The Hundred Dollar Girl

by William Campbell Gault

  “You’re spoiling me,” I said. “Tell me about this girl.”

  “Not now.” She went in to get the steaks.

  Friends…. We had another drink and ate the steaks, the salad and the rolls. We drank our coffee and talked, comfortable friends. But not this morning, when I’d left. A change in the social climate for the better — and I had to be suspicious of it, because of my trade.

  Some impulse in me made me say, “Have you forgotten how angry you were this morning?”

  “No. Why did you ask that?”

  I shrugged.

  Her voice was more edged. “Do you think I’m trying to — to use you?”

  “Isn’t it natural to wonder why you’re no longer angry?”

  A pause, and she said, “I talked with Mary again today, Mary Pastore. She says you’re friends. No more than that, at the moment, she says. She told me you’re not the kind who will ever settle for one girl.”

  “I love her,” I said. “And you. Is it time to go?”

  We went in my car. Over to Sunset and along its curves to Beverly Hills. Behind the high walls and protective hedges on this fabulous boulevard were the mansions of the mighty, the well-screened abodes of the town’s real money.

  “Pretty soon, now,” Mary said. “That driveway on the right, flanked by those junipers.”

  A wide driveway, an estate. Far ahead, set in a grove of poplars and oaks, a huge field-stone mansion. Acreage, in an area where footage is out of reach.

  “One of your rich friends?” I commented.

  “Not mine,” she said. “Terry’s.” A pause. “Linda Carrillo. Have you ever heard of her?”

  “Not Linda,” I answered. “The Carrillos, of course, but I’ve forgotten which half of the city they own.”

  She put a hand on my knee. “Linda’s folks are in Europe right now, and she’s worried about scandal. She’s a good girl, Joe, a serious, lovely girl, not a scatterbrain.”

  Linda Carrillo. It couldn’t be. I said, “Don’t tell me she’s in love with your brother?”

  “Desperately,” Mary answered.

  Jeepers! Not a scatterbrain? She had to be, a girl with all those millions behind her in love with an arrogant and ignorant club fighter. There had to be a big, fat flaw in her somewhere.

  The parking area would hold about twenty cars, the garage no more than six. We parked near the front door and went up two wide steps, along the pebbled concrete walk to the front door. I had no chance to ring the bell. A maid opened the door had no chance to ring the bell. A maid opened the door.

  “Miss Loper and Mr. Puma to see Miss Carrillo,” I said.

  The maid nodded, and stood aside. “Miss Carrillo is expecting you.”

  We went into the entry hall and followed her past what looked like two living rooms, a dining room and a bathroom to an immense house-wide room in the rear, lofty and walled with planters and one mammoth aquarium wall. The entire place was cove-lighted and the rheostat must have been set low. It was dim in here.

  A girl rose as we entered and came over to meet us. Her hair was black as jet, her beauty Castilian, classic and serene. She seemed very young but her poise was enviable.

  “Mr. Puma?” she asked, and I nodded.

  “You’ve worked for Mona Greene?” she asked me, and I nodded again.

  “And Fidelia Sherwood Richards?” she asked.

  I nodded, and glanced at Mary.

  Mary said too sweetly, “Oh, Joe knows all the girls.” Linda Carrillo’s smile was dim. “Mona and Fidelia claim you’re — incorruptible, Mr. Puma.” I shook my head. “Nobody is.”

  Mary said, “This is beginning to sound like one of those corny TV dramas. Mr. Puma’s as incorruptible as he’s permitted to be.” She paused. “Except around women. He’s the corrupted man of the year, there.”

  I ignored that and asked Linda Carrillo, “Why did you want to talk with me?”

  “I’m Terry’s alibi,” she said. “I’m the reason he lied to the police.” Some color in her face, now, and a little less assurance in her voice.

  “He had to lie?”

  She nodded. “We — were at a motel. Because he’s married and because of — my parents, he had to lie.”

  “Because of your parents? How about your reputation?”

