Dead Hero

by William Campbell Gault

  Always the Last to Know…

  “Do you remember me?” she asked.

  I nodded. “You’re Ruth — somebody. You’re Linda Malone’s sister.”

  “Ruth Hansel,” she said quietly. “You know the police are looking for you, don’t you?”

  I stared. “For me? Who told you that? Why are they looking for me?”

  “It was on the radio,” she said. “Didn’t you hear it?”

  “No. And I’ve been listening to the radio since six-thirty. Is this a joke, Miss Hansel?” I paused. “Is it about Scooter? Did something happen to him?”

  She said rigidly, “He’s dead. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Dead? The fire? You mean he burned to — ?”

  She shook her head slowly, her eyes probing my face. “He was burned some, but he was already dead by then. He was murdered.”

  DEAD HERO

  William Campbell Gault

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Always the Last to Know…

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  The Bloody Bokhara

  Also Available

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  I GUESS I’VE mentioned the Scooter before, Scooter Calvin. He had come to the Rams from Southern Methodist and taken his lumps. For some reason, flashy backs with All-American ratings are resented by the veterans their first few years in the NFL. The Scooter was also handsome and on the lippy side, a combination not likely to win him any friends among the meatballs.

  But the kid took what was offered and returned as much and eventually became one of the boys. He left the Rams the season after I did and went to work for Greenwald-Abbot, second-largest theatrical agency in this town. Three years of salaried flesh-peddling and he was ready to step out on his own.

  He took two fledgling stars and one employee with him when he left Greenwald-Abbot to open his own small office on the Strip. In this business, his lip and his looks were no handicap; he prospered.

  At the tender age of thirty-two, Donald Mark (Scooter) Calvin lived in a fine house high in the hills above Malibu, the envy of all his former playmates.

  And why not? He was young and well-to-do and handsome. He knew dozens of girls with theatrical ambitions and was in a position to help them. Even Methodists named Calvin aren’t invulnerable to that degree of temptation. He had it made.

  We’ll leave him for the moment, high on his hill and tall in the saddle. My story probably should have opened with Horse Malone.

  Horse’s career, like mine, had been less glamorous since leaving the Rams. He had started as a collector for a local small loans firm and was now a branch manager for a more reputable national company.

  He phoned me one hot October morning and I assumed at first he had another recalcitrant debtor who needed hunting. My rates are too high for Horse to call on me often, but occasionally one of his more stubborn sheep would threaten to impair Horse’s professional ego and I would get a half day’s work.

  This morning, however, it was something else. Could he buy me a lunch at Cini’s? It was something he didn’t want to talk about over the phone.

  “I’m not busy,” I told him. “I’ll come over right now if you want me to.”

  “It can wait until lunch,” he said. “One o’clock all right?”

  I agreed to that and hung up, puzzled. The Horse was not a secretive man or one likely to need the personal services of a private investigator.

  It was eleven o’clock now; I spent the time until lunch in getting out some overdue bills and dusting the office. Business had been slow for a month.

  Edwin W. (Horse) Malone was roughly my size, perhaps an inch taller and fifteen or twenty pounds heavier. He was waiting for me in the foyer at Cini’s. He was generally a cheerful man; today he looked bleak and morose.

  “A drink first?” he suggested.

  I ordered a bottle of Einlicher; he ordered a double Martini. He had seemed embarrassed on first seeing me; I didn’t ask immediately about the reason for his call.

  Halfway through his Martini, he said dully, “Some weather, huh?”

  “Ridiculous,” I agreed. “Thank God it’s dry or it would be unbearable.”

  Another moody silence, while around us the laughter and quips of less troubled people flowed.

  He finished the second half of his drink in one swallow and looked at me doubtfully. “Think I ought to have another?”

  “You were never a boozer, Horse,” I reminded him. “Maybe you’d better tell me what’s on your mind.”

  He stared stonily at his empty glass. He continued to stare at it as he said in a near-whisper, “Linda, that’s what’s on my mind. Linda.”

  Linda was his wife, a tall and lovely girl. Linda was the mother of his three-year-old son.

  Not Linda and infidelity, I thought. Linda and another man? Never!

  I asked, “What about Linda?”

  “I wish I knew,” he said hoarsely. His face was flushed.

  The waiter came and we ordered. The waiter went away and Horse said, “I guess this was a mistake. I guess maybe I shouldn’t talk to you about it, Brock.”

  I was silent. He was going to tell me about it. These words of his were just preliminary nothings.

  In less than a minute, he said, “Maybe it’s nothing. People can lie for a lot of reasons, can’t they?”

  “They certainly can. Has Linda lied to you?”

  He nodded. “Twice about a meeting of her bridge club. Once about a shopping trip. Those are the three times I’ve learned about. It — shook me up.”

  “You thought of another man, I suppose, right away?”

  His face stiffened and he looked at me fiercely. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been married. Did you want me to follow Linda next time, Horse?”

  “That’s what I had in mind,” he admitted, “when I phoned you this morning. But — hell, it would be a rotten thing to do, wouldn’t it? For me, I mean. I suppose you do this kind of thing all the time?”

