"And when you brought it out, when you made him tell you about the face—this Face of Evil—he was cured?” Romano asked.
"From the clinical view, he was,” Bowers answered. “He came out of shock. The catatonic periods did not recur. We kept him around awhile for observation. He was perfectly normal when he was discharged."
"Ferguson saw the face again last night,” Romano said flatly.
Bowers said, “I'm sorry. That is bad, of course, but it happens sometimes, years later. Usually it's some shattering experience that brings it on."
"It was a shattering experience,” Romano told the doctor. “Ferguson's wife was killed by a murderer they call The Butcher."
The Lieutenant rose and nodded to Grierson. He was ready to leave.
As the police car rolled off the ferry onto Manhattan Island, Grierson said, “It's nearly five. Do we knock off now and catch some shuteye, or are we starting another tour of duty?"
"Drive to City Hospital,” Romano answered. “I want to try and talk to Ferguson again."
Inside the hospital, Romano saw the same doctor he had spoken to that morning, the thin man with the high cheekbones and the small mustache.
"I'd like to talk to Ferguson again,” he said. “I won't be but a little while."
The doctor said, “Didn't you get our message, Lieutenant?"
"What message?” Romano asked.
"We called your office and left word. Lester Ferguson died of a cerebral hemorrhage about an hour ago."
Romano merely nodded, accepting it.
Grierson shook his head angrily. “So the only person who could tell us what The Butcher looked like died without identifying him,” the young detective said.
"Oh, he identified him,” Romano answered softly. “Come on, Grierson. I want to look in on Ferguson's flat."
The Fergusons had occupied the ground floor of a house of mellowed brick on a pleasant, tree-lined street in Greenwich Village. Romano got the key of Ferguson's apartment from the superintendent. Daylight still showed through the windows, but the apartment was shadowy and Romano switched on lights.
He said, “Ferguson must have been sitting in that chair right there when he came back to consciousness after his stroke.” He crossed the room and sat down in a chintz-covered easy chair.
"He came to,” Romano continued. “He was confused. He probably wasn't too sure where he was, even. He called to his wife, and she didn't answer."
Romano got to his feet. “The bedroom door was closed. Ferguson walked toward it.” Romano walked toward the bedroom door and opened it. He switched on another light, stood in the doorway.
"He looked down and saw his wife's body on the floor, right inside the doorway. Then he looked up and saw the murderer's face staring at him through a window."
Romano drew aside, “Come over here, Grierson,” he said. “Stand here in the doorway."
Grierson obeyed.
"Look straight ahead of you,” Romano said. “You see, Ferguson was right. There is a window."
Grierson was a good cop and a conscientious one, but sometimes his mind did not work too fast. He turned to Romano, his face blank.
Romano said, “You want me to draw you a picture? Ferguson saw the face of the man who killed his wife in what he called a window, the thing that's right in front of you. He called it The Face of Evil, but it was The Butcher's face, the face of the psycho who killed five women in this neighborhood."
Grierson didn't see a window.
All he saw was his own face reflected in the mirror on the wall.
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TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF by WILLIAM CAMPBELL GAULT
I finally caught up to her around eleven o'clock in a bar just off Windward Avenue. Windward Avenue is in Venice and Venice is not what you would call the high-rent district in the Los Angeles area.
A juke box was doling out the nasal complaints of a hillbilly songstress and most of the men at the bar looked like they worked with their hands. At the far end of the bar from the doorway, Angela Ladugo was sitting in front of what appeared to be a double martini.
The Ladugo name is a big one in this county, going way back to the Spanish land grants. Angela seemed to have inherited her looks from mama's side of the family, which was mostly English.
I paused for a moment in the doorway and she looked up and her gaze met mine and I thought for a moment she smiled. But I could have been wrong; her face was stiff and her eyes were glazed.
The bartender, a big and ugly man, looked at me appraisingly and then his gaze shifted to Miss Ladugo and he frowned. A couple of the workingmen looked over at me and back at their glasses of beer.
There was an empty stool next to Angela; I headed toward it. The bartender watched me every step of the way and when I finally parked, he was standing at our end, studying me carefully.
I met his gaze blandly. “Bourbon and water."
"Sure thing,” he said.
"New around here, are you?"
"Where's here—Venice?"
"Right."
Before I could answer, Angela said, “Don't hit him yet, Bugsy. Maybe he's a customer."
I looked over at her, but she was looking straight ahead. I looked back at the bartender. “I'm not following the plot. Is this a private bar?"
He shook his head. “Are you a private cop?"
I nodded.
He nodded, too, toward the door. “Beat it."
"Easy now,” I said. “I'm not just any private cop. You could phone Sergeant Nystrom over at the Venice Station. Do you know him?"
"I know him."
"Ask him about me, about Joe Puma. He'll give you a good word on me."
"Beat it,” he said again.
Angela Ladugo sighed heavily. “Relax, Bugsy. Papa would only send another one. At least this one looks—washed."
The big man looked between us and went over to get my whiskey. I brought out a package of cigarettes and offered her one.
"No, thank you,” she said in the deliberate, carefully enunciated speech of the civilized drunk on the brink of the pit.