  She said proudly, “I love him. I don’t care who knows that. But my parents, I — I mean — ”

  “Naturally. Miss Carrillo, I don’t see what I can do for you. I’m obligated to tell you to take your story to the police.”

  “To the police means to the newspapers,” she said softly. “I can’t do that to my parents.”

  I lighted a cigarette and looked at the aquarium. One fish stared back at me, the rest ignored me.

  She went on quietly. “We never for a second thought Terry would be accused of murder. But the police are suspicious of him, now, aren’t they?”

  I shrugged.

  “You know they are,” she said. “They’re watching him.” “Who told you that?” I asked her.

  “Terry. He’s seen them outside his house.” She gestured toward a chair. “Don’t you want to sit down?”

  “I doubt if we’ll be here long, Miss Carrillo. I can’t understand what you think I can do for you.”

  “You’re a private detective,” she said. “You can talk with the police privately. You can learn if they’re willing to take a statement from me without leaking it to the newspapers.” She chewed her lower lip. “I’d pay you, of course.”

  Of course. In her mind, anything could be accomplished with money. I said, “The police need the newspapers in this town. They’re afraid of them. And the newspapers live on scandal; that’s their only solidly selling item. You can’t make a deal like that, Miss Carrillo.”

  “You mean you won’t even try?”

  I looked at her fine, intense young face and took a deep breath. “I didn’t say that. I’m not sure, right now, how I could sound them out, not mentioning your name, without getting them on my neck. At this particular time, I’m not on their hit list. I had to lie to them this afternoon and they know I lied.”

  “You have to try,” she said hoarsely. “You have to try! He’s innocent, and I know it, and if you can’t work it this way, I’ll tell the police and the newspapers.”

  “Calm down,” I said soothingly. “Don’t tell anybody anything, yet. I’ll phone you tomorrow. You have an unlisted number, I suppose?”

  She had and she gave it to me and I put it into my notebook neatly and efficiently. And then she went to the door with us and thanked us both for coming.

  A sweet girl. A real prize. And Terry Lopez — Cripes!

  Outside, the night was turning cold. Mary said, “Mona Greene and Fidelia Sherwood Richards and Mary Pastore. Do you know every woman in town?”

  “I hope to,” I said, “before I die. Isn’t that Linda Carrillo a darling?”

  “They’re all darlings to you,” she said.

  “Not tonight,” I answered, and took her hand. “Why don’t we go to the Crescendo and listen to George Shearing? Do you like him?”

  “I don’t know him. Is it that quintet they had there last week?”

  “That’s it. But it’s Shearing’s piano I go for.” “Didn’t you plan to work tonight?”

  “To hell with it,” I said. “I’m sick of mugs and cops and double-talking citizens. I wish I had been born smart instead of muscular.”

  “Or rich,” she added. “How much do you think a house like this costs?”

  “Too much,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  The little two-door went chirping down the long driveway. Mary sat close to me, like the high school kids do to each other and I could almost forget I was a stupid and cynical phony in the phoniest town in the world.

  Incorruptible Puma…. Horse manure!

  Shearing helped and so did his boys. The magic piano of the great man went searching for elusive meanings and occasionally wandered onto a rhythmic truth and the boys communicated with him toni
ght, answering his questions and looking for questions of their own.

  The tight knot between my shoulder blades melted and the nagging ache behind my eyes went away and Mary smiled at me, thanking me for bringing her to this peaceful though invigorating place.

  And the booze went down and the day went into history.

  And later, in her dim bedroom on the low bed, our communication continued, extended to the fleshly spiritual, soared to the sublime and receded to the nostalgically quiescent.

  Those are only words; the act can’t be described. Spent, she said, “Professional, aren’t you?”

  “No. Love makes me ingenious.” “Love — Love means one person, eternally.” “Only in the magazines. I am a big man with big appetites.”

  “And no roots,” she added.

  I had roots; this was my native state. By roots, women mean a schedule, kids, and paid vacations and the PTA. By roots, women mean chains.

