Murder in the Raw

by William Campbell Gault

  “Your business manager is available-now, is he? Could you have him come in tomorrow?”

  “I doubt it. He’s off the coast of Spain, somewhere, one of those islands — is it Majorca? Or is that off Florida? Is that one of the Keys? I mean, I — ”

  “He has an office, hasn’t he? The records will be available in his office, won’t they?”

  “I suppose. Is it so important, Lieutenant? Do you think I’m lying to you?”

  Trask looked at Pascal and sighed. Self looked at me and shrugged. Glenys covered a yawn, and asked, “Exactly why did you want to see me, Lieutenant? If it’s about Roger Scott’s death, I was giving a rather large party that night. I hope you don’t think I killed Mr. Scott? Because if you do, I can bring in any number of witnesses as to my whereabouts that evening. Including the Governor. Would you mind coming to the point?”

  Trask said patiently, “We want to know why you contracted for the services of Mr. Callahan, Miss Christopher. And I’d appreciate a short and straight answer.”

  “Because I wanted to find out who killed Roger, for one thing. And I wanted to learn how much chance I had of getting my money back. I expected Mr. Callahan would investigate both.”

  “And why Mr. Callahan?”

  “Because he’s in Beverly Hills and I happened to be in the neighborhood, shopping, that morning.”

  “I see. And how long has Mr. Self been your attorney?”

  “He isn’t my attorney. He’s only representing me at the moment. My regular attorney was lost to me when he was elected Governor of this state and I haven’t replaced him, as yet.”

  Trask took a big, deep breath, like a man going down into deep water. “And why were you interested in who killed Roger Scott?”

  “I wasn’t really interested in who killed him; I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t one of my friends. I certainly didn’t want to have any corpses turn up at one of my parties.”

  Trask looked at me and back at Glenys. “Miss Christopher, you may think me fool enough to be taken in by this ridiculous dialogue. Or you might think me small enough to be impressed by your social position. I’m neither, and I’d appreciate some straight talk.”

  Glenys looked at him coolly and patronizingly. “I’ve talked as honestly and completely as I could, Lieutenant. You may address any further questions to Mr. Self.”

  Dave looked at me. “And you, Callahan?”

  “I’m sick of doing your work, Dave, and I’m physically sick, too. To hell with you and your idiot employees.”

  Tommy said, “Easy, Brock. There’s no point in being abusive. The Lieutenant’s only trying to get at the truth.”

  “You don’t know him, Tommy,” I said. “He’s lied to me from the first day I was brought in here. I’m getting sick of the smell of this place. I’ve cooperated 200 per cent with the whole lying bunch of them right from that first day. And now he can do any damned thing with me he wants. I’ve got a story the papers will love, and they’re getting it.”

  Trask looked at me bleakly. “Lock him up, Sergeant.” He turned to Glenys. “We’ll contact you later in the day, Miss Christopher.”

  She rose, and looked down at him. “Through Mr. Self. I won’t be available any other way. May I ask why you are holding Mr. Callahan?”

  “You may and you have,” Trask said. “Good night, Miss Christopher.”

  Tommy said, “I’ll be back, Brock. Get some sleep, kid. And don’t go sounding off to any newspapers. I know quite a number of police officers. And every one of them earns every dollar he gets.”

  Pascal said, “This way, Callahan.”

  “Hold it a few minutes, Sergeant,” Trask said.

  Glenys patted my shoulder as she went by. Self smiled and nodded. They went out. Pascal closed the door and came back to stand next to the desk. His bloodhound’s face was taut, weary.

  Trask said, “Who the hell does she think she is?”

  “A friend of the Governor’s,” I said.

  “The Governor, that simple — ”

  “Easy, Dave,” I interrupted. “Watch your tongue. You never know when Pascal may want to knife you for your job.”

  Pascal muttered something, and Trask’s voice was edged. “You certainly have gone through a change of character, Brock. You’re getting pretty big, aren’t you?”

  “No. I just don’t like discourteous police officers. Most taxpayers don’t, but most taxpayers don’t weigh two hundred and seven pounds. Now, show me my bed; I’m sick and tired.”

