by Basil Copper
“You’ll get diarrhoea if you keep on with those,” I told him.
“Best medicine there is,” he said. “Keep the old bowels ticking over. I’ll live to be a hundred with these.”
I figured he might at that. Just when I was thinking that maybe he’d gone to sleep, he’d been quiet with his eyes shut so long, he suddenly got up, took me by the arm and drew me over to the side of the big lounge.
“Take a look at this, Mike.” There was another porch which connected with the garden and corresponded to the one on the other side of the house, leading to the conservatory.
“He came in through here.”
I grunted. “Looks as though Horvis may have been expecting company. It wasn’t locked?”
“So far as we can make out. No prints, though. Nothing useable.”
He pointed down the garden. The chauffeur, one or two policemen and a loafer stood in a small knot discussing the day’s proceedings. Tucker rapped on the window and the group broke up. The policemen hustled about, making with the efficiency. Tucker indicated another drive, partly screened by trees, which led from the porch and away in the direction of the steps and my car.
“Dead straight run for the getaway,” said Tucker. I led the way back to the couch and poured another drink. Tucker waved the proffered glass away. “I’ll stick to apple juice.”
I stared at my toecaps; one side of my left shoe was heavily scuffed, the leather scratched.
“What say we pool our ideas?” I asked Tucker.
“Thought you were off the case now. No client.”
He glanced towards the fading stains on the carpet. I figured they’d take a couple of thousand off its value. I ignored his remark.
“What about this sedan?” I persisted.
Tucker scratched his chin. “Looks as though the driver wore gloves. Nothing but dead ends …”
“This woman at the antique shop,” I asked. “Built like Charley’s Aunt.”
“She’s all right,” said Tucker. “We went into all that last time. So far as I can make out she has a part-interest in the business.”
“So what do we come up with?” I went on. “Fact one; Braganza shot by person or persons unknown. Weapon, a silent revolver. Horvis implicated in some way. Fact two; Horvis shot. Weapon, a silenced revolver. Again, no name on the bullet. The shootings must be connected.”
“Just my conclusions,” said Tucker with grim dissatisfaction. He shot me a sudden glance. “If you do come up with anything, Mike, or anyone contacts you, I want to hear about it. Understand?”
“Perfectly,” I told him. “And incidentally, Dan, thanks for believing me.”
He smiled thinly. “Just for the record, there never was any doubt in my mind. The call came too pat for that — a public phone booth, of course. But you’re such a self-satisfied bastard, I thought I’d leave you on the hook for a bit.”
“That figures too,” I said, grinning back.
He smiled again and indicated my documents on the table. “Don’t forget those. And if you’re going to stay on the job I’d take to carrying a gun, if I were you.”
I stashed my cards in my breast pocket. “I’ll check with you around midday tomorrow,” I said.
He nodded again. “I’m staying here to kick things around a bit,” he said. “Remember what I said about not leaving town.” I walked across towards the door as Tucker started on another apple. The Filipino came in with a tray loaded with silver dish covers. I caught the aroma of French fried. Tucker munched steadily as the Filipino put the tray down. He went out, looking curiously about him.
“Pity about your client,” Tucker said, tentatively lifting up one of the dish covers. “He had his good points.”
“So did Hitler,” I told him and went on out.
When I got in the fresh air I looked at my watch. It was close on six, but I felt like I had been in there around five years. On impulse I tiptoed back to the picture window and peeked through. There were two apple cores on the floor beside the waste basket and Dan Tucker was just lifting his second dish cover.
*
The Buick was red hot to the touch from being in the sun all that while, but the day was beginning to lose its heat. The car had obviously been given a thorough going over by the police and the contents of the dash pockets had been disarranged, but the cops were civil enough and reversed out of the way as soon as I appeared. I gave them good day and drove off. I needed some time for thinking and took a longer way back to town.
