I'd brought a couple sandwiches and a vacuum bottle of coffee; at six, I ate. At six-thirty, I was enjoying a cigarette and a disk jockey when a Beverly Hills prowl car pulled up behind my flivver.
The one who came around to my side of the car was young and healthy and looked pugnacious. He asked cheerfully if I was having car trouble.
I told him I wasn't.
"Noticed you first almost two hours ago,” he went on. “You live in the neighborhood, do you?"
"About seven miles from here.” I pulled out the photostat of my license to show him.
He frowned and looked at the other cop, who was standing on the curb. “Private man."
The other man said nothing nor did his expression change. It was a bored expression.
"Waiting for someone?” the younger one asked me.
I nodded. “If you're worried about me, boys, you could go up to the house and talk to Mr. Ladugo. But don't let his daughter see you. She's the one I'm waiting for and Mr. Ladugo is paying me to wait."
"Ladugo,” the young man said. “Oh, yes. Ladugo. Well, good luck, Mr. Puma."
They went away.
Even in Beverly Hills, that name meant something. Puma, now, there was a name you had to look up, but not Ladugo. Why was that? I gave it some thought while I waited and decided it was because he was older, and therefore richer. But he wasn't as old as my dad, and my dad had just finished paying the mortgage on a seven thousand dollar home. He'd been paying on it for twenty years. I must learn to save my money, cut down on cigarettes, or something. Or get into another line of work, like Jean Hartley.
At seven-thirty, the Continental came gliding out of the Ladugo driveway, making all the Cadillacs on Sunset look like 1927 Flints. I gave her a couple of blocks and followed in the Continental's little sister.
There was a guilty knowledge gnawing at me. If we hadn't gone to Zuky's, she wouldn't have met Jean Hartley. And I wouldn't have been hired to follow her.
At a road leading off to the right, just beyond the UCLA campus, the Continental turned and began climbing into the hills. It was a private road, serving a quartette of estates, and I didn't follow immediately. If it dead-ended up above, Angela and I would eventually come nose to nose.
I waited on Sunset for five minutes and then turned in the road. The houses were above the road and four mailboxes were set into a field-stone pillar at the first driveway. Atop the pillar were four names cut out of wrought iron and one of the names was Ladugo. Her trip seemed innocent enough; I drove out again to wait on Sunset.
It was dark, now, and the headlights of the heavy traffic heading toward town came barreling around the curve in a steady stream of light. My radio gave me the day's news and some comments on the news and then a succession of platters.
A little before ten o'clock, the Continental came out on Sunset again and headed west. I gave it a three block lead.
It went through Santa Monica at a speed that invited arrest, but she was lucky, tonight. On Lincoln Avenue, she swung toward Venice.
Not back to Bugsy's, I thought. Not back to that rendezvous of the literate and the witty, that charming salon of the sophisticated. A block from Windward, she parked. I was parking a half block behind that when she went through the doorway.
I got out and walked across the street before going down that way. When I came abreast of the bar, I could see her sitting next to a man whose back was to me. I walked down another half block and saw the red Buick four-door Riviera. The registration slip on the steering column informed me that this was the car of Jean Hartley. His address was there, too, and I copied it.
Then I went back to wait.
I didn't have long. In about ten minutes, both of them came out of Bugsy's. For a few moments, they talked and then separated and headed for their cars.
I followed Angela's, though the Buick seemed to be going to the same place. Both of them turned right on Wilshire and headed back toward Westwood.
Westwood was the address on Jean Hartley's steering column. And that's where they finally stopped, in front of a sixteen unit apartment building of fieldstone and cerise stucco, built around a sixty foot swimming pool.
I waited until they had walked out of sight and then came back to the flood-lighted patio next to the pool. A list of the tenants was on a board here and one of the tenants was Hartley Associates.
Some associates he'd have. With numbers under their pictures. But who could guess that by looking at him? I went sniffing around until I found his door.
