Fair Prey

by William Campbell Gault

  I poured the rest of the gas into the Chev and put the cap back on. “What about?”

  “About tournament golf. I’d like to finance you. For a percentage, of course.”

  “Of course. Another filling station would be a safer investment, Charles.”

  “Maybe. I’d caddie for you, naturally.”

  “Naturally. Getting an urge to travel, Charles?”

  “I always liked to travel, but I couldn’t afford it. It isn’t only that; I’m getting sick of watching these dubs swing.”

  “I know what you mean. Well, we’ll talk about it. But not tonight. I want to get home and into a shower and around some good cooking.”

  “Sure. I’ll take the can back, Denny. I drive right by there, anyway.”

  Service was a habit with Charles. Those alert eyes were always watching for something a member might want, anticipating a member’s needs. That servant’s brain was constantly working, trying to devise new ways of pleasing people.

  And now he wanted to finance Dennis Burke, college graduate in business administration. I should have gone to school under Charles, I thought, and really learned about business.

  But no. His money I might take, but I never wanted to live with his attitude. Servanthood.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I FINISHED EATING AT seven and Henry hadn’t phoned. I wasn’t too surprised; he probably realized by now that I had no information worth trading for.

  In the Western Section phone book I turned to the classified pages and could find no Chopko under private investigative agencies. There were, however, some agencies in Santa Monica with trade names and one of those could be his.

  There was a Chopko in the white section of the book, a Harold Chopko on Fourteenth Street, near Wilshire. I drove over.

  It was the rear unit in a one-story duplex and there was a new Chev parked in front. I walked back and rang the bell.

  Chopko came to the door in T-shirt, trousers and slippers, a towel in his hand.

  “Well, look who’s here.”

  “How’s the tooth?” I asked him.

  “My lawyer will explain that to you,” he said. “What’s your business here tonight?”

  “I thought we could talk. You were lusting to talk so much down in San Diego when I didn’t want to, I thought maybe I owed you some dialogue. The tournament’s over, now.”

  He looked at me for seconds. Then, “Come on in. I’m just finishing shaving.”

  I came into a small, dim living room, and he gestured toward a chair and I sat in it. He went through a doorway that led to a small hall, and soon after I heard the sound of running water.

  On a maple coffee table nearby, there was a Mirror-News open to the murder, now on page two. There was a gas bill and an open letter, written in longhand.

  I almost leaned forward to read the letter and then settled back again, ashamed. I sat quietly, staring out at the street.

  Chopko came in in a few minutes, buttoning a shirt. “You must have had some reason for coming here.”

  “Yes. I wondered why you told your client about our little misunderstanding down at San Diego.”

  “You mean, you wondered if I told my client.”

  I looked at him. “All right. Did you?”

  “That wouldn’t be any of your business.”

  “Maybe not. The bartender over there knows it now. It might jeopardize my job.” I leaned back in the chair. “And only you and I and the Faulkners knew about it, and I’m sure they didn’t tell anybody.”

  “How about your caddie?”

  “He wasn’t there at the time, and we didn’t tell him.”

  Chopko put the tail of his shirt inside his trousers and lighted a cigarette. He sat down on a davenport that matched the chair I sat in. He said casually, “There’s been a new ingredient added, hasn’t there?”

  I looked at him blankly.

  “Ten thousand dollars,” he explained. “It’s changed my thinking.” He smiled. “It might even make a suspect out of my client. So I’d be very stupid to tell you who my client is, wouldn’t I?”

  I shrugged.

  “You told Sergeant Morrow about me, didn’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Maybe he told the bartender.”

  I shook my head.

  He looked at me calmly. “Maybe I won’t sue you, just Faulkner. And I’d better hurry with him before you get all that Faulkner money, eh?”

  I stood up. “Talk, talk, talk—that’s all you wanted to do at San Diego. Now that you’ve got the chance, you blow it. I suppose you don’t want to tell me why you were so chummy with Clare Dunning, either?”

  “I knew him. I took lessons from him at Fox Hills.”

  “I’ll bet. And you knew just what to tell him to put me out of the running, didn’t you?”

