“Sure,” he said, and hesitated. Then, “But keep remembering it’s a bad time. And watch your temper, won’t you?”
His voice had sounded worried and Deke never worries. I said quietly, “I’ll watch it, brother.”
He studied me, smiling. “Even in high school, I was always better looking. But you always got the women. Why is that?”
“I gave it more thought,” I said. “You were always playing basketball or football or some other silly game. I was training myself for the big game.”
After he’d left, I phoned Eve. She told me, “I didn’t talk to Jeremiah yet. I’ll phone him now, if you want, and call you back.”
I waited, and she phoned back in a few minutes. “Yes, he did come over to the hotel last night, but he only stayed long enough to find out I wasn’t there. And then he went directly home.”
“He says.”
“Why should he lie?”
“I don’t know. Thanks, Eve.”
“You’re still angry about something, aren’t you?”
“About the state of the world,” I said. “I’ll be seeing you.”
It was a gray day, foggy and damp. From the Hollywood Station, I phoned Kafke and asked him if he’d done any further checking on Tackett. He had, and come up with nothing, nothing official, that is.
I told him what had happened last night and what Deke had told me about Tackett.
Kafke thanked me and said, “The publisher of the Progressive was in last night, screaming persecution.”
“What are the police supposed to do about that?”
“He thinks we instigated it. Your work, Puma?”
“J. D. Deering’s work. You can tell the publisher that, if it will get you off the hook.”
“Maybe I will. Some strange friends you have.”
“Haven’t we all? Well, Ernie, we’ll just push along, confiding in each other, right?”
“You sound like the mayor,” he said caustically. “Keep us informed, Puma.”
I had some names, some friends of Sam Griffin who might not be offended by questions about their donations to the Children of Proton. I got around to three of them before lunch.
Between them, they had donated about fourteen thousand dollars to the cult. Only one of the three would admit her donation had been solicited. She was a Brentwood widow.
She was bored with Jeremiah and his scientific explanations. She preferred a prophet with more of the old-time mysticism. There was a new swami over in Westwood, now, who….
I sat for twenty minutes listening to her chant the charms of the new swami until I finally broke away.
I made three more calls after lunch and learned the donations hadn’t been as heavy. Two of the three resented my questioning. The third believer had donated nothing to the cause.
Frustration grew in me; it looked like we could prove nothing on Jeremiah. He had no record. There was nothing but the suspicion of murder and that hadn’t been officially charged against him.
The last of the three afternoon calls had been in the Bay area, so I drove over to the Hacienda Arms. I got Tackett’s address from the manager there.
It was an apartment over a garage in the beach area of Venice, near Main Street.
There was a bar on the corner and I felt the need of a drink.
The bartender was a dapper little man with a tanned, bald head and a beautiful oxford shirt of flawless white, open at the throat. I ordered bourbon and water and put a dollar on the bar.
“Clyde Tackett drink here?” I asked.
He looked at me blankly. “You a friend of his?”
“Not exactly.”
“Cop?”
“In a way. Temporarily.”
“He drinks here. What’s he done now?”
“I don’t know. What’s he done before?” The little man sniffed. “Nothing, I guess. No feathers on me, big boy.”
I sipped the whisky. “I hadn’t noticed any. To tell you the truth, I feel responsible for his having lost his job and I’d like to help him if I could.”
The little man’s smile was cynical. “Job? Oh, you mean at the hotel. He lost that, eh?”
“Yesterday. I wouldn’t want him to get the idea it was all my fault.”
The bartender shrugged and poured himself a short beer.
“Because it wasn’t all my fault,” I went on earnestly.
The little man yawned. “Don’t worry about Clyde Tackett, mister. He’ll make out. He’s a smart operator, that boy.”
“That was my impression,” I agreed. “And that makes it worse, because his employer could have been deprived of a valuable employee.”
The bartender’s smile was contemptuous. “That was pretty good. If you could wipe away a tear, now, and kind of look off sadly through those front windows, you’d be up for an Academy Award.”
Anger moved through me but I kept my face composed and genial. “You might be right. Hotel skips are about my limit. This Homicide needs a better touch than mine.”
“Homicide?” The smile was gone. “Clyde Tackett’s mixed up in murder?”
“In a murder case,” I qualified it. “That private detective who was killed in Hollywood.”
The bald head nodded and the cynicism came back to his eyes. “Oh, that one. Some phony deal that was, huh? I wonder what the Progressive will have to say about it today.”
I didn’t answer.
I picked up my change and walked out.
The wooden stairway to Clyde Tackett’s abode ran up the outside of the rear wall of the three-car garage beneath it.
Clyde Tackett was home. He stood in his doorway and stared at me without interest. “Well?” he said. “I’d like to talk with you.”
“It’s not mutual.”
“I’m sorry you lost your job.”
“Like hell you are.”
I took a deep breath. “You’re making a serious mistake tying in with people who are bucking the law. How long do you think you can keep your clean record that way?”
He didn’t answer, looking at me with contemptuous patience.
“Haven’t you anything to say?” I asked him.
“Not to you, Mr. Puma.”
