — too alive.”

  “Everybody dies,” I said, “even the live ones.” I stood up for the second time. “There’s nothing more, Bobby? That’s it?”

  He looked at me anxiously. “That’s it, Brock. Are you going to the police now?”

  “No, not now. I work with the police, but for the Christophers. I’ll keep in touch with you.” I looked at Glenys. “Don’t pay anything to Lange. I’ll try and get in touch with him tonight.”

  “Thank you, Brock,” Glenys said.

  I asked her, “Why did you originally come to me? Because you wanted to get me off the other investigation? Or did you think you could buy me?”

  She shook her head slowly. “Not buy you, rent you. I needed a friend, and I’m used to paying for my friends.”

  Neither of them got up; I went to the door alone and out into a cool dusk. The sprinklers were throwing a mist over the immense lawns that sloped away from the house on all sides.

  I thought of the girl Bobby had brought to the party and wondered at his love for Rosa Carmona. This Rosa must have something to compete successfully with dolls like Bobby’s Dianne. The chances were she had one appeal very few men can resist — she was available.

  I decided to eat in Hollywood and my route took me past Lange’s office. I parked and went up.

  The girl with the scrubbed face looked at me coolly. “Mr. Lange isn’t in. Is there a message?”

  “None. You’re working late, aren’t you? Is he coming back?”

  “He didn’t say. I doubt it. He very rarely works after six.”

  “Could you phone him at home and ask him if he would talk to me there?”

  “I could. What is the nature of the business, Mr. Callahan?”

  “An attempt at blackmail on his part.”

  She looked at me quietly.

  “Adjust,” I told her. “You’re in Hollywood.”

  She picked up the phone on her desk and dialed a number. A moment, and she said, “Mr. Callahan is here, Mr. Lange. He’d like to talk to you tonight.”

  Another moment, and she handed me the phone.

  Lange said, “I’m just eating dinner, Mr. Callahan. Could you make it eight-thirty, here at my home?”

  “I’ll be there,” I said, and hung up.

  Th girl wrote an address on a slip of paper and handed it to me. She avoided my eyes.

  “We all have to eat,” I told her.

  I ate dinner at The Shorthorn in Hollywood and then sent the flivver up one of the winding roads that led into Hollywood Hills.

  The home of Wendell Lange had probably been constructed before real estate went crazy out here. It was a solid place, though not too big, buried in geraniums behind a whitewashed split-rail fence.

  Wendell Lange was waiting for me in the small front patio. I could see through the living room windows behind him. I could see an attractive middle-aged woman reading a storybook to a pair of girls just short of their teens. They looked like twins.

  Lange got up from the wicker chair he’d been sitting in. It was dark now, but I could see his face reflected in the glow from the living room. He was smoking a cigar that smelled expensive.

  “Twins?” I asked him.

  “What-?” He paused. “Oh.” He turned to look back into the lighted living room. “Twins. Pretty, aren’t they?”

  “In a few years, they’ll be dating, I’ll bet.” My voice was weary. “Let’s hope they don’t get a yen for any hot-rodders.”

  He said nothing.

  “Nice place you have,” I said. I turned to look at the lighted city below us. “Some view.”

  He nodded. “I could sell it for four times what I paid for it. I hope you didn’t come here to lecture me, Mr. Callahan.” He indicated another wicker chair. “Won’t you sit down?”

  I sat down. “Nystrom ever been here?” I asked.

  “Stop it, Mr. Callahan. We all play the roles we choose. If I want a lecture on the moralities, I can find a lecturer better equipped and educated than you.”

  “Okay, Mr. Lange, I’ll be blunt. The police can’t seem to understand why I’ve refused to positively identify Red Nystrom as the killer of Sue Ellen. I can’t quite understand it, myself. I suppose I’m splitting hairs.”

  His back was to the light and I couldn’t see his face now. He said, “Are you offering me some kind of trade, Mr. Callahan?”

  “I’m stating some facts. Here’s another — my client doesn’t care to pay me any more to find the murderer of Roger Scott. She’s satisfied with the suspect the police are holding.”

  “I guess the police are, too. There was another boy there, that night, wasn’t there?”

  “Possibly. But anyone who claimed that would also be admitting that he was there. And it would be wise for him to have a reason for being there.”

  “I see your point. Go on, Mr. Callahan.”

  “There might have been a girl there, too. I’ve been hired to find her, a girl named Rosa Carmona. Do you know where she is?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Does Red? Couldn’t you ask him?”

  “Red Nystrom? I suppose, if I knew where he was, I could ask him.”

  “You don’t know where Red is?”

  A long pause, and then, “I don’t.”

  “Nor Rosa Carmona?”

  “I don’t.” Another pause. “And I’ve a strange feeling Mr. Nystrom doesn’t know, either. Though that’s just a guess, of course.”

