“Good night,” I said. And added the Bonnet line. “Good luck.”
13
TWO CORPSES, two killers; what did I want? The police were happy. Why shouldn’t I be? For one thing, I’d been hired to find Rosa Carmona, and I hadn’t found her. For another thing, Bobby Christopher was involved in the mess and I had accepted the Christophers as clients.
The headache was mostly gone, but my bones ached as I steered the flivver back to Westwood. My knee twinged as I swung my right foot from the accelerator to the brake for the light on Wilshire.
Maybe the kid Trask was holding wasn’t the killer. The fingerprint would establish his being in the room and with blood on his hand, but could they establish it was Scott’s blood?
Well, Trask was happy and he knew more about those things than I did. But Trask didn’t know about Bobby Christopher, not yet. Are you going to tell him, Callahan?
The light changed and I cut into the stream of Wilshire traffic. On Westwood, I turned off and took that half a block to the alley that served the garages.
I remember reading a piece by Irvin S. Cobb once where he stated that driving into a battle area in the First World War had given him a strange feeling of being on a stage where everybody was watching. Because the attention of the world was centered on that particular area.
Driving up that alley, I got goose pimples for no reason I could analyze at the time. I had a feeling of someone’s — presence in the area, some evil and violent aura that seemed to hang in the damp night air.
Nerves, I told myself. You’re tired and sick, Callahan; you’re seeing ghosts.
My garage door was open. The lights of the flivver illuminated the interior of the garage and there was nothing there, nothing that shouldn’t be.
I drove in, and turned off the lights and sat for a second, listening for a sound. There was none. I climbed out, and the interior lights went on briefly and went out as I closed the door of the car. The sound of the door’s closing seemed to echo in the other garages.
I took three steps, and was reaching up for the overhead door, to close it, when a voice said, “Hello, Callahan.”
From the shrubbery on the other side of the alley, I saw a figure silhouetted. It was a broad-shouldered figure, but I couldn’t see the face; the dim light from a house was behind him.
“Red — ?” I asked.
“That’s right, Callahan. And I’ve got a gun in my hand.”
“I talked with your lawyer tonight, Red.” Sweat ran down my sides, and there was a bitter, bile-like taste in my mouth.
“Threatening to change your testimony, I hear.”
I thought of Wendell Lange and started to speak. I thought of his daughters, and closed my mouth.
Red’s voice was taunting. “You scared speechless, Callahan? Kids are your meat, aren’t they, punks with knives?”
“I’m scared,” I admitted. “You play it too heavy,
Red. You could be sitting high right now, if you’d use your head instead of your muscles.”
“Close the door, like you were going to,” he said. “Then go up the back way to your apartment. I’ll be right behind you.”
Dave Trask had told me to carry a gun. How stupid I had been. First the hot-rodder with a knife and now Red with a gun. Lange had worded it, I was too naïve for this business. I reached up again and pulled the garage door down. I kept my hand on it all the way, so it wouldn’t bang at the bottom.
Red chuckled. “Footballer — Aren’t you a prize? Big, tough footballer, scared silly.”
“You’ve got a gun,” I said. “I haven’t.”
“And I’ve got friends with guns,” he said. “And knives and brass knuckles and all the guts they need. So don’t get any cute ideas, Callahan. Just walk ahead of me a few steps, easy and slow.”
I walked ahead of him, not knowing when his gun would go off. But if he’d meant to shoot me outside, he would have done it in the alley. I kept telling myself.
But if it was just talk he wanted, he could have talked in the alley, too. The bitter taste was still in my mouth. At the back gate to the court, I paused.
I said quietly, “I’ve only one door to my apartment, and we have to go through the court to get to it. Somebody might still be sitting up in the court.”
“Go ahead,” he said. “The gun’s in my pocket.”
There was nobody in the court. We walked through, past the fountain, to the iron steps. Going up, I considered my chances of getting away, of backing up and perhaps catching him unprepared. They were narrow steps and if he was close enough, I might be able to topple him backward.