"Do you come here for color, Miss Ladugo?” I asked quietly, casually.
She frowned and said distinctly, “No. For sanctuary."
The bartender brought my bourbon and water. “That'll be two bucks."
He was beginning to annoy me. I said, “Kind of steep here, aren't you?"
"I guess. Two bucks, cash."
"Drink it yourself,” I told him. “Ready to go, Miss Ladugo?"
"No.” she said. “Bugsy, you're being difficult. The man's only doing his job."
"What kind of men do that kind of job?” he asked contemptuously.
A silence. Briefly, I considered my professional decorum. And then I gave Bugsy my blankest stare and said evenly, “Maybe you've got some kind of local reputation as a tough guy, mister, but frankly I never heard of you. And I don't like your insolence."
The men along the bar were giving us their attention now. A bleached blonde in one of the booths started to giggle nervously. The juke box gave us Sixteen Tons.
Angela sighed again and said quietly, “I'm ready to go. I'll see you later, Bugsy. I'll be back."
"Don't go if you don't want to,” he said.
She put a hand carefully on the bar and even more carefully slid off the stool. “Let's go, Mr.—"
"Puma,” I supplied. “My arm, Miss Ladugo?"
"Thank you, no. I can manage."
She was close enough for me to smell her perfume, for me to see that her transparently fair skin and fine hair were flawless. She couldn't have been on the booze for long.
Outside, the night air was chilly and damp.
"Now, I'll take your arm,” she said. “Where's your car?"
"This way. About a block. Are you all right?"
A wino came lurching across the street, narrowly missed being hit by a passing car. From the bar behind us, came the shrill lament of another ridge-running canary.
; "I'm all right,” Miss Ladugo said. “I'm—navigable."
"You're not going to be sick, are you?"
"Not if you don't talk about it, I'm not. Where did Papa find you?"
"I was recommended by a mutual acquaintance. Would you like some coffee?"
"If we can go to a place that isn't too clattery. Isn't Bugsy wonderful? He's so loyal."
"Most merchants are loyal to good accounts, Miss Ladugo. Just another half block, now."
She stopped walking. “Don't patronize me. I'm not an alcoholic, Mr.—Panther, or whatever it is."
"Puma,” I said. “I didn't mean to sound condescending, but you must admit you're very drunk."
"Puma,” she said. “That's a strange name. What kind of name is that?"
"Italian,” I told her. “Just a little bit, now, just a few steps."
"You're simpering, Mr. Puma. Don't simper."
I opened the door of my car on the curb side and helped her in. The flivver started with a cough and I swung in a U turn, heading for Santa Monica.
Nothing from her. In a few minutes I smelled tobacco and looked over to see her smoking. I asked, “Zuky's joint all right?"
"I suppose.” A pause. “No. Take me home. I'll send someone for my car."
"Your car—” I said. “I didn't think about that. I should have left mine and driven yours. I guess I live closer to Venice than you do."
"In that case, why don't we go to your house for a cup of coffee?"
"It isn't a house; it's an apartment, Miss Ladugo. And my landlord frowns on my bringing beautiful women there."
"Am I beautiful?"
I thought she moved closer. “You know you are,” I said. “All beautiful women know it."
Now, I felt her move closer. I said, “And you're drunk and you don't want to hate yourself in the morning. So why don't you open that window on your side and get some cold, fresh air?"
A chuckle and her voice was husky. “You mustn't give me a rejection complex.” Another pause. “You—"
"Quit it,” I shot back at her.
Her breathing was suddenly harsh. “You bastard. I'm Spanish, understand. Spanish and English. And the Spanish goes back to before this was even a state."
"I know,” I said. “I just don't like to be sworn at. Are you sure you don't want to go to Zuky's?"
Her voice was soft again. “I'll go to Zuky's. I—I didn't mean what I said. I—In bars like Bugsy's, a lady can pick up some—some unladylike attitudes."
"Sure,” I said. “What's the attraction there? Bugsy?"
"It's a friendly place,” she said slowly. “It's warm and plain and nobody tries to be anything they aren't.” She opened the window on her side and threw her cigarette out.
I said, “You try to be something you aren't when you go there. Those aren't your kind of people."
"How do you know? What do you know about me?"
"I know you're rich and those people weren't. I can guess you're educated and I'm sure they aren't. Have any of them invited you to their homes?"
"Just the single ones,” she said. “Are you lecturing me, Mr. Puma?"
"I'll quit it. It's only that I hate to see—oh, I'm sorry.” I stopped for the light at Olympic, and looked over at her.
She was facing my way. “Go on. You hate to see what?"
"I hate to see quality degenerate."
The chuckle again. “How naive. Are you confusing quality with wealth, Mr. Puma?"
"Maybe.” The light changed and I drove on toward Wilshire.
Two block this side of it, she asked, “Who recommended you to Dad?"
"Anthony Ellers, the attorney. I've done some work for him."
She was silent until I pulled the car into the lot behind Zuky's. Then she asked, “Don't you ever drink, Mr. Puma?"
"Frequently. But I don't have to."
She sighed. “Oh God, a moralist! Tony Ellers certainly picks them."
