Dead Pigeon

by William Campbell Gault

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m not an attorney, but I have always believed that laundering dirty money is an illegal activity.” I turned toward the door.

  “Wait a minute,” he said.

  I turned back.

  “Sit down.”

  I did.

  “Who told you about Loeb being under investigation?”

  “A man I once worked with on a murder investigation, a man who has a long family history on the wrong side of the law.”

  He stared at me. “Who?”

  “You won’t get his name from me and neither will the Feds. He wasn’t the man who told me about your laundering money. You won’t get that name, either. Are we going to do business or do you want me to leave?”

  He was obviously discombobulated now. “Business? What do you mean, business?”

  “Let’s call it a deal. I forget all that I have learned about you. The laundering of money, your connection with Gillete, all of it. In return, you tell me where Emil Clauss is hiding.”

  “Emil Clauss. Who the hell is he?”

  “He works for the other man you claimed you didn’t know. He’s Gillete’s hit man. And I’m sure he is the man who murdered Mike Gregory.”

  He took a deep breath. “Brock, I’ll admit I have lied to you, but so help me God, I’ve never heard of Emil Clauss.”

  “Gillete has. You could ask him.”

  “And wind up on welfare? Be reasonable, man!”

  “I’m trying to. Gillete must realize by now that Clauss has to go. He can’t afford men like that. He dumped Tim Tucker, when he learned about his roughhouse tactics. He even apologized to me about it. Gillete didn’t get rich by working with kooks. He’s too smart for that.”

  He nodded, and stared down at his desk. “He’s smart, that’s for sure. Maybe he’d listen to me.”

  “I’m sure he would. I don’t give a tinker’s damn about your financial manipulations. My sole interest in this whole sordid mess is nailing the man who murdered Mike Gregory.”

  “That’s some deal! Clauss goes to jail and makes his own deal with the DA. So Arnold and I wind up in jail with him. That’s worse than welfare.”

  “Dead men can’t testify,” I said.

  “What are you saying?”

  “You know what I’m saying. And I have a cop friend who agrees with me. Both of us would rather see Clauss dead than have him wind up with a minimum sentence and walking the streets again. With me, it’s more personal.”

  “I can guess who your cop friend is,” he said. “Lars Hovde.”

  I smiled at him. “Who is Lars Hovde?”

  “You are really a cute one,” he said.

  “We sure are, aren’t we? Deal?”

  He sighed and shrugged. “Give me some time on this. Let me think about. You’ve got me between a rock and a hard place. I’ll phone you after I talk with Arnold. He’s out of town now, but he’ll be home tonight. Are you still at the Beverly Hills Hotel?”

  “Nope. I’ll phone you.”

  He nodded.

  I left without saying good-bye. His lies had made him rich; the truth could set him free. It was priority time again for Joe Nolan.

  Was Gillete, I wondered, really out of town. Or was that another ploy of Nolan’s to stall me until he could come up with a battle plan of his own?

  Heinie’s was the nearest phone. I stopped in there and used his office phone to call Gillete. A woman answered and I asked to speak with him.

  He was out of town, she told me, but would be home tonight. Did I wish to leave a message?

  “Yes. Please tell him to call his broker as soon as he gets home. It is very important.”

  Nolan hadn’t lied—for a change. The man was frightened and had reason to be. That was the way I wanted him to be. But Gillete was made of sterner stuff. He lived in a different world, a world of chicanery and violence. Chicanery was not alien to Nolan’s world; the daily papers testified to that. But if push came to shove, it was possible that Gillete would be inclined to favor a man out of his own world, a man of violence. Clauss.

  To Gillete’s way of thinking it might be Nolan who was expendable, not his stalwart soldier. And when Nolan explained to him that I was the source of incriminating evidence against him, I, too, could make his hit list.

  Young Dennis Sadler had opted out, a wise move. He was too young to die. It was my personal feeling that I was also too young to die. Read him how you will, Mike had also been too young to die. And as my father had told me, nobody should get away with murder.

