Clandestine

by James Ellroy

  We were exchanging about our eighth and ninth smiles when an efficient-looking woman of about forty came into the waiting room. “Officer?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Grover,” I answered, “I’m Officer Underhill, Los Angeles Police Department. Could I talk with you?”

  “Certainly,” she said, very businesslike. “Would you like to come to my office?”

  I was enjoying my role but her brusque manner was unnerving. “Yeah, sure,” I replied.

  We walked down a dingy hallway. I could hear great numbers of sewing machines whirring behind closed doors. Mrs. Grover sat me down in a wooden chair in her sparsely furnished office. She lit a cigarette, settled behind her desk, and said, “Poor Maggie. What a godawful way to die. Who do you think did it?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I read in the papers that you people think it was a burglar. Is that true?”

  “Maybe. I understand you and Maggie Cadwallader were good friends.”

  “In a sense,” Mrs. Grover replied. “We ate together every workday, but we never saw each other socially.”

  “Was there a reason for that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean, Mrs. Grover, is that I’m trying to get a handle on this woman. What kind of person was she? Her habits, her likes, dislikes, the people she associated with, that kind of thing?”

  Mrs. Grover stared at me, smoking intently. “I see,” she said. “Well, if it’s helpful I can tell you this: Maggie was a very bright, disturbed woman. I think she was a pathological liar. She told me stories about herself and later told stories that contradicted the earlier ones. I think she had a drinking problem, and spent her nights alone, reading.”

  “What kind of stories did she tell you?”

  “About her origins. One day she was from New York, the next day the Midwest. She once told me she had a child out of wedlock, from a ‘lost love,’ then the very next day she tells me she’s a virgin! I sensed that she was very lonely, so once I tried to arrange a dinner date for her with a nice bachelor friend of my husband’s. She wouldn’t do it. She was terrified. She was a cultured person, Maggie, and we had many lovely conversations about the theater, but she told me such crazy things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the nonsense about the baby back east. She showed me a photo once. It broke my heart. She had obviously clipped it from a magazine. It was so sad.”

  “Do you know of any men in her life, Mrs. Grover?”

  “No, Officer, none. I really do believe she died a virgin.”

  “Well,” I said, standing up, “thank you for your time, Mrs. Grover. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “She deserved so much better, Officer. Please find her killer.”

  “I will,” I said, meaning it.

  * * *

  —

  I wasn’t much good on the beat that night. My mind was elsewhere. I knew I would need a very fast transfer to day watch in order to continue my investigation at night. I thought over my options—requests to Jurgensen? To the head of the Detective squad? Going on sick leave? All too chancy.

  The following morning I drove to the station and knocked on Captain Jurgensen’s door. He greeted me warmly, surprised to see me in the daytime. I told him what I wanted: I had a very sick friend from my orphanage days who needed someone to look after him at night while his wife went to work at Douglas Aircraft. I wanted day watch temporarily, to help out my friend, and to better acquaint myself with the area I was serving in.

  Jurgensen put down his copy of Richard III and said, “Starting today, Underhill. We’ve got a man on vacation. No solo, though. No golden boy stuff. Just walk the beat with a partner. Now go to work.”

  * * *

  —

  At eleven thirty that night I committed my first crime as an adult. I drove up to Hollywood, parked in a gas station lot and walked up to Maggie Cadwallader’s apartment on Harold Way. Wearing gloves, I picked the lock on the door and made my way through the dark apartment to the bedroom. I carried a pocket flashlight, and by risking using it every few seconds I could tell that all of Maggie’s personal belongings had been cleaned out, presumably to better show the apartment to prospective new tenants when the publicity of her death died down.

  In the bedroom, holding the flashlight awkwardly, I unscrewed the bedpost that had contained Maggie’s “priceless love gift.” It was gone. I replaced the post and unscrewed the other one: nothing there. The two remaining ones were solid, melded into the bedstead. It was as I had hoped. Still, there was double-checking to be done.

  I drove to Hollywood Station, parked, walked in and showed my badge to the desk sergeant. “I’m with Seventy-seventh dicks,” I told him. “Is there anyone upstairs I can talk to?”

  “Give it a try,” he replied, bored.

  * * *

  —

  The squad room was deserted, except for a tired old cop writing reports. I walked in like I owned the place, and the old-timer looked up only briefly from his paper work. When I didn’t see what I wanted lying around in plain sight, I cleared my throat to get his attention.

  He looked up again, this time displaying bloodshot eyes and a weary voice. “Yes?” he said.

  I tried to sound brisk and older than my years. “Underhill, Seventy-seventh Street dicks. I’m working South Central pawnshop detail. The loot told me to come up here and check the property report on that dead dame, Cadwallader. We find a lot of stuff pawned down in the Seventy-seventh that got clouted in Hollywood and West L.A. The lieutenant figured maybe he could help you out.”

  “Shit,” the old-timer said, getting up from his chair and walking to a row of filing cabinets. “That was no burglary caper, if you ask me. My partner and I wrote that report.” He handed me a manila folder containing three typewritten pages. “There was nothin’ missin’, accordin’ to the landlady, and she knew the stiff good. Could be the guy panicked. Don’t ask me.”