  “You can sleep at home,” Trask said. “I had to sound off at somebody, and you were available, Brock.”

  “All right, Dave. And Miss Christopher invulnerable. I know what you mean; she affects me the same way. But now that we’re both too tired to fight, tell me one thing — do you honestly believe I would shield a murder, at any level?”

  “I guess not, Brock. I’m too tired to argue. How did you get here? Is your car — oh, of course it wouldn’t be. Sergeant, would you — ”

  Pascal’s bloodhound face looked longer than ever.

  Trask shook his head wearily. “No, you’re right. You’ve been up as long as I have. Get any one of the boys who is around, or have a nearby car called in.” He stood up. “That punk will break tomorrow, Sergeant. Report in late; get your sleep.”

  Pascal went out and Dave went to the water cooler.

  He drank three paper cups full of water in succession and belched.

  He came back to his desk and said, “I hope you’re clean, Brock. It would be awfully damned bad for you if you weren’t. Wait in the hall for your transportation. Close the door behind you.”

  He was dialing the phone as I went out.

  A couple of traffic officers took me home. They weren’t interested in me; they were baseball fans. They were moaning about the damned Yanks.

  I didn’t dwell on my lies or those of Glenys. I was too tired for conscience pangs; I was asleep two minutes after I’d pulled off my clothes.

  In the morning, I managed to shower without getting my face wet. I made some coffee and picked up the Times outside my door.

  There was a shot of me sleeping in Apoyan’s office and a picture of Red Nystrom with his hands in front of his face. In the story under the pictures, there was a hint of “developments still to be disclosed, involving a prominent Southland family.” This was a Wendell Lange quote, though he hadn’t made the picture section.

  It was now eleven o’clock and I wondered if the police had made any headway with Red or his young ally. I phoned Glenys Christopher.

  “You poor thing,” she said. “I’ve been sick all night, thinking of your face.”

  “Don’t think about it. It’s going to be fine. I was proud of you, but there will be records impounded, I can assure you.”

  “In time. Tommy tells me he can stall that indefinitely, almost. He’s — young to be such a prominent attorney, isn’t he?”

  “He was always bright,” I said. “Stanford man. You don’t seem frightened today.”

  “I’m less frightened than I was, but I’m still frightened. I see Mr. Lange is quoted in the morning paper.”

  “That quote was for us, alone. If he really meant to blab, he could have. He wants to scare us but he doesn’t want to alienate me. He’s on the horns of a dilemma.”

  “That could have been fixed with a few dollars.”

  “And a piece of your soul. Damn it, girl, why should you knuckle under to thieves?”

  “That’s not quite it. We pay for our sins — and for our mistakes, Brock. I’d rather pay in money, because that’s the easiest way.”

  “You didn’t make the mistake,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, I did. I didn’t watch his friends closely enough. I let him have his own way too much.”

  “All right, Aunt Glenys,” I said. “I’ll keep in touch with you.”

  “And be careful, please,” she said.

  “Yes’m,” I said, and hung up.

  By the time I got to the off
ice, I was hungry, so I went over to the drugstore.

  My fan behind the counter looked at me and shook his head sadly. “I read about it in the paper. You must be out of shape, Brock.”

  “Even at my peak,” I told him, “I was vulnerable to .45’s. How about one of those cheese and egg omelettes with some rye rolls?”

  “Sure thing. Coming up.” He went over to the griddle to order it, and came back. “The boys are playing Fort Ord tonight, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “I hope they can stop that Matson.”

  I nodded, again. “How about a cup of coffee while I’m waiting?”

  “Sure thing,” he said. “Coming up.”

  Two people dead and one missing, but he worried about the Rams and the ponies. His world alive with wolves and tigers, but the big threat was the Forty-niners. He was only one of millions, and I’d been one of them myself until a few days ago.

  Pretty country, jammed with geraniums. They take the place of lawns and are used to keep hills from eroding. They need very little water and come in a multitude of colors and can be planted from slips, and they spread like weeds. You’ll hear strange rustlings in them, once in a while, but do not be alarmed. Rats live under the geraniums; they love the cover it provides them. The geranium jungle.