  I shook my head. “Only when I’m starving. Are you sure Linda lied to you?”

  He nodded, as the waiter brought our food. He was silent until the waiter had left. Then, “I don’t know — It seems — crazy. I mean, Linda — Jesus!”

  I shared his sentiment. Linda was a lovely, lanky girl, sister to all the old warriors. And the three-year-old Edwin W. Malone, Jr. was our common nephew. I had the feeling that my own family had been invaded.

  I said, “I’m not busy, Horse. If I charged you for this, it would be vulgar. You let me know the next time Linda will be leaving the house. It might not have anything to do with another man.”

  He took a deep breath, studying me. I had weasel-worded it and we both knew it. I would be checking on Linda and that was a breach of faith.

  Finally, he said, “She told me this morning she was going over to see her sister tonight. I happen to know her sister’s out of town.”

  “She’ll be leaving after dinner?” I asked.

  He nodded, staring beyond me. “It wouldn’t be before seven o’clock.”

  We were both embarrassed now; we finished our meal without much further dialogue. He decided to have an after-lunch drink so I left him at the restaurant.

  Infidelity and adultery brought a number of prospective clien
ts to me; it was a sordid profession. But outside of my trade there had been couples such as Horse and Linda to remind me the motel bed was not the only symbol left to this sick civilization.

  Among the old Rams, the Horse and Randy Roman were probably my closest friends, one a guard, the other a tackle. We were not the glamor boys of the backfield most admired by the fans; for ego sustenance we had only each other and our competitive linemen.

  I drove past the office and around the corner and down to the shop of “jan bonnet — interiors.” Jan is my girl.

  She was talking on the phone when I entered; I sat on a wrought iron settee and waited for her to finish. Though she is basically sweet and honest, my Jan, she has a voice for her ritzier clients which can only be described (by me) as phony. This hot and depressing day it annoyed me more than usual.

  When she had replaced the phone on its cradle, she asked smilingly, “Well, grumpy, what’s your problem?”

  “A broad-A girl friend,” I told her, “among other things.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, paused — and said, “It’s too hot to fight I won’t fight today. Have you had lunch?”

  I nodded.

  “I haven’t,” she said wearily, “but I don’t think I want any. Have you something pleasant to tell me or did you just drop in to criticize?”

  “I came in to tell you I can’t go to the Adlers with you tonight”

  “Why not?”

  “I have to work.”

  “It’s about time,” she said. “Does it look like a long job? I mean, more than a day or an evening?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it”

  She studied me. “I wasn’t prying. What in the world is bothering you?”

  “Practically everything in this world is bothering me.” I stood up. “I don’t mean to be bad company. I love you, Jan Bonnet. I apologize for criticizing you.”

  “Oh, shut up!” she said. “My telephone voice annoys me, too.”

  “Why don’t we go to the beach?” I suggested. “I don’t start the job until after dinner.”

  She sighed and shook her head. “I have an appointment at Knapp and Tubbs with Mrs. Huntington in half an hour.”

  We stared at each other for a few seconds in silence and then she came over to kiss me. “Don’t be blue.” She looked up gravely. “Are you sure you can’t tell me what’s bothering you?”

  I bent and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be better. Maybe it will be cooler tomorrow.”

  There was nothing to do at the office. My phone answering service could handle any calls. I went over to Heinie’s. I am not a drinking man but a few more glasses of Einlicher wouldn’t hurt on a day like this.

  It was cool in Heinie’s and the sound of traffic outside was muffled. From behind the bar, Heinie said, “Don’t usually see you in the afternoon. Business must be slow.”

  “It is. And with you?”

  “I can’t kick.” He looked musingly toward the doorway. “You know who’s doing a lot of afternoon drinking?”

  I said nothing, sipping my cold, clear beer.

  “Horse Malone,” he supplied without urging. “Something must be bothering that man.”

  “He’s in a rough business,” I explained. “We can’t all have a fat, sweet racket like yours, Heinie.”

  He ignored the gibe. “I like Horse. He’s a real citizen. I wonder what’s bugging him.”

  I said nothing.

  “Friend of yours,” he said peevishly. “You ought to know.”

  I said firmly, “If Horse wants me to know, he’ll tell me. That is, if there’s anything to know. I don’t like to gossip, Heinie. Let’s talk about the Dodgers.”

  “Phooey on the Dodgers!” he said. “I’ll talk about the Angels.”

  I didn’t know anything about the Angels and he didn’t care about the Dodgers and the season was over, anyway. I had one more glass of beer and went back to the office to sulk.

  I won’t bore you with the tedium of that afternoon. At seven o’clock that night I was parked near the Malone house in West Los Angeles, waiting for Linda to appear. The afternoon’s depression had built to a low-voltage anger; I resented Horse’s phone call and was annoyed with Linda’s secrecy. It wasn’t anything resembling the properly objective attitude of an efficient investigator.