  He stared at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Burke.”

  “All right,” I said. “Good luck, Chopko. I guess we won’t be meeting again, so goodbye.”

  He stood up. “We might be meeting again. Ten thousand is more than you could have made at San Diego, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t answer him. I went out and down to the Chev. I climbed in and drove around the block and parked where I could watch his car.

  Businessmen who shave in the evening could logically have evening calls to make.

  In about twenty minutes, he came out. A minute after that, his car was heading for San Vicente Boulevard. San Vicente to Seventh, and Seventh down into the Canyon. Then up again on Chautauqua, and east on Sunset.

  He could have been heading for the club, but he turned off Sunset on Redondo Drive. That was the street the Griffiths lived on and I didn’t follow him down it immediately. It was too quiet a street; Chopko would get suspicious of any car that followed down there. I waited a minute before going on.

  When I came around the big bend just before the Griffith place, I saw that Chopko’s car was not parked in front of that. It was parked two houses down, in the driveway of a home on the other side of the street.

  I didn’t recognize the house, but I recognized the number when I drove by. It was Doctor Evans’ address.

  Its proximity to the Griffith place could be meaningless, but any activity in front of the Griffith’s would be easily visible from the Evans home. If the good doctor saw his wife…

  No, that didn’t figure. She certainly wouldn’t meet her lover just a few doors down from her own house. People didn’t act like that in full view of the neighbors—and husbands. Did Morrow, I wondered, know about the Bud Venier-Valerie Evans gossip? It didn’t seem likely, or Chopko would not be coming here so openly. He was probably in enough trouble with Sergeant Morrow already.

  And who was Chopko’s client, the doctor or his wife? Maybe neither one was, but it seemed a good guess at this time. I parked a block away.

  Fifteen minutes later, Chopko came out. He drove back the way he’d come. I didn’t follow him.

  Had he talked to Mrs. Evans, or the doctor? I sat and sat and sat, but nothing happened. I started the Chev and drove over to the West Side Station, on Purdue Street.

  Sergeant Morrow was off duty, the man at the desk told me, and was there something he could help me with?

  I told him it was personal, and he gave me the Sergeant’s address and phone number. The address was less than a mile away.

  It was a small, old-fashioned Spanish house on a dead-end street. I could see a television set through the arched front window and Sergeant Morrow sitting near it with a can of beer in one hand. The front door was open; through the screen door I could hear the TV announcer for the Hollywood baseball team.

  Chimes, and Morrow called, “Amy, will you get it? I think Brewster’s about to belt one.”

  A thin woman in an apron came to the door, and I said, “Would you tell Sergeant Morrow that Dennis Burke is here to see him?”

  “Come in,” she said. “I hope it’s important enough to get him away from that ball game. Robert Montgomery’s on.”


  Surprise lit Morrow’s face as I came into the shabby living room. He turned down the set’s volume but didn’t cut off the picture, and gestured me to a chair.

  I sat down and told him about my visit to Chopko and about following Chopko to the Evans home.

  His eyes narrowed. “That ten-thousand-dollar reward eating at you, Burke?”

  “It could be. I’ve got some gossip, but I haven’t decided to give it to you, yet.”

  “A man’s dead,” he said. “Your loyalty is to the law, not the Canyon Country Club, Burke.”

  “Loyalty to the law doesn’t include gossip, but here it is, Sergeant.” I gave him the Valerie Evans-Bud Venier bit.

  He didn’t look interested. He said, “I’ve already checked out Doctor Evans. His alibi is sound.”

  “And Mrs. Evans?”

  He looked at me curiously.

  “Why her?”

  “She might have seen Venier bring some girl to the Griffith house.”

  He smiled, and turned up the volume a little again. “And then go over and slug him and carry him all the way to the back yard and dump him over the cliff? Venier was a heavy man, Burke.”

  I stood up. “Okay. Sorry to have interrupted your ball game.”

  He stood up, too. “Maybe I didn’t sound grateful enough. I’m glad to see anybody cooperating with the Department. And that information about Chopko, I didn’t have. If you get anything else, Burke, and I’m not available, see Officer Joe Nolan.”