He said, “Don’t get any ideas, Callahan. This is an easy trigger.”
I killed the ideas I’d been considering and walked along the narrow iron walk to my door. I had some trouble with the key; my hand was trembling. But I managed it, finally, and opened the door.
Then I paused and asked quietly, “Do you want the light on?”
“Right.”
I reached around the open doorway and found the light switch and snapped it. The table lamp near the windows went on.
Red said, “Go over and close those shades.”
I went over and pulled down the shades while he waited in the doorway. Then he came in and locked the door behind him.
“Sit down,” he said.
I sat in a pull-up chair as he turned. I could see the gun in his hand, now, and it looked like a service .45 to me. They make a big hole.
He had some surgical dressing on his head, a reminder of Randall’s chair. He still had the black eye and puffed nose, a reminder of Callahan’s knee.
“Put your hands on the arms of the chair,” he said.
I did.
He came over to stand within slugging distance, the hole in the end of the .45 looking like a tunnel, this close.
His smile was anticipatory. “I told you we’d meet again.”
“I was hoping it wouldn’t be this soon,” I said.
“Getting gutty, huh? You’re not even trembling much, any more.”
I said nothing.
“What’s Trask got?” he asked. “What’s he so damned happy about?”
“I don’t know, Red. I’ve been trying to figure that one, too.”
“Don’t give me that, footballer. He’s got Rosa, hasn‘t he?”
I shook my head.
The back of his left hand came swinging like the boom of a sailing ship. It caught me on the cheek and the chair tilted over on two legs for a second and I could feel blood running.
For a moment, I almost lost control. I half rose from the chair.
The hole in the .45 came up to stare into my left eye, and I settled back again. I put a hand to my cheek and it came away smeared with blood.
“You could take off the ring,” I said.
“You could live, too,” he said. “Just tell me where Rosa is. You’ve got some lumps coming, Callahan, but I didn’t come here to kill you. Not unless I have to.”
“You tell me about Rosa,” I said. “Maybe I can guess where she is from that.”
“I’ll ask you again,” he said. “Where’s Rosa?”
My head was still ringing from his last slap. And I knew he could kill without thinking. I tried to dream up a lie, but my brain was a shambles.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I honestly don’t know.”
I felt the cutting edges of the diamond across the bridge of my nose, this time, and the pain of exposed bone needled my brain.
“Damn it, Red,” I said sickly, “I’m getting paid to find her. And I haven’t. I want to know as badly as you do. I’m your best witness, Red; you’re cutting your own throat.”
He took a step backward, the gun steady in his hand, studying me thoughtfully.
I don’t know what made me think of it; probably the way he’d taken that backward step. Like a place kicker. I’d done a lot of place kicking at Stanford, but very little with the Rams. And never with my left foot.
But the g
un was in line with my left leg, now, and the distance was right. If I could catch him with the edge of my shoe’s sole, catch him cleanly on the wrist bone; there was a fifty-fifty chance he would drop the gun.
His eyes were shining and his voice was tight. “Once more, Callahan. Where’s Rosa?”
“The last time I saw her,” I began slowly — and put a hand to my cheek. I wanted his gaze high. “The last time I saw her, she — ”
I swung the left leg up sharply, and ducked to the right. I felt the impact and heard the clatter of the gun on the thin carpet on the floor.
And then Red made his big mistake. He could have handled me with his hands, I felt sure. He’d proved that at the motel. He’d done a lot more fighting than I had.
But he went down for the gun, stooping for it. And that put him into a position roughly resembling an opposing lineman. In that position, he was no less vulnerable than lovable Ed Sprinkle.
I caught him right behind the ear with my right hand and flush in the teeth with my right knee. He went over sideways, and for a moment he was on his back. I dropped on him, both knees to the groin, and reached out my left hand to get a firm grip on his Adam’s apple.
My first punch to the button with my right hand did it. If it hadn’t, I would have torn his throat out with my left.