  Half a dozen lawn sprinklers between me and the Malone residence threw a mist into the dry air that was reflected by the street lights. I was glad the sprinklers were on; it prevented Malone’s neighbors from recognizing my car. I knew quite a few of them.

  The logical route for Linda, on leaving the house, would be north if she intended to head for a main artery. I had come from that direction, driven past the house, and turned around. At about twenty minutes past seven, the light next to the Malone front door went on and Linda came out to where their Buick was parked.

  I could see Horse framed in the open doorway and then the door closed and he came into the range of the outside light. The Buick began to back out of the driveway as I started the engine of my car.

  She headed north, as I had anticipated. When she was a full block away, I followed. Still standing desolately in the light flooding his driveway, Horse watched me go by but gave no sign of recognition.

  Linda’s unmarried sister had an apartment in Santa Monica and that was the direction the Buick took. Perhaps Horse had been wrong; perhaps Linda’s sister wasn’t out of town.

  It was a short-lived hope. She continued on Wilshire all the way to the ocean. I let the Buick have a two-block lead; traffic was fairly light and Linda knew my car.

  Off Wilshire to Ocean Avenue and along that to the ramp that dipped down to the Coast Highway. Where now, brown Buick? The Palisades? Topanga? I let her have a half mile here, keeping to the right under the shadow of the clay cliff.

  Past the Palisades, heading north…. Traffic was heavy at the Topanga light, backed up solid for almost a quarter of a mile.

  She made it; I didn’t.

  And when the light finally changed for me and I got around the curve beyond it, all I could see were dozens of tail-lights with no way of telling which pair belonged to the Buick. I cut over to the left lane and put the accelerator to the floor.

  I zoomed past them all and there was no car in sight on the highway ahead. Off to the right, I could see the headlights of a car on a winding road that led into the hills.

  I was familiar with that road. A small, shocking hunch was suddenly born in me.

  I turned off on Avalon Lane and started to climb. It was a narrow road, twisting up through the gray grass and rocks, the tinder-dry chaparral, almost a private road. It served, to the best of my knowledge, no more than eight homes and dead-ended at the top.

  The moon came out from behind the overcast as I swung around one of the sharper turns about halfway up. Its light was strong enough for me to identify the car silhouetted against the wall of the canyon two turns ahead of me. It was the brown Buick.

  The moonlight was bright enough for driving if I cut down my speed. I turned off the headlights and went into the low gear range.

  I had traveled this road quite often. The house at the top had been a gathering place for the retired warriors, the scene of the twice-a-month poker game, the home of the Ram who had hit the jackpot

  The son-of-a-bitch, I thought, the crazy son of a bitch! With all the luscious single girl she knows, he has to mess around with the wife of a friend.

  About two hundred yards below the house at the top, short of a turn that screened it from that house, a neighbor’s driveway led off to the left I pulled in here and up onto the dry grass that bordered it.

  A car at the top of this hill would be too obvious; there was only one house at the top of this hill. I went the rest of the way on foot, a short-cut across the crest I came within view of the house just as the door of the Buick slammed.

  And now the front door of the house opened and I could see Scooter Calvin outlined in the light of the entry hall.

  “He
llo,” he called. “It’s about time.”

  There was no answer. She came hurrying up the walk, Linda Malone, the wife of Edwin W. (Horse) Malone, the mother of Edwin W. Malone, Jr., aged three.

  She came hurrying along the walk to her lover and then the door closed behind them and I stood there burning, hating them both.

  Chapter 2

  NEAR A LOW outcropping of rock I stood in indecision. I felt as though I should go in, right now, but knew I couldn’t face Linda. It would be too shameful for us both.

  I saw the light in Scooter’s bedroom go on. I saw it go out and turned my gaze away from the house, staring sickly at the traffic far below. The thought of Linda Malone in bed with Scooter was an image I didn’t want in my mind.

  Could I take this information back to Horse? Horse would kill that damned halfback. I couldn’t report this to Horse and I couldn’t go in and face Linda. There was one course open to me and I would have to wait until Linda left to take that.

  I was waiting when I heard the footsteps on the road below me. The night was bright enough for me to be visible from the road. I ducked quickly behind the rock.

  But not quickly enough. A voice I thought I recognized called, “Callahan, is that you? Brock — ?”

  I came out from behind the rock, poised as a boy caught stealing apples. “Bob? Bob Dunne?” I asked. Bob was a neighbor of Scooter’s I had met a few times at the poker games.

  “Right. What the hell’s going on?” He walked toward me. “I was standing in the kitchen and I saw this car pull into my driveway. But nobody came up so I went down to investigate.”

  “And learned it was my car,” I finished for him. “And here I stand with egg all over my face.”

  “You sick?” he asked me. He glanced toward Scooter’s house. “Isn’t that Horse Malone’s Buick?”

  “It could be,” I said.

  “Game tonight?” he asked. “Why all the secrecy?” A pause. His voice was suddenly solemn. “Is something going on, Brock? I thought at first you might have run out of gas near my driveway or your car acted up — ” He paused again. “It’s not that, is it? Are you here professionally, Brock?”