Rook Takes Knight (The Howie Rook Mysteries)

by Stuart Palmer

  “But you don’t know how sophisticated modern electronics gadgets are. Everything you’ve said over the phone to friends has very probably been taped and is now in the D.A.’s office. It isn’t strictly legal, but it’s done every day.”

  “So what? I happen to be innocent!”

  “Perhaps you are, but I think you underestimate Mr. Wilton Mays. Who else phoned?”

  “Max Linsky, for one! He just wanted to know what was going on and if you really had the right to walk into his office and give him the third degree—”

  “I did nothing of the kind, but, skip it.”

  “And he said to tell you that the reason he didn’t answer when I tried to phone him Wednesday night was that he has a cut-off switch on his home phone! And I don’t mind telling you I think the very idea of going around everywhere and making it clear that you suspect my friends of being involved in John’s death is simply outrageous, Mr. Rook!”

  “Sorry about that.” Okay, if she wanted to go back to formality, so could he. “But, Mrs. Charteris, I don’t see how else I can investigate this case. Do you?”

  “No, but—”

  “You must face the facts. Murder victims aren’t ordinarily killed by perfect strangers. Nor for that matter by distant acquaintances. When and if the showdown comes, prepare yourself for a shock—because it’s very probably somebody close to home!”

  Anger became her. “But exactly what are you trying to accomplish?”

  “The guilty flee when no man pursueth—and sometimes a lot quicker when they imagine somebody actually does. Sooner or later in this case somebody is going to make a false move and give himself away. So for lack of any better lead I go around needling people, hoping they’ll leap to the conclusion that I know more than I do.”

  Deirdre sipped her drink. “Tell me something, Mr. Rook. How did a nice person like you get into a business like this?”

  “As the call girl said under somewhat similar circumstances, ‘Just lucky, I guess!’ Mrs. Charteris, snooping is just a sideline for me, and sometimes I don’t like what it entails, either. But if you’re thinking of firing me, just remember that I work for Mr. Agnews and your future freedom and perhaps your life depend on him. You’ll have to let me grope along in my own peculiar fashion.”

  “By accusing my best friends of murder?”

  “Damn it, woman, I haven’t accused anybody of anything! I just very nearly got knocked into Kingdom Come, perhaps by Mr. Holtz or perhaps by some one of half a dozen other people! It just occurred to me that another hit-and-run death would very neatly take the heat off you, since this time you’re safe at home!”

  Deirdre was pacing back and forth now, like a caged jungle cat. “You can’t be sure of that! You didn’t see—?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, anyway, it wasn’t, it couldn’t have been, any of the three men you’ve mentioned. They’re just not the type. I know it!”

  “Okay, so you know it. But I don’t, and Hal Agnews doesn’t. You must remember, Mrs. Charteris, that in real life murderers aren’t picked by casting directors, as in the movies or the TV shows where anyone can spot the heavy in the first reel. But let’s drop that for now—”

  “I don’t want to drop it! You seem determined to pin John’s death on Harry, or Max, or Danny—”

  “We’re also considering some other candidates, you might be interested to know. Including your sister and her husband, the Filipino servants, the cousins from San Francisco, the will-o’-the-wisp character who used to annoy you with phone calls and perhaps spied on you, and even Mr. Booth!”

  “Charley? You’re not serious!”

  “Who else phoned you today?”

  “Well—” She flung herself down in the high wing chair. “Ed Patch—but he mostly wanted to talk to Mary. He misses her at the café, I guess. And he was shook up about some cop coming around and asking questions—”

  “And who discovered that Patch has no alibi for Wednesday night, and neither has your sister. Anyone else?”

  “Yes, if you must know. The man from Forest Lawn, and the florists, and Charley Booth long-distance from Pomona. He just wanted to know when and where the funeral was to be, and if there’s anything he could do—you know, the nice, polite things everybody says at a time like this.”

  “Very thoughtful, for a horse trainer.”

  “Charley has a college degree in animal husbandry and one in veterinary surgery, and he’s a very unusual person.”

  “And a very unusually handsome young man, judging by his photos in your album.”