  “Of course. But if there were two boys and Scott and Rosa in that motel room that night, we have available as witnesses only the two boys, haven’t we?”

  “Would you care to name the two boys? We seem to be dealing with a lot of — theoretical people here.”

  “One of the boys is the lad the police are holding. The other could be his buddy or it could be one of my clients. Or maybe even both. At any rate, you’re representing some pretty vicious people. And you expect an innocent person to help pay for the defense of these–”

  “Poorer people,” he supplied for me. “I’m not interested in your evaluation of their characters. You took a very roundabout way of saying ‘no,’ Mr. Callahan. Your client
doesn’t intend to contribute to the defense of this lad?”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it,” I told him.

  “I see. And you’re threatening me with a change of testimony regarding Red Nystrom if I don’t play ball.”

  “That’s putting it kind of bluntly. I wonder if Red shouldn’t be consulted. He’d be unhappy, I’ll bet, if he found out you had changed my testimony by your lack of cooperation. Red might not understand that.” I looked past him, through the living room windows.

  “Don’t,” he said. “I’ve been practicing a long time, Mr. Callahan. I’m safe from any criminal threat, I assure you.”

  “From any intelligent criminal threat,” I corrected him. “Nobody in the world, including Red’s mother, is safe from a man like Red Nystrom.”

  “That needn’t be your concern. What you’ve almost told me, Callahan, is that you’d perjure yourself if I didn’t stay away from Miss Christopher.”

  “No. I’m simply asking that you be ethical because we’re being ethical.” I stood up. “I don’t seem to get anywhere with you. If you see Red, tell him I’m still waiting for that meeting.”

  He nodded. “If I see him, I’ll be sure to tell him that.” He stood up. “And if you don’t mind some advice from an old pro, Mr. Callahan, get into another line of work. You’re entirely too naïve for this business.”

  “There should be room for one honest man in it,” I said. “I think your wife is trying to get your attention.”

  He looked at the window, where his wife was outlined. “Yes,” he said quietly, “it’s time to hear the children’s prayers. Good night, Mr. Callahan.”

  I drove down the hill again, thinking of Jan, wondering if she’d be home. And I thought about Bobby and wondered how true his story was. He’d given it to me earnestly and apparently honestly, but he’d looked just as honest when he first came to me.

  Jan and Bobby I wanted to believe in, which is the wrong approach. Be objective, Callahan, not sentimental. Glenys, for all her beauty, had rarely got through to me; I had no sense of empathy with her. Glenys, though, was less involved in this mess than either Jan or Bobby. At least, that’s the way it seemed.

  And where was Rosa Carmona?

  The flivver threw out big clouds of unignited exhaust gases as we came to the bottom of the hill. I turned right on Sunset, heading for Beverly Glen, framing soft words in my mind.

  I thought of Bobby’s talk with me in the office when he’d said of his sister, “She sails for you, Brock.”

  Was the kid a pathological liar or was he using all the weapons he could find to keep me on his side? And now, this latest story — how could I judge its truth?

  There was a light in the window of the Bonnet cottage. The dog next door started to bark as I came up the stepping stones toward the light.

  She was wearing a robe, and her hair was up in curlers and there was cream on her face. She still looked good.

  “Hmmmm,” she said. “Now what — ?”

  “I like your hair straight,” I told her. “Why are you curling it?”

  “No small talk, Brock. I can tell by your face that you’re here for a purpose.”

  “Bobby Christopher has just told me an amazing story,” I said. “May I come in?”

  She looked at me, wide-eyed. Then she nodded, and stood aside for me to enter.

  I smelled coffee and cosmetics. I said, “I could use some coffee. I’ve a headache.”

  “I’ll bring some. It’s still hot.” She went into the kitchen and I sat on a circular couch in the corner with a triangular coffee table in front of it.

  From the kitchen, she called, “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Neither,” I answered.

  When she came back into the living room, the cream was off her face. She set the cup of coffee on the table in front of me. “I hope you like it strong.”

  “I do tonight. Jan — how much do you know about Bobby and Rosa Carmona?”

  She sat near me, on the end of the couch, half turned to face me. “I knew he wanted to marry her.”

  “And that she was — a friend of Scott’s?”

  She inhaled heavily and seemed to hold her breath. “Yes. That’s when I learned what Roger Scott really was.”

  I said nothing.

  “He met Rosa through Bobby,” Jan went on. “Bobby was proud of her, you see. He even had her up to his house for dinner.”

  I said nothing.

  Jan said softly, “All right, blow up. I lied to you, didn’t I?”

  “You’re not the only one. You still had the key to Scott’s place. And you’d learned about Rosa. So you gave the key to Bobby so he could learn about Rosa. But still you went to Scott’s funeral.”

