He nodded.
I drank my coffee.
“I’m a cop,” he said. “I can’t afford to be a friend.” “I know. And that’s why I have to keep secrets from you and all your honest brothers. I don’t want to give you Terry Lopez’ real alibi just yet, Marty.”
“How about yours?” he asked me quietly.
“At twelve o’clock, I was just leaving the Crescendo. I’m sure the bartender will remember me, the one named Duffy. Why do I need an alibi? How in hell can you think of me as a murderer?”
“Anybody and everybody,” he said. “That — person Mary Loper took you to see, that was a woman, I suppose?” I nodded.
“That was Lopez’ real alibi?” I nodded again.
“You’re not that stupid,” he said. “A woman? Probably a woman in love with him? She’d swear he was the King of Siam. Come on, Joe, there’s an angle here, somewhere.”
He hated Trask. I think he liked me and he hated Trask. But he and Trask shared the badge and that made them brothers. No matter what his personal feelings were, if he had any, I was still the outsider. I was silent.
“All right,” he said, after half a minute, “we’ll bring in that Loper woman and get it out of her.”
“I didn’t have to tell you she took me to Terry’s alibi. I’m being as honest with you as I can, Marty. And you’re taking advantage of it. If you don’t think I’m honest, it’s dishonest of you to work with me. Stop talking for a few minutes, and do some thinking.”
He poured another cup of coffee. “I’m too God damned tired to think!”
“And so am I. Why don’t we both go home and hit the sack? Around noon, we can get together with Captain Apoyan and talk like intelligent citizens. Neither one of us is up to any more fighting tonight.”
“Tonight?” he said. “It’s six in the morning, Puma.”
“And right now,” I said maliciously, “I should be relieving Detective Schultz. There’s no need to, is there, Marty?”
“Oh, shut up!” he said wearily. “All right, let’s both go home. I’ll see you here at noon.”
We went out together. He went over toward the police parking lot; I went to my car at the curb. He could have been going home, but I still didn’t trust him completely.
From a pay phone on Wilshire, I called Mary.
“Damn you,” she said. “This alarm I set for you woke me at five and now you call at six-fifteen. What happened?”
“I was called away. There’s been another murder.”
“Who?”
“Someone you probably don’t know. Mary, the police might want to question you about that girl, the girl you took me to see. Don’t tell them her name. Understand? Under any conditions. Demand that your lawyer be present if they insist on questioning you.”
“All right,” she said. “All right! But why can’t you tell me who was killed?”
“A girl named Marie Veller.”
“I don’t know her. Joe, what’s happening? I’m frightened.”
“Don’t be,” I said. “You’re safe. I’d come over, but it would look bad if the police came. Now, please don’t worry; you’re perfectly safe.”
A silence and then, “I’ll be home at three this afternoon. Will you come over, then, or at least phone?”
“It’s a date,” I said. “Get some sleep.”
“Sleep — ” she said. “I’m sorry I ever met you. Sleep — ”
I said good night and went back to the car and home. And just before I fell asleep, I thought of that psychic cry I’d heard around four o’clock.
Marie Veller had died at midnight; so much for my cherished peasant intuition. A man couldn’t even trust his delusions these days.
It was after eleven before I returned to consciousness. I was still bushed but Sergeant Dugan had said twelve o’clock and my current relations with the Department couldn’t stand further strain. I dragged myself from bed and into a cool shower.
A ham omelette, prepared by my own dainty hands, butter-soaked toast and two cups of instant coffee helped the shower bring me back to semivigor. It was only five minutes past noon when I entered Apoyan’s office.
He was looking over some reports and he nodded to a chair. I sat down, lighted a cigarette, and looked patient.
“Steak knife,” he muttered. “Whose, whose, whose?”
He wasn’t talking to me, but to himself. I asked, “What steak knife? Was that a steak knife in Marie Veller?”
“I wouldn’t call it that. Did you see it?”
I shook my head. “Only the handle.”
