Sweet Wild Wench

by William Campbell Gault

  In reality, she was a former sobsister who had brought in such a mass of cretin circulation she’d demanded and been granted her role as a distaff Lincoln Steffens. Her name was Annabelle Compt.

  She wanted to know how a small-salaried hireling in the D.A.’s office could afford to travel in the rarefied Griffin social circle? And the hireling’s playboy brother, fresh out of college, drove a Bentley and managed a Strip apartment. How? And wasn’t it a coincidence that this poverty-stricken Joseph Puma should be present at the death of Burns Murphy almost before the police? And wasn’t it strange that Miss Adele Griffin should live so close to the cult Jeremiah Adams ran in Brentwood? And wasn’t it surpassingly strange that the late Burns Murphy had been investigating this cult just before he died?

  But the strangest facet of all to Annabelle Compt was that this disreputable Joseph Puma and doubtful Jeremiah Adams were still at large, unharassed by the gullible Police Department.

  I phoned Griffin again and this time he was in his office.

  I asked, “Read the Progressive today?”

  “Not yet. But the mayor has. And you’d better get down here right away. He’s been looking for you.”

  8

  THE MAYOR WAS the same as ninety-nine per cent of his political brethren; his first loyalty, though never stated, was to himself.

  He was a pompous man but not a consciously vicious one. And I had an uncomfortable hunch that he almost believed most of the platitudes he constantly mouthed.

  He was behind his desk, important as a bull frog, when his secretary ushered me into his office forty-five minutes later. He wasn’t the only occupant of the office.

  Griffin was there. Sergeant Ernie Kafke and the Chief of Police were there.

  The Chief looked as uncomfortable as Griffin did. Both of them despised the mayor, both of them resented the banal mouthings of a man so obviously their inferior.

  The door closed quietly behind me and the mayor actually smiled as he indicated a chair for me between Griffin and Kafke.

  “Smoke if you wish,” he said.

  I said, “Thank you,” sat down and took out a cigarette.

  “Well,” the mayor began, “now we’re all here. We certainly have been getting some unfavorable publicity, haven’t we?”

  I said quietly, “That’s standard treatment, sir, from the Progressive.”

  “I suppose.” His smile was thinner. “However, there have been some reports coming into this office that didn’t make the papers.”

  Nobody interrupted.

  He looked at me. “You went to see a Mr. James Murphy last night?”

  I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “And you threatened him?”

  “No, sir. I did tell him that I wouldn’t listen to his abuse. He called me a few insulting names. He referred to Mr. Griffin as a ‘monkey.’ He was generally abusive, so I left.”

  “I see. And you called him a thief?”

  “It’s a general term, sir, and often misused. In the most widely used sense, Mr. Murphy qualifies. He made his money in bootlegging, I understand.”

  The mayor flushed. “I understand he made his fortune in trucking.”

  “Trucking booze,” the Chief added curtly.

  The mayor’s flush deepened. “Well, that needn’t concern us now. Just why did you go to see Mr. Murphy, Mr. Puma?”

  “I was investigating his brother’s death because I thought it might be tied up with another case I’m currently working on.”

  “I see. That would be this cult?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I see.” The mayor pursed his full lips thoughtfully. “This was considerably after the close of your normal working day, was it not, Mr. Puma.”

  I looked at him in hurt dignity. “Sir, acting as a police officer, I considered myself on duty twenty-four hours a day. I’m sure you’ll agree that responsible and worthy police officers aren’t unduly concerned with the time clock.”

  That was below the belt, hitting a man with his own weapon, the platitude. That monologue had been too phony for anyone but the man I’d delivered it to.

  He took a deep breath and stared at Kafke. “Sergeant, you’re assigned to this Murphy case, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In your opinion, wasn’t there sufficient reason to hold this Jeremiah Adams in custody for a while?”

  “No, sir. He’s not going anywhere, sir. I always figure the less people we have to feed the better for the taxpayers.”

