Come Die with Me

by William Campbell Gault

  THREE

  IT HAD BEEN SOME TIME since our last encounter. For a small girl, Jan was surprisingly strong and active.

  Becalmed eventually, she listened while I told her about my day.

  When I had finished she asked, “Shall I comment?”

  “Please do.”

  “First of all, why didn’t you accept Mrs. Malone’s money?”

  “I wasn’t sure I could perform a useful service for her.”

  “What difference does it make? A hundred and fifty dollars to her is like ten cents to you and me. Don’t you usually tip more than ten cents?”

  “Yes. For a service.”

  “If the service is bad, do you still tip?”

  “Sure. I’m a social coward. I shouldn’t, but I do. Now look, the hundred and fifty dollars may be nothing to Mrs. Malone, but my getting paid for something I can’t deliver is very important to me. It all ends there, with my version of integrity, and you can argue until you’re blue in the face without changing that.”

  “Then I won’t argue. Let’s get up and have a glass of milk and watch Levant.”

  She was in one of her agreeable moods. I love her all the time but I love her best then. We drank milk and ate cheese crackers and watched Levant with Isherwood and Huxley, with Nanette Fabray and Slapsie Maxie Rosenbloom, all on a local show, a brilliant phenomenon in a tedious medium.

  We listened to a quarter-hour news program after that and then Jan said, hesitantly, “Would it be wanton of me to suggest a second helping? I’m ready, if you are.”

  And after that we slept.

  In the morning, the sun was hot, the sky cloudless. The Doberman next door was barking at something in his idiotic way and Jan was scrambling eggs. The rain was behind us for a while, the night still a warm memory; my attitude was three hundred percent improved.

  “Get the paper, will you?” she called. “We’ll eat on my little patio.”

  Her little patio was eight feet by ten feet and I had laid the concrete myself. The carrier had thrown her morning Times onto the ice plant that protected the slope from the house next door, and the Doberman went crazy as I clambered up near the wire-mesh fence to get the paper. He had hated me from our first meeting. Jan turns him to abject jelly.

  I snarled at him as he charged the fence and shivered as I watched him slash at the wire. Even most dog lovers don’t like Dobermans.

  As I brought the paper out to the patio, Jan said, “Why do you always tease him? He never barks at me.”

  I didn’t answer. From the front page of the Times a face I had seen only yesterday stared out at me. I read the caption beneath the picture and started to read the story.

  “What’s the matter?” Jan asked. “Why the great interest? Has something important happened?”

  “Tip Malone is dead,” I told her. “He was murdered.” I sat down and handed her the inside sections.

  He had been stabbed with twelve inches of carving knife, and found on the floor of the living room in a Gollago Lake hideaway he and his wife, Gloria (Duster) Malone, had only recently purchased. It was not the season for Gollago Lake and the distraught Gloria Malone had been as puzzled as the police as to what Tip had been doing up there.

  The word “infidelity” was used nowhere in the dignified and factual Times story but the aura of adultery somehow permeated the piece. I wondered what the less sedate afternoon papers would do with the case.

  Malone had been found by a neighbor who had seen lights on at the house and gone over to investigate. According to this man, he had not known the house had been only recently sold; the “for sale” sign had not been removed and he was understandably suspicious because the area had just gone through a siege of teenage looting.

  The last person to see Tip Malone alive, so far as was presently known, was his agent, Harry Adler. Harry had been with him at four o’clock yesterday afternoon.

  From the other end of the redwood table Jan asked, “Do they know who did it? The police, I mean?”

  I shook my head. I handed her the front page and continued to read the carry-over residue of the story. Gollago Lake was in the hills to the West, but still technically within the Los Angeles city limits. It was sparsely inhabited; the neighbor who had found the body had been there to do some spring repairing.

  Jan put the paper down and said smugly, “Now aren’t you glad I gave you that letter to Mr. Duster?”

  I stared at her wonderingly.

  “He’ll want this investigated, won’t he?” she explained. “And you can solicit him before the others do.”