There was an el in the hallway at this point, undoubtedly formed by the fireplace in the apartment. It afforded me enough cover.
Hartley Associates. What could that mean? Phoney stock? I heard music and I heard laughter. The music was Chopin's and the laughter was Angela's. Even in the better California apartment houses, the walls are thin.
Some boys certainly do make out.
I heard a thud that sounded like a refrigerator door closing.
I wanted to smoke, but smoke would reveal me to others who might pass along the hall. Chopin changed to Debussy and I thought I heard the tinkle of ice in glasses. Light music, cool drinks and a dark night—while I stood in the hall, hating them both.
Time dragged along on its belly.
And then, right after eleven o'clock, I though I heard a whimper. There had been silence for minutes and this whimper was of the complaining type. I was moving toward the door, where I could hear better, when I heard the scream.
I tried the knob and the door was locked. I stepped back and put a foot into the panel next to the knob and the door came open on the second kick.
Light from the hall poured into the dark apartment and I could see Angela Ladugo, up against a wall, the palms of her hands pressed against the wall, her staring eyes frightened.
She was wearing nothing but that almost translucent skin and her fair hair. I took one step into the room and found a light switch next to the door.
When the lights went on, I could see Hartley sitting on a davenport near the fireplace and I headed his way. I never got there.
As unconsciousness poured into my reverberating skull, I remembered that the sign downstairs had warned me he had associates.
I came to on the floor. Hartley sat on the davenport, smoking. There was no sign of Angela Ladugo or anyone else.
I asked, “Where is she?"
"Miss Ladugo? She's gone home. Why?"
"Why? She screamed, didn't she? What the hell were you doing to her?"
He frowned. “I didn't hear any scream. Are you sure it was in this apartment?"
"You know it was. Who hit me?"
Hartley pointed at an ottoman. “Nobody hit you. You stumbled over that."
I put a hand on the floor and got slowly to my feet. The pain in my skull seemed to pulse with my heartbeat.
Hartley said, “I haven't called the police—yet. I thought perhaps you had a reason for breaking into my apartment."
"Call ‘em,” I said. “Or I will."
He pointed toward a hallway. “There's the phone. You're free to use it."
I came over to stand in front of him. “Maybe I ought to work you over first. They might be easier on you than I'd be."
He looked at me without fear. “Suit yourself. That would add assault to the rap."
I had nothing and he knew it. I wasn't about to throw the important name of Angela Ladugo to a scandal-hungry press. I was being paid to protect her, not publicize her. I studied him for seconds, while reason fought the rage in me.
Finally, I asked, “What's the racket this time, Jean?"
He smiled. “Don't be that way, Joe. So the girl likes me. That's a crime? She was a little high and noisy, but you can bet she's been that way before. Did she hang around? If she'd been in trouble, wouldn't she have stayed around to see that you were all right?"
"How do I know what happened to her?” I asked.
He looked at his watch. “She should be phoning any minute, from home. I'll let you talk to
her if you want."
I sat down on the davenport. “I'll wait."
He leaned back and studied the end of his cigarette. “What were you doing out there, Joe? Are you working for her father?"
"No. I felt responsible for her meeting you. I'm working for myself."
He smiled. “I'll bet. I can just see Joe Puma making this big noble gesture. Don't kid me."
I said slowly, “This isn't the right town to buck anyone named Ladugo, Jean. He could really railroad you."
"Maybe. I can't help it if the girl likes me."
"That girl's sick,” I said. “She has some compulsion to debase herself. Is that the soft spot you're working?"
"She likes me,” he said for the third time. “Does there have to be a dollar in it? She's a beautiful girl."
"For you,” I said, “there has to be a dollar in it. And I intend to see you don't ever latch onto it. I've got friends in the Department, Jean."
He sighed. “And all I've got is the love of this poor woman."
The phone rang, and he went over to it. I came right along.