A slot appeared in the parked autos in front of Jinty’s and I tooled in. A couple of hundred feet of Caddy turned off at an angle. The driver wound down his window and gave me a Bronx cheer. His face matched the puce of the car’s bodywork. His shouted words were lost in the crackle of exhausts. I went on in and sat down at the bar.
There were perhaps a couple of dozen people in and a piano was playing somewhere, the low tinkle coming and going between cracks in the conversation. Everyone looked hot and the fan was still creaking. The bartender put down my drink and mopped away at his invisible beer spillings. His white coat looked more crumpled than ever.
“Hot,” he muttered as he moved away.
“You want a re-write man on your dialogue,” I told him. His face remained blank. Blabbermouth. I sat for maybe three, four minutes thinking out the day and then went into a booth. Stella answered the first ring. I told her I’d be right in.
The office was cooler than the bar. Stella made some coffee and sat swinging her long legs on the desk, looking curiously down into her cup. She said nothing and I was content to leave it like that. The traffic slid past on the boulevard with the cool susurration that it has on very hot days when the main rush is over and everyone’s quietly tooling home, the panic finished. The other half of the office was empty, the typewriters sheathed in their hoods, desk neatly tidied. The insurance boys liked an early day.
Stella winked. “How was it?” she asked.
“We just lost a client,” I told her. She just sat there swinging her legs. Stella was a honey blonde with all the right statistics. Some day I figured I’d make her when she was in the right mood, but she was a girl with her mind set on marriage. Either way it was an interesting contest. I admired her legs for perhaps a couple of minutes more and then lit a cigarette. What the hell, it was too hot anyway. Between puffs, I told Stella the story; what there was to know of it.
As I went along I came to realize just how little I had to go on. Two murders which had to be connected — but how? I almost felt sorry for Dan Tucker. I could please myself but he had to come up with something. Thinking of Horvis reminded me of something else and I took out the pieces of the cheque; Stella’s eyes widened as I showed her the figure. She stopped swinging her legs.
“Useful,” she said.
I put the pieces in the ashtray and set fire to them. We both watched them smoulder.
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “I can meet your salary for the next two weeks.”
She laughed. “Have some more coffee.”
I felt better at the second cup and went over to the window and looked down into the street; the cooler air was coming in from the hills now and the blind was beginning to rattle. The air felt good.
“I almost forgot. Your calls,” said Stella. She shoved a slip of paper at me. “I don’t think the first’s important, but the second might be interesting.”
I glanced at the paper. The first was from Charlie Snagge and gave his number. I made a note on my scratch pad for the morning. The second call did seem more interesting. It was from a Miss Sherry Johnson and gave a Park Plaza number. I lit another cigarette. “Know what she wants?”
“She wouldn’t tell me. She said for you to call as soon as you came in.”
I simulated interest. “Probably popped a stay button and wants me to trace it. What’d she sound like?”
Stella grinned. “Just your type. I’d say. Sounded nice. Youngish I should think.”
I made a succulent noise and finished m
y coffee. I went around the desk to sit down when Stella said, “There was something in tonight’s edition.”
She handed me the LA. Examiner. She had ringed a small stick of type on page three of the late edition. Apparently the night editor hadn’t considered it very important. It just said that Horvis, well known L.A. antique dealer had been found shot at his home. From the tone of the paragraph it might well have been an accident or suicide. Right at the bottom of the piece there was a two-line stick: Michael Faraday, local City P.I. is helping the police with their inquiries.
I sank back into my chair and dialled the Park Plaza number; I had come well out of that, anyhow. But it was annoying to be linked with Horvis. Whoever was interested would know that I was involved. Though I wouldn’t be much longer if I didn’t get a break. There was a long burring. Stella went and stood by the window. She had on a white cotton frock with blue polka dots, that set off her figure to perfection. She had lovely legs and everything to go with them. I’ll bet she hasn’t much on underneath that, I thought, when I caught sight of her smiling reflection in the window glass. A girl’s voice was at the other end of the line; it was low, pleasant, well modulated. I put her age at around twenty-four.