  I put my head down to hide my smile. Griffin looked down and put his hand to his forehead.

  The mayor was on a merry-go-round now and it brought him back to me. “Mr. Puma, I’d appreciate your version of what happened in that Hollywood bar last night.”

  I said solemnly, “A disreputable private operative named Deutscher was trying to question my brother about my part in the Murphy case. My brother reported this interest to me. When I questioned Deutscher about it, he threatened to take my job away from me and lose the proprietor of the place his license. Then he attacked my brother and my brother tried to defend himself.”

  I gave that to him as squarely as it’s worded and looked at him with my Eagle Scout look, waiting for my merit badge.

  He studied me quietly for seconds. When the corn is that green, even the mayor balks. The silence grew. Kafke coughed and the Chief cleared his throat.

  On the mayor’s face, the flush was gone. So was the phony air of geniality. He had never looked more dangerous.

  He said ominously, “I seem to sense a frivolous lack of the cooperative spirit in this room. Let me remind you gentlemen that I was elected to this office with the greatest plurality in the history of this city. Your personal attitudes toward me can’t alter that fact. I want every one of you to bear it in mind.

  “Let me also remind you gentlemen that Mr. James Murphy controls a considerable segment of votes in this city of ours. And his brother has been murdered under very unusual circumstances. I hope we are all realists enough to understand that Mr. Murphy is going to get all the cooperation he warrants from this office.”

  This was more my dish of tea, straight municipal backroom politics without the Fourth of July overtones.

  Griffin said gently, “I’m sure we’re all aware of the political aspects and necessities of your office, your honor.”

  Neither Griffin nor the Chief ever called the mayor by his name. And the “your honor” they used would have been resented by a more sensitive man.

  But now he smiled. “All right, then, let’s get down to business.”

  We did, trying to make it more informal and informative, four earnest public servants and yours truly working harmoniously together to repair a breach in public relations, to salve the resentment of an important citizen who controlled votes and was no longer outside the law.

  We came up with nothing but dry mouths and sore throats and a partially mollified mayor. But we shook hands all around like lodge brothers before the meeting broke up.

  Then Griffin, the Chief, Kafke and I went into Griffin’s office.

  The Chief went over to open a window and he stood there, glowering out at the day.

  Griffin said, “Relax, Ames. He can’t go on forever.”

  Kafke said, “What the hell did happen at Lippy’s, Joe?”

  “You were there,” I said.

  The Chief looked sharply at Kafke, but the sergeant didn’t look perturbed. He said, “I got there after Lippy had bounced Deutscher; I didn’t see any of it.”

  I shrugged. “Deutscher started to push the kid around and Deke popped him.”

  Griffin said, “And you had to lose your temper up there at Murphy’s?”

  “No, sir,” I said. “I felt that as a qualified investigator, I wasn’t required to take insolence from crooks.”

  “That’s true. But your muscles aren’t your authority. When you work for me you represent my office and that’s authority enough.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.


  A silence, and then Kafke generously changed the subject. He said musingly, “I knew Burns Murphy for nine years and never once heard he was Big Jim’s brother. Am I dumb, or was that generally known?”

  “I never knew it,” the Chief said.

  “Nor I,” Griffin added. He looked at me.

  I said, “My brother told me Burns’s brother was in the trucking business. Burns was a fairly ethical man; he probably didn’t advertise his relationship to Big Jim.”

  “And Deutscher?” Griffin asked. “What about his ethics?”

  I shrugged.

  Sergeant Kafke said, “He’s crooked enough when he has to be. He’s had some big money cases, studio stuff, and he’s friendly with half the men in the Department. A great joiner, smarter than he looks.”

  Griffin said, “Don’t antagonize him, Joe. You aren’t required to respect him, but don’t antagonize him.”

  The Chief left then and Kafke said, “Maybe you and I had better compare notes, Joe. You seem to be involved in this Murphy death as much as Homicide is.”