  “All right,” I said. “You get paid, either way, don’t you, Sergeant?”

  He looked at me suspiciously.

  “What did that mean?”

  “Whether the case is solved or not. Good night.”

  “Don’t get smart, Burke.”

  I didn’t answer.

  It figured that Mrs. Evans had told Henry about the incident at the San Diego motel. She spent a lot of time in front of Henry at the club. But whether she’d told him out of malice or drunkenness, I didn’t know. She was often drunk and always malicious. I wondered who had put Morrow onto the Evans; what previous gossip-monger had led him along that trail. I was sorry, now, that I had added my bit.

  I went home and Mom told me there had been no calls. I phoned Henry, but there was no answer. I thought of phoning Judy but decided against it.

  I got over to the club early, next morning, to open the shop for those male members who wanted to get out before the first tee was reserved for the ladies.

  At eight-thirty, there was a lull, and I went into the grill to have a cup of coffee. Somebody had left a Los Angeles

  Star on the table, opened to a page carrying the column of a local Winchell. I read:

  Canyon Country Club members are buzzing about a certain poolside incident that took place at a San Diego motel this past week-end. It involved three principals in Canyon’s recent murder mystery and quite possibly substantiates a police theory growing out of an earlier incident in the Canyon locker room. Keep tuned to this column for more juicy details!

  If there’d been any buzzing, I hadn’t heard it. Of course, maybe I wouldn’t. But there’d be some buzzing now.

  Was this why I hadn’t heard from Judy and Pat? I could almost see the Executive Committee pondering the dilemma of firing unimportant Dennis Burke and thereby stirring the displeasure of important C.R. Faulkner. When the waiter brought my coffee, I asked, “Who was sitting at this table? Who left that paper here?”

  “Mr. Partridge. He’s up in the lobby office right now.”

  I hadn’t known that Willie was around. He rarely got here this early, and always came to the pro shop first on arriving. Was Willie on the other side of the fence, too, now? He’s an ornery and independent man, but not an economic fool.

  I was cleaning clubs when Willie came in, later, grinning maliciously. “The boys are in a bind.”

  “What boys?”

  “The Executive Committee. They don’t want to displease C. R. He’s been threatening to transfer to Riviera, anyway. No deficits to pick up there.”

  “He never would,” I said. “He loves this course. Should I resign, Willie? Or is “resign” too fancy a word for a job this small? Should I quit?”

  He looked at me bleakly. “No. Not now. Absolutely not now.” He took a deep breath. “How would you like to be the assistant pro?”

  “Not now, Willie. Absolutely not now. Aren’t you crowding your luck?”

  “I like to live dangerously,” he said. “Well, the ladies will soon be here. I’m going to hide out in the locker room for a spell.” He winked and left.

  To Willie, it was just another tempest in the Canyon teapot. This tempest, however, stormed around a murder and that extended it beyond the pot. The hurricane was spreading.

  By nine-thirty, the ladies were yacking and buzzing all over the place. In the starter’s shack, Sarge’s smile grew grimmer and his dialogue more evenly and monotonously polite. His eyes took on a completely unemotional glaze. Charles came in to get two bags, and asked me, “Did you think over what we talked about in the parking lot?”

  “I haven’t had much chance, Charles. It sounds better every minute, this morning, though.”

  He nodded sympathetically. “Women—”

  By eleven, they were all out on the course, and silence blessed us. At one, they’d be coming back, and the bar would be a madhouse. Canyon has some bottomless female boozers. At eleven-thirty, Valerie Evans walked into the peace of the pro shop and I could feel my hackles rise. She walked directly over to stand in front of me at the counter.

  “I want to apologize for yesterday,” she said quietly.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Evans. I guess it was a bad day for a lot of us.”

  She nodded. “Could I see you alone, some time today or tonight?”

  “For very long? It’s a busy day. Ladies’ day, you know.”

  “Ladies?” she said. “Bitches. Could you come over after dinner tonight?”