  “Have you an alarm clock?” I asked. “I have to get back to work at six.”

  She turned on a small lamp and set the clock on the same table for five o’clock.

  “I suppose,” she said sadly, “that means no seconds.”

  “Any time,” I said. “Call when ready.”

  She didn’t call. But someone did. Now, you can believe it was a dream if you want. I don’t. In a restless near-sleep I heard someone call for help and I wakened in the dark room with the chill of death on me.

  My peasant’s prescience. No, not that; that is foreknowledge, which I believe I have. This chill of death was contemporary and extrasensory; this chill of death was shared.

  I sat up on the low bed and there was not a sound from outside. A cold perspiration beaded on my forehead, on my wrists. Next to me, Mary breathed lightly and steadily, her long, thin leg lying over mine.

  I extricated myself gently and went to the bathroom. I sponged my face with a warm, wet cloth and washed my arms and the back of my neck. The chill was gone but the certainty remained; someone had died, someone I knew.

  I thought of that detective, that Schultz who was on the night watch, and wondered if he had been called away.

  If this was a shared death, taking a part of me with it, it would have to mean I was partially responsible. The memory of that moment came back and brought the chill along. I went into the bedroom and quietly dressed.

  Mary stirred in her sleep and muttered something; I paused in the doorway, but her steady breathing resumed.

  Outside, the night was cold and clear. The two-door started complainingly and moved down the street with a great rattle of tappets. I steered her toward Brentwood. It was now close to four o’clock.

  The streets were almost completely empty of traffic; I made good time.

  There was no Department car in Marie Veller’s neighborhood. Detective Schultz was nowhere in sight.

  I parked and went into the apartment building. Again, I’m not asking you to believe; I can only relate what I felt. As I approached her door, the hair on my neck ‘bristled and a coldness seeped into my bones, the coldness of the grave.

  I rang her bell and waited. There was no sound from within. I tried the door. It was locked. I rang again.

  And then I went to an all-night service station and phoned Mrs. Galbini.

  “A hunch?” she said sleepily. “Jesus, man, you don’t want me to come way over there with a set of keys just on a hunch, do you?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Just throw them out onto the front porch and go back to bed. I’ll come and get them. I thought this way would be faster.”

  “A hunch,” she said again. “All right, all right — I’m on the way.”

  She must have really barreled. Because it was about five minutes after I got back to the apartment that she came with the keys.

  And as we approached Marie Veller’s door, she asked, “What is it? This creepy feeling, what is it?”

  “Your peasant awareness,” I said. “I’ve got it, too.”

  I rang once more and then she handed me the key. I opened the door, and she reached in to turn on the wall switch.

  A lamp in the near corner of the room went on, a dim lamp, but bright enough to illuminate the room. Bright enough for us to see the overturned furniture and Marie Veller in the middle of the living room floor.

  There was the handle of a knife still protruding from her stomach.

  chapter eleven

  APOYAN WAS HOME IN BED; LIEUTENANT TRASK WAS IN charge of the station tonight. He was no friend of mine.

  In Apoyan’s office, he glared at me and said, “Hunch? You’d need a better excuse than that for being in the neighborhood at four in the morning. What kind of fool do you think I am?”

  I didn’t answer his question. I said, “Captain Apoyan promised me a man there until six. If he had kept his promise, the killer would be sitting here now.”

  “How do I know he isn’t?”

  I took a deep breath and fought the rage bubbling in me.

  “Why should Apoyan promise you anything? Are you running this station now?”

  “I’m working with the sane personnel here. At your superior’s request.”

  He froze. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me, Lieutenant. I’ve had no sleep for a hell of a long time and your bluster is making me sick. Now, either we talk sensibly, or you can make a charge and lock me up.”

  His voice was strained. “Watch your dirty tongue, I can get your license, Puma, and I’ll probably do it.”