  “Your coffee’s cooling,” my fan said. “You dozing, Brock?”

  “I’ve been worrying about Ollie Matson,” I said. “Do you think the boys can stop him?”

  “Oh, well, it’s only an exhibition game. Wait’ll the season starts, and those Forty-niners come down to the Coliseum.” He went over to get my omelette.

  Outside, the prenoon traffic was quiet. A mixer whirred and my face itched and my mind went back over all of them. Bobby had been a hunch, based on the muscle-building equipment and Glenys’ concern for a man she had forgotten too soon. I tried to find the ingredients for another hunch.

  Somebody took the stool next to mine and said, “You damned fool.”

  I turned to see Jan Bonnet glaring at me. I smiled. “I didn’t know you ate here.”

  “I don’t. I went over to your office and you weren’t there. I saw your car in the parking lot and the attendant told me you eat here quite often.” Her gaze seemed fascinated by the bandages. “Why — Brock?”

  “It’s cheap, and the food’s fair.”

  “That isn’t what I meant, and you know it. Why do you get carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey for a woman like Glenys Christopher?”

  “Simmer down, honey. Have some lunch; it’s almost noon.”

  “I want to know why.”

  “Honey, there are hockey players who take this in every third game they play. I’m being well paid.”

  “Don’t call me ‘honey.’ You’re not a honey-calling type.”

  “You should try the rye rolls here. They’re great. And while you’re eating, you could tell me why you stuck your neck so far out for Bobby. Because you know it’s Bobby I worry about, not Glenys.”

  “I’m not worrying about either one of them, any more. I’ve washed my hands of the Christophers.”

  “All right. Now you can worry about me. I love it. But eat, build up your strength; I can be a problem for a real worrier.”

  “Don’t sneer at me, Mr. Callahan.”

  “Believe me,” I told her earnestly, “I’m not. I’ve been sitting here thinking about the lack of compassion in this world. It’s — monstrous.”

  “You’re serious, Brock?”

  “I’m deadly serious. And I’m a little sick. And you’re so damned comforting to be around. Have lunch with me, please.”

  “All right. Brock, it is Bobby, not Glenys?”

  “It’s Bobby,” I said, “though I’ve no beef with Glenys.”

  “Of course not. We mustn’t have any beef with the rich, must we? It’s their world.”

  “Easy,” I told her, “or you’ll have a Congressional Committee on your neck. Let us not make subversive remarks about the well-to-do and especially not in Beverly Hills.”

  The counter man said, “To hell with the rich, if you ask me. I see ‘em every day, and they don’t look like much to me.”

  I wondered what he looked like to them. But I didn’t voice it. Jan ordered a bacon and tomato sandwich and we ate in comparative silence.

  Then, when I left her in front of the drugstore, she looked up and said quietly, “You wouldn’t protect anybody, if you knew he was a murderer, would you?”

  “I wouldn’t. Neither a ‘he’ nor a ‘she.’ You don’t think Bobby’s a murderer, do you?”

  “I don’t. But wealthy people can fool you. They always look so clean and civilized and urbane. But we’re all human.”

  “I know,” I said. “Chin up, Jan.”

  She blew me a kiss and walked north. I watched her until she turned the corner.

  In front of my office, I saw Juan Mira’s car, but Juan wasn’t in sight. When I came to the top of the steps, I saw him waiting in front of my office door. He had a Times folded under his arm.

  His mahogany face was impassive, this morning. “I read the paper. Who is the rich family? They know about my Rosa?”

  I unlocked the door without answering. I said, “Come in, Juan. Nobody seems to know about your Rosa.”

  “Who is the family?” he repeated. He stood just inside the doorway, glaring at me.

  “It doesn’t matter. Why do you want to know, Juan?”

  “It matters. You tell me. I paid you. They paid you more? They know about Rosa and paid you more?” He took out his wallet.

  “Put it away, Juan,” I said patiently. “I’m still looking for Rosa, but it’s all blind alleys.”

  “You tell me the family. I find her. Rich people don‘t scare Juan. Beverly Hills people they are?”