“All right. You’d better stop and think, though. You’re out of your league in this one.”
He nodded. “That could be. I know you are.” He closed the door.
I went down the steps again, fighting the rage in me, the senseless and pointless rage that had been with me since last night.
They were all too tricky for me, Adams and Tackett, Jim Murphy and Ned Deutscher. I was wasting the taxpayers’ money.
I bought a copy of the Progressive at a rack outside a liquor store and opened it to Annabelle Compt’s column. She apologized for any unintentioned innuendoes readers may have read in yesterday’s story and promised that when the true story broke, Miss Compt, as usual, would have it.
The woman had been rendered toothless, but her humiliation was not apparent; her tone was that of a crusader who was fearlessly admitting a temporary abuse of her considerable powers.
One more push from Deering and her publisher would put her on want-ads.
I was hungry and Brentwood is closer to Venice than Hollywood is. I drove over to Adele’s.
She was in front, supervising the work of a Japanese gardener. She said, “Heavens, you look like you’ve lost your last friend.”
“Bad day,” I said. “May I use your phone?”
“Of course. And mix yourself a drink when you’re through phoning. I’ll be in in a few minutes.”
I phoned Griffin at his office and gave him a quick rundown of my day.
His voice was tired. “Nothing, really.”
“Nothing. I’m wasting time and money.”
A silence of a few moments and then, “We’ll stay with it. Something will break.” A pause. “You sound tired, Joe.”
“I am. You sound tired, too.”
“And it’s silly,” he said, “because I don’t even need the job. Carry on.”
>
I hung up and was heading for the liquor cabinet when the phone rang. From the doorway, Adele said, “Get it, Joe. I don’t want to come in there with these muddy shoes on.”
I went back to the phone. It was Eve.
Her chuckle was malicious. “Good guess, wasn’t it? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you to tell you I was no longer at the hotel.” A pause. “In case you — ah — wanted me.”
“I’ll make a note of it,” I said. “Did you move to the Malibu place?”
“No, I’ve gone home. Daddy does need me here, you know.”
You and a psychiatrist, I thought. I said, “Thanks for calling.”
“Wait,” she said. “Are you working tonight?”
“Unfortunately I am,” I told her. “I’ll call you though.”
“Aren’t we formal?” she mocked me. “I’ll bet Adele is listening.”
“You are one hundred per cent right,” I agreed. “So long, Eve.”
I hung up and headed for the liquor cabinet again, avoiding Adele’s eyes.
13
MIX ME ONE, TOO,” Adele said.
I mixed a pair. When I turned around again, she had her shoes off and was sitting in a big chair near the fireplace. I handed her the drink and she nodded her thanks.
I sat on an ottoman on the other side of the fireplace.
She sat lightly. “Haven’t you any men friends?”
I said nothing.
“What is it you have?” she asked.
I rubbed the moisture off my glass with a thumb. And said nothing.
“An almost aggressive virility, of course,” she went on in her musing way. “And then that little-boy-lost look you get at times — ”
“Don’t heckle me,” I pleaded. “It’s been a miserable day.”
“Not,” she went on doggedly, “that Eve is any conquest. She’s been on the town for a long time.”
I looked at her. “Let’s not get nasty. It’s out of character. As soon as I finish this drink, I’ll go.”
“Don’t go,” she said mildly. “I have some of those nice fat lamb chops you love.” She rotated the glass in her hand, making the ice cubes clink. “I only talked about Eve because I think she has reason to mislead you, any way she can.” A pause. “And I can imagine which way that would be.”
“Mislead me?” I asked. “How?”
“Away from suspicion of herself.” She sipped her drink. “I’ll bet you never for a moment pictured her as a potential murderer.”
“You’re wrong,” I said. “I have. She’s not free of suspicion in my mind. Nobody is. But I’m getting nowhere, absolutely nowhere. I should quit on it.”
“No,” she said. “I know how you feel. Sam’s frustrations gave him an ulcer.”
“He’s a fool to keep a job he doesn’t need,” I said.
“He needs it. Not the money, but the job. Sam only half-believes in God, so he’s trying to make a heaven of his town. But the angles he has to play, the pressures he has to resist — ”
“Don’t remind me,” I said. “It makes me sick. And gets us where?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, “but it keeps you on the side of the angels.” She finished her drink. “Take off your shoes and lie on the sofa. I’ll get those chops on the grill.”
I lay down, and she covered me with a light blanket.
The next thing I knew the room was in twilight and Adele stood looking down at me.
“Lamb what?” I asked.
“Lamb chops. You asked me what kind of chops they were and I told you. I suppose I should have let you sleep.”
“It wasn’t a comfortable sleep,” I said. I sat up on the sofa and swung my feet to the floor. “Where are my shoes?”
“You don’t need them,” she said, “at home.”
The back of my neck felt stiff. “I’m no prize, am I?”
“There’s nothing wrong with you that I would dare correct. No woman wants her man to be a complete saint, Joe Puma.”
I rubbed my neck.
“Come on, you bleeder,” she said. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
Broccoli and au gratin potatoes and mint jelly with the thick chops. Hot rolls and a tossed green salad with Roquefort dressing and coffee as only Adele can make it. Why didn’t I marry her and let the lambs fend for themselves?