  “Honey,” I said patiently, “private investigators don’t solicit business. It’s unethical.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “They advertise, don’t they? I’ll bet the aggressive agencies solicit plenty.”

  I shook my head and drank some coffee. I could feel her eyes on me. I didn’t look at her.

  She sighed.

  “Don’t say it,” I warned her. “I’m probably involved right now. I wouldn’t be a damned bit surprised if Captain Apoyan didn’t try to get me at home last night.”

  “Why should he?”

  “Because I talked to him yesterday about Tip Malone. He knows I was investigating him.” I took a breath and looked at her. “And if he asks me where I was all night, what will I tell him?”

  “Take the Fifth Amendment or find a new girl.”

  “Seriously, he’ll probably ask.”

  “Nonsense,” she said again—and the phone rang.

  It wasn’t Captain Apoyan; it was my old semifriend, Sergeant Pascal, the man with the bloodhound’s face and the Doberman’s temperament.

  He said, “I’ve been trying to get you all night. About five minutes ago, your phone-answering service suggested you might be at this number. You been there all night?”

  “That’s an impertinent question, Sergeant. What’s on your mind?”

  “You know what’s on my mind. Stay where you are; I’m coming out.”

  I hung up and looked at Jan. I thought she was blushing but could have been wrong. I said, “It’s Sergeant Pascal. He’s on his way here now.”

  “How did he get this number? This is an unlisted number.”

  “My phone-answering service has it. Though I swear to you I didn’t give it to them yesterday. I—never give it to them when I intend to be gone—all night.”

  “Damn it!” she said. “Damn you and damn me. This is absurd and embarrassing.”

  I said nothing.

  “It’s vulgar,” she said. “It’s demeaning.”

  I didn’t comment.

  She glared at me. “Damn it, haven’t you anything to say?”

  I nodded sadly. “It’s everything you said, absurd and embarrassing, vulgar and demeaning.” I sighed. “But my memory is good and I still remember it as also wonderful.”

  She muttered something I didn’t catch and began to pick up the dishes. She was in the bathroom when Pascal came.

  He wasn’t alone. My other semifriend, the fat and perspiring officer Caroline was with him. Caroline looked around, smirked, and said, “What a headline—Peeper Nailed in Beverly Glen Love Nest.”

  I said with dignity, “Let’s keep it clean, Caroline, if that’s within your powers.”

  “Huh!” he said. “Look who’s talking!”

  Pascal said, “You are going to cooperate two hundred percent, aren’t you, Muscles? I think it would be fair to say we have you where the hair is short.” His sardonic glum face was cold.

  “Don’t push me,” I said, “either one of you. You guys have both needed me a hell of a lot more than I have ever needed you. We all know that, don’t we?”

  Caroline sneered, Pascal stared coldly. I stared back at Pascal just as coldly.

  Finally, Pascal said, “Where’s Miss Bonnet?”

  “In the bathroom. Listen to me before you talk with her. I have a very, very high regard for Miss Bonnet and her reputation. If anything should happen to diminish that reputation, I would
make it a lifetime mission to destroy the responsible parties.”

  Pascal still stared and now Caroline’s sneer had changed to a stare.

  Pascal’s voice was tight. “Are you threatening me?”

  “I am stating my case as simply as I can,” I said, “consider it a threat or any goddamned thing you want. It is a solemn promise.”

  “I ought to run you in right now,” Pascal said. “Damn you, you’re talking to a police officer.”

  I said nothing.

  Caroline said, “Let’s run him in and give his alibi to the newspapers.”

  “Alibi?” I asked. “I haven’t offered anyone any alibis. And I haven’t been informed by anyone official that I need an alibi. If I need one, tell me for what hours I need it and for what reason.”

  They were both silent.

  “Shall I phone my attorney?” I asked. “You fellows can wait out in the car.”

  “We can take both of you over to the station,” Pascal said.

  I nodded. “It’s your decision, Sergeant. I’ve stated my case.”

