Fair Prey

by William Campbell Gault

  His smile was warm. “I’ll be careful. And you watch your step, too. You’ve a thin streak of malice in you, boy.”

  “Not malice,” I said. “Resentment, maybe, but not malice. See you, Pat.”

  Outside, the weary Chev was waiting. I stood next to it a few seconds, surveying the huge grounds and impressive home owned by the Faulkners. I thought of the clothes they wore and the cars they drove and the places they’d been.

  Would I trade with Pat Faulkner? He was right; I wouldn’t.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THAT NIGHT I LAY awake. I thought of my hook, the big hook that haunts the slugger. Bantam Ben had been quoted as saying, “A hook is like a snake in your pocket.” I thought of Judy’s hook, and saw the house above the ball and the body below the house. The room was dark and quiet. That house. The caretaker…I had overlooked the caretaker. Did he know something he hadn’t told the police? Had Bud paid him to go to a movie that night? Would he admit that to the police?

  The boy detective…Six hundred and sixty-six days at fifteen dollars a day makes ten thousand dollars. A new sound came to the quiet night, my dad’s snoring. Had Bud been a stymie to someone; was Bud a dead stymie?

  Tomorrow would be a busy day; I fought my way back to sleep.

  The bar didn’t open until eleven, but Henry was in the parking lot when I got to the club at nine. He was waiting for me, he told me; he hadn’t been able to sleep.

  “Me too,” I said.

  “I worried about what you might have told Chopko.”

  “Oh? You mean, things I told him that you didn’t?”

  Henry’s smile was sly. “I didn’t tell him anything. I was conning the fat slob. You didn’t tell him about that—that—” He broke off, his gaze intent on my face.

  “Olive?” I supplied.

  He nodded.

  I shook my head. “What have you learned about her?”

  Relief came to his face. “Nothing.”

  “You’re lying, of course,” I said, “But I’ve come to expect that from you, Henry.”

  He shrugged indifferently. “I wanted to work with you, Denny. You were the one who said ‘no,’ remember.”

  “So you pretended to work with Chopko. You could have conned me more easily; Chopko’s a pro.”

  “He’s a cheap peeper,” Henry said scornfully. “Once he gets out of the phony divorce dodge, he’s over his head.”

  I said gently, “I hope you’re not, Henry. Any other little items you want to supply me with, this morning?”

  “Just a warning,” he said. “Steer clear of Chopko. The guy’s got absolutely no ethics.”

  “Thank you,” I said quietly. “And you’re a man who knows about ethics. Well, walk softly and carry a big gun.” I went past him toward the shop.

  Clare Dunning was waiting in there, sitting in a chair next to Willie’s desk. I stopped in the doorway and said nothing.

  Clare said, “I was in town, so I dropped over. I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about me, Denny.”

  “Forget it,” I said. “I have.”

  “You know it wasn’t intentional, don’t you?”

  “I’ll believe it if you say it.”

  “I swear it wasn’t”

  I smiled. “Okay, Clare, I believe you. Where do you go next?”

  “Oregon. Portland. Denny, you’re still planning to hit the trail, aren’t you? San Diego didn’t change that?”

  “If I can get a bankroll. How did you happen to know Harold Chopko?”

  “He took some lessons from me when I was at Fox Hills. He was the only hopeless pupil I ever had, so he kind of stuck in my memory.”

  Willie came in from the bar, then, and smiled at us. “Well, did you kiss and make up?”

  Clare said doubtfully, “I think so. Denny smiled.”

  Willie held up an envelope. “This is the kind of thing that will really make him smile.”

  I tore open the envelope to see that it was a check from San Diego for a hundred and eighty-three dollars and thirty-three cents. Sixth, seventh and eighth place money had been lumped and divided by three.

  It could have easily been fifteen hundred dollars for an undisputed first place. But that had been my fault, not Clare’s.

  Willie said, “Not bad for a week-end’s work. That’s over sixty dollars a day.”

  I put the check into my wallet, next to the check of Judy’s I still hadn’t cashed.