“A penny for your thoughts,” she said.
“They were expensive thoughts,” I told her. “I have to work tonight, honey.”
“Natch,” she said. “I can imagine you wouldn’t be good for anything else. Eat, get your strength back.”
An hour later I was parked on Sunset, watching the driveway of the big Spanish house. I could see the chartreuse convertible parked under the lighted portico. It was pointed toward Sunset and I had a feeling it would soon leave.
It was a cool, damp night and traffic was light on Sunset.
Over toward Wilshire, searchlights stabbed the sky. A new restaurant was opening. The taste of Adele’s fine cooking lingered in my mouth.
On the slope above, light came from the hallway as the front door opened. Eve came around the back of the Cadillac and slid in behind the wheel.
She came gunning down the drive and I hoped she would turn the way I was headed. Because Sunset was a winding street here and she would be out of sight in half a block.
She turned the way I had hoped for, toward the ocean. I followed. I followed her all the way to the Coast Highway where she turned toward Malibu.
I let her have a long lead now because I thought I knew where she was heading. When she was out of sight, I kicked my heap in the pants and took off.
I could see her enormous taillights when the Cad made the turn into the hills. I didn’t follow her up immediately. Lights following along that little-used road would be too conspicuous. I pulled over to the wide gravel shoulder and waited.
I was lighting a cigarette when the dusty old Chevy came around the turn in a great clatter of tappets and went charging up the hill.
Clyde Tackett. Was he following her or was it a rendezvous? If it was a rendezvous, he must have phoned her after she had called me. Because she had more or less implied that she would be free tonight if I would be available.
I waited only a few minutes before making the Plymouth the third car in the parade.
Like Deutscher had last night, I didn’t stop at the house but drove past to the first driveway beyond the turn. Here I swung back and pulled way off the road onto the grass above the canyon. I put my car in reverse and pulled the emergency brake all the way up before leaving the car.
Wisps of fog drifted up from the canyon as I walked quietly through the high grass toward the house. The Cad and the Chevy were both in the parking area and there was a light coming from the kitchen windows overhead.
Something slithered ominously along the asphalt drive near my feet and I jumped, my heart pumping, snake-conscious.
But it was only a leaf from the eucalyptus tree on the other side of the road.
I kept to the shadow of the garage, listening for any sign of movement within as I approached the door. There were no voices; there was no sound.
In the complete shadow of the porch I pressed close to the door and my hand moved slowly, seeking the knob.
The door was locked but I could dimly hear voices, though no words were distinguishable.
And then Eve’s voice rose and I heard, “Deutscher? He doesn’t frighten me. We’ll — ”
Was Tackett selling out Deutscher? Or threatening Eve with Deutscher? I pressed my ear against the door but they were talking too quietly again.
I went back to the shadow of the garage and found an open door. I tried to remember if there was a door from the garage to the kitchen. I lighted a match and made a circuit of the garage. There was no door leading to the house.
I stayed in the garage, smoking a quiet cigarette, waiting for Tackett to leave. The upper half of the door I’d entered by held a window and I’d be able to see him in the l
ight from the kitchen.
The cigarette was finished and I was contemplating another when I heard the front door close. There were footsteps along the asphalt and then the raucous grind of the Chevy’s starter. I waited until the sound of his loose tappets faded from the night air.
Still, I stalled. I didn’t want her to think I had followed Tackett or her. And I didn’t want her to think I might have met his car going down as I came up.
Nice guy, Joe Puma, spying on last night’s love. She had given of herself freely and joyously and here I was trying to trap her, sneaking around like a window peeper. She was too friendly. I am automatically suspicious of too-friendly people.
I let five minutes go by before I went up to ring her doorbell.
From the other side of the door she called, “Who’s there?”
“It’s Joe.”
She swung the door wide and music from the record player came out to greet me. “Well! I thought you were working tonight?”
“I got bored with it.”
She looked at me suspiciously. Then, “Come in.”
I followed her into the living room. The lighting in there was at its lowest wattage. She went over to turn down the volume on the record player before turning again to me.
She asked softly, “How did you know I’d be here?”
I had anticipated the question. I said casually, “I was coming onto Sunset from Burlingame when I saw your car go by.”
“Burlingame? Adele’s street?”
“That’s right.”
“So you followed me?”
I shook my head. “I had to see a man in Pacific Palisades. That was where I was heading when I saw you.” Silence while she studied me. Then, “Drink?”
“No, thanks. What’s new?” Her gaze held mine for seconds. “Nothing.”
“Why’d you go home?”
“Dad’s getting old. After all, he’s still my father.”
I sat in an armless chair and rubbed my tense neck muscles. “I’m getting nowhere. I’m sure that if all the innocent people in this mess would start telling the truth, I’d make more progress.”
She still stood near the archway to the entry hall. Her gaze was hostile. “Joe, you followed me, didn’t you? You were lying about that.”
“Tell me about Tackett,” I said.
“Answer me first. I’m a suspect, am I not?”
Sweet Wild Wench Page 9