  It was still well short of noon. I stopped at the station to tell Lars about my dialogue with Nolan. He wasn’t at his desk and the desk sergeant didn’t know where he was.

  Back at the motel, the desk clerk told me a man had been in and asked to see me.

  “Did he leave a name?”

  He shook his head. He took a deep breath. “I suppose I should have asked him.” He paused. “It’s possible I did something you might not approve of. To tell you the truth, Mr. Callahan, I didn’t like his looks. I hope you won’t report this to the manager, but I told the man that you had checked out.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Disreputable is the closest word I can think of to describe him. He was bald and bulky and had snow-white eyebrows.”

  “You did the right thing,” I told him. “You probably saved my life. I’m sure he’s the man the Santa Monica police are looking for right now.”

  He stared at me. “What if he didn’t believe me? Do you think he might come back?”

  “I doubt it. He took a big chance showing himself in town. Of course, there’s the possibility he might make the same mistake again. I’ll call the station and inform them. I’m sure they’ll send an officer over.”

  I phoned the station from my room and asked for Chief Denzler. He assured me that though they were badly understaffed, he would send a man over to sit in the lobby for a limited time.

  I thought of suggesting to him that the man they send should not be in uniform. That would alert Clauss. I didn’t suggest it; that would be unkind. He was getting enough abuse from the local paper.

  How had Clauss learned where I was staying? Certainly not from Nolan. I believed him when he had told me he had never heard of the man. Gillete was out of town. Clauss must have learned it from one of the local hoodlums.

  A thin, tall man in gray slacks and a blue jacket was sitting next to the paperback rack in the lobby when I went down for lunch. I had seen him at the Santa Monica station but knew him by his own name, Lou.

  He nodded to me and I went over. “Have you had lunch?” I asked him. “You can still see the desk from the lunchroom, and we can watch the street, too.”

  “Good thinking,” he said. “I’ve already had lunch, but I can use a cup of coffee. I hope you’re carrying.”

  I nodded. “A Galanti.”

  He smiled. “That should be enough.”

  At the table I told him I had phoned Lars that morning, but he hadn’t been in. He told me Lars had left the station at ten o’clock with two other officers and he didn’t know what their mission was. Lars, he said, always came in to the station at the end of his watch. That would be around five o’clock.

  “He really hates Clauss, doesn’t he?”

  “So do I. Lars has more reason to hate him. Clauss used to be a cop.”

  He nodded. “Crooked cops, they’re the worst. They know how we operate and they still have all their informants when they move to the other side of the street.”

  We moved to the financial world from there and all the chicanery that was now going on there.

  “Maybe we should switch priorities,” I suggested. “You boys could keep an eye on Wall Street and the Feds could go after the hoodlums.”

  “The Feds, shit!” he said. “They’re not cops, they’re politicians. The big money boys don’t go to the can often enough. They can afford millionaire lawyers.”

  He went back to his chair in the lobby. I went out to
the pool and sat in the shade of a parasol.

  Tonight could be the end of the hunt. But maybe not. Trusting a pair like Nolan and Gillete to come through was no more than an even bet. And if Clauss learned they were planning to shaft him, I would not be the only member of his revenge list. If the clerk at the desk hadn’t lied, Clauss could have eliminated me from his hit file.

  At three o’clock I phoned Nolan and asked him when Gillete would be back from his trip.

  “Around seven,” he said. “I’m going to his house after dinner to tell him about your deal. I’m not sure he’ll agree it’s a smart move, but I hope he does. He can be stubborn.”

  “I’ll phone there at eight.”

  “Make it eight-thirty, in case his plane is late. They usually are these days.”

  “Eight-thirty,” I agreed.

  What could be a wise move for Nolan might not be a wise move for Gillete. Nolan had a reputation to maintain; Gillete’s was not important to him. He knew it was bad. His concern was staying out of jail.

  Why, I wondered, if Clauss was working for Gillete, had he holed up in that fetid building where Tucker had taken him? Gillete could certainly have afforded and arranged a less odorous hiding place than that.