  “What on earth has all this got to do with it?”

  “Just that I still think your husband was killed by somebody who was fond of you or perhaps even had a secret yen for you, so that when he saw the photo he went all out for vengeance. Nothing else fits.”

  “So now I’m a femme fatale! Me and my devastating loveliness! You should see me in the morning!”

  “Best offer I’ve had today. But seriously, did you know that your husband’s will leaves half of the horse Carbon Copy to Charley Booth?”

  “Why—no. But I’m not surprised. Charley always loved that beast, and it was he who kept John from getting rid of him months ago. Charley keeps on entering Carbon Copy in race after race, long after anybody else would have turned him out to pasture or sold him to a riding academy or something. But he’s hardly the sort of person who would kill anybody just to inherit half of a silly three-year-old who doesn’t do anything but lie around in his stall and eat!”

  “Correction. Horses stand up, even to sleep. And murder has been committed for less valuable things than half a horse—for a few dollars, even. I could show you clippings. Which reminds me, I should get home and do some research tonight. I suggest you get some rest. Take a sleeping pill if you have one.”

  “Mary has some, I think. She takes bennies to wake up and goofballs to sleep and reducing pills before every meal. Thanks for the thought.” Deirdre walked with him to the front door, suddenly slipping her arm through his. “Howie, don’t go away mad. I’m sorry I’ve been so bitchy tonight. But you can’t know how I feel—it’s as if I were before the cameras and I’d forgotten my lines and couldn’t ad-lib. I know you’re doing your best for me, and I should be grateful.”

  “Save that for when I show some results.”

  “Now you take care crossing streets, hear? And if it wasn’t just some reckless drunk who almost ran you down just now, I know it couldn’t have been Harry Holtz, he’s not the impulsive-killer type. His driving up into the hills probably was just because he wanted to park somewhere and look at the stars and think. Besides, he wouldn’t dream of messing up that precious Bentley!”

  She had a point there. Rook decided to stay open-minded about it. Now, unpredictable as always, Deirdre clung to him, obviously not wanting him to leave. Rook winced as she put her arms about his shoulder, but it was worth it. “I’m scared about tomorrow,” she whispered.

  “It’ll soon be over. Whatever you do, don’t wear a veil. There may be photographers, and the caption writers always make a big thing of The Veiled Lady …”

  “But in case I’m going to be arrested, what shall I pack?”

  “As little as possible, I’m afraid. A comb and a toothbrush is about it, in County. A sandpaper stick—no nail file or cuticle scissors.”

  “I imagine I’ll just bite my fingernails off,” she said—and it was too close to the truth to be funny.

  He hastily changed the subject. “I’ll be at the services, and after they’re over I’ll drive you downtown. And Hal will escort you over to the D.A.’s office—unless a miracle happens in the meantime.”

  “Miracles do happen, Howie!”

  “Somebody usually has to light the fuse first. By the way, there’s one bit of good news.” He told her about the Dibbles’ seatbelt.

  Deirdre gave him a twisted smile. “You Doubting Thomas! You just had to have tangible proof that it wasn’t I, didn’t you? Howie, why don’
t you just believe in people?”

  “Perhaps I did when I was younger. I still have the scars.”

  “Did you love her very much?”

  “ ‘That was long ago and in another country, and besides, the wench is dead.’ Yes, I’ll confess that I’ve believed in your innocence from the moment we met, in spite of my better judgment. Like an infatuated sophomore.”

  “No, like a pretty wonderful guy!” She tightened her arms about him, and kissed his cheek. It was a gesture of reestablished peace between them. “Goodnight, dear Howie!” Deirdre called out softly as he headed across the lawn toward his car.

  What a woman! She could turn on the charm and the high-potency feminine allure, flash those deep azure eyes and make a man turn to mush. And the worst part of it all was that she did it quite unconsciously. It would be all too easy to read too much meaning in her smile …

  Somewhat to his surprise, he got home without further incident. But as soon as he turned the key in the lock and entered his little apartment, he sensed that he had had uninvited company.

