“A wassail bowl?”
“That’s it — Wassily. I mean, that’s the way it’s spelled but Scooter said I should look up the pronunciation, but I never did. Wassily Kandinsky, born in Moscow in 1866.”
“What was Scooter trying to do to you,” I asked, “get you ready for college?”
She shook her blonde head solemnly. “He was trying to change my image, he said. I mean, let’s face it, what was I? A stripper. But now with Gypsy Rose Lee — ”
“I see,” I said, only half lying.
She picked up a paperback book titled The Day of the Locust. She parroted, “Nathanael West, nineteen oh four to nineteen four oh, but don’t mention him around right-wing producers.” She picked up another: “The Last of Mr. Norris by Christopher Isherwood, friend of Auden’s, friend of Huxley’s. He wrote the stories they made that play from, you know, the one with Julie Harris?”
“He wrote The World in the Evening,” I said.
No change of expression on her face. “I never heard of that. Was that a movie?”
I shook my head.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asked. “Did I say something wrong?”
“You’re pretty,” I said. “I can’t help staring. I never thought of Scooter as being this bright.”
“He was whatever he had to be,” she said. “He told me if you don’t know it you can always look it up. He was no dummy.” She studied me doubtfully. “Do you really think I’m pretty?”
“Of course. You have to be, in your business, don’t you?”
She nodded. “You don’t think I’m a phony, do you? I mean, producers come here and directors — I mean, at parties, naturally, and Scooter figured — Damn you, quit staring!”
“I’m sorry, Dawn.” I averted my eyes.
With a fireplace poker? Not Dawn Donovan. Though Scooter’s tongue could be so sharp …
In quiet accusation she said, “You didn’t come just to visit, did you?”
“Partly. And to tell you I tried to question Turk Kostic, but he resented it. He knocked me out.”
Her eyes widened and her chin quivered. “You didn’t use my name, did you?”
“No. Are you afraid of him?”
She nodded slowly. “He tried to — get fresh once. God!”
“Did you tell Joe about it?”
She shook her head. “What would Joe do? He’d laugh! Everything’s funny to him.”
“Except collections,” I said. “Dawn, can you keep a secret?”
She nodded solemnly. “I’ve kept a lot of them.”
“Scooter Calvin was holding a book by Christopher Isherwood when he died. The name of the book was The World in the Evening.”
“And that’s why you were staring? You think it’s a clue, he was holding a book? He could read.”
“It could be a clue. I knew Scooter pretty well. He read mysteries and westerns and Variety and The Racing Form.”
She was silent, staring at the white looped carpeting on the floor. She looked up. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink? I do.”
“I’ll watch you drink it. I’ll have a cup of coffee if there’s some already made.”
“I can make some instant coffee,” she said. “It will only take a second. Sit down. Sit down and look at the city.”
Domestic Dawn Donovan went out to make kitchen sounds while I sat and watched the distant traffic in car-town, U.S.A. Had the book been a finger pointing at Dawn?
Of all the symbols that would point to Dawn, the least likely would be a book. A bra, now, or a bottle of peroxide, a G-string … These had not been within reach as he had died in front of his enormous fireplace.
Perhaps he had not meant to point at a person, but to open a line of inquiry that would eventually lead to the killer. Through Dawn and Paretti to Turk Kostic? Through Dawn to Paretti? Through Dawn to some other client of his?
From the kitchen she called, “Sugar or cream?”
“Neither,” I answered.
She came into the living room with a large white cup, gold rimmed. “You sound down. Did Turk hurt you?”
“Not much. My ego, mostly.” I took the coffee and thanked her. I sipped and thought.
She asked softly, “Are you thinking I — ? You can’t be. I mean, I liked Scooter. We never quarreled.”
“I’m just going around in circles, Dawn,” I told her. “I keep running into my own hinder. Will you remember that what I told you about the book has to be kept secret? Only you and I and the police know it.”
“I forgot it already,” she said.