He said, “Hello,” and handed me the phone.
I heard Angela say, “Jean? Is everything all right? There won't be any trouble, will there?"
"None,” I said. “Are you home?"
"I'm home. Jean—is that you—?"
I gave him the phone and went into the kitchen to get a drink of water. The lump on the back of my head was sore, but the rattles were diminishing in my brain.
If she was home, she was now under the eye of Barney Allison. I could use some rest.
I went out without saying any more to Jean, but I didn't go right home. I drove back to Venice.
The big man behind the bar greeted me with a frown when I came in. I said, “I'd like to talk to you."
"It's not mutual."
"I'd like to talk about Angela Ladugo. I'm being paid to see that she doesn't get into trouble."
He looked down at the bar to where a man was nursing a beer. He looked back at me. “Keep your voice low. I don't want any of these slobs to know her name."
I nodded. “The man who met her here tonight can do her more harm than any of your customers are likely to. His name is Jean Hartley. Have you ever heard of him?"
"I've heard of him.” His eyes were bleak.
I said, “I'll have a beer if it's less than two dollars."
He drew one from the tap. “On the house. What's Hartley's pitch?"
"I don't know. What's your attraction, Bugsy?"
He looked at me suspiciously. “I knew her mother. Way, way back, when we were both punks. I was just a preliminary boy and her mother danced at the Blue Garter. I guess you're too young to remember the Blue Garter."
"Burlesque?"
"Something like that. A cafe. But Angela Walker was no tramp—don't get that idea. Her folks back in England were solid middle-class people."
"I see. And that's where Ladugo met her, at the Blue Garter?
"I don't know. She was dancing there when she met him."
"And you kept up the acquaintanceship through the years?"
He colored slightly. “No. Not that she was a snob. But Venice is a hell of a long ways from Beverly Hills."
"She's dead now?"
"Almost three years."
"And Angela has renewed the friendship. Her mother must have talked about you."
"I guess she did. What's it to you, Mac?"
"Nothing, I guess. I'm just looking for a pattern."
"We don't sell ‘em, here. I thought you were watching the girl."
"She's home,” I said. “Another man will watch her until I go back to work in the morning. This is pretty good beer."
"For twenty cents, you can have another one."
I put two dimes on the counter, and said, “Hartley scares me. He's tricky and handsome and completely unscrupulous."
He put a fresh glass of beer in front of me. “I wouldn't call him handsome."
"Angela did. She went up to his apartment tonight. I broke in and somebody clobbered me. When I came to, she was gone. But she phoned him from home while I was still there."
Bugsy looked at me evenly. “Maybe the old man should have hired somebody who knew his business."
"You might have a point there. I'll go when I finish the beer."
He went down to serve the man at the other end of the bar. He came back to say, “I always mixed Angela's drinks real, real weak. She's got no tolerance for alcohol."
I said nothing, nursing the beer.
Bugsy said, “Can't you muscle this Hartley a little? He didn't look like much to me."
"He's a citizen,” I said, “just like you. And the Department is full of boys who hate private operatives, just like you do."
"Maybe I resented the old man sending you down here to drag her home. Some of the joints she's been in, this could be a church."
"He didn't send me down here. I wound up here because she did. I don't think he knows where she goes."
Bugsy drew himself a small beer. He looked at it as he said, “And maybe he doesn't care. Maybe he just hired you to keep the Ladugo name out of the papers."
"That could be,” I said, and finished my beer. “Good night, Bugsy."
He nodded.
At home, I took a warm shower and set the alarm for seven o'clock. I wanted to write my reports of the two days before going over to relieve Barney.
I'd finished them by eight, and a little before nine, I drove up in front of the Ladugo driveway. There was no sign of Barney Allison.
He wouldn't desert a post; I figured Angela must have already left the house. I drove to the office. If Barney had a chance to leave a message, he would have left it with my phone-answering service.
