Fair Prey

by William Campbell Gault

  She called over, “Henry’s been killed, I heard.”

  I nodded.

  A pause, and then, “Denny, I’m frightened. Could we go some place and talk, some place where I could get a drink?”

  “Ted’s Grill is the closest,” I said. “Do you want to follow me down there?”

  She nodded, and I turned left, toward Amalfi.

  There was a possibility she knew something that would help. There was a stronger possibility she was indulging in alcoholic hysteria and I would get tangled in a drinking bout. I had been told off by her husband less than five hours ago, and if we were seen in a bar together…

  Well, to hell with that. I was no longer being paid to be polite to Doctor Evans and his friends.

  The beach was jammed and there were cars parked along all the streets that fronted on the Coast Highway. There was still room for a few cars on Ted’s parking lot.

  I parked first and waited for Mrs. Evans. She didn’t look drunk as she walked down to the lot entrance. She seemed nervous and there was some tremble in her hands as she lighted a cigarette, but I guessed she was sober.

  “Hot enough, isn’t it?” she said. “A record-breaker, I’ll bet.”

  I hoped she hadn’t brought me down here to talk about the weather as an excuse to get loaded. I agreed it was hot.

  We left the heat of the sidewalk for the coolness of Ted’s, and found an isolated booth near the entrance to the restaurant. We both ordered gin and tonic.

  When the waitress went away, Valerie Evans said, “One big question first—where was the good doctor when Henry was killed?”

  “I don’t know. On the course, I think. That’s a strange question, Mrs. Evans.”

  “Maybe. You know, I liked Henry. He was a petty blackmailer and rather repelling looking—but he was friendly. That puts him one up on almost everybody else at Canyon.”

  “I see.” I looked at the table. “Was he blackmailing anyone you know, Mrs. Evans?”

  She smiled. “Not friends, but a few people I know, all right. In a small way, of course. Henry was never big. But the girls at Canyon do love to booze and Henry was always around with that big ear, picking up some tidbits and putting them into patterns in his clever way.”

  “Was he trying to blackmail your husband, Mrs. Evans?”

  She didn’t answer immediately; her drink was being set in front of her. She took a deep swallow, and said, “I don’t know. The good doctor has a girl friend in San Francisco and Henry has managed to turn our bar dialogue to the subject of Frisco quite often. And I had the feeling he was watching me for reactions when he did. He wasn’t very subtle.”

  “He didn’t know you knew about the girl in San Francisco?”

  “I don’t know what he knew, but if he were going to blackmail one of us, it would have to be my husband, you see, because that was his infidelity.”

  I sipped my drink, feeling uncomfortable. I said, “You certainly aren’t seriously suggesting your husband is capable of murder, Mrs. Evans?”

  She cocked her head. “Aren’t I? The man is capable of a number of things.”

  I said nothing.

  “And he hated Henry,” she said. “Henry was my best friend, I guess, at Canyon.”

  I said, “He told me off, this afternoon. He didn’t like my coming to visit you.”

  She stared at me. “You’re not serious? A kid your age? My God, the man’s gone over the edge.”

  “It was all tied up with the club gossip about Bud Venier,” I told her. “He was very disturbed.”

  She shook her head. “Nobody is that important to him, dead or alive. Bud’s death must have been connected with him, in some way. Doctor Evans, Denny, is one hundred percent motivated by self interest. I’m not only his wife; I used to work for him. This man I know.”

  I wasn’t qualified to argue with her: I said, “When you hired Chopko to investigate Bud’s death, what put him on my trail? Did you suggest me as a suspect?”

  She shook her head solemnly. “Not you. Pat Faulkner.”

  “And why him?”

  “Because Pat’s always hated Bud. Bud told me that. And after Bud deserted your spoiled little Judy at that dance, I can imagine her muscular brother was properly enraged.” She took a breath. “How about another drink?”

  I didn’t want another. And I was fearful of the situation another drink might lead to. But I called the waitress and ordered another pair.