She seemed thoughtful as she went over to a liquor cabinet. Her hands shook as she poured herself a couple fingers of bourbon. Those few minutes in the kitchen had brought this change.
When she finally turned around again, her composure was theatrical and fraudulent. “Why do the police think that book is important?”
“Because they have nothing else to go on. It might not be important at all. The way they figure it, Scooter didn’t die right away and he managed to get to this book. It’s possible he was trying to name his killer.”
Her eyes were guarded, the drink forgotten in her hand.
“What are you thinking?” I asked her.
“About Scooter. “ She lifted her glass and took a big sip.
“Do you know Turk Kostic’s address?”
She shook her head slowly. “ Leave him alone. He’s dangerous.”
“We have unfinished business. But I guess I can wait until the police get through with him.”
She stared. “You gave his name to the police?”
I nodded.
“You shouldn’t have. I wouldn’t have told you if I thought you were going to tell the police. You can get me in trouble.”
“I didn’t tell the police you gave me Turk’s name. He won’t suspect you did. They could have got it from a number of slow-pay horse players, I’m sure.”
Her eyes were masked now. “How could you give them Turk’s name? I thought you were hiding from the police.”
“Not completely. I’m really hiding from the newspapers. I have to work with the police, in my business, but I don’t have to work with the newspapers, as the police do.”
Pure skepticism on her still face now.
“Don’t try to figure it out,” I said. “I don’t understand it myself.”
She said coolly, “I need the newspapers and I can’t afford any trouble with the police.” She was no longer smiling Dawn, everybody’s friend.
“Okay, Sam,” I said. “As soon as I finish this coffee, I’ll be on my way.”
“Nothing personal,” she said. Then, “Why did you call me Sam?”
“Nothing personal,” I said. “It’s a generic term, like Uncle Tom.”
“You’re not making sense. Why do you have to get smart-alecky?”
“I’m not smart-alecky, Dawn. I’m tired and frustrated and bruised and too conscious of my lacks. The last thing I want to do is get you into trouble anywhere. I’ll sit a few more seconds and then go.”
“You certainly talk foolish,” she said.
I stood up. “I’m sorry I’m not a producer or a bookie or something that important. I’m sorry you stopped trusting me.”
She stood her ground, the resolute lamb. “I have to think of my career,” she said firmly.
I have made some bad decisions in my professional life; the one I made now was unforgivable. I accepted her stated reason for her new coolness toward me.
The police shouldn’t frighten her. She had come to prominence because of police raids. And at her level, the newspapers couldn’t hurt her. At her level, all publicity was good publicity. I didn’t think of these things at the time.
I thanked her for the coffee and said good-by and went down in the quiet elevator and past the thin woman in the flowered dress at the desk.
It was a meaningless afternoon. I tried to get Jones at the number he had given me and Bogaro at the Sheriff’s Station. Neither was available. The few bookies I knew around
town had no line on Joe Paretti. The investigation agencies with which I occasionally exchanged information were closed to me at this time; they were reputable agencies and I knew they would not cooperate with a practitioner being sought by the police.
A little before four, I came back to my garage hide-out, ready to call the whole thing off, ready to turn myself in and hope I could lie through to protect the Malones, at least from the newspapers.
A little after four I was stripped to the waist and bathing my neck and face in cold water when I heard someone coming up the plank steps.
It could have been the police, for all I cared. I was fed up with hiding.
It was Bob Dunne and he had the afternoon paper with him. When I saw her picture on the front page, I suddenly realized how serious my noon decision had been.
Dawn Donovan was dead.
Chapter 11
SHE HAD BEEN strangled. According to the woman at the desk downstairs, the last person known to have seen her alive had been a “Mr. Goley of the Dodgers.”
She had still been alive when the unidentified Mr. Goley had left; she had made a phone call and received one. Her call had been made to a bar in Venice, the Rusty Anchor, licensed in the name of Joseph Paretti. The incoming call had been from a man.