  We compared notes in the outer office. I was surprised to learn that Kafke didn’t have the story on Jeremiah’s accidental killing of the electrical engineer. But it had been a small town accident, and small towns frequently maintain some weird files.

  I also told Kafke about Clyde Tackett’s visit to Big Jim Murphy last night and his lie about Murphy being a hotel stockholder.

  I suggested, “You could put a few leading questions to Tackett’s superior over at the hotel. I’ve already talked with him and another official visit might make him think Tackett isn’t worth all this annoyance. If the punk gets canned, we can see which way he runs.”

  “To Murphy, you’re guessing?”

  “Maybe. I imagine he originally went to see Murphy to sell him the information about Eve Deering being registered at the hotel under a false name.”

  “What’s that to Murphy?”

  “It’s just another angle for Murphy to consider when he studies the whole Adams-Griffin-Deering axis. He’s got enough money to buy all the information he can get on any of them.”

  “And Deutscher — you’re sure he’s working for Murphy?”

  I shook my head. “That was only a hunch.”

  Kafke lighted a cigarette and blew out the match thoughtfully. Then, “Okay, Joe. Thanks. I’ll see Tackett’s boss first and see if we can’t get the weasel fired.”

  He went out and I went back to the inner office to see Griffin. He was standing next to the window, looking out at his city again.

  He turned and looked at me wearily. “Stay with this Adams business. Work as closely as possible with Homicide on all of it.”

  I nodded, and headed for the door.

  “And Joe,” he added, “be sensible in your — your relationship with Adele. She’s a trifle flighty, you know.”

  Flighty? She was a rock, emotionally. I smiled and said, “Adele keeps me properly in my place, sir. She’s a fine woman.”

  I nodded and went out, reflecting that my place could mean many things.

  The smog was heavy near City Hall and my eyes were smarting as I headed out toward Hollywood. It wasn’t much better there. I shuddered to think of what Pasadena must be having.

  Deke was home, deep in copies of the Racing Form. He grinned at me as I came in. “Some ink we got last night, right?”

  “Because of you,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Because of Eve. The whole thing revolves around her, Joe. Around her and the original Eve.”

  “The original Eve?”

  “Yup. The Biblical Eve. You and your incessant lust.”

  “Drop it,” I said. “Do you think any of your crooked friends could have the word on Big Jim Murphy?”

  Deke looked at me coolly. “What am I, a canary, a pigeon?”

  “All right. Forget it.”

  “What do I owe the Police Department? What has it ever done for me?”

  “You could be in jail right now. You’ve never been in jail, have you, Deke? What you should be grateful for is all the things the Police Department hasn’t done to you.”

  He grimaced and gestured contemptuously.

  After a few seconds, I said, “Murphy’s out to get me. What’s more important, he’s out to thwart a fine public servant like Sam Griffin.”

  “You sing,” Deke said. “I’ll play the fiddle.”

  “I’ve just come from the mayor’s office,” I went on. “The mayor really read the riot act to the Chief and Griffin and Kafke and me. Murphy’s very powerful politically; he can lead the mayor around by the nose.”

  “How sad,” Deke said jestingly.

  I took a deep breath and hammed it. “Well, they’ve got my resignation in writing. They can do what they damned please with it. And the mayor might find it harder than he thinks to have my license revoked.”

  He stared at me.

  “To hell with it,” I said. “Got a beer in the joint?”

  When I came back with a cold can of beer he was standing near the two-story rear window, looking out at the smog-shadowed basin below.

  “All right, you hot-head,” he said, “I’ll ask around.”

  9

  DEKE HAD SAID it all revolved around Eve, but that didn’t make her the killer. Not that she was clear of suspicion in my mind. I’d slept too well that night to be sure she hadn’t left without my knowing it.

  Big Jim Murphy was certainly as interested in Burns’ death as I was and it figured to me that Big Jim would have hired a specialist to dig out what facts he could. And it seemed reasonable to guess that the specialist could be that king-sized private eye, Ned Deutscher.