  Clare said, “Well, I’ll be running along. Luck, Denny.”

  “Same to you, Clare,” I answered. “Give my regards to your wife.”

  He paused for a moment to look at me doubtfully, and then went out.

  Willie said, “A great guy, Clare Dunning.”

  “I guess,” I said. “Has Sergeant Morrow been around lately?”

  Willie shook his head. “What did that mean?”

  “I might have some information for him.”

  “If it’s information that’s worth money,” Willie said, “don’t give it to Morrow. Find somebody higher up and take a witness along when you give him the information. Cops are just crooks with badges.”

  A Willie Partridge absurdity that I didn’t argue about. Ten thousand dollars can bring out the worst in most men. Henry was a prime example, ready to double-cross Chopko and weasel his way into the confidence of anyone he could betray. Henry had the serum to make them talk, too, booze for the lost and lonely.

  Around ten-thirty, Juan Perita came in with a bag of balls. Juan is our greenskeeper and in charge of the maintenance crew. These were balls that had been found around the course and we returned the ones stamped with the owners’ names. The others were used for lessons. I remembered that Juan had done a lot of contract gardening in the neighborhood before he came to us.

  I asked him if he knew the Griffith’s caretaker.

  He nodded. “Manuel Cordes. Why you ask, Denny?”

  “I just wondered. I didn’t notice his name in the paper anywhere.”

  Juan’s brown eyes smiled. “You play detective too, Denny?”

  “Maybe. Other people been bothering you?”

  “No bother. Henry gave me rum, big bottle. Mrs. Evans give me five dollars. Young Mr. Faulkner give me ten dollars.”

  “And what did you give them in return?”

  He shrugged. “I tell them all I know about Manuel. It is nothing. Has he a sister named Olive, Henry wanted to know. Not that I know of. I have a daughter named Olive, though.”

  “How old, Juan?”

  “Nine,” he said. “And so bright, so pretty.”

  He smiled and left, and I went to work sorting out the balls. Two of them belonged to C. R. Faulkner. Some of them undoubtedly belonged to Pat, our wildest shooter. But Pat didn’t mark his balls; that was a penurious practice of men who earned their livings.

  The luncheon trade at the grill would be heavy today; a lot of the members came early for their Wednesday afternoon round. I went in to eat at eleven-thirty.

  I didn’t sit at the bar where I would be at the mercy of Henry’s monologues; I sat at a corner table. The room began to fill up and the chatter increased.

  They were all expectant, sure that today was the day they would break a hundred or ninety or eighty. Or even seventy. Playing the game for fun and a small side bet made the expectation pleasant. Playing it for a living, for a big title, would make the expectation something to chew your nails about. Would it take the fun out of golf? It would take the leisure out of it, but not the excitement. The game was the same; only the stakes changed.

  Doctor Evans came over to sit down across from me. “Well, there’s been a lot happened since you found Bud’s body, hasn’t there?”

  I nodded. “I guess. Maybe I’m not aware of all that’s happened.”

  His face was thoughtful. “Maybe I’m not, either. Your friend, young Faulkner, was up in San Francisco yesterday, wasn’t he?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “And you and my wife had a talk.”


  I nodded.

  His voice was low. “What about?”

  “She wanted to tell me about a girl named Olive. She asked me to come over.”

  “I see. There isn’t any reason for that information about this possibly mythical Olive to go any further, is there?”

  “If it’s mythical, Doctor,” I said, “I can’t see how it would hurt anybody if it was published.”

  “But Venier is dead. I would resent any attempt to blacken his memory.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  He studied me, as thought looking for insolence.

  I said calmly, “Are you suggesting, Doctor, that I don’t tell the police about this Olive?”

  “Nothing of the kind,” he said. “I simply think it’s about time all this club gossip was squelched.”

  “I haven’t been a party to any gossip, Doctor. I’m sure the members have been more guilty of that than the employees. Your complaint should really go to the Executive Committee.” I finished my coffee, stood up, and walked away from him.

  Three tables away, Willie put out a detaining hand, and I stopped to look down at him.