  The door opened and Sergeant Dugan came in, looking like a man walking in his sleep. “We should have listened to you, Joe,” he said heavily. “I’m sorry we didn’t. God damn it, we should have listened to you!”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I needed Schultz, and — ”

  Lieutenant Trask said coolly, “Sit down, Sergeant. You look like you could use a rest. I’m trying to get some sense out of Puma.”

  Marty looked blankly at me and at the Lieutenant and then went over to sit in a chair as far from the Lieutenant as he could get.

  Trask frowned and his voice was even colder. “Start over, Puma, and start making sense.”

  “Go to hell,” I said. “I want to phone my attorney.”

  Marty said, “Joe, for Christ’s sake, will you — ”

  Trask raised a hand for silence, his glare on me. “You’re out of business, as of this second.”

  “Fine,” I said. “May I go now?”

  “No,” he said. He looked at Marty. “Sergeant, what about yesterday afternoon? Wouldn’t you like to ask Puma about those hoodlums he was riding with?”

  Marty shook his head. “No, sir. I understand how he operates.”

  Well, we were friends once more, Sergeant Marty Dugan and I. I smiled at him.

  Trask looked between us and then said to me, “Wait outside.”

  I went out to the corridor and sat on a bench. I hoped Marty wouldn’t get too unreasonable. He wasn’t the most diplomatic man in the world, the only reason he was still a sergeant.

  Trask was a joiner and had come up on politics, not efficiency. Like so many men who don’t know their business he tried to cover his lack with bluster.

  No matter how he came up, he was still Marty’s superior and I hoped Marty would remember that.

  Damn that stupid Trask! I should be in bed this second.

  With Mary Loper.

  Sergeant Marty Dugan came out and closed the door behind him. He used a string of foul words.

  “Easy,” I soothed. “He’s not the only slant-head in the Department. What’s the story on me? Has he remembered only the Attorney General can take away my license?”

  “You’re back in business,” Marty said. “Jesus, what a knot-head that man is. And a Lieutenant — ”

  He sat down next to me and lighted a cigarette. “Okay, Joe, why were you over there?”

  “Intuition. So help me, that’s all. I don’t expect you to believe it.”

  He inhaled a lungfu
l of smoke and looked at the end of his cigarette. His voice was low. “All right, then — where were you at two o’clock?”

  “With a girl named Mary Loper, in her apartment. We went to the Crescendo to hear Shearing and then we came home to her place about midnight — and sat up playing parcheesi.”

  “Never mind what you were doing. You were with her?” He puffed again. “She’ll swear to that?” “I’m sure she will.”

  “Loper,” he said, and frowned. “Lopez, Loper — That girl friend of Bugsy’s?”

  “That’s right. And the sister of Terry Lopez.”

  “And, outside of the obvious, what’s your interest in her?”

  I didn’t answer immediately.

  “Does she have some information we should have?” he asked.

  I paused, and then said, “She took me to someone who has. But it’s not information Trask is going to get.” “Why not?”

  “Because Trask is a politician and he caters to the newspapers in this town. What I was told tonight is never going to be printed in a newspaper.”

  “Isn’t that a decision for us to make?” he asked me quietly.

  “No,” I said.

  “You’re on awful damned thin ice, Joe.”

  “I always am. That’s why I earn more than a Department man. That’s what I sell, my precarious position.”

  “We could bring in that Loper and sweat it out of her.”

  “Yes. You can always use your muscle when you run out of brains. But you’re not going to, are you?”

  “You bastard,” he said. “You not only get more money; you get more nookie. You lucky slob.”

  “I’m charming and single,” I pointed out. “It has nothing to do with my profession. Is there any coffee around this dump? I’m bone tired, Marty.”

  “I can imagine,” he said. “That parcheesi is a rough game.” He stood up. “This way.”

  We went to a small room, about twice the size of a storage closet, which held three chairs, a table and a fifty-cup percolator.

  He poured me a cup of coffee and I added three lumps of sugar. He sat in a chair at the other side of the table and said, “Marie Veller was killed around midnight.”

  I stared at him. “Then why the two o’clock bit? Were you trying to trick me, Marty?”