  I thought for a moment and then said, “Yes, Mrs. Evans. About eight?”

  “Eight will be fine.” She turned and walked into the bar, her back stiff, her chin up.

  The bar didn’t open until eleven-thirty; I looked in there to see Henry just coming on duty. He saw me in the doorway but didn’t wave. Mrs. Evans held two fingers aloft, her signal for a double Martini.

  I was checking the golf-ball inventory when Judy came in. She was wearing a light blue linen, appliqued in white rosebuds, and she looked good enough to eat.

  “Did you miss me?” she asked. “I stayed away all day yesterday, just to see if you’d miss me. And you didn’t even phone.”

  “I thought your dad had lowered the boom,” I said. “Especially since Pat wasn’t around, either.”

  “Pat went to San Francisco,” she said. “Doctor Evans went to San Francisco, so P. Marlowe Faulkner went, too.”

  “Doctor Evans? When’s he coming home?”

  “What difference does it make? You didn’t miss me, did you?”

  “Judy, I missed you. I was lonely and angry. I thought your dad had forbidden you to see me—and you’d obeyed him.” I reached over to put my hand on top of hers on the counter. “Your dad came in yesterday afternoon. He offered me a job.”

  “I know,” she said, “and I know your answer. Why did you want to know about Doctor Evans?”

  “Because Mrs. Evans asked me to come over tonight. She wants to talk to me. I thought the doctor was going to be there.”

  Judy looked at me closely. “Why should she want to see you? Are you Bud’s substitute?”

  I smiled. “I’ll try not to be. Why don’t you wait and we’ll have lunch together?”

  “All right.” She started toward the grill, and then turned. “Denny, isn’t Pat acting strangely?”

  I shook my head. “Not for him. He’s got nothing but free time and this will give him an excuse to visit San Francisco.”

  She shrugged and went into the grill. Willie came in about fifteen minutes later, and I f
ollowed her. I noticed Valerie Evans sitting at a corner table; I nodded and joined Judy at a table near the window.

  Judy said, “Denny, you weren’t rude to Dad, were you? Because he wasn’t being patronizing. And you must admit it’s rather unusual for a university graduate to clean golf clubs for a living.”

  I nodded. “I’ll admit it. Your dad’s wasn’t the only job offer I had. Willie offered to make me assistant pro this morning.”

  “I can guess why. It’s a typical Willie Partridge reaction.”

  Martinis arrived, and Judy lifted hers. “To us.”

  “To love,” I said, “which conquers all.”

  “In the movies,” Judy added wryly. “It may sound weird, but I don’t even know what a cheap hotel room looks like. Denny, I’m not convinced. Why don’t you try to convince me?”

  I sipped my drink. “No. It would be tough enough without giving you any rosy picture you can throw at me, later.”

  “Later? You mean when we break up?”

  “I’m not overlooking the strong possibility.”

  She shook her head. “Real romantic bastard, aren’t you? Real sentimental, like an adding machine.”

  “I love you,” I said. “Are you having the shrimp?”

  She sighed and nodded.

  At the corner table, Valerie Evans continued to sit alone. The girls came in, jamming the joint, but none of them joined her. For some reason, I began to be a Valerie Evans fan. Why shouldn’t she be bitter, with all the cold shoulders turned her way?

  We got some glances, too. A number of the girls can read and some of them had undoubtedly read the Star. But we didn’t get any cold shoulders. There was a Faulkner at our table. Three of the girls joined us.

  Dozens of words were spoken, but nothing was said. I excused myself as soon as I’d finished my coffee.

  In the pro shop, Willie was eating at his desk. I asked him, “Why don’t the girls like Valerie Evans?”

  Willie’s smile was unholy. “Because she’s a woman. She doesn’t go out and get herself all burned and stringy. She knows women have only one true excuse for existence, to please men. She’s accepted that reality, and the girls hate her.”

  “Willie,” I said, “you’re a cynic.”

  “Sure, I am. And it’s ladies’ day that’s made me one.” He sipped his coffee. “By the way, Denny, don’t worry about the Executive Committee. They all ran and hid.”