There was a babble of voices in the hall as I went over to pick up the gun. Someone knocked on my door.
I opened it to face Paul Kimball. I said, “Call the police, Paul. Right from here.”
I checked the gun to be sure there was a cartridge in the chamber and went over to stand close to Red.
“Your face, Brock,” Paul said. “It’s streaming blood.”
“I know. Phone, phone, phone — Hurry, man.”
Captain Apoyan’s office was neat and small and orderly, like Captain Apoyan. He was a fairly short man, and slim for an Armenian, with big brown eyes that were never quiet.
He said, “I’ve sent for Doctor Ritter, Brock. You won’t have a scar, I’ll bet, when he gets through. Those bandages are only temporary.”
“I’m not sure I can afford Doctor Ritter,” I said. “I’m not sure my face is that important.”
“You can afford the Department rate for Ritter. I’ve put Red in a cell across from that kid. I want the kid to see that face. The boys made a lot of noise going down, and turned on some lights. The kid will wake up and see his hero; we’ll see to that.”
“Is it smart to put them close enough so they can talk things over?”
“There’ll be a man listening, don’t worry. The kid’s old man brought a priest in, and even that didn’t touch him.” Apoyan shook his head. “God, those punks can be stubborn.”
“They’re not old enough to know about deals, yet,” I said.
Apoyan looked at me suspiciously. Then he reached over to pick up a package of cigarettes from his desk. He offered me one.
I shook my head. “I don’t smoke.”
Apoyan smiled. “Figure you can make it in the Canadian League, or something?”
I didn’t answer. My headache was back and the pain in my nose seemed to throb with the beat of my heart.
“I sent for Trask,” Apoyan said. “He’s more familiar with this case than I am. You can give him the story of it. Want to lie down, Brock?” He nodded toward a couch against one wall.
I rose. “I think I will. And could I have a big glass of cold water? And maybe some aspirin?”
“Of course you can,” he said gently. “Go and lie down, Brock. Leave everything to me.”
A uniformed man stuck his head through the doorway. “Attorney Wendell Lange is waiting to talk with you, Captain.”
“Let him sit a while. Get my boy here some cold water and a couple aspirin tablets, officer.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, and went away.
“Could you open a window?” I asked. “I’m getting sick.”
“Reaction,” Apoyan said soothingly. “It happens that way. Try not to think of it, Brock.” He went over to open a window.
I had my aspirin and my cold water. I even had my wrists bathed with cool, wet cloths. And then Trask came.
And the atmosphere changed.
I gave him my story and saw no compassion on his face.
When I’d finished, he said, “Where is this Rosa?”
“I’ve no idea, so help me, Dave.”
Trask looked at me coldly. “There are things you know you’re not telling me. I suppose you think you have a friend at court in Captain Apoyan? We know about Glenys Christopher being your client.”
“I don’t want to argue with you, Dave. I want to phone my lawyer.”
“Go ahead. You’ll need him.” He got up and went out.
Doctor Ritter came and patched me up and Tommy Self came after the doctor had finished.
Tommy had been a fine Stanford quarterback and he’d had some Harvard after that. He was my attorney.
I told him, “I want you to get in touch with a client of mine, a Miss Glenys Christopher. I want you to tell her that I was working on the Scott case for her because Scott owed her ten thousand dollars when he died. That is absolutely all she is to tell the police. She is to bring an attorney along if they try to bring her down here. I want you to phone her and tell her that the second you leave.”
Tommy frowned at me. “Brock, I’m not like that slob out there, that Lange. I’m ethical, Brock.”
“Who said you weren’t?”
“You gave me a message. I’m no courier; I’m an attorney. And it sounded like a phony message to me. I can’t buck the law, Brock.”
“Not even to save the rep of a very promising quarterback?”
He stared at me. “Are you punchy?” And then, slowly, “Christopher — ? Did you say Christopher?”
“That’s what I said.”
