“If you’d have stayed with the Church,” he told me, “you’d have to find a new profession.” That was his exit line.
There was no reason for him to be superior; his profession was as scorned as mine by laymen. Though we both rendered a highly important service in a civilization as complex as ours.
If Gloria Duster Malone was naïve enough to believe Tip’s tomcat inclinations had ended with their marriage, it would be logical to guess she had nothing to do with his death. I was certain she hadn’t, anyway, just as I was certain Harry Adler couldn’t be involved. But today’s certainty is tomorrow’s incredulity; it was bad practice to assume innocence because of an apparent lack of motive. It is usually the motives that are hidden, not the killers.
I phoned Giovanni’s apartment and a maid answered. She told me Mr. Giovanni had left for Las Vegas late yesterday afternoon. And then, on what must have been an extension, another voice broke in to ask, “Who is this, please?”
“Brock Callahan,” I answered. “Is this Miss Ronico?”
There was a click and the maid was off the line. Gina Ronico said softly. “The police were here to talk with me this morning. Why were they here?”
“Don’t you know?”
A momentary silence, and then, “Did you tell them? Did you tell them I was with Tip yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes. Were you with him last night?”
“Of course not! You shouldn’t say things like that. Why would I be?”
“I have no idea, but it seems likely somebody was. I’m sure he didn’t go up there to play solitaire.”
A longer pause and I thought I could hear her breathing. Finally, “Are you—are you still working for Mrs. Malone?”
“I could be.”
“I suppose the police will tell her where Tip was yesterday afternoon …?”
“Not unless it’s important. Is it?”
“It—wasn’t anything—serious. He …” A long pause. “I don’t like to talk over the phone. Could you come over here?”
I told her I’d be right over.
Maybe yesterday hadn’t been wasted; my actions then were stirring up reactions today, and today I was being paid. Without official status, with no big stick to wave, the private operative can work only on the reaction of the people he investigates. Only in their reaction can he hope to find revelation.
So far Miss Ronico had been the only person to reveal her concern. But there would be others. There always were.
She was wearing black velvet Capri pants and a white cashmere pullover when she opened the door to my ring. In the white and gold room this was very effective. Even if she had been flat-chested, it would have been effective. She was wearing also a tremulous smile, Hollywood Drama School No. 3, and an appealing air of adolescent concern.
“How old are you?” I asked.
She frowned. “Why …? I’m twenty-seven. Why?”
“You look much younger. Tip Malone built his reputation on ladies much younger.”
Her chin trembled. “His wife isn’t younger. Can’t you stop hating him, now that he’s dead?”
“I don’t hate him. I never even met him until yesterday.”
She stared at me. I stared at her. She turned and looked out at the city, giving me her facial and mammary profile. Something stirred in me. …
“You’re a beautiful woman,” I said.
She turned back. “And you’re a cynical and probably vulgar man. I don’t now why I asked you to come over.”
I stood patiently where I was, waiting for her mood to change. She said, “I suppose you’ve already told Mrs. Malone about yesterday afternoon?”
I shook my head. “What was there to tell? Tip was here and I put that into my report but only a low mind would read anything into that. And I’ll probably take it out of the report I send to Mrs. Malone.”
“Why? Why should you do that?” She waved at the davenport. “Sit down, Mr. Callahan.”
I sat down and smiled at her. “Because Mrs. Malone came to see me, she was worried about her husband hanging around with your uncle. At least, that’s what she said she was worried about. It doesn’t seem important to that investigation to mention he was here and your uncle wasn’t. And certainly I wouldn’t get any satisfaction out of causing you any unnecessary trouble.”
She sat at the other end of the davenport and returned my smile. “Perhaps you’re not so cynical.”
“I might not even be vulgar. Tell me, why did you ask me to come over?”
“Because I was worried about Mrs. Malone. She has the reputation of being a—a violent woman.”
“Really? I hadn’t heard that. Who told you?”
She licked her lips, a starlet’s trick. “Tip.”
I said lightly, “Straying husbands usually give their wives bad character traits they don’t have. Were you and Tip in love?”
She stared at me for seconds before shaking her head.
“Were you with him last night?”
She shook her head again. “I—told the police whom I was with. They’ve already checked it, because one of the men in the party phoned me just a few minutes ago. I …” She broke off and looked at the white nylon carpeting. “Why did Mrs. Malone worry about Tip and my uncle being together?”
“Jockeys aren’t supposed to hang around with gamblers.”
“My uncle isn’t a gambler.”
“Probably not. I used the politest word I could to describe his various activities, Miss Ronico.”
She glared at me.
“Stop it,” I said. “You’re not that naïve. Do you think Congressional committees operate on whimsy?”
“They were persecuting him. They resent his success.”
“Ma’am, it’s remarks like that that make me cynical. Now stop playing the village virgin and tell me honestly why you wanted to talk with me.”
The big brown eyes grew wide and there was moisture in them and the innocence of Hollywood. “I’ve already told you.”
“No, you haven’t. I’ve been nice to you, deleting that bit in my report about yesterday afternoon. Reciprocate, sister.”
“Are you naturally crude or do you work at it?”