  “And then you finding the body—” Valerie Evans went on. “Well, it seemed—strange. I mean, being with Judy Faulkner and all—”

  “And you and the doctor so close,” I reminded her. “Though that didn’t seem suspicious to me.”

  Her smile was a little crooked, I thought. Though it could have been my vision. I hadn’t eaten much and it had been a hot day. The gin was getting to me…She said, “Well, you’re a nice boy, Denny. You’re not a suspicious type. Or are you?”

  “I get more skeptical as I get older,” I answered. “Have you learned who this Olive is?”

  She shook her head slowly and gulped her drink. I asked, “Have you heard from Chopko since you fired him?”

  She looked at me blankly. “Why should I?”

  I shrugged. “I wondered what he’s been doing.”

  She finished her drink. “Trying to earn ten thousand dollars like the rest of you. One more drink, and I’m ready to go.” She reached for her purse. “This is all on me, you understand.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m loaded with uncashed checks.” I reached over to close her purse again.

  She pulled the purse back and I reached further and she called “Thief, thief!” meaning it, I hope, as a gag.

  Three people had come into the room, however, who didn’t seem to think it was very funny. Two of them stared haughtily; the third was glaring at me.

  The two who stared were C. R. Faulkner and the elder Venier. The one between them who glared was my beloved Judy.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THIS WAS GREAT, SITTING here with a half-drunk, more than half attractive older woman from Canyon who was desperately trying to keep her purse out of my reach.

  I was drunk enough by now to feel fairly poised but not drunk enough to avoid humiliation. I waved at the trio, and looked back at Mrs. Evans.

  “Wheee-eee!” she said.

  Inhabitants of the other booths looked over and smiled. The bartender looked over and frowned. The trio went past without another glance, heading for the restaurant.

  Valerie Evans was chuckling. “You’re blushing. You’re looking like a refugee from a Thorne Smith novel. Be a man, boy; go in and spit in their faces.”

  “I think maybe we’d better get some air,” I said.

  “The room is full of air,” she said. “You’re breathing, aren’t you? Booze, that’s what we need, to drown our humiliations.”

  I shook my head.

  “One more,” she said firmly, “and I’m buying.”

  I said nothing.

  “Be a free soul,” she said, “just for one drink. In celebration of your leaving Canyon.”

  Well, why not? I signaled for the waitress.

  The rest is rather hazy. I remember that some friends of hers came in and she introduced me to them, but I don’t remember her leaving with them.

  But she must have, because after a while I was alone in the booth and the waitress was putting a hamburger sandwich and a cup of coffee in front of me. I didn’t remember ordering it but perhaps Valerie had.

  I ate the sandwich and drank the coffee and the haze was still with me. I ordered, another cup of coffee.

  My mind was a little clearer after that, but I was doubtful of my legs. I sat there, thinking back on the day. Who had told Valerie that I had left Canyon? I didn’t remember mentioning it.

  I saw the two doors again, one locked, the other in plain view of Juan and C. R. Faulkner. I saw the hooked ball that had led me to Bud’s body and the word ‘snake’ came back to haunt me. In those two images and th
at word there was a clue to something important, I was sure. I felt that the obvious was hammering at me and my mind was invulnerable to it.

  I ordered a third cup of coffee.

  Through the open door, I could feel the dry, hot Santana wind. We were in for some weather.

  I drank half the coffee and phoned Mom and told her I’d already had dinner. I came back to finish the coffee and pay my bill.

  The waitress told me everything but the second and third cups of coffee was paid for. My legs behaved admirably all the way to the open doorway.

  Going down the steps to the walk, I used the hand rail as some rubber came to my knees. In the parking lot, the Chev was an oven.

  It was about four miles to where I was going, but the heat was terrific and the going-home traffic almost bumper to bumper on Channel Road. I climbed into my shell and concentrated on staying conscious and fighting off the growing nausea in me.

  I was only half successful. I stayed conscious, but the nausea mounted. At the top of Chautauqua, there was an empty lot and a tangled growth of eugenias. I pulled up next to the curb and ran for their cover.