  “Good people, Juan. Fine, honest people. Don’t make any trouble for them. I give you my word nobody has bought me.”

  “Then tell me the name.”

  I shook my head.

  Scorn on his face, hate. “They bought you. But this Lange, he knows? I deal with him. I make you very damned sorry you double-crossed Juan Mira.”

  I went over to sit behind my desk. “Calm down, Juan,” I said wearily. “I know as much as anybody you’ve read about in the papers, and I don’t know where Rosa is. I’m still looking.”

  “You can stop,” he said. “I find her. I find these rich people and they tell me. To hell with you, Brock Callahan.”

  He slammed the door behind him.

  I looked up Lange’s number and phoned him. His girl said he was due any minute. I gave her my number.

  I was typing wearily away at the reports when he phoned. I told him, “There’s a man named Juan Mira coming to see you.”

  “He’s here now,” Lange said. “He was waiting when I came back from lunch.”

  “Well, don’t tell him anything. He’s a fireball. He‘ll wind up in trouble and drag us along.”

  “Not me,” Lange said. “You do go out of your way to protect the wealthy, don’t you, Mr. Callahan? Mr. Mira has offered me one thousand dollars, just for a name.”

  “I wouldn’t sell if I were you, Lange. Isn’t there something in the California law about kidnaping applying to any person who is moved by force, even a few feet?”

  “That’s roughly it. Why do you ask?”

  “Because Red Nystrom forced me to move a couple hundred feet last night, from my garage to my apartment.”

  “You weren’t going to your apartment?”

  “No, I wasn’t. I was going to walk over to Wilshire and have something to eat, first. Red forced me to move against my will.”

  “I think Red has a different story on that. I think Red’s story is that you asked him to come to your apartment because you wanted to bribe him not to reveal a young man’s name. He laughed at you, and you attacked him.”

  “You know that’s ridiculous,” I said.

  “I wonder if the police will? Red isn’t too well loved by our Department friends, but
then, neither are you, are you?”

  “Lange,” I said steadily, “if you give that little fireball the name he wants, I promise you you’ll be sorry.”

  He chuckled. “Stop it, Mr. Callahan. You should know by now that I don’t frighten that easily. Unless I get a better offer from a party of opposing interest, I will sell to any buyer. I don’t live on hope — or threats. Good day, sir.”

  He hung up and I dialed the Christopher home. I told Glenys what had happened. I said, “Get Bobby out of town. Both of you get out of town. This Mira’s a real hothead.”

  “Why can’t we just pay Mr. Lange?” she asked. “How much did you say Mira offered him?”

  “If you start paying Lange, you’ll never stop,” I told her. “If you don’t want to leave town, phone the Beverly Hills police. They’ll give you all the protection you need.”

  A pause, and then she said quietly, “All right, Brock. I’ll do that. I’ll phone the Beverly Hills police.”

  I went back to the reports and finished them. I drank two glasses of cold water and went over to the window to watch the traffic. I saw the Austin-Healey park across the street, and I saw Bobby get out and come my way. He, like Juan, had a paper with him.

  He’d never looked more serious; I wondered if he was bringing bad news. I went to the door to meet him.

  I asked him, “Did Glenys call the police for protection?”

  He shook his head. “She phoned Lange.” He opened the paper. “This is what I wanted to show you.” He pointed to the picture of Pete Gonzales, the knife-wielding kid.

  “Do you know him?” I asked.

  “Only by name, and this picture. Rosa had a picture of him. He was her half-brother. He and Rosa had the same mother. She died about a year ago. Do the police know that?”

  “I doubt it very much, Bobby. But I’ll certainly tell them. Glenys phoned Lange, did she? What did she offer him?”

  “I don’t know, Brock. She’s scared, and I can’t argue with her. I tried to talk her out of it, but she said I’m the last person in the world she’d come to for advice.”

  I said, “Get in touch with Tommy Self, Bobby. Tell him what Glenys did. And now get out of here. If he can’t get any satisfaction out of Lange, Mira will be back here. I don’t want him to find you here.”