  He was smiling. “Denny, next time you tell off a member, make it a little louder. We couldn’t hear a word.”

  Across the table from Willie, Dr. Krisler chuckled. I looked back to see Dr. Evans glaring at all of us, and suddenly I was sorry for him.

  I was sorry for all of them, the huddlers, the joiners, the sad and lonely people who had to buy their friends with initiation fees. Rotarians and Odd Fellows and the silly men in the tin hats, the fat, dull people who owned the world.

  I said, “There won’t be a next time, Willie.”

  I went to the shop to get ready for the horde of hopefuls who would soon be demanding their clubs. I had just initiated divorce proceedings against my wife of nine years, my beloved Canyon, though the papers hadn’t been served.

  Judy came in as the traffic began to thin out. “My,” she said, “aren’t we grave, today?”

  “I’m older,” I told her. “I might even have grown up. You didn’t want your clubs, did you? The first tee is still reserved for men.”

  She frowned. “Is this a brush-off?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “How was the ballet?”

  “Average. What did you and Pat talk about last night?”

  “About San Francisco and Doctor Evans and your dad.”

  She was silent for seconds. Then, “Dad can be so reasonable.” She took a breath. “And frightening.”

  I said nothing.

  Her voice was low. “I don’t know anything about poverty. Denny. Nor about my emotional stamina, either.”

  I shrugged.

  “You can be difficult,” she went on. “When you climb into that shell, you can be—inhuman.”

  I nodded.

  Her voice was sharper. “You’re judging me, aren’t you? You’re sneering mentally, again.”

  “No,” I said earnestly. “I would hate like hell to be in your position. This much, though, you can bank on—I love you. I love you very much.”

  For a moment, her face was perfectly bleak. Then some moisture came to her eyes and she put a hand out impulsively on top of the counter and I covered it with mine.

  “I love you, too,” she said. “And it’s a defect in me that that isn’t enough, isn’t it?”

  I shook my head. “Everything has to be my way. It’s natural for you to resent that. It could be a defect in me that I didn’t accept your dad’s offer.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t,” she said. “And I loved you more when you didn’t. Denny, we’ve got to work something out.”

  “Maybe we will,” I soothed her. “Willie will be here in a few minutes, and we can go in and have a drink.”

  When a woman wants to work something out, it means she wants to arrange it her way. With Judy and me, that might not be the wrong way, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t be my way. Wives and golf are naturally enemies and uncomfortable allies. Though Judy, of course, was a low-handicap player. A wealthy low-handicap player, and there was the rub.

  While waiting for Willie to come back, I checked the roster in his desk. There was no Olive listed as wife, daughter or member of the club.

  There was no reason for me to assume this Olive was any more involved in the death of Bud Venier than any of a dozen other unknown women in the active love life of the deceased. But Henry and Mrs. Evans considered her important and they undoubtedly knew more about the case than I did.

  I went into the grill when Willie came. Judy was at a table near the bar but she wasn’t alone. Roger Venier, Bud’s father, was sitting with her.

  Judy looked up, saw me, and waved. I held up five fingers and went back into the shop; I didn’t want to face Roger Venier today.

  Willie’s look was amused. “What’s the matter, boy?”

  “Papa Venier is in there. I don’t feel like sitting with him.”

  “You’re too sensitive, boy. You’ll have to outgrow that.”

  “Maybe. Do you know any woman named Olive?”

  “None that I’ve seen in thirty years. I used to know a lot of them, all of excellent vintage.”

  I kept an eye on the grill, but Mr. Venier didn’t leave the table. I began to rearrange the club displays and forgot about the time.

  I was half finished when Judy came in, looking angry. “What did that gesture mean? I understood it to mean five minutes.”

  “That’s what it meant. But I didn’t want to sit with Mr. Venier.”

  Her voice was extremely cool. “Denny, if you marry me, you are going to have to sit with a lot of people like Mr. Venier.”

  Willie chuckled and his voice was dry. “Judy darling, if you marry Denny, you can sit with people like Sam Snead.”

  She glared at both of us. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to that.”