  “Why not?”

  “After learning what he was — and remembering what you two had been, you could still mourn him?”

  “He was dead. He’d been a friend. I can’t hate the dead.”

  “All right. And you were silent about the rest of it because you wanted to protect the Christophers?”

  “Bobby Christopher. He’s a fine kid, Brock. And you know he’s no killer.”

  “Nobody can be sure,” I answered. “Killers come in all weights and sizes and qualities.”

  “But kids like Bobby don’t carry knives.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of Roger Scott.”

  “Who then? That woman in Venice, the one who was killed with a shotgun?”

  I shook my head. “I was thinking of Rosa Carmona.”

  “Is she dead, too? When did this — ”

  “I don’t know if she’s dead,” I interrupted. “Though it seems very likely. But if she isn’t dead, where the hell is she?”

  “I’ve no idea, Brock. Would you like some aspirin?”

  “No, the coffee will do it. Jan, if there’s anything that will help, tell me, won’t you? I didn’t come here to question your motives or your morals. I’m looking for a girl.”

  She told me all of her part in it and it matched Bobby’s story. She finished with, “That’s probably why Glenys was so frightened by your interest in me.” She smiled. “I suppose you thought she was jealous.”

  “Bobby tried to convince me she was, but I’m not quite that egotistical. And besides, that Glenys is a pretty cool dish of tea. I’ve a feeling men aren’t too important to her.”

  “You’re wrong on that. They are.”

  Next door, the dog started to bark again. I finished my coffee and looked at the headline on the late edition of the Examiner.

  Teen-ager Held In Motel Killing, it read. There was a picture of the kid who’d come for me with a knife. There was a picture of his buddy, and his buddy’s mother sitting on a bench. She was crying, her head bent forward in shame.

  I said, “I wonder if Bobby knew those kids. He’s been in that saloon where they hang around.”

  “I don’t think he knew them. Brock, are you going to tell the police about Bobby?”

  I rubbed my forehead. “I don’t know. There’s a shyster lawyer who knows he was there that night, too. He might tell them, just to confuse the case as much as possible.”

  “You need some aspirin,” she said. “Why are you being stubborn about it?” She stood up and went to the bathroom.

  When she came back, she had a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water. I took two of them and thanked her, and stood up.

  “You look tired,” she said.

  “I am. One more call and it’s the hay for me.”

  She came with me to the door. There, she put a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry I lied to you, Brock. It didn’t do any good, anyway, did it?”

  I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “You were loyal — and sentimental. That’s no crime — yet. I’ll be seeing you.”

  There was no sound from the dog as I went down the stepping stones to my car. I cut back to Wilshire and took that to San Vicente and San Vicente to Brentwood.

  Randall came out, the registry card in his hand, as I pulled the flivve
r into his parking area. Then he saw I was alone in the car, and waited in the doorway. Only the couples got curb service here, probably.

  He sighed when he recognized me. “The police have been here, and now you. They nailed that young hoodlum, I see.”

  “They’ve picked him up, but he’s a long way from nailed. Had you ever seen him around here?”

  “Never. I had a feeling that Sergeant Pascal wanted me to say I had.”

  “I guess the police still don’t trust you, Mr. Randall.”

  “They don’t trust anybody. I don’t see anything in the papers about them picking up Red Nystrom.”

  “It’s only a question of time, I’ve been told.”

  I went into the narrow office, and he closed the door behind us. He looked at me doubtfully.

  I said, “I’ve just been talking to Red’s lawyer. He seems to think there was somebody else the police don’t know about who was here that night. It must have been a regular convention.”

  He said nothing.

  “That many people would cause a stir,” I went on. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear something.”

  “Every unit has a radio and a TV set,” he answered. “At times, it sounds like a blacksmith shop around here, despite the thick walls in this place.”

  “I can see why you’d be suspicious of the police,” I continued. “But my client isn’t close to the police.”

  He looked at me guardedly. “What are you trying to say, Mr. Callahan?”

  “I thought you might tell me something you wouldn’t tell them.”

  “I already got hell from the police for telling you about that fingerprint.”

  “If you hadn’t told me that, they wouldn’t have this punk locked up now. I’m the one who suggested they check him. As a matter of fact, I’m the one who brought him in. That’s gratitude for you, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what it is. This I know, the police have my whole story and it’s the only one I have and if you want it, you can ask them for it.”

  “You’ve got a short memory,” I told him. “Remember the day Red walked in here and told me to leave? And I didn’t, did I? I stuck by you, then, didn’t I?”

  “You stuck. And I hit him with a chair. And now he’s out there, somewhere, free and operating. And I can’t sleep nights. Mr. Callahan, I’ve said all I’m going to. Good night.”