  He was not a man given to old-maidish imaginings; somebody had been here. On the surface everything looked just as cluttered and disorderly and comfortable as usual. The things an ordinary sneak thief would have thought of first—his TV set (out of order these many weeks), his AM-FM radio, his typewriter—were untouched. But there was something wrong, something in the air … it wasn’t the scent of exotic perfume, or of rich Havana cigars …

  Suddenly it came to him. There was the very faint but unmistakable smell of bourbon whiskey in the air!

  He kept a fifth in the kitchen cupboard, in case some old friend dropped in for a game of chess and happened to be suffering from snakebite or hangover. Now he held the bottle up to the light, but couldn’t be sure whether any appreciable amount had been taken, not remembering when it had last been opened. But whoever had helped himself to the whiskey must have been in enough of a hurry to spill some on the drainboard.

  There was always the possibility that it had been one of Wilt Mays’ investigators. But they were mostly policemen on detached duty—would they have taken a chance on cutting neatly through the screen on his sleeping-porch window? That was riskier even than bugging telephones. And what on earth would they or anyone else hope to find here—in what one of Rook’s former lady friends had once called “The Hoorah’s Nest”?

  The carbon of his fanciful “Analysis” still lay on the typewriter—perhaps not quite where he’d left it. It was difficult to be certain. He could check it for fingerprints—if he had the right equipment. But he’d probably just come up with his own. Then belatedly he thought of something. He looked through the clean shirts and wadded socks in his bottom bureau drawer—and found that his Luger was among the missing!

  But why? To use it to incriminate him somehow? It had been properly registered in his name some years ago, but that wasn’t legally required in California and the thief couldn’t have known it. To leave him unarmed and presumably helpless? He never carried the weapon anyway. Oh, well, he’d report it missing tomorrow, but for right now, the hell with everything.

  He felt bruised and battered and thoroughly out on his feet. He let his clothing fall, like autumn leaves around a gnarled oak, hit the light switch and fell heavily upon his bed. “… Sleep—that knits up the ravel’d sleave of care …” were the last words to run through his mind. Howie Rook was a man more than likely, in any extremity, to come up with a quotation.

  X

  ROOK’S ANCIENT ENEMY, THE telephone, dragged him back to reality at nine that Saturday morning, after a night which had been more blackout than refreshing slumber. “Well, Howie?” It was Hal Agnews’ eager voice.

  “Not so well—I feel like death-warmed-over. And if you called to ask if I went out to Pomona at daybreak, the answer is no. I’ve decided to do some research first, before I meet Mr. Booth head-on.”

  “You’re not burying yourself in those clippings, at a time like this!”

  “No—in the public library or somewhere. Has Mike Finn reported?”

  “Yes, but he didn’t get a whole lot on Ruggles. Mike has his limitations. You should have handled it, Howie.”

  “How could I? Ruggles knows me by sight. That’s why we have to use somebody like Finn on tail jobs.”

  “Of course. Well, anyway—Mike didn’t get out to the beach in time to pick up the subject at home, and had to hunt for him at the various bars and night spots all the way down the Coast Highway …”

  “Even having just one drink in each place, that could be a challenging experience.”

  “Mike has a hollow leg. It got to be around midnight and Mike was just about to give it up as a bad job and go home, and then just as he is leaving a spot called the Phoenix, in Redondo, he spots Ruggles coming in.”

  “On foot or driving?”

  “Mike didn’t see. Could have been a taxi, or somebody driving him, or a borrowed car.”

  “Anyway, he’s unaccounted for at eleven P.M., when I almost got clobbered on Tigertail.” Rook filled in the attorney on what had happened, or almost happened, and got the sympathy he expected, which was none.

  “You want to watch yourself, Howie. Well, Mike says Ruggles was trying to drown his sorrows in spiritus frumenti and music—played the piano like crazy. Mike was quick with the applause and request numbers and worked himself into the act and even did a vocal or two—you know that high tenor of his—and the two of them wound up bosom buddies and by closing time Danny was too stoned to navigate, so Mike volunteered to drive him home. Had to undress him and put him to bed.”

  “Sounds beyond the call of duty,” Rook observed. “What’d he get?”