  Too many questions and not enough answers; I thought of all the questions I intended to ask Gillete if he was willing to deal.

  A few minutes before five o’clock I phoned the station and Lars was there. I told him about my dialogue with Nolan and what he had promised to do if Gillete was agreeable.

  “Jesus!” he said. “What was your leverage? I smell something fishy, Brock.”

  “What else do we have? We work with what we can get. Maybe we should take a few more officers with us.”

  “So Slade can get credit for the pinch? Like hell! We’ll handle this alone. And if we blow it, who will know? We have nothing to lose, man.”

  “Nothing but our lives.”

  “Buddy, if you want to back out, I’ll go it alone.”

  “Did Denzler tell you Clauss came to the hotel this afternoon, looking for me?”

  “No. He was gone when I came in. Well, now we know Clauss is still in town. Are you in or out, Brock?”

  “In.”

  “Good.” He gave me his address and said, “You can phone Gillete from there.”

  Cowboy Lars … It wasn’t the ink Slade would get that had troubled him. It was the thought that Slade and his friends might not share his view of justice for some, but not for all, and Clauss would walk the streets again.

  I was still a little leery about this mission. Both Gillete and Nolan could claim that it was I who had suggested killing Clauss. There was no record of that. But both Gillete and Nolan could claim that I had suggested it, probably supported by Winthrop Loeb.

  It was really a case for the SMPD—but what had they learned? Nothing. And would they back me in court? I doubted it. Clauss could walk.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I DROVE TO LARS’S house a little before eight. It was a small, weather-stained stucco house on a cheap street. There was an SMPD patrol car parked in front of it.

  I pointed at it when Lars opened the door. “What gives?” I asked. “Have you decided the Department should be involved?”

  He shook his head. “Come in.”

  The door opened directly into the living room. I will not describe the decor, except that it was obvious that he was a bachelor.

  “I drove it home,” he explained. “If Nolan guessed that I am going to be with you tonight, Clauss could know it, too. That’s just a prop out there. We’ll use your car. Smart move, right?”

  “Brilliant,” I said, and tried not to smile.

  “I brought us a couple of bullet-proof vests from the station,” he said. “Have you eaten?”

  I nodded. “But I could use a cup of coffee.”

  He went into the kitchen. I sat on a couch next to an end table. When he brought the coffee I related my phone call from Nolan, word for word, as well as I could remember them.

  He shook his head. “I can’t believe Gillete will buy it.”

  “He might have to. I told Nolan I had mob connections and I think he bought it. If Gillete does, that could be a plus for us. I have a feeling he wants to move up a level or two.”

  He shook his head again. “I don’t know, Brock. I—”

  “It’s just a theory,” I said, “and maybe a wild one. Let’s talk about tonight.”

  We planned our strategy. At eight-thirty, I phoned Gillete.

  “Joe has told me about your deal,” he said. “I hope you don’t think you conned me with that falsetto phone call.”

  “I tried to. And then you passed on the information to Clauss. He came to visit me today at the place where I was staying. But I was out. If I hadn’t been, I’m sure one of us would be dead by now.”

  “Mr. Callahan, I had no knowledge of where you were staying. And I have no knowledge of how Clauss got the word that you were out to get him. He did not get it from me.”

  “I’ll accept that.”

  “As for Mike Gregory’s murder, he tried to blackmail me.” He paused. “For a lousy five grand! He was really on his uppers. I sent Clauss with the money to pay him off. That damned fool took his shotgun with him. And that is when I dumped him. And that is the reason I fired Tucker.”

  “And who killed Tucker?”

  “Let’s stay with the subject at hand. What about this man you worked with who has a long family history on the wrong side of the law?”

  “Mr. Gillete, I don’t think either one of us should talk about that. It could be dangerous to our health. As any cop in this area will tell you, I, too, once worked on the wrong side of the law. That was before I could afford to turn honest.”

  “And Clauss is all you want?”

  “Clauss is all I want.”

