Dead Pigeon

by William Campbell Gault

  I sat next to him and he told me the story of their history. Both he and Clauss had been members of the National Rifle Association. They had often gone hunting together. Clauss was a young and single man then. But after he was married, his disposition soured. Like many former philanderers, he was intensely jealous.

  “His wife’s a saint,” he said. “I tried to reason with him. But he is one stubborn bastard. He always had a macho complex. Most hunters do. That’s why I quit the NRA.”

  “Do you have any idea of where he might be now?”

  “None. But I could ask around. I’m getting tired of sitting up here staring at those young girls down on the beach. I’m sure they wouldn’t be interested in a horny old man.”

  “Some older women might.”

  He sighed. “I’ve been thinking along those lines. I’ve decided to join one of those senior citizen clubs. What’s your name?”

  “Brock Callahan. I’m staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

  He stared at me. “Didn’t you used to play with the Dodgers?”

  “Nope. The Rams.”

  “I never followed them,” he said. “If I learn anything that might help you find that weirdo, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Do that. If I’m not there, phone the Santa Monica station.”

  “That would be my last resort,” he said.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IT WAS STILL WELL short of the time I was due to pick up Lars. My chances of spotting Emil Clauss walking the streets of his hometown in daylight were slim. He knew that he was being hunted. For all I knew, he could take Tucker’s place as a guest at the Valley residence of Arnold Gillete.

  But I made the grand tour from Santa Monica to Venice along the least inhabited streets and came back to the station fifteen minutes early.

  There, the desk sergeant told me that Lars had phoned twice this morning but I had been out. He had been recruited with other officers for a stakeout on a house suspected of harboring a criminal.

  “Emil Clauss?”

  He shook his head. “Some Chicano drug dealer.”

  Back to my novice days, when I had worked alone in my own way, without the aid of a belt-buckle camera. There were some contradictory lies to be clarified. I drove to Brentwood, to the home of Turhan Bay. He was out in front, waxing his Jaguar.

  “More trouble?” he asked.

  “Nothing violent,” I told him. “I have a feeling that a man named Joe Nolan has lied to me about you. Do you know him?”

  He nodded. “I suppose he could be called my broker. I bought three hundred shares of a mutual fund from one of his junior partners several months ago. I’ve let the dividends roll over and now have three hundred and twelve shares.”

  “How much are they worth now?”

  “A little over three thousand dollars.”

  “Does your wife have an account there, too?”

  He shook his head. “She has been with E.F. Hutton for years. What’s this all about?”

  “Nolan told me that your account there was around a million dollars.”

  “The man’s insane! Why would he tell you that?”

  “That’s what I hope to find out. I think he was trying to lead me down a blind alley.”

  “Does it have anything to do with what happened to Tim?”

  “I doubt it. But it could have something to do with Mike’s murder.”

  “Murder? Nolan?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t kill Mike. But there’s a strong possibility that he might know who did.”

  “Have the police learned anything about who killed Tim?”

  “Not yet. They probably suspect, as I do, that the man I told you about, Emil Clauss, killed Mike and your cousin.”

  He nodded. “I phoned my detective friend at the West Side station. He had the same opinion. But he explained to me that that was a Santa Monica investigation.”

  “It is. I’m working with them now.”

  “Good luck,” he said. “I liked Mike as much as Crystal told me you do.”

  From there to Beverly Hills. Nolan was in his glass-enclosed office when I entered, talking with a secretary. When she left, I went in.

  “And what brings you here?” he asked.

  Seconds passed, while he studied me. And then he smiled. “Brock, Bay has a very modest account here. But, as you probably don’t know, his wife has a very big account at Hutton. And she is a woman who doesn’t have long to live. I have good reason to believe that when she dies and Bay inherits, he will transfer that account to me.”

  “Why would he?”

  He smiled. “Because I just happen to know something about him that his followers don’t.”

  “That he’s gay?”

  The smile faded; he stared at me. “Where did you learn that?”

  “From one of my sources. I’m sure the SEC would be interested to learn that you are contemplating blackmail.”

  “It would be your word against mine, Brock.”

  “Mine and Bay’s,” I pointed out. “Who do you think the Feds would believe? The next move is yours, Joe. Give it a lot of thought.”

  He was still staring at me before I turned and walked out. It was possible that he would call my bluff. But he never had in those nights we had played poker together.

  He had changed his story from the million-dollar Bay account to a future million-dollar Bay account. It was likely that both stories were false. The story he had confirmed about Bay’s sexual preference was true.

  But where had he learned it? The logical choice seemed to be Tim Tucker. It was possible that he had gotten more than the two thousand dollars he had picked up from his cousin. Tucker could have gained at least that much if he had told Nolan.

  I drove back to Brentwood. Bay was still out on the driveway, now checking the tire pressure on his newly polished car. I couldn’t think of any tactful way to open the subject. Tact had never been one of my virtues. I gave him the verbatim account of my dialogue with Joe Nolan.

  “Damn him!” he said. “Where did he learn that?”

  “Maybe from your cousin. Did he blackmail you, too?”

  He sighed. “He did. But I have never even spoken with Joe Nolan. The only person I have ever talked with there was one of the junior partners and that was on the phone.”