  The report was written in the usual clipped department style, and everything from cat food to detergent was listed—but no mention was made of a diamond brooch, or any other jewelry.

  There was a signed statement from the landlady, a Mrs. Crawshaw, stating that although the apartment had been in complete disarray, nothing seemed to be missing. She also stated that Maggie Cadwallader, to her knowledge, had not owned jewelry or stocks and bonds, nor had she secreted in her apartment large sums of money.

  The old cop was looking at me. “You want a copy of that?” he asked wearily.

  “No,” I said, “you were right, it’s a dull report. Thanks a lot, I’ll see you.”

  He looked relieved. I felt relieved.

  It was twelve forty-five and I knew I couldn’t sleep now even if I wanted to. I wanted to think, but I wanted it to be easy, not filled with panicky speculation over the dangerous risks I was taking. So I decided to break my silent vow of abstinence and drove out to Silverlake, where I knocked on the door of an old buddy from the orphanage.

  He was mildly glad to see me, but his wife wasn’t. I told them it wasn’t a social call, that all I wanted was the loan of his golf clubs. Incredulous, he turned them over. I promised to return them soon, and to repay him for his favor with a good restaurant dinner. Incredulous, his wife said she’d believe it when she saw it, and hustled her husband back to bed.

  I checked the clubs. They were good Tommy Armours, and there were at least fifty shag balls stuffed into the pockets of the bag. I went looking for a place to hit them, and to think.

  I drove home and picked up Night Train. He was glad to see me and hungry for exercise. I found a few cold pork chops in the ice box and threw them at him. He was gnawing the bones as I attached his leash and slung the golf bag over my shoulder.

  “The beach, Train,” I said. “Let’s see what kind of Labrador you re
ally are. I’m going to hit balls into the ocean. Little chip shots. If you can retrieve them for me in the dark, I’ll feed you steak for a year. What do you say?”

  Night Train said “Woof!” and so we walked the three blocks down to the edge of the Pacific.

  It was a warm night and there was no breeze. I unhooked Night Train’s leash and he took off running, a pork chop bone still in his mouth. I dumped the balls onto the wet sand and extracted a pitching iron from the bag. Hefting it was like embracing a long-lost beloved friend. I was surprised to find I wasn’t rusty. My hiatus from golf hadn’t dulled that sharp edge my game has always had, almost from the first time I picked up a club.

  I hit easy pitch shots into the churning white waves, enjoying the synchronization of mind and body that is the essence of golf. After a while the mental part became unnecessary, my swing became me, and I turned my mind elsewhere.

  Granted: I had passed myself off as a detective twice, using my own name, which might cost me a suspension if it were discovered. Granted: I was going strictly on hunches, and my observations of Maggie Cadwallader were based on her behavior during one evening. But. But. But, somehow I knew. It was more than intuition or deductive logic or character assessment. This was my own small piece of wonder to unravel, and the fact that the victim had given me her body, tenuously, in her search for something more, gave it weight and meaning.

  I whistled for Night Train, who trotted up. We walked back to the apartment and I thought, Wacky was right. The key to the wonder is in death. I had killed, twice, and it had changed me. But the key wasn’t in the killing, it was in the discovery of whatever led to it.

  I felt strangely magnanimous and loving, like a writer about to dedicate a book. This one’s for you, Wacky, I said to myself; this one’s for you.

  8

  It was strange to be sitting in a bar looking for a killer rather than a woman.

  The following night, free of the obsession that usually brought me to such places, I sat drinking watered-down Scotch and watched people get drunk, get angry, get maudlin and pour out their life stories to perfect strangers in alcoholic effusiveness. I was looking for men on the prowl, like myself, but the Silver Star on that first night held nothing but middle-aged desperation played to the tunes of the old prewar standards on the jukebox.

  I closed the place, walking out at 1:00 a.m., asking the bartender if the place ever picked up.

  “Weekends,” he said. “This joint really hops on weekends. Tomorrow night. You’ll see.”

  * * *

  —

  The barman was right. I got to the Silver Star at seven forty-five Saturday evening and watched as the joint started to hop. Young couples, servicemen on leave—easily recognizable by their short haircuts and plain-toed black shoes—elderly juiceheads, and single men and women casting lonely, expectant glances all competed for bar and floor space.

  The music was livelier this evening, and tailored for a younger clientele; upbeat arrangements of show tunes, even a little jazz. A good-looking woman of about thirty asked me to dance. Regretfully I turned her down, offering a bad leg as an excuse. She turned to the guy sitting next to me at the bar, who accepted.

  I was looking for “operators,” “lover-boy” types, “wolves”—men who could gain a woman’s confidence as well as access to her bed with surpassing ease. Men like myself. I spent three hours, sitting, changing seats from bar-side to tableside, sipping ginger ale, always looking. I began to realize that this might be a long, grueling surveillance. For all my eyeball activity, I didn’t see much.