“I did. Has a steak knife got a point? Why should it have a point? These boys at the lab — ” He sighed.
“Sergeant Dugan here yet?” I asked.
“No. Why? You two planning something cute?”
“He’s bucking for captain,” I said, “and I’m going to be his campaign manager. Calm down, Captain; you get paid either way.”
He glared at me. “So do you. And for what?” “For services rendered. Have a cigarette.”
He shook his head and picked up a pipe. He knocked out the top ash and lighted it and leaned back. “All right, I’m calm now. What about you and Dugan?”
I told him about last night.
His smile was sour. “So Lieutenant Trask thinks you could be a killer. You know, he might be right? What does Sergeant Dugan think?”
“He thinks I should tell him the name of the woman Mary Loper took me to see.”
“But you don’t want to?”
“Not now. I don’t trust Lieutenant Trask with the newspapers.”
“Why should anyone connected with this murder get immunity from the newspapers? What right has this woman to special privilege?”
“None, perhaps. But she has a right to expect me not to betray a confidence. And I’ll tell you right now there’s no threat that can make me betray a confidence until I’m ready to.”
He puffed his pipe. “I know that and so does Sergeant Dugan. Unfortunately, Lieutenant Trask assumes all men are created in his personal image. But the Lieutenant is still a member of this Department and we all work together at this station.”
“Under your orders,” I said.
He said nothing.
“Perhaps I’d better work with the downtown boys,” I said. “They appreciate me down there.” “Huh!” he said.
Sergeant Dugan came in, nodded at me, and went over to lay some papers on Apoyan’s desk. He stood there while the Captain glanced through them.
I asked, “How about Terry Lopez? Is he clear for last night?”
Apoyan nodded and held up one of the papers. “Poker. From ten to three-thirty. At a room in a west side restaurant, a first-floor room, though.” He glanced at Marty. “However, remembering your story of the sight-seeing trip you took with your friends, Sergeant Dugan went around to the back of the restaurant. And there was a steel door behind a lattice-work fence.”
I stared at him.
Marty said, “In the game, besides Lopez — Delamater, Martino, a couple minor bookies.” He paused. “And Doc Golde.” “You tell me what it means,” I said.
“It could mean what you suggested — that Martino is moving in to take over boxing. Lopez is probably the man they’ll build up. With the right kind of stumblebums, that can be done, you know.”
“And you think Galbini was killed so Martino could take over Lopez? No. Martino probably could have bought Lopez’ contract from Gus for ten bucks. Gus knew Terry was through; that’s why he bet on Mueller.”
“We don’t know he bet on Mueller. That’s just a strong rumor.”
Marty said, “A very strong rumor, Captain. I believe it.” “Sure. And Puma, here, thinks Mueller is a solid citizen. What was Doc Golde doing at the restaurant, then?” “Marty or I could ask him,” I suggested. He looked at Dugan and back at me.
“Unless, of course,” I said acidly, “you still don’t trust me.”
Apoyan smiled. Dugan looked at me steadily. Apoyan said, “Don’t sulk, Joe. Most priv
ate men get even worse treatment. Sergeant, you interrogate Golde.”
Sergeant Dugan nodded. “And what about that woman Puma talked with last night, that alibi of Lopez’? Shouldn’t Lieutenant Trask be informed about her?”
“I’ll decide that, Sergeant,” Apoyan said evenly. “I want to discuss it right now with Joe.”
Dugan left and Apoyan looked at me.
“Lopez doesn’t need an alibi, now,” I said. “He’s covered for last night.”
“You’re assuming it’s the same killer?”
I nodded.
“That’s too much of an assumption,” he said. “There’s absolutely nothing to substantiate it. I guarantee you her name will be kept from the papers.”
“How can you guarantee it, Captain? If you send a man out, he might leak it to the reporters. Or he might try to curry favor with Trask by telling it to him.”
“I’m not sending anybody,” Apoyan said. “I’m going myself.”
I took a breath.