  Another silence, and then he asked, “What got you so worked up?”

  “Officer Caroline’s opening remark. I consider it vulgar and demeaning.”

  “Demeaning …?” Caroline asked. “What’s that?”

  Pascal permitted himself a thin smile. “You love the girl, huh?”

  I didn’t have time to answer. From the archway behind me Jan asked coolly. “What is going on in here?”

  I turned to face my lady, dignified and lovely and looking taller because she was standing so proudly.

  Pascal said, “Good morning, Miss Bonnet. I don’t know if you remember me or not. …”

  “I remember you,” she said. “You’re Sergeant Pascal. You’re the man Brock solved the Dunbar murder for.”

  He said nothing, staring at her for a change. Caroline was smiling.

  I said, “Why don’t we begin all over like civilized human beings? I suppose you want me to start from where I talked with Captain Apoyan yesterday?”

  Pascal took a deep breath. “I want you to start further back than that.”

  Jan asked casually, “Will you be needing me? I should be getting to the shop.”

  There was another silence. This one was longer and the most important of all the silences we had endured this morning. Finally Pascal said, “No, I guess we won’t be needing you, Miss Bonnet.”

  “That was too bad about Mr. Malone,” she said. “I decorated his father-in-law’s house. Mr. William Duster—do you know him?”

  “I—have heard of him,” Pascal said. “I—don’t know him personally.” He looked at me. “A friend of yours, too?”

  “I never met the man,” I said steadily.

  Pascal looked back at Jan. “Did Mr. Duster, by chance, ever mention to you his feelings about his son-in-law, his general attitude toward him?”

  Jan shook her head. “Until Brock told me, I had no idea Mr. Malone was Mr. Duster’s son-in-law.”

  “Thank you,” he said and looked at me. “Where will we talk?”

  “Right here,” I suggested. “There’s still some coffee left and you boys look like you could use some.”

  They sat down and Jan said good-bye and Caroline waited until she had closed the door to say, “A lovely girl like that and a crummy private eye. How come you don’t get married?”

  “Because she won’t marry a crummy private eye. Do you boys use sugar and cream?”

  They told me what they used and I brought the coffee and told them all about my yesterday, every word, and even showed them the letter Jan had written to Mr. Duster for me.

  “Why’d she write this?” Pascal asked.

  “She wanted me to solicit his business. I explained to her that reputable agencies don’t solicit.”

  “You’re not an agency; you’re a man.”

  I said nothing.

  He asked, “How do you figure the Petroff brothers in this?”

  “So far as I know, what they told me made sense. How do you figure them generally?”

  “Clean, for gamblers. Never heavy and never involved with any syndicate.”

  “So,” I said, “what have we got? Duster, his daughter, Gina Ronico, maybe Harry Adler, but biggest of all—Frank Giovanni. Adler we can eliminate, probably.”

  “We, we, we …” Sergeant Pascal said. “What do you mean—we?”

  “Brock Callahan and the L.A.P.D.,” I explained. “Are you telling me to stay out of this?”

  “You don’t work for nothing. Who’d pay you?”

  “Somebody, eventually,” I answered. “Somebody always does, eventually.”

  Caroline smiled. “I thought you didn’t solicit? Not much!”

  “I never solicit,” I said firmly. “But being locally prominent and practically incorruptible, I am frequently solicited by those in trouble. In this particular case I have already had contact with a number of the principals, and one or more of them will undoubtedly try to hire me.”

  “Lah-de-dah,” Caroline said. “Ain’t we something?”

  “I am trying to give this miserable racket some dignity,” I explained patiently. “I am trying to be articulate and forthright and informative.”

  Pascal shook his head. “God help us. I can never tell when you’re serious.”

  “Does it matter? Have you ever wondered when I was honest? Have I ever been anything else?”

  “Yes,” Caroline said.

  Pascal frowned. “Basically, you have always been honest so far as my experience with you goes. And I’ll admit when you cut a cute corner, it’s on the side of the angels. But also basically, you’re in a dishonest business.”