“It’s about fifty-fifty. I guess I’m wasting your time. And I don’t mind telling you that you’ve wasted my time and my gasoline. When your uncle gets back from Las Vegas, tell him I want to see him. I did him a favor once and I think he’s more appreciative than you are.”
The eyes were wide again, without the moisture. “You—wouldn’t tell Uncle Frank about Tip, would you—about his being here yesterday?”
“I sure as hell would, sister. Is it some kind of secret?”
She nodded humbly. “I—promised Uncle Frank I wouldn’t see Tip any more.”
“Why? Has Uncle Frank gone on some kind of morality binge, or something?”
“Damn you,” she said quietly. “Damn your arrogance!” The moisture was back in the alert brown eyes and this time it spilled over, running down her dark cheeks.
I sat four feet away feeling like a big, vulgar, crude, cynical, arrogant lout. Her hands trembled and her shoulders shook and then the tears cascaded and she put her head forward into her hands.
If it was an act, it was a good one. It was better than they taught in most of the local schools. I looked at the fluffy nylon carpet and said nothing.
“Go,” she whispered. “Leave. Tell anybody any damned thing you want to about me. But get out of here!”
I didn’t go. I sat and waited.
When she had regained partial control I said gently, “Tip Malone was involved in two paternity suits while he was still a minor. Almost everyone I’ve talked with has told me he was a vicious man of no conscience. Now, why in hell should a genial, harmless Irishman like me shake you up like this?” I handed her a handkerchief.
She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She looked at me in wonder. “Are you telling me the truth?”
“Yes.”
“I’d heard that. Did
his—wife tell you that?”
I shook my head. “She’s probably one of two people in this town who liked Tip Malone.”
“I’m the second, is that what you mean?”
I nodded.
She inhaled deeply. “Would you like a cup of coffee? I usually have coffee and sweet rolls about now.”
“Not unless the coffee will bring out what you planned to tell me when you told me to come here. You planned to give me some information then, in exchange for my silence about yesterday, didn’t you. Once you learned I was going to be discreet about that anyway, you decided not to talk. Right?”
She stared and finally nodded. “How did you know?”
“I’m kind of bright. Let’s get to the coffee.”
“The maid is out,” she said. “Would you like to drink it in the kitchen?”
“Sure. Why did you send the maid out? She was here when I phoned.”
“I didn’t send her out, Mr. Callahan. She’s doing the marketing. Lord, the arrogance of some people …”
In the kitchen, she made instant coffee and warmed the sweet rolls. They were bear claws, my favorite, loaded with sliced almonds. Miss Ronico looked friendlier as she poured my coffee and sat down cosily across from me.
I asked her, “When did Tip leave you yesterday?”
“About ten minutes after you left. He got a phone call and told me he had to meet a fellow. I asked him if I would see him later and he said he had a date.”
“He had a date for last night?”
She nodded, looking at me evenly. “That’s what he told me. And I guess he did have. There wouldn’t be any point in his going to that house alone, would there?”
“Why not? It’s his house.”
She didn’t answer.
I said, “I guess, where women were concerned, he was—insatiable, wasn’t he?”
She flushed and stared at me.
“That was his reputation anyway,” I went on. “Do you know who phoned him yesterday?”
She shook her head. “I had a feeling it was that agent or manager of his. … I forget his name.”
“Harry Adler?”
She nodded. “I don’t know why I thought that, except that he called Tip here once before.”
“And how about girls? Did Tip ever talk about any of his girls?”
“There was one,” she said. She paused and pursed her lips.
“Go on,” I urged.
She looked at me stubbornly. “Why should I? Why should I subject her to your insolence?”
“You didn’t tell the police about her?”
“They didn’t ask about other girls. They’re probably not always thinking about girls, like you are.”
I sighed. “Tip and I, brothers. Don’t you think I’m more attractive, though?”
She bit into a bear claw and said nothing.
“I’ve been nice to you,” I reminded her. “I’ve tried to act like a gentleman about what I saw yesterday. And this is my thanks.”
She ate without speaking and so did I.
“I wouldn’t be insolent,” I said, after a minute of silence. “Don’t forget, a man is dead.”
“And the police are working on it.”
“The police have only so much time for each murder. We have too many murders for any particular one to get the full treatment. Tip may not have been much—but he’s dead.”
Moisture came again to the big brown eyes.
“And I’ve been hired to find his killer,” I went on. “What difference does my insolence make, or any other peeve you may have against me?”
She said nothing.
“Either you’re a citizen or you’re not,” I pointed out. “It’s that simple, Miss Ronico.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “You’re not the police. Any duty I have as a citizen would be to the Police Department.”
I nodded. “True enough. So just go to the phone and call them and tell them about this other girl.”
Her chin quivered. She sipped her coffee. She looked at me and said, “And get the newspapers on the poor girl? She probably has nothing to do with his death, but the papers in this stinking town will crucify her anyway, won’t they?”
“Then tell me,” I said gently. “I don’t work with the newspapers. And I don’t tell the police about suspects who turn out to be innocent.”
She studied me suspiciously.