“Faraday,” I told her. “I understand you rang me earlier.”
I heard her catch her breath in relief. “Oh, thank you for ringing, Mr. Faraday. I need help badly. I wonder if you could come over?”
Stella picked up the intercom, phone and sat down at her pad.
“What exactly is your business?”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that over the phone, Mr. Faraday. It is urgent. I happened to see your name in the newspaper this afternoon and looked you up in the directory.”
“All right, Miss Johnson,” I told her. “Will around nine o’clock tonight suit you?”
Stella took down the address as she dictated it; it was a swanky hotel block over on one of the main sections. I thanked her again and rang off. Stella tapped her pencil against very white teeth. “Well, Mike?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “I’ve got a strange hunch that this may be connected with Horvis. If it is, it will be the first break I’ve had up to now. I must get back and change, grab a quick bite and take a look at Queen Brunnhilde over at the antique shop. Get me her address will you?”
I slopped some water over my face while Stella did this. “She lives over the shop,” she said eventually. “Mrs. Margaret Standish.”
“We’re full of surprises tonight,” I said. “Of course. It would be safer if Horvis had got anything to hide. He could stash it with her.”
“You be careful,” said Stella.
“Naturally,” I said, on my way to the door.
“Seriously, Mike,” said Stella, bringing her face close to mine, “take care.” Her lips were warm on the side of my face. I put my hand approvingly over the softness of her rump, felt her stiffen and slide away and then she aimed a playful blow at my ear.
“Right,” I said and went on out.
Back in the Buick the air was cooler. I drove with the radio going softly. Neon signs were beginning to split the dusk and I had to go carefully at intersections where the lights were beginning to merge with the red of traffic signals. I lived over on Park West in a small, rented house that stood in a row of bijou-type cottages, each cut off by identical open lawns and short laurel hedges.
As I came up the hill, taking in the night air and a dash of Duke Ellington, another car drifted down. There was a blaze of headlights, briefly etching trees, street, houses, like a film negative. I got out of the car without bringing it up to the car-port and walked up the cement path to the house. My near neighbour’s house farther up the hill was in darkness, but next door there were lights and what sounded like a football commentary. The family were crouched in the living-room watching television, judging by the blue tribal light. I went on in and cooked myself a small grill while I shaved and changed my shirt. Then I carried the meal into the living-room on a tray and switched my small radio on.
There was a lot of stuff about U.N.O. and what de Gaulle was doing over in Europe and then the local news; there was a short rundown on the Horvis shooting. Still no mention of murder and, best of all, no tie-up with the Braganza kill. I switched off and carried my plates back into the kitchen, rinsed them through and put them in the rack to dry.
It was a pleasant house and suited my needs perfectly. It was well surrounded by neighbours, including two senior cops and I had the front drive and back lot wired for floodlighting in case of prowlers. Short of an Alsatian and electrified fences I couldn’t think of anything better. It was now slightly short of eight and I just had time to see Mrs. Standish before getting over to see the girl.
The last thing I did before I left was to go to a locked cupboard in my bedroom. I had a small armoury, consisting of three revolvers and a telescopic-sighted rifle, in there. I chose my old favourite, a Smith and Wesson .38. As an afterthought I screwed on the silencer and put the whole thing in a nylon holster which fitted beneath the fold of the arm. I felt pretty silly, but like Stella said, you have to be careful. Dan Tucker had given me the same advice too, come to that. It was when I was out on the porch, going to lock up, that I felt the roughness of the door.
I went back inside and switched on the outer light. It burned white in the darkness, outlining me on the porch. It was my night off, so far as sense was concerned. The surface of the door was all scored and splintered, and the lock plate scratched and gouged. Someone had been at work with a pretty hefty jemmy. When I had got this far I suddenly remembered the car which came down past me and the way my headlamp beam had thrown its light way up the hill; it must have been visible for nearly half a mile.