  I phoned Deutscher’s office and his girl told me he could be reached at home. I caught him at home after about eight rings. I asked him if I could drop over.

  “Why?” he said.

  “I think we’re looking for the same answers, Ned, and maybe we can help each other.”

  “Huh!” he said.

  “Ned, I’m working for the District Attorney. Do you refuse to see me?”

  “I don’t refuse to see you; I refuse to believe in you. I’ll be here.”

  He lived in a four-unit apartment building on Kenmore. The card under his mail-slot in the lobby identified it as Apartment Two. This was on the left side, on the first floor.

  Ned took his time coming to the door. He was wearing a beautiful shiner and his lower lip was puffed up like a tomato.

  “Don’t glare at me,” I said. “I didn’t hit you. Maybe we can help each other.” He continued to glare.

  “Listen,” I said earnestly. “Less than an hour ago I had a conference with the mayor. We’re all working together now, like the U.N. Come out from behind that iron curtain.”

  “Come in,” he said. “I don’t want the neighbors to see you.”

  It was a fairly large apartment, with a beamed living room and a high-hearth fireplace. I sat on a sofa and lighted a cigarette. His eyes looked bleary, as though he’d been taking a nap, and his hair was rumpled.

  He said, “That brother of yours is a tough little bastard, isn’t he?”

  I nodded sorrowfully. “He’s got a mean streak, too.” I paused. “You shouldn’t have insulted him.”

  He stretched. “You want a beer? I’m going to have one.”

  “No, thanks. But you go ahead and get one.”

  He came back in with a can of local beer in his hand and sat at the other end of the sofa. He said smugly, “The mayor gave you hell, huh?”

  “He certainly did. But Murphy has the wrong idea if he thinks he’s getting a Department runaround. He couldn’t be more wrong.”

  “Who’s Murphy?” he asked me.

  “Big Jim Murphy,” I said. “He’s your client, isn’t he?”

  He didn’t answer. He put the cool beer can to his swollen lip and took it away again. Staring at me, he asked, “That brother of yours ever fight professionally?”

  In California, a fighter’s fists
are considered as a lethal weapon and woe to the one who hits a layman. I shook my head.

  “Well,” Deutscher said grimly, “we’ll meet again.”

  I said, “I know you have a lot of friends in the Department, Ned, but if you haven’t got Murphy behind you, you’re playing it close to disaster. You can’t lick City Hall.”

  “Maybe I’ve got this Murphy behind me,” he said, “and maybe not. Last night, three of you mugs box me in and now you come over with a valentine. I don’t need friends like that.”

  “Okay. I’m not going to crowd you.” I took a shot in the dark. “But don’t swallow everything that Clyde Tackett tells you. He’s already lied to me once.”

  He sipped his beer, saying nothing.

  I gave him most of the picture then. About Jeremiah Adams and the Deerings, father and daughter, about the conference with the mayor and our decision there.

  He took it all in and proffered nothing.

  “This cooperation,” I told him, “is no one-way street. The Chief of Police is solidly behind me and so is the District Attorney. The mayor is going along with it. Murphy alone isn’t enough to back you against all of them.” He still said nothing.

  I waited a few seconds and then stood up. “Okay, Ned, to hell with you. Stay stubborn and wind up driving a truck. I didn’t come here to beg.”

  “Sit down and quit beating your gums,” he said calmly. “I’m thinking.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “Or go get yourself a beer.”

  When I came back again, he said, “This Deering’s a real bigshot, isn’t he?”

  “Big enough,” I said. “Early California money.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. Then, “What’d this Tackett lie to you about?”

  “He told me Murphy had a piece of the Hacienda Arms.”

  “So, what kind of lie is that? The squirt was trying to save his job.”

  I shrugged.

  Deutscher said, “One thing in your favor. Big Jim knows you and Burns were friends.”

  I said nothing.

  “A thing that’s bugging me is,” he went on, “you got all that money and all of City Hall behind you and still you can’t do anything about a con-man like Jeremiah Adams. Why not?”