  “He hath brought many captives home to justice,” I reminded him. “A number of them to the West Side Station.”

  “Stop it,” he said. “Don’t get coy; a man is dead.”

  There was another of our nonpregnant silences and then Caroline said wearily, “Why do we fight the slob, Sarge? We’re going to ride with him, anyway. We always do.”

  “I know, I know,” Pascal said. “Okay, Brock, you go see Duster.”

  I frowned. “See Duster? Solicit him, you mean? No?”

  “See him. Don’t solicit him. Tell him you’re working for another client and investigating his son-in-law’s murder. Get his reaction.”

  “And who pays me for this?”

  He stood up and smiled. “To use your words—somebody always does, eventually.”

  “Cut it out,” I protested. “You’re asking me to work for nothing, that’s what you’re doing.”

  “You could use a couple of friends, couldn’t you? Friends who are decent enough to keep your romantic escapades from the newspapers, friends that only half an hour ago you threatened to destroy?”

  I stood up and so did Caroline. I said, “It’s blackmail.”

  Sergeant Pascal shook his head. “It’s friendly persuasion.”

  “It’s an alliance,” Caroline said. “It’s good citizens working together, that’s what it is.”

  Pascal looked wonderingly at Caroline and then accusingly at me. “Ye gods,” he said, “now you’ve got him doing it.”

  FOUR

  JAN HAD STACKED THE dishes. I washed them before driving over to the office. It was a beautiful, sunny day, with only a few fleecy clouds in the sky and nowhere any indication of our recent deluge. The flivver hummed to herself and I sang quietly and melodiously.

  At my office there were three bills and one check. I filed the bills and put the check in my wallet and dialed my answering service. The nasal, disembodied voice of the poor man’s secretary informed me that a Mr. Harry Adler had phoned twice and would phone again.

  I could guess why he wanted to talk with me, so I typed up my interviews of yesterday. If Harry was acting as Mrs. Malone’s agent, he probably wanted to hire me to investigate the case. And this case had really started yesterday. It was logical to guess Mrs. Malone wouldn’t have the time nor the inclination to see m
e today. There was a funeral to be arranged.

  Harry didn’t phone. He came in around ten-thirty and confirmed what I had told Sergeant Pascal—somebody would eventually pay me. Mrs. Malone wanted me to investigate the death of her husband.

  Harry said, “If the Police Department doesn’t object. They probably will, won’t they?”

  “Possibly not. They’ve already talked to me about it, because of my investigation yesterday. Any favorite suspects, Harry?”

  He shrugged and looked bleakly past me, toward the window. “I’m no Hawkshaw. Like I said yesterday, though, Giovanni could be the man to start with.”

  “Why?”

  His eyes came back to me. “He’s the only hoodlum Tip knew, ain’t he?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “From what I heard yesterday, this Malone man must have been quite a little monster.”

  “Nobody’s perfect.”

  “Did you like him, Harry?”

  He frowned. “What difference does that make? This world is full of fine people I don’t like.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “I didn’t have any feeling about him either way, except financial.”

  “Are you going to the funeral? Are you going to send flowers?”

  “Get off my back, Callahan.” He took a deep breath. “You figuring me for a suspect, or something?”

  “Not officially,” I said. “Everybody’s a suspect. Shall I bill Mrs. Malone directly or through you?”

  “Bill her.” He stood up. “Did you see Giovanni yesterday?”

  “No. He wasn’t home.” I paused. “Harry, I did learn something yesterday when I went to see Giovanni. I put it into yesterday’s report. But it just occurred to me that it isn’t something I want Mrs. Malone to know right now. Would it be honest to leave it out?”

  He smiled sadly. “Your honesty is your problem. I got enough to do trying to figure my own.” His voice was quieter. “A broad?”

  I nodded.

  “You could hold off for a couple of days with that kind of information. Until after the funeral, at least.”

  I nodded. I said, “I never should have left the Church. Then I wouldn’t have to make my own moral decisions.”