It took me just two seconds to get the door between me and the street and to douse the porch light. I gummed my eye to the crack and hit the floodlight switch. All the front drive and the entire surrounding area sprang starkly into blinding detail, every blade of grass distinct underneath the string of heavy duty lamps. I stood motionless in the darkness behind the door, alert for any movement. A tap dripped in the kitchen, somewhere on the back lot a cicada started up its mournful chirp. Nothing moved in all the wide world. Just as suddenly all the tension evaporated. I knew there was nothing there. And behind the door, in the darkness as I doused the floodlights, I began to laugh. Fumbling Faraday had begun to deal the cards right.
Somewhere out there in the night of L.A., down among the smog and neons, I was beginning to worry someone. And it could only be the Mr. Big who was tied in with the whole shooting match. For the first time since that morning I was placing my feet without breaking omelettes. I felt convinced the silenced weapon I was looking for was still in L.A. after all. I walked down the drive with confidence and survived with hardly a tremor when my neighbour suddenly let go with a half a truckload of trash cans on his back lot. The Buick sprang to life first pull. The engine roared, full of power and confidence as I turned the car and headed down town, the headlamps slicing the night sky under the palms.
3 - Mrs. Standish
The sky was still blue above the glare of neon when I pulled up in front of the shop. There was little traffic in the business section and what there was went by on tip-toe, white-wall tyres slurring through soft tarmac. I lit a cigarette and feathered the smoke as I sat in the car; Mrs. Standish seemed to be home. Lights burned behind pink shades on the upper floor above the antique shop. I got out of the car and walked across to the big display windows.
The heat on the sidewalk came to meet me. There were some shaded lamps burning in the shop, winking back on crystal and plate and the patina of old things. I searched for a bell pull on the front door but couldn’t find one, so decided to try in back.
The shop was near the end of the block and I walked softly, keeping into the wall. I had made so many mistakes today I didn’t want to miss out any more. At the end of the block there was a sort of patio set back from the sidewalk, with a strip of lawn, some tree
s and fancy shrubs and a couple of car ports. Along the side of the building there was a wrought iron balustrade with a gate let into it.
I went through the gate and up a flight of stone steps. I felt exposed as I came out on a small landing, paved with black and white tiles. A red and white sunblind over a Regency yellow door with brass fittings re-echoed the style of the front of the building. I took a glance round the deserted street; nothing moved for two blocks, not even a solitary car. I thumbed the bell and waited.
Nothing happened, so I tried again. This time there was a response. A yellow light went on quite suddenly, sandwiched between pebble screens. Then, with blinding abruptness, a large brass lantern on the patio came to life, making my position about as private as the Yankee Stadium. I looked round the area again and found I was sweating. It wasn’t the weather either. After about five years the door opened and a figure appeared in the hallway. It was Mrs. Standish. She wore a red silk dressing-gown and her eyes were dark and swollen. She looked at me uncomprehendingly, blinking in the porch light.
“You wouldn’t know me,” I told her. “My name’s Faraday. Can I come in?”
She hesitated. “It’s all right,” I said. “Mr. Horvis was my client. I think maybe you can help.”
“Nothing can help now,” she said in a slurred voice. But she stood aside to let me in. I caught spirits on her breath as I brushed by in the hallway. Inside, the hall was all pastel blue with quilted walls and French prints.
“Haven’t I seen you somewhere?” asked Mrs. Standish, looking at me with a blurred eye.
“In the shop,” I said. “We didn’t hit it off too well.”
“Now I remember,” she said, looking at me unblinkingly. Then with sudden anger, “You did a good protection job …”
“I wasn’t hired for that, Mrs. Standish,” I said. “If it helps any, I’m sorry.”
She took my arm suddenly and her eyes filled with tears or whiskey fumes, or something.
“Don’t take any notice,” she said. “I didn’t mean anything by that. I’m all upset.”