Barney's Chev was parked about four doors from the entrance to my office. Angela wasn't in sight; I went over to the Chev.
Barney said, “She went through that doorway about fifteen minutes ago. Maybe she's waiting for you."
"Maybe. Okay, Barney, I'll take it from here."
He yawned and nodded and drove away.
Angela Ladugo was waiting in the first floor lobby, sitting on a rattan love seat. Her gaze didn't quite meet mine as I walked over.
When I was standing in front of her, she looked at the floor. Her voice was very low, “What—happened last night?"
"You tell me. Do you want to go up to the office?"
She shook her head. “It's quiet enough here.” She looked up. “I—can't drink very well. You might think that's absurd, but it's—I mean, I really don't know what happened last night. I wasn't really—conscious."
"Didn't you drive home?"
She shook her head. “I'm almost sure I didn't. I think someone drove me home in my car. Was it Jean?"
"You don't need to lie to me, Miss Ladugo,” I said gently. “I'm on your side."
"I'm not lying."
I said, “You phoned Hartley when you got home. You didn't sound drunk to me then. You just sounded scared."
Her eyes were blank. “You were there?"
"That's right. You're not going to see Hartley again, are you?"
She shook her head. “Of course not. Are you—still going to follow me?"
"Shouldn't I?"
She took a deep breath that sounded like relief. “I don't know. Are you going to tell my dad about—last night?"
"Most of it is in the report I wrote. Most of it. I'm not sure where the line of ethics would be. It isn't my intention to shock your father or—hurt you."
She looked at the floor again. “Thank you."
The downcast eyes bit was right out of the Brontes; I hoped she didn't think I was falling for her delicate lady routine.
She looked up with a smile. “As long as you're going to be following me, why don't we go together?” Charm she had, even though I knew it was premeditated.
"Fine,” I said. “It'll save gas."
We went to some shops I had never seen before—on the inside, that is. Like
her poorer sisters, she shopped without buying. We went to Roland's for lunch.
There, under the impulse of a martini, I asked her, “Were you and your mother closer than you are with your father?"
She nodded, her eyes searching my face.
"You don't—resent your father?"
"I love him. Can't we talk about something else?"
We tried. We discussed some movies we'd both seen and one book we'd both read. Her thoughts were banal; her opinions adolescent. We ran out of words, with the arrival of the coffee.
Then, as we finished, she said, “Why don't we go home and talk to my father? I'm sure I don't need to be watched anymore."
"Might look bad for me,” I said. “So far as he knows, you're not aware I'm following you."
Some of her geniality was gone. “I'll phone him."
Which she did, right there at the table. And after a few moments of sweet talk, she handed the phone to me.
Her father said, “Pretend I'm taking you off the job. But keep an eye on her."
"All right, sir,” I said, and handed the phone back to her.
When she'd finished talking, she smiled at me. “You can put the check on the expense account, I'm sure. Good luck, Mr. Puma."
"Thank you,” I said.
We both rose and then she paused, to suddenly stare at me. “I haven't annoyed you, have I? I mean, that report about last night—this doesn't mean you'll—make it more complete?"
I shook my head. “And I hope you won't betray your father's trust."
The smile came back. “Of course I won't."
I asked, “How do I get back to my car?"
"You can get a cab, I'm sure,” she said. “I'd drop you, but I have so much more shopping to do."
She had me. I couldn't follow her in a cab and I couldn't admit I was going to follow her. I nodded good-bye to her and signaled for the check.
I got a cab in five minutes and was back to my car in ten more. And, on a hunch, I drove right over to Westwood.
I came up Hartley's street just as the Continental disappeared around the corner. A truck came backing out of a driveway, and, by the time I got started again, she must have made another turn. Because the big black car was nowhere in sight.
I drove back to Hartley's apartment building. There was an off chance he was home and she had arranged to meet him somewhere. I parked in front.
Masters of Noir: Volume Four Page 12