  I made it in time, protected from view of the busy traffic on the road.

  At a filling station on Sunset, I had the attendant fill the tank and check the oil while I went into the washroom to rinse out my mouth. Then I drove over to the Griffith place on Redondo Drive.

  The man who came to the door was tall and thin and Latin.

  “Are you Manuel Cordes?” I asked him.

  He looked at me wordlessly.

  He nodded. “So—?”

  “I’m a friend of Juan Perita’s,” I said.

  “So—?”

  “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Talk.”

  “I’d like some information about Bud Venier,” I said, “Roger Venier, Jr.”

  “I bet you would. Ask the police. And don’t tell me Juan Perita has gringo friends.”

  “I’d pay for the information,” I said.

  “Huh! I know you. You work at Canyon. What kind of money could you pay?”

  I thought of the checks in my wallet and the twenty in cash. I said, “For the right answer, I’d pay about two hundred and fifty dollars.”

  His smile was patronizing. “Each month, Mr. Griffith gives me ten dollars more than that. If I am good and cause no trouble, each month for the rest of my life, maybe.”

  “Would it be trouble for Mr. Griffith if you answered a question?”

  “About young Mr. Venier, yes. They are close friends.”

  “All I want is the full name of a girl called Olive.”

  He shook his head sadly. “You, too? So many have asked me that. I do not know it. Unless it is Juan Perita’s daughter.”

  “It isn’t. Did you give Bud Vernier the key to this place?”

  He shook his head. “Young Mr. Griffith gave him a key. That’s none of your business, though. The police will answer your questions. Go to them.” He closed the door.

  Unless it is Juan Perita’s daughter…Why had that sentence stirred a memory chord? Eliminating the first three words, it left me with the last three, and the word daughter had seemed to be the memory-prodder.

  Judy was C. R. Faulkner’s daughter. No. A determined and powerful man, deeply disturbed about his daughter’s future, but not a killer, not C. R. Faulkner. Nor was Pat. Which was only opinion and what qualifications did I have to form an opinion about murder? I’d had no experience with it; from what I’d read about it, anyone could kill, given motivation enough.

  Daughter…Snake…What meaning could they have beyond the literal? A snake is a phallic symbol.

  Manuel had advised me to go to the police, but I had already been to the police today. To hell with Sergeant Morrow and his idiot friends.

  I was hungry again; my dinner was in the eugenias. I drove over to Bess Eiler’s Restaurant in Santa Monica.

  There were things in me in addition to my hunger. The hunger was in my belly. Locked in my mind, I felt almost certain, was a key to the mystery of Bud Venier’s death.

  Key…The word touched something again. Key, daughter, snake; what the hell was this? Was I going punchy? And why hadn’t the word “key” rung a bell when I’d asked Juan Perita about it? A psychiatrist would know; I was no expert on the unconscious mind.

  Bess has the finest soup in town; a bowl of it set me up for her great salad which led the way comfortably to a steak sandwich. A cup of coffee, and I felt like a citizen, not a lackey. The divorce had a few compensations.

  Solid citizens generally work with the police but I wasn’t that solid this evening. I drove over to Chopko’s duplex and saw his new Chev in front.

  He wasn’t shaving tonight; he was showering. He came to the door in a terry-cloth robe and glowered at me. “Oh, God, Jack Armstrong, the All-American boy. What’s on your mind tonight, punk?”

  “I thought we might talk a little,” I said mildly.

  He expelled his breath noisily. “All right, come in and sit down. I’m tracking up the carpet; I’ll be back in a minute or two.”

  He turned and headed back toward the bathroom; I came into the living room. I sat in the same chair and nearby was the same coffee table. Tonight, there was a telephone book on it, and it was open.

  In front of the name James Fritzell on Galloway in the Palisades, there was a small check mark. It wasn’t two blocks from my house, that address, but I didn’t know James Fritzell.

  I moved to another chair, near the door, away from the coffee table and the open telephone book.