  I was starting to get depressed and even a little angry when I noticed two definite lowlife types approach the bar and lean over to speak in undertones to the bartender, whose face seemed to light up. He pointed to a door at the rear of the place, next to a bank of phone booths and cigarette machines. Then all three walked off in that direction, the barman leaving the bar untended.

  I watched as they closed the door behind them, then waited two minutes. I went over to the door and knelt down, sniffing at the crack where it met the floor. Reefer smoke. I smiled, then transferred my gun from its holster to the pocket of my sport coat, flipped open my badge’s leather holder and very casually but forcefully threw my right shoulder into the doorjamb, splintering the wood and throwing the door wide open.

  The noise was very sharp and abrupt, like an explosion. The three grasshoppers were standing against the back wall next to a ceiling-high collection of whiskey crates, and they jumped back and threw up their hands reflexively when they heard the noise and saw my badge and gun.

  I looked back into the bar. No one seemed to have noticed what had happened. I closed the door behind me, softly. “Police officer,” I said very quietly. “Move over to the left-hand wall and place your hands on it, above your heads. Do it now.”

  They did. The smell of the marijuana was rank and sensual. I patted the three men down for weapons and dope, but came up with nothing except three fat reefers. All the guys were shaking and the bartender started to blubber about his wife and kids.

  “Shut up!” I snapped at him. I pulled the other two guys back by their shirt collars, then shoved them in the direction of the door. “Get the hell out of here, you goddamn lowlife,” I hissed, “and don’t ever let me see you in here again.”

  They stumbled out the door, casting worried glances at the barman.

  I secured the door by placing a crate of gin bottles against it. The bartender cowered against the wall as I walked toward him. He fumbled in his pockets for cigarettes, looking at me imploringly for permission.

  “Go ahead, smoke,” I said. He lit up. “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Red Julian,” he said, eyeing the door.

  I eased his fears. “This won’t take long, Red. I’m not going to bust you, I just need a little help.”

  “I don’t know no sellers, honest, Officer. I just light up once in a while. Fifty cents a throw, you know.”

  I smiled sardonically. “I don’t care, Red. I’m not with narcotics. How long have you worked here?”

  “Three years.”

  “Then you know what goes in this place—all the regulars, the con artists…”

  “This is a good clean room, Officer, I don’t let no—”

  “Shut up. Listen to me. I’m interested in pickup artists—pussy-hounds, guys who score regular here. You help me out and I’ll let you slide. You don’t and I’ll bust you. I’ll call for a patrol car and tell the bulls you tried to sell me these three reefers. That’s two to ten at Quentin. What’s it gonna be?”

  Red lit another cigarette with the butt of his old one. His hands were shaking. “We get hotshots, they come and go,” he said. “We got one guy who comes and goes, but comes regular when he’s in town. A good-lookin’ guy named Eddie. That’s the only handle I got on him, honest. He picks up here all the time.” Red backed away from me again.

  “Is he here tonight?” I asked.

  “Naw, he comes in when it’s quieter. A real smoothie. Flashy dresser. He’s not here tonight, honest.”

  “Okay. Listen to me. You’ve got a new regular here. Me. What nights are you off?”

  “Never. The boss won’t let me. I work six to midnight, seven days a week.”

  “Good. Has Eddie been coming in lately? Scoring?”

  “Yeah. A real smoothie.”

  “Good. I’ll be coming back, every night. As soon as Eddie comes in, you let me know. If you try to tip him off, you know what’ll happen.” I smiled and held the three reefers under his nose.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Good. Now get out of here—I think your customers are getting thirsty.”

  * * *

  —

  I closed the bar again that night. No Eddie.

  First thing Sunday morning I went to a drugstore in Santa Monica that did one-da
y photo processing. I left four newspaper photographs of Maggie Cadwallader, telling the man, who shook his head dubiously, that I wanted his best reproduction blown up to snapshot size, six copies by six o’clock that evening. When I waved a twenty-dollar bill under his nose, then stuck it in his shirt pocket, he wasn’t so dubious. The photos I picked up that afternoon were more than adequate to show to potential witnesses.

  * * *

  —

  Red was nervously polishing a glass when I took a seat at the bar early Sunday night. It was sweltering hot outside, but the Silver Star was air-conditioned to a polar temperature.

  “Hello, Red,” I said.

  “Hello, mister…”

  “Call me Fred,” I said magnanimously, sliding the blowup of Maggie Cadwallader across the bar to him. “Have you ever seen this woman?”

  Red nodded. “A few times, yeah, but not lately.”

  “Ever see her with Eddie?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad. Slow house tonight, eh?” I said, looking around the almost empty bar.

  “Yeah. Daylight saving time kills it this early. People don’t think it’s right to drink before dark. Except boozehounds.” He pointed toward a bloated couple mauling each other on one of the lounge sofas.

  “I know what you mean. I had a friend once who liked to drink. He said he only liked to drink when he was alone or with people, in the daytime or the nighttime. He was a philosopher.”

  “What happened to him?”