According to the person who had taken the outgoing call, one Sam Judson, bartender (Negro), Miss Donovan had asked for Mr. Paretti. Mr. Paretti had not been available at the time, as he had been under interrogation at the Malibu Sheriff’s Station.
No employee of the Los Angeles Dodger Baseball Club had ever heard of a Mr. Goley. The police believed it to be a fictitious name.
Bob Dunne asked, “Is there a possibility this murder has nothing to do with Scooter’s?”
I shook my head. “Did you read all of it?”
He nodded.
I said, “I’m Mr. Goley of the Dodgers. The police will learn that as soon as this woman at the desk is given some mug shots to look at. My picture will be in the group.” I put the paper away. “I guess I’ve come to the end of my rope.”
He studied me worriedly.
I said, “Your name won’t be mentioned, I promise you. I’m almost sure that something I told Miss Donovan gave her a lead to the killer. And Joe Paretti will know who Mr. Goley is; the name is part of a gag he used in describing me to Miss Donovan.”
He sighed. “What a mess! Just because I’ve got a big mouth. I’ll go to the police with you, Brock. The Chief, here in Beverly Hills, is one of my clients.”
“No. The mess was my own making. I’m going to call Bogaro. That apartment building is on the Strip and the Strip is county property. It will be Sheriff’s Department business.”
Dunne left and I phoned Bogaro at the station and was told he was home.
I got him there. I said, “ It looks as though I had better come out into the open, Tony. I’m the Mr. Goley the police are looking for.”
“I figured you were,” he said. “I think you’d better stay in hiding.”
“Why?”
“Kostic killed her,” he said. “We’re almost sure of that. He’ll probably come looking for you. It’s one way to smoke him out.”
“Joe Paretti knows I’m Mr. Goley,” I said. I explained about the joke.
“If Joe knows it. Kostic will soon enough. I want that Kostic. And not just for murder. Through him, I can nail Paretti.”
“Why would Kostic kill her?”
“I don’t know yet. But we have a witness we’re keeping under wraps. This Donovan dame probably knew Kostic killed Calvin, because of the seven grand. We’re almost sure it was Kostic our witness saw leaving the apartment. He used the back door and the back stairs.”
I said, “ I think Dawn recognized that title, The World in the Evening. Have you checked the bookstores on that?”
“We did. And got nowhere. It’s not a new book.”
“Do you have any book buyers among your suspects?”
“Turk Kostic’s our suspect.” A pause. “That Hansel woman reads a lot. She belongs to two book clubs. “ A longer pause. “And I know who her brother-in-law is, now.”
I said nothing, waiting.
“I’m not threatening you,” he said quietly. “I’m trying to convince you it’s not the time to declare yourself. I’ve been after Paretti a long time, Brock.” Another pause. “Ann was fourteen when she first met him. Do you see how much I want Joe Paretti?”
Badly enough to railroad him, I thought. I asked, “Are you still holding him?”
“We released him just before I came home, about fifteen minutes ago.”
“You’re keeping a tail on him, I suppose?”
“That would be Department business. You keep in touch with me, Brock.”
“All right, all right!”
“And wear your gun,” he said. “Keep it handy even when you’re in bed.”
“Thank you for the unnecessary advice. I expect you to vouch for me at showdown time.”
He said stiffly, “I’m not a man who forgets his friends.”
Or forgives his enemies, I thought. I said, “Okay, Tony. I hope I’m awake when Turk finds me. Awake and armed. I’ll keep in touch.”
After I had hung up, I realized I hadn’t asked him about Galveston Jones and his trip to Oxnard. I wondered if Jones had told him where I was staying and if Tony was planning to leak that information through his stooges to Turk Kostic.
I lay on the bed and considered the ceiling, thinking of Dawn and my noon visit, thinking that perhaps it wasn’t Joe Paretti she had asked for at the Rusty Anchor, but Turk Kostic. And the frightened Sam had protected himself and Turk and his boss by saying (when Dawn was no longer alive to contradict him) that she had asked for Joe. Sam had undoubtedly known Joe was in the clear, being interrogated.