  I heard the hiss of the shower stop and about two minutes later, Chopko came out in shorts and slippers.

  “Get to it,” he said,

  “Five thousand dollars,” I said, “could keep me for three hundred and thirty-three days at fifteen dollars a day. That’s almost a year, and I have some other money. I’d like to go on the tournament trail.”

  “My offer’s been withdrawn,” he said. “I don’t need you, Burke.”

  “Got all you need?” I asked him. “I suppose you’ll take it to the police?”

  “I know where I’m going. And you let me worry about the police.” He sat near the coffee table and too casually reached over to flip the phone book shut.

  “If the man is rich enough,” I said mildly, “I suppose you’ll never go to the police. You could milk the killer for more than ten thousand if he’s rich enough, couldn’t you?”

  He looked at me without apparent malice. “I guess you forgot what happened to you at San Diego.”

  I stood up. “No, I didn’t. Did you? Maybe the killer is big, like Pat Faulkner. I hope you’re being careful, Harold.”

  “Very,” he said. “I guess you’ll have to stay over there at Canyon for a while, cleaning clubs. I’d be a damned fool to cut a man in on a gold mine, wouldn’t I?”

  “You certainly would,” I answered. “Well, I’m not much more than a day away from a solution, myself.” I went to the door.

  I had my hand on the knob when he said, “Wait.”

  I turned and waited.

  He looked at me carefully. “If you should learn something, why take it to Morrow? You’ve no reason to love him, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t. I guess I’m just one of those solid citizens.”

  “That’s stupid,” he said. “You’ll never get rich, Burke.”

  “Maybe, not. I hope I’m not living in a duplex when I’m your age, though, Harold. Don’t outsmart yourself.”

  Again, he said, “Wait.”

  He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “Believe me, you’ll never see a nickel of reward money if you go running to Morrow with what you might learn. Come to me. I guarantee you it will prove to be the profitable way to operate.”

  “Drop dead,” I said, and went out.

  As I went down the walk, I heard his door open behind me. I didn’t look around and a few seconds later I heard it close.

  A pair of visits that had netted m
e nothing except the suspicion that Chopko now had all he needed. If he’d been shy one morsel of information, I was sure he would have been more cooperative.

  I’d forgotten the address on Galloway, but I drove over to the street. It wasn’t so long a street that I’d miss Chopko’s car if it turned in off. Sunset.

  I sat there for an hour and nothing happened. I drove the length of the street and saw no new Chev. It was still hot and I was tired.

  At home, Dad was in the living room reading the sport page. He looked up and smiled. “Bad day?”

  “A good one, I think. I quit Canyon.”

  He nodded. “Best day you ever had. Why don’t you take a shower and we’ll go out on the back porch for a game of cribbage? It’s been a long time since we’ve had a game of cribbage.”

  That’s exactly what we did. It was fairly cool on the porch, and Mom brought up a big pitcher of lemonade and I found a little peace after a real nasty day.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IN THE MORNING, IT was hot and dry. This was Thursday and it was going to be the hottest day in the history of the Los Angeles weather bureau, but the morning didn’t seem bad because of the dryness.

  At the breakfast table, Mom said, “When do you plan to leave on your trip, Denny?”

  “I don’t know. As soon as I arrange financing. There’s a caddie at the club who wants to back me.”

  She frowned. “A caddie?”

  I nodded. “A caddie who saved his money, a man about fifty.” I turned to the sport page. “Where’s Dad?”

  She sighed. “Out for an early worm. And in this heat.” She shook her head.

  I smiled at her. “We’ve got a fireball in the family, Mom. He’s finally found his groove.”

  She nodded. She picked at the tablecloth. “How’s Judy?”

  I didn’t look up. “Hale and hearty. But I guess she doesn’t want to be a poor man’s wife.”

  “You don’t seem disturbed about that, Denny.”

  This time, I looked up. “I love her. I have to be what I am.”

  My mother’s voice was quiet. “No compromise in you, is there, Denny?”