“I work with the police,” I admitted. “But in my own way.”
“I’ve no reason to love them,” she said, “after all the needless trouble they’ve given my uncle.”
I made no comment. I couldn’t think of any that would keep me on her side regarding Frank Giovanni.
Another silence, which I broke. “I might be insolent. But I am also discreet, efficient and honest, if you’ll pardon the immodesty.”
She poured herself another cup of coffee.
I finished mine and stood up. I said irritably, “Okay. Thanks for the coffee. I thought there’d be at least one person besides his wife who’d be mourning Tip Malone.” I pushed my chair back under the table. “Tell your uncle I want to see him as soon as he gets back to town.”
She stared at me, her chin quivering again.
I gave her my impressive back and started toward the living room.
“Wait,” she said.
I turned and looked at her with patient boredom.
She said softly. “You’ll be—discreet? You won’t—mention my name?”
I nodded.
“Her name is Selina Stone. She lives out near Malibu somewhere. She’s a—singer, I guess you’d call her. The Hildegarde type.”
“Thank you, Gina. “I promise you you won’t regret this.”
FIVE
FROM A DRUG STORE on the Strip, I phoned a columnist I knew and asked him if he had ever heard of Selina Stone.
He had. “A song stylist, would that be the word?” he said. “You know, not much voice but a lot of class and a sort of Continental carnal-knowledge type of delivery. Why do you want to know, Brock?”
“Tommy Lund thinks she might be okay for a Rams’ roundup we’re having.”
“Huh!” he said. “Worst possible type for one of those lowbrow orgies. Goldie Lester is what you boys want.”
“She’s too commonplace,” I said. “Some of us are kind of suave, you know. Especially the guards.”
“Stop it. I’ve been to one of those. This Selina girl gets top dollar, too. Why don’t you raid some burlesque house?”
“Maybe we will. You don’t happen to know who the girl’s agent is, do you?”
“Jerry Kline,” he said. “Who else?”
I thanked him and hung up. The office of Jeremiah (Jerry) Kline was not too far from where I was and I walked over. He had a very small client list, but did well with off-beat comics and society singers, promoting them on a sort of middle-class snob appeal.
It was a small office but elegant and the girl behind the desk in the reception room was plain, neat and efficient. She told me Mr. Kline was busy at the moment but would soon be free.
“I don’t really need to see him,” I told her. “You could probably give me what I came for—the address of Selina Stone.”
She gave me her meaningless receptionist’s smile and said coolly, “I’m sorry, Mr. Callahan. You’ll have to ask Mr. Kline for that.”
Which I did, about three minutes later in his office.
He was a thin and nervous man and he frowned at my request. “Is she in some kind of trouble, Mr. Callahan?”
“I don’t know. I hope to find out. If she isn’t, the police will never know I called on her.”
“Police …? Would you mind telling me what this is all about?”
“Not now. It’s between me and Miss Stone, at the moment.”
“Is that so? For your information, Mr. Callahan, I’m not only her agent, I’m her business manager. So anything that concerns her concerns me. I want to make that clear.”
“You have. Now, either give me
her address or phone number or prepare to deliver her to the police.”
“On what charge?”
I didn’t answer.
He took a deep breath. “You have a—rather solid reputation, so I’m sure your interest in her has nothing to do with blackmail.”
I nodded. “You can bet on that.”
He stared at me for a few more seconds and then pulled a card from a drawer and wrote something on it. He handed it to me and said, “I intend to phone her and tell her you’re on the way, of course.”
“Of course,” I said. I smiled a farewell.
The address he gave me was Big Rock Road, in the hills above Malibu and not too far from Gollago Lake. The hills were green, after the rains, and the vision was unlimited across the blue Bay. Beautiful country. … Miserable people but beautiful country.
To my right off the Coast Highway now a road wound up into the hills and an arrow indicated this was the road to Big Rock Mesa. It figured to me that Big Rock Road should be somewhere near Big Rock Mesa so I turned up into the green hills.
The road narrowed to a single lane around a recent slide, following the sharp curve of the canyon wall, and then branched off along a ridge and led toward a grove of eucalyptus that shaded a mesa high above me.
A colt and a mare frolicked in a gentle slope of pasture to my left as the flivver bounced off a rain-loosened rock and jarred my molars. Then we were on the ridge and the going was smooth.
The second house in the eucalyptus grove was the house I wanted, 20579 Big Rock Road. It was a redwood and glass modern, cantilevered on steel beams over the drop on the ocean side of the ridge. It looked about right for a sophisticated song stylist.
An Aston-Martin two-seater was parked in the carport, black, sleek and saucy. I checked the registration on the steering column before pressing the front doorbell button.
The woman who opened the door was some age between twenty and thirty-five, a fairly tall, thin woman with a narrow but highly attractive face. She had coal-black hair in a short informal cut and an erect, attention-demanding posture.
Her voice was low, her smile doubtful. “Mr. Callahan?”
I nodded.
“Mr. Kline phoned. You’re an investigator, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Miss Stone.”
She started to say something, changed her mind, and said instead, “Come in, Mr. Callahan.”
Come Die with Me Page 4