Apoyan said quietly, “You have my promise her name will never see print unless she’s criminally involved in one of these murders.”
I hesitated, and then said, “Her name is Linda Carrillo.”
He looked shocked. “The Beverly Hills Carrillos?”
“Right.”
“My God!” he said. “You mean she and that Lopez are — ” I nodded again. “And how can you go into Beverly Hills without consulting with the Department there?”
“I’m not making an arrest,” he explained. “I’m simply going in to talk with the girl. Okay, Joe, thanks. Your confidence will be strictly kept.”
“Explain that you talked with me,” I asked him, “and that she has nothing to fear from the papers. Her folks are in Europe and she’s very concerned with the family reputation. She’s a good girl, Captain.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Trust me, Joe.”
I had an uneasy feeling as I left him that I had made a mistake in revealing the girl’s name. Like any public servant in this area, Captain Apoyan was subject to an unreasonable and unhealthy newspaper power. But I had to trust somebody.
Sergeant Dugan was on his way to see Golde. I went to the same hotel and asked for Hans Mueller.
He had moved from the hotel to an address on the west side of town, I was told, because his wife had come out from the East and they wanted housekeeping facilities. Doc Golde was still at the hotel.
I went out to Sepulveda Boulevard, to a one-bedroom unit in a mammoth apartment development at the National intersection.
A woman answered to my ring, a short, blonde and genial-looking lady of about thirty summers who identified herself as Mrs. Mueller and told me that Hans had gone out to buy a paper and wouldn’t I please come in?
I came in and sat on a worn sofa in what was obviously a furnished apartment.
She said, “We’ve decided to move out here. Our furniture is back East. Is it always warm here?”
“It’s warm enough. It’s not like Miami,” I told her.
She made a face. “Miami — ugh — ”
I made no comment.
“Hans has talked about you,” she said. “He admires you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “He’s still being managed by Abraham Golde, I suppose?”
She nodded, her light blue eyes searching my face. “Has something happened to Abe?”
I didn’t get a chance to answer. The door opened, and Hans came in, a Times folded under his arm.
He smiled as I rose and came over to shake my hand. “Mr. Puma, it is good to see you. Have you come for help?”
“Not — physical help,” I answered. “Not yet. I wanted to ask you about Doc Golde.”
He glanced at his wife and turned back to me. “Yes?”
“He was in a poker game, last night,” I said.
“I know.”
“With some pretty unsavory characters,” I added.
He frowned. “Unsavory? I do not know the word.”
“Some hoodlums. Al Martino and some gamblers.” I paused. “And Terry Lopez. Did you know that, too, Hans?”
He sat down next to me on the sofa. “Yes, I knew that. I think Abe is — afraid of these kind of men. He would never sell me, though, or sell me out. But he hasn’t the courage to refuse to talk with them. Is that a sensible explanation?”
I shrugged.
“And he loves to play cards,” Mueller went on, “and poker at the stakes they play for is very exciting for Abe.”
Mrs. Mueller said lightly, “Birds of a feather — ”
Hans Mueller looked pained. “My wife, for some reason, does not share my great affection for Abraham Golde.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “because I have too great an affection for Hans Mueller. And where is he, today, under the brilliant Abraham Doc Golde’s fine management?”
I said, “Your husband, Mrs. Mueller, has a solid and growing reputation. That’s what is important; the money will come.”
Mueller smiled. “Thank you. My wife has adopted the vices of this country more quickly than the many virtues. She has developed a warm love for money.”
Her face stiffened. “That is not true. It isn’t the money. It is the championship, the middleweight championship of the world, and I want it not for me, but for you.”
He didn’t look at her. He asked me, “Is there anything else?”
“Did Doc tell you anything about last night?”
Hans Mueller frowned. “There was nothing — definite planned. Martino suggested another bout for me with Lopez. Abe got the idea Martino is now Lopez’ manager. One of the other men, the gambler, said there was still plenty of Lopez money around. Those Mexican fans of his think with their hearts, not their heads.” He paused. “That was said when Lopez was out of the room, Abe told me. Abe didn’t commit us to any promises, but he didn’t say ‘no’ to anything, either.”