  “Nothing on any attempt to set up a false alibi. Ruggles was on a crying jag, mumbling about how he’d failed himself and everybody who loved him and how unhappy he was because his wife understood him, stuff like that. Didn’t rise to the bait when Mike tried to talk about the Charteris thing. But after the guy was passed out in bed Mike took a chance and frisked his wallet, and among the credit cards and union cards and junk he found a photo of Deirdre.”

  “You mean an old picture he’d kept all these years?”

  “No, Howie! You’re not a married man, so you wouldn’t see why no husband would dare—well, no matter. This was the photograph!” And there was silence. “Howie, you still there?”

  “Thinking,” said Rook. “So Ruggles wasn’t just shown a photo, he was given one! Hold on a minute.” He found the manila envelope from the Brentwood Pharmacy. There had been eight prints and eight negatives. He’d left one negative at the Keyes shop. Whence the extra or extras? Unless—“Okay, Hal. I hadn’t noticed it before, but on the envelope it says ‘Prints of each—two.’ So there are a whole batch of prints floating around somewhere.”

  “That woman! It’ll almost serve her right if I have to surrender her in just about ten hours from now—”

  “Don’t get downhearted, Hal. Remember that we only have to be right once, and the killer only has to be wrong once, and it’s all over. The odds are with us. Where’s Finn now?”

  “When he called in he was just about to leave his office for West L.A. to see McDowd about an official make on those names.”

  “Okay, Hal. I better hang up now, I think the coffee is boiling over.” Which was perhaps stretching the truth a bit, but Rook was sadly in need of coffee, a bit of breakfast, a look at the morning papers, and some liniment. The press coverage of the Charteris affair was not surprising—both papers had quoted Wilt Mays verbatim, the Times had only added some biographical material on the dead man and a line about the funeral. Lou Elder had held off as Rook had requested.

  The downtown public library wouldn’t be open yet, so after phoning in a report on the stolen Luger, he took time to explore a couple of what proved to be dead-end streets. First he talked on the phone to a Mrs. Buell of Beverly Hills, who said yes, dear Harry Holtz had been a guest in their home for dinner and bridge Wednesday night, leaving some
time between eleven and midnight. And the resident manager of an apartment house on Selma in Hollywood said that tenant Max Linsky did have a cut-off switch on his bedside phone. This, unfortunately, was what investigation work so often consisted of—ringing doorbells, intruding on privacy, checking out blind alleys.

  Well, there was always the library. But even that usually fruitful repository of literature, wisdom and information failed him now, for their collection on the particular subject which interested him was inadequate, to say the least. He then tried the offices of the Daily Telegraph, a very specialized sporting publication, and of course found it closed on a Saturday. Finally, as a last resort he wound up in the sports department at the Tribune.

  Where, at almost lunchtime, the city editor happened to walk in. Lou Elder, once the cub reporter and now showing touches of gray at the temples, was a man who took nothing very seriously except his front page. He did a take on Rook’s face. “Howie, I know you fool around with Graeco-Roman wrestling, but did you have to tackle a grizzly bear?”

  “ ‘He jests at scars, that never felt a wound.’ Go away, Lou, I’m moderately busy.”

  “And what has The Running Horse and the Thoroughbred Stud Book got to do with a murder investigation?”

  Rook sighed wearily. “Just that Carbon Copy, three-year-old black horse bred in Kentucky by Mrs. So-and-so, is out of Lady Spook by Damnit the Second. That’s significant if you check back, because the Bull Lea strain is dominant in both sire and dam. Carbon Copy was a fall colt, so he was really only a colt of two months when he officially got to be one year old on the first of January. And you’ll note that almost all the Bull Lea colts come to maturity late anyway—they’re never much as two-year-olds. Carbon Copy has been racing against older horses all season—”

  “Okay, put two bucks on him for me the next time he goes. Look, Howie, when do I get your story on the Charteris thing?”

  “Maybe tonight sometime.”

  “ ‘Maybe tonight,’ he says! And you used to be a newspaperman! You’re coming up with what you threaten will be a front-page story on a Saturday night—what timing!”