I smiled at her. “My credit rating's good, too. How about a sandwich with your coffee? It all goes on the expense account."
She studied me in the dimness of the car and then she smiled, too. “All right, all right. Get around here now and open the door for me like a gentleman."
Zuky's was filled with the wonderful smells of fine kosher food. From a booth on the mezzanine, Jean Hartley waved and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. I ignored him.
We took a booth near the counter. Almost all the seats at the counter were taken, as were most of the booths. I said, “This is a warm and plain and friendly place and the food is good. Why not here instead of Bugsy's?"
Her gaze was candid. “You tell me."
I shook my head. “Unless you have some compulsion to degrade yourself. Cheap bars are for people who can't afford good bars. And all bars are for people who haven't any really interesting places to go. With your kind of money, there must be a million places more fun that Bugsy's."
Her smile was cool. “Like?"
"Oh, Switzerland or Sun Valley or Bermuda or the Los Angeles Country Club."
"I've been to all those places,” she said. “They're no better."
The waitress came and we ordered corned beef sandwiches and coffee.
Jean Hartley materialized and said, “Joe, Joe old boy, gee it's great to see you."
"It's been nice seeing you, Jean,” I said. “So long."
My welcome didn't dim his smile. “Joe boy, you're being difficult."
"Go, Jean,” I said. “This isn't the Palladium."
He looked from me to Miss Ladugo and back to me. He shook his head. “I don't blame you,” he said, and went away.
"Handsome man,” Angela said.
I shrugged.
"Tell me,” she asked, “are you really as square as you sound?"
I shrugged again.
"That man wanted to meet me, didn't he? And he didn't know I'm rich, either, did he?"
"He probably does,” I said. “He's worked his way into better fields since he milked the lonely hearts club racket dry."
"Oh? Is he what's called a confidence man?"
"No. They work on different principles. Jean trades on people's loneliness, on widows and spinsters, all the drab and gullible people who want to be told they're interesting."
Angela Ladugo smiled. “He seemed very charming. I suppose that's one of his weapons."
"I suppose. I never found him very charming."
"You're stuffy,” she said. “You're—"
The waitress came with our orders and Angela stopped. The waitress went away, and I said, “I'm a private investigator. Decorum is part of what I sell."
She looked around and back at me. “Are you sexless, too?"
"I've never been accused of it before. I've never taken advantage of a drunken woman, if that's what you mean."
"I'm not drunk. I was, but I'm not now."
"Eat,” I said. “Drink your coffee."
There was no further dialogue of any importance. She ate all of her sandwich and drank two cups of coffee. And then I drove her back to Beverly Hills and up the long, winding driveway that kept the Ladugo mansion out of view from the lower class drivers on Sunset Boulevard.
A day's work at my usual rates and it never occurred to me to be suspicious of the Buick four-door hardtop that seemed to have followed us from Santa Monica.
I billed Mr. Ladugo for mileage and the sandwiches and coffee and fifty dollars for my labor and got a check almost immediately. I had done what I was trained to do; the girl needed a psychiatrist more than a bodyguard.
I worked half a week on some hotel skips and a day on a character check on a rich girl's suitor. Friday afternoon, Mr. Ladugo called me.
What kind of man, he wanted to know, was Jean Hartley?
"He's never been convicted,” I said. “Is it facts you want, sir, or my opinion of the man?"
"Your opinion might be interesting, considering that you introduced him to my daughter."
"I didn't introduce him to your daughter, Mr. Lad
ugo. Whoever told you that, lied."
"My daughter told me that. Could I have your version of how they happened to meet?"
I told him about Zuky's and the short conversation I'd had with Jean Hartley. And I asked, “Do you happen to know what kind of car Mr. Hartley drives?"
"It's red, I know that. Fairly big car. Why?"
I told him about the Buick that had followed us from Santa Monica. That had been a red car.
"I see,” he said, and there was a long silence. Finally, “Are you busy now?"
"I'll be through with my present assignment at four o'clock. I'll be free after that.” I was through right then, but I didn't want the carriage trade to think I might possibly be hungry.
"I'd like you to keep an eye on her,” he said. “Have you enough help to do that around the clock?"
"I can arrange for it. Why don't I just go to this Jean Hartley and lean on him a little?"
"Are you—qualified to do that?"
"Not legally,” I answered. “But physically, I am."
"No,” he said, “nothing like that. I can't—afford anything like that. Angela's shopping now, but she should be home by five."
I phoned Barney Allison and he wasn't busy. I told him it would be the sleep watch for him; I could probably handle the rest of the day.
"It's your client,” he said. “I figured to get the dirty end of the stick."
"If you don't need the business, Barney—"
"I do, I do.” he said. “Command me."
Then I looked for Jean Hartley in the phone book, but he wasn't in it. He undoubtedly had an unlisted number. I phoned Sam Heller of the bunko squad, but Sam had no recent address of Jean's.
At four-thirty, I was parked on Sunset, about a block from the Ladugo driveway. At four-fifty, a Lincoln Continental turned in and it looked like Angela was behind the wheel.
Masters of Noir: Volume Four Page 11