  Willie shook his head sadly. “Sacrilege—in my own church. I’m disappointed in you, Judy Faulkner.”

  Silence, while she continued to glare. Then she said hoarsely, “Both of you think you’re so damned much.” She turned and went out.

  I started after her, but she went right through the grill and out the door that led to the parking lot. The screen door slammed with a bang and I turned toward the bar.

  From behind the bar, Henry, smiled at me. He had witnessed the little drama. I turned again and went to the locker room.

  It was dim and quiet in here. In his little room off the main room, Royal Lincoln Washington was industriously polishing the street shoes of all the members now out on the course.

  He looked up, his black face dew-covered from his exertions. “Hi, Denny boy. How you hittin’ ’em?”

  “Okay. Have you a jug stashed somewhere handy, Royal? I need a drink but I don’t want to look at Henry while I drink it.”

  “I know what you mean,” he said. “In that corner locker, there’s some gin. And in that little icebox, there’s some quinine water. The glasses are in the medicine cabinet.”

  I mixed a drink, and Royal shoved over a stool for me to sit on. He continued to work, buffing the shoes mirror-bright.

  “You put in a full day,” I said.

  He shrugged. “I don’t mind. It’s usually quiet in here. And it’s out of the sun.” He smiled. “I don’t need a tan.”

  It was quiet. And lofty and peaceful. Royal probably wasn’t working any harder than most of the hackers now out there in the sun, and he was getting paid for it.

  He said, “I don’t like that Henry, do you? I don’t trust that man.”

  “He’ll never make my hit parade,” I said. “Though I don’t really know much about him.”

  “Some men, you don’t have to know much. One look is enough. He looks like a snake.”

  “You can’t judge on looks, Royal.”

  “He’s a crook. I thought you were going to do it, down there at Dago, Denny. I was rooting for you.”

  “Thanks.” I sipped my drink.

  His voice was lower.
“The word I get, you might marry some money.”

  “A girl,” I said, “not the money.”

  He looked up at me and back at the shoes he was working on. “Some papa she’s got. Man—”

  “You don’t like him?”

  “I got nothing against him. Stubborn, though. A real big stubborn man.”

  I savored the gin and relaxed. “And I’m a real small stubborn man. Well, I’ve still got my golf.”

  He grinned. “If I had your game, Denny, all the pretty girls would be on short-term leases. The world is loaded with women.”

  I smiled at him and said nothing. A little gin and the quiet in this room were calming my jitters. Every man has his refuge, I suppose, but not many of them would consider a deserted country club locker room as the ideal. It had always been for me. This high-roofed, deserted room with the beamed ceilings gave me a sense of lofty loneliness my soul occasionally needed. From the far end I heard a door slam and in a few seconds, Henry went by. He smiled at both of us and went on, toward the parking lot end of the room, out of sight.

  Royal muttered something I didn’t understand. A locker door slammed.

  “Has Henry got a locker in here?” I asked.

  Royal shook his head. “He’s got one off the kitchen. Maybe he’s nosing through the members’ lockers, huh?”

  I stood up, and then I heard Henry’s voice, though I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I sat down again, and said, “Somebody else must be there. It’s all right, I’m sure, Royal.”

  I was lifting the glass to my lips when the metallic “thump” sounded, in the room. It sounded like someone had fallen against a locker door.

  Royal looked up questioningly. I didn’t stand up again. It was Royal’s domain, not mine. He listened quietly for a moment and went back to buffing shoes.

  A smaller “thump,” again metallic. And footsteps. They sounded labored to me, heavy, erratic. I thought I heard a choked gurgle.

  Royal shook his head and stood up. He went to the doorway of his little room to look down the corridor in the larger one.

  “See anything?” I asked.

  “It’s Henry,” he whispered. “God—” He reached for the phone on the wall stand.

  I put my drink down and came over to look past him.

  Henry was walking very slowly and very carefully along the corridor, leaning heavily on the lockers he passed for support. Ten feet short of us, he paused, his eyes staring wildly. Blood streamed down from his throat, where only the handle of the knife embedded there was still visible.