  “There’s a strong chance that you will never have to talk to Nolan after he digests what I told him. He could be in deep trouble.”

  “Thank you for that. I have a number of my flock who are gay. But, unfortunately, most of them aren’t.”

  “One thing we’re sure of …” I said. “Your cousin can no longer slander you. And I have the firm feeling that Nolan is now playing in company too rough for him. I plan to make that clear to him. He’s the weak link in the chain.”

  “Good luck,” he said. “As for what he told you about my wife, he’d have a long wait for his money. She’s in a lot better health than I am.”

  I drove to the Santa Monica station from there and Lars was at his desk.

  “How did the stakeout go?” I asked him.

  “Successfully. What’s by you new?”

  I didn’t tell him about the sexual angle on my visits to Bay and Nolan, only that I had talked with them and learned that Nolan had lied about Bay’s million-dollar account. And then I told him about my park-bench dialogue with Grosskopf.

  “Nolan could be the key,” he said. “But we would need stronger evidence on his financial shenanigans.”

  “I can work that end. I told Grosskopf to call here if he can’t get in touch with me.”

  “I hope that old sourpuss doesn’t get too nosy. Clauss might hear about it and I’m sure he hates Grosskopf. Clauss must know almost every hoodlum and stoolie in this town. Do you plan to go cruising this afternoon?”

  “Nope. I had enough of that this morning. Speaking of stoolies, are you ready for a weird thought that I’ve just dreamed up?”

  “I’ll listen.”

  “If we can’t find Clauss, maybe
we can get him to come looking for me. You know, spread the word here and there—?”

  “Brock, he must know by now that we are both looking for him.”

  “Right. Gillete probably does, too. And one thing he sure as hell doesn’t want is Clauss in the can, where he can make a deal with the DA.”

  “That’s too tricky for me,” Lars said, “and doubtful police procedure.”

  “It’s tricky,” I agreed.

  He frowned. “What is it with you, a death wish? Clauss isn’t likely to miss a target as big as you.”

  “Or you.”

  “You think he’s kooky enough to kill a cop?”

  I smiled. “There’s a way to find out.”

  “You are a strange one,” he said. “But I’ll have to admit you’re right. I’ve been shot at a few times.”

  “Did you go to their funerals?”

  “You bastard! I never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it.”

  “Clauss deserves it. You put in what time you can here in town. I’m going back to Beverly Hills.”

  I stopped in at Heinie’s for lunch, and used his office phone to call Gillete. I tried to pitch my voice higher this time than when he had phoned me.

  When he answered, I said, “This is just a friendly warning, Mr. Gillete. There’s a private eye in town who is determined to railroad Emil Clauss into the can. I think you should warn him.”

  “Why should I? And who the hell are you?”

  “A friend of Emil’s and possibly an associate later.”

  A fairly long silence. Then, “What’s the private eye’s name?”

  “I don’t know it. Clauss might. The peeper is working with a Santa Monica cop. That’s all I know now. If you’re not interested in Clauss, forget what I said.”

  “I already have,” he said, and hung up.

  Was it the word “associate,” I wondered, that had prompted his momentary silence? Would he assume that since he had dumped Tucker, he might be invited into the big time?

  That Lars and his proper police procedure … How often had he been guided by that? Though he would never admit it, he was a cowboy cop. He had seen too many killers walk and too many criminals get minimum sentences. He had saved the taxpayers a lot of money on cases that would have clogged the courts for years if the guilty could afford expensive attorneys.

  The only phone calls I had received, the desk clerk told me, were this morning’s calls from Lars. There was no need to record what I had learned today; the connection was complete.

  All of them were fervent followers of the American dream, money. Whether it was blackmail or the swindle Bay had run in Chicago or the Mafia or cops on the take, it was money. The love of money is the root of all evil.

  I was stretched on the bed, trying to nap, when the phone rang.

  “Mr. Callahan?” a woman asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m calling from Meridian Hospital in Santa Monica. A patient here has asked me to phone you. He wants you to come here. His name is Rudolph Grosskopf.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He has a broken arm and some bruises. He told the doctor he was walking down an alley and stumbled over something. We have the feeling that might not be true.”

  “Tell him I’m on the way,” I said.

  He had stumbled in an alley? Why would he ask for me? He must have been doing what he had promised to do when he and I talked on the bench—asking around. It was likely that he had asked the wrong person.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I DIDN’T PHONE LARS. Grosskopf, I was sure, would not be as cooperative with Lars as he would with me. Cops were not his favorite people.

  He was in a two-bed room, but there was no other occupant. He had dark bruises below both eyes. He grinned as I entered.

  “Don’t tell me it could have been worse,” he said. “That’s what the doctor told me. It wasn’t the guy who hit me that broke my arm. I broke it when I fell. He hit me twice and I went down. Then some woman started screaming at him from the end of the alley.”

  “What were you doing in the alley?”

  “Taking a leak. Old guys have to pee a lot. I had a couple of beers in this bar and was walking toward home when one of the guys from the bar followed me down the alley.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “Not by name. I’ve seen him there before. He’s a little guy, but he sure has a wallop. He was wearing blue corduroy pants and a blue work shirt. He had an earring in his left ear.”