  “I hope you have a good lawyer,” he said, “or police cooperation. We both know Clauss is a weirdo. But killing him could still put you behind bars.”

  “That,” I assured him, “has been taken care of.”

  A long silence. Then: “I just got the word fifteen minutes ago. I don’t know the street address, but it’s a cottage on Anchor Street, a short distance from a bar called The Dungeon. Clauss is shacked up there with a woman named Veronica Lang.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and hung up.

  “Well?” Lars asked.

  I told him what Gillete had told me.

  “I know the woman,” he said. “I busted her a couple of times. Let’s get these jackets on.”

  We were about a block from Anchor Street when he said, “Park on The Dungeon lot. There’s an alley behind Veronica’s house. You stay there to watch the back door. I’ll take the front.”

  I nodded.

  As we walked past the front window of The Dungeon, I could see the former flyweight boxer, little Ernie, quaffing a beer at the bar. Maybe it was he who had alerted Gillete, but I doubted it.

  There was no light showing in the front window of the cottage; the reflection from a side window showed there was a dim light on in one of the windows near the rear of the house.

  Lars stayed out on the walk in front, giving me time to go down the alley to the back of the cottage. At the far end of the alley, two shabby men were rummaging in the trash cans there, illuminated by the streetlight at the far end.

  I moved into the small yard and crouched behind a bush. The moon was out, the night was cloudless. The scavengers were arguing now. One of them must have unearthed something the other man wanted.

  No sound came from the house. Perhaps it was vacant. Lars should have rung the bell or knocked on the door by now. It was hard to believe that Gillete had conned us. He had too much to lose.

  And then I heard Lars shout, “Damn you, Veronica, open the door! I’m not here to bust you.”

  Less than a minute later, I heard the rasp of the dimly lit side window opening. And the bald head of Emil Clauss emerged.

  “Don’t do anything foolis
h, Emil!” I shouted. “You’re covered all around.”

  The head disappeared.

  Seconds later, there was the blast of what had to be a shotgun. I ran through the yard to the front of the house.

  Lars was lying on the sidewalk below the porch. I didn’t see any blood. “That bastard!” he said. “He shot right through the door!”

  He rose slowly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Thank God for the jacket. The door slowed enough of the pellets to keep me alive, but not enough to keep me on my feet. Did you see which way he went?”

  I shook my head. “But we have a car and he probably doesn’t. Let’s go!”

  We were heading for The Dungeon parking lot when Ernie stopped us short of the place. “I heard the shot,” he said. “Are you looking for Clauss?”

  We both nodded.

  He pointed at The Dungeon. “Don’t tell the boys in there that I finked. It’s full of Clauss fans. Me, I’ve had enough trouble. He’s in the storage room at the back of the joint. He ran in there a couple minutes ago.”

  “Is there a back door to the room?” Lars asked.

  Ernie shook his head. “Two windows. But both of them are screened with heavy netting. He should still be in there.”

  Lars said to me, “You go back to the alley, Brock. I’ll handle this end.”

  The scavengers were now nowhere in sight. There was a large rubbish can in the alley about forty feet this side of The Dungeon. That would afford me all the cover I would need.

  A rasping sound was coming from the storage room. Emil must have found some tool in there to loosen the heavy netting. It wasn’t likely that Lars would go into that dim room with the light from the bar framing him in an open doorway.

  The rasping sound ended. Again, there was the squeaking sound of a window opening. And again the bald head emerged. This time it swiveled to check both ends of the deserted alley. I crouched lower, my stomach rumbling, the Galanti shaky in my hand.

  The head disappeared, one leg emerged. I waited until he was out and standing in the alley before I called, “Drop the gun, Emil!”

  He didn’t. He spun my way, looking for me, bringing the shotgun up. I didn’t yell again; he wouldn’t have heard me anyway in the sudden blast of his weapon. He missed me, but I didn’t miss him. I put two slugs from the Galanti into his chest. He went down, the shotgun clanging as it bounced on the pavement.