But why would Dawn phone Turk? To inform him that the police were looking for him? No, Dawn wouldn’t phone him; she feared him. And what logical way could Turk Kostic be connected to The World in the Evening?
No matter what needed connecting, I was sure Bogaro would connect it if it would tie together a story that would nail Paretti.
I could hear somebody splashing in the pool; I could hear the staccato racket of a power lawn mower. The ceiling above me receded into the distance and I saw the sequin jacket again and the gold-rimmed cup and the Kandinsky (Wassily) and the burlesque houses of my youth. She would never be another Gypsy Rose Lee now.
Footsteps on the stairs, far away, bringing me too slowly back to the here and now. The man was already in the doorway before I could get off the bed and start toward the grip that held my gun.
But the man, luckily, was Bob Dunne. He was carrying a tray.
“You could wait and have dinner with us,” he explained, “but we’re having company. The food in jail isn’t the best, I’ve heard.”
“I’m staying in hiding,” I told him. “I’ve already talked with my deputy friend and he thinks that would be smart for now.”
“Good,” he said. “We’re having steak, but I brought you cold ham Okay?”
He had not only brought me cold ham, he had brought me German potato salad, which I hadn’t eaten in years. He had brought me cold slices of tomato and hot rolls and a silver pot of coffee.
“I should have been a broker,” I said.
“I should have been an actor,” he answered. “Did I ever tell you I was once under contract to Universal?”
“No. Were you in any movies?”
“One horror picture and one western. I played a victim in the horror picture and a storekeeper in the western. And I had two walk-ons at the Pasadena Playhouse.”
“It must be a tough trade, today,” I commented.
“It always was. One of my producers was a man named Bernstein, and when things were at their lowest ebb, he recommended me to his brother.”
“Of Barton, Boldt, and Bernstein,” I supplied. “The rest is history.”
“Right.” He yawned and stretched. “It’s a dull world, isn’t it? How
can you stand it without drinking?”
“I drink. I drink Einlicher. I just don’t drink the hard stuff — very often.”
“You’re a resolute, admirable man,” he said. “Well, if you need old Bob, just holler.” He waved and went down the steps.
I didn’t see how life could be so dull for him, living with a woman like Maggie. But perhaps he had different tastes than I had.
I stretched out on the bed again, thinking back on the day. It was logical to assume Sam Judson would have given the police no more information than he had given me. However, the police had power I lacked; he would have to tell them something. It wouldn’t be too illogical to guess he had given them some misinformation.
I might be able to gain his confidence through his cousin, Lenny Toll, but should I? One lamb was already dead because I had questioned her; if Sam preferred to die more peacefully, had I the right to interfere with his decision?
I climbed off the bed and called my love at her shop. She said, “Horse Malone has been trying to get you. I didn’t want to give him your number. You’d better phone him.”
“I will. Has Sergeant Gnup been back?”
“This noon. He dropped in here and took me to lunch.”
“Be wary. He’s not a romantic type. He’s trying to get a line on me.”
“I don’t think so. I think he’s on your side, Brock. Remember how he used to hate you?”
“He knows me better now. I wear well. Did you read about Dawn Donovan?”
“Something new? I haven’t seen the afternoon paper.”
“She’s dead. And the police think they know who killed her. Maybe it will all come out now if they catch the man they suspect. And I can be a citizen again. Well, I’d better phone Horse.”
“Yes.” A silence. “Be careful, Brock?”
“I will. I promise.”
Be careful, yes. But I could enjoy only a limited caution if I intended to function. Some risks had to be taken in a world where violence reigned.
Horse answered the phone. He said, “Linda and I thought maybe a couple days in La Jolla would help, Brock. Would it look bad if we left now?”
I thought of Bogaro informing me that he knew the identity of Ruth Hansel’s brother-in-law. I balanced that information against the future of Edwin W. Malone, Jr.
Dead Hero Page 9