A snort of derision from Mrs. Mueller, but no further comment.
Mueller said, “Would you like a bottle of beer, Mr. Puma? I usually have one about this time.”
I had a bottle of beer with him. Once the subject of discussion was no longer Abraham Golde, Mrs. Mueller became genial again. It appeared that these two got along well, except for that one thorn.
Hans Mueller impressed me as an honest man, though I had guessed wrong about a number of people on that. At any rate, he served first-class beer.
I thanked him and promised I would call if I needed him. I was going down his walk to the main walk when another principal in this drama came into view.
It was Barney Delamater.
As he came abreast, I stopped walking. I asked him, “Win much last night, Barney?” “Win much? Where?”
“Playing poker with your hoodlum friends at that restaurant.”
He stared at me doubtfully and said nothing. “With Al Martino,” I added, “and Doc Golde. Is Al your new partner?”
“Why don’t you give up?” he asked me. ‘Why don’t you take on somebody you can beat?” He pushed past me.
I went down to my car reflecting that he was probably giving me good advice, though I doubted that it was well meant
chapter twelve
I WENT TO THE OFFICE TO BRING MY REPORTS UP TO DATE and check the mail. Dr. Graves’s drill was mercifully quiet and even the traffic from below seemed muffled.
As I typed, I tried to make some sense out of the obvious lies, the denials, the animosities. The only pattern that showed was centered around Martino and the organization he was trying to develop.
But why would Martino need to kill Gus? There was no motive I could see. Certainly not to get control of Terry Lopez; he must have been for sale cheap. And Gus had bet on Mueller through Martino and won; what conflict could result from that?
Unless Gus couldn’t collect?
What if Gus had really shot the wad on Mueller and Martino didn’t want to bring in the loot? Gus waiting there in that apartment of his for the payoff — and getting it in lead.
&
nbsp; Had Marie Veller seen Martino go up to the apartment? Had she then heard the shot? Why else would Martino’s musclemen be trying to buy her?
And then another thought struck me. I could be wrong on Lopez. He didn’t look like a contender to me but I was no fight expert. Lopez, in first-class fighting shape, was something I had never seen in action. Out of shape, even a champ can look like a bum.
Maybe he was a valuable piece of property and maybe Gus knew it. And Martino, not being able to buy Lopez, had…. No. If Gus died, wouldn’t the contract be a part of his estate? I didn’t know. Mrs. Galbini should.
I phoned her and she told me, “There was no written contract. There isn’t even a claim I can make. I guess those two trusted each other.” A pause. “What have the police learned about Marie Veller?”
“Nothing they’ve told me.”
“There must have been a fight,” she said. “I mean — the way that furniture was overturned, and all.” I agreed that was possible.
And then she asked, “Are you getting anywhere? I mean — are you learning anything?”
“Very little, Mrs. Galbini. My conscience is beginning to bother me; I have a feeling I’m wasting your money.”
“Well,” she said, “my conscience would bother me if you quit. Because, you see, it’s really Gus’s money. Keep plugging.”
I hung up wondering about her, trying to fit her into the pattern in the killer’s role. Again, no motive. That is, if I accepted her stated acceptance of her place in Gus Galbini’s life, jealousy would be out as a motive.
Was I overlooking money? It was a community property state so with Gus alive, half was hers. But Gus, alive, could spend it, too. With Gus dead, it was all hers, and she could save it or spend it according to her whim.
I heard footsteps in the hall and soon Captain Apoyan was framed in my office doorway. He said, “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop in.”
“In the neighborhood seeing Linda Carrillo?”
He nodded and came over to sit in my customer’s chair.
“What did you think of her?” I asked him.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “What should I think? Rich people always look honest and sound honest. We can’t imagine why anyone should lie unless they need the money.”
The Hundred Dollar Girl Page 11