“And you want me to sneak a message out, just to — ”
“Save it, you card shark,” I interrupted. “Where the hell did you suddenly pick up all these ethics? Did Harvard do that to you?”
“Bobby Christopher — ” Self said quietly, and shook his head. “Hey, didn’t he sign up for S.C.?”
“Not yet,” I lied. “Maybe we can still swing him.”
Tommy shook his head and his gaze moved around my bandaged face. “You were always an honest man,” he said softly.
“I still am, Tommy. Get moving. Go.”
He nodded. “Yup. Okay, Brock. For you.”
He went out and I went back to the couch to lie down. A uniformed man came in and pulled a chair over near the doorway and sat down on it.
I closed my eyes and tried to find some mental stability. I stretched my back, arching it. I asked the uniformed man, “Would you take off my shoes?”
He looked at me hesitantly, and then shrugged. He came over to unlace and pull off my shoes.
It didn’t seem logical that I would fall asleep, with all the angles I had prodding me. But I did fall asleep, and I dreamed.
I dreamed Bobby was working out of the T, and going back to pass, fading, fading, fading, looking for a receiver.
Then, finally, way down field a man broke loose from his defender and reached his long arms up as Bobby arched a sixty yarder. The man had turned to take the pass and I could see his face.
It was Red Nystrom.
14
SOMEBODY WAS SHAKING ME and I wakened. The room was dimmer, only Captain Apoyan’s desk lamp was now lighted. The uniformed officer over me said, “Trask wants to see you in his office. Need any help?”
“No, I’m all right.” I rose to a sitting position and my brain seemed to rattle. I took a deep breath.
“Easy does it,” the uniformed man said. “Wait’ll I get your shoes on.”
As he put them on, I asked, “Who’s in there?”
“Your attorney. And some girl. Tall girl, with black hair. Looks like a rich girl to me. Sergeant Pascal’s in there, too.”
“Didn’t the girl bring her attorney?”
“No. I guess your attorney’s representing her. Can you make it all right?”
“Lead the way,” I said.
We went down the hall to Trask’s office. The officer stepped aside for me to enter, and I went in. He closed the door behind me, from the other side.
Glenys Christopher’s eyes went to my bandaged face, and she gasped. “Brock, what happened — ?”
“Haven’t you been told?”
I thought Tommy Self looked uncomfortable. Pascal nodded toward a chair near Dave Trask’s desk, and I sat down.
Dave said, “I’ve been up since seven in the morning and it’s now three o’clock. We’ll save a lot of time if the two of you tell me all you know about Roger Scott’s death.”
“You should have gone to bed, Dave,” I said. “I’ve already told you all I know. If you want me to, I can bring you the rest of my reports tomorrow.”
Trask looked from me to Glenys. “Would you tell me, Miss Christopher, just what your relationship was with Roger Scott?”
She gave him the Beverly Hills freeze. “I don’t understand the question, Sergeant Trask.”
He smiled. “Lieutenant Trask, Miss Christopher. I mean, you lent him ten thousand dollars. Why?”
“Because he asked for it. I certainly didn’t volunteer it.”
“I see. He was a friend of yours, then?”
She shrugged. “Not too good a friend. He wanted twenty thousand dollars.”
I chuckled, and Pascal looked at me coldly. Nobody else seemed to think it was funny.
Trask said, “You won’t admit you were in love with him?”
“I won’t deny it. I don’t remember the state of my affections when we were seeing the most of each other. He wasn’t really in my — set, you know. My friends never accepted him. As a matter of fact, I remember Elsbeth MacDonald telling me one time that she thought he was a fortune hunter. But of course, Elsbeth — ”
I had to hand it to her. Earlier this evening, she’d been in a state of shock, almost. And now she was putting it on as thick as a starlet at a producer’s party.
Trask cut in with, “You paid him by check?”
“I don’t remember. I told my business manager to pay him, but I don’t remember if he told me how he was paid.”
Murder in the Raw Page 14