  “Were you asking about Clauss in the bar?”

  He nodded. “With the bartender. This guy must have overheard it. Would you tell the nurse I want to leave now? I don’t like hospitals.”

  “I’ll go and ask her. What’s the name of that bar?”

  “The Dungeon.”

  I phoned the station and Lars was there. I told him where I was and what had happened.

  “I’ll meet you at The Dungeon,” he said. “You tell Grosskopf to stay where he is. We might need him for identification.”

  When I came back to his room, he asked, “What did the nurse say?”

  “I didn’t ask her. You’ll have to stay here for a while. You might be needed for identification. I’m going to that bar.”

  “Damn it!” he said. “If that little bastard is there and you bring him here, maybe you could hold him so I could give him a couple of shots.”

  I smiled at him. “Take it easy, Rudolph. Stay cool, man!”

  Lars was pulling up in his car when I arrived at The Dungeon. We went in together.

  There were two men standing at the bar, two others sitting at a table at the far end. One of them fit the description Rudolph had given me. He smiled as we got closer.

  He said, “Look who is here. Cowboy Hovde!”

  “Don’t get lippy with me, Ernie. I eat men your size.”

  “Not this one. You don’t have to Miranda me. I don’t like finks and I don’t like cops who are trying to railroad Emil.”

  “You are admitting you beat up an old man?”

  “I gave that fink a couple of shots. He was exposing himself in a public place.”

  “But you didn’t report it.”

  “To the cops. I would have reported it to Emil. He was a good cop.”

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  He shook his head. “And even if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t squeal on him.”

  Lars sighed. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  “Go where?”

  “To the station. You’ve admitted you assaulted an old man. While we’re at the station, I can check your record.”

  “Aw, come on, Lars!”

  “Ernie, your friend Clauss was never a good cop. And right now he is the major suspect in two murders.”

  Ernie stared at him. “Murder? Emil?”

  “Yes. And that old man you slugged was once his best friend. Maybe you don’t know that Clauss was fired because he killed an unarmed drug dealer.”

  “I didn’t,” Ernie admitted.

  “It’s all true,” Lars said. “I’ll ask you once more. Do you know where Clauss is now?”

  Ernie shook his head. “I swear to you I don’t. And if he’s that heavy now, I ain’t about to ask.”

  “That’s up to you. The old guy was asking, but he has guts. And he knows that Clauss has to be put away.”

  Ernie looked doubtfully at the man with him.

  The man said, “I’m not a Clauss fan. What the sergeant told you is true. Emil’s turned into a weirdo, the word I got.” He looked at Lars. “We’ll do what we can, but don’t expect any miracles. This is the wrong end of town for asking questions.”

  Lars was smiling when we went out. “Feisty little bastard, isn’t he? He was a pretty fair bantam-weight boxer a few years ago. I’m going home from here. I doubt if Grosskopf wants to talk with me. Did you learn anything this afternoon?”

  I shook my head. I told him about my phone call to Gillete.

  “Maybe that will brin
g Clauss out. Keep your gun handy.”

  Rudolph was getting dressed when I came into his room. The doctor, he told me, had given him permission to go home. A second X ray had revealed that the bone in his lower arm had not been broken, only cracked.

  “Next time you leave the house, be more careful,” I warned him. “You could be a target for Clauss. And you’re not armed.”

  “I will be next time,” he said. “I could always outshoot Emil, rifle or pistol. That man’s left-handed and about as accurate as an armless midget.”

  “Clauss’s best weapon is a shotgun, a sawed-off shotgun. It’s hard to miss with one of those. Matter of fact, he has two shotguns.”

  “He needs ’em. What happened at The Dungeon?”

  I gave him the gist of it. I asked him if he had brought enough money to pay his way out.

  He nodded. “Medicare will pay most of it. I can handle the rest.” He shook his head. “You know, when this country was sane, I could get a room at the Ritz in New York for about a fourth of what this room will cost. It’s not my America anymore.”

  I drove him home. The place had obviously been built many years ago, a cement-block building, fronted by a concrete parking space, with a tile roof and narrow windows, protected by wrought- iron bars.

  “I call it my fortress,” he said. “We need ’em down here.”

  Back at the hotel, I propped a chair under the knob of the door before I took my shower. Clauss obviously frightened me more than he did Grosskopf.

  The attack on Grosskopf by Ernie couldn’t have been dictated by Gillete. He had probably never heard of the man, and it had been too soon after my phone call for that. But there had been time enough for Gillete to warn Clauss.

  Nolan hadn’t called. Perhaps he was dreaming up new fantasies for me. He would have made a lousy private eye; he didn’t know when to lie or how to do it.

  Frustration had made me foolhardy. Phoning Gillete had been a dumb and dangerous move. The hunter had now become the hunted. What would have been a threat to a rational man would be only a challenge to Clauss.

  It was probable, when I went down to dinner, that I was the only guest in the long and distinguished history of the Beverly Hills Hotel who had ever carried a fifteen-shot Galanti in a shoulder holster into their dining room.