Come Die with Me

by William Campbell Gault

  The morning Times informed me that yesterday had been the hottest April 9th in twenty-eight years and that the police were nowhere in their investigation of Tip Malone’s death.

  The editorial page blamed it all on the recent rise in illegal bookmaking in the city but didn’t carry the thought to its obvious premise. Without the two local and profitable tracks, the illegal gambling would be cut to nothing. But in this town not even the ministers have the courage to attack horse racing.

  The sun was already up and working; it looked as if we were due for another scorcher. I drove over to the office to finish my report of yesterday.

  I had promised Miss Ronico that I would be discreet about revealing Selina Stone, but Miss Ronico had already told her uncle about the girl. How much of my promise was still valid?

  I didn’t mention her in the report. One more day won’t hurt, I told myself, lying.

  I was separating the carbons from the originals when Pete Petroff came in, looking like a smug Cheshire cat. “I’ve got something for you,” he purred.

  “On Giovanni, no doubt,” I said, “or you wouldn’t look so happy.”

  “Who else? You know, the police didn’t question him, not yet. They asked that niece of his where he was night before last and she told them he was in Las Vegas. And she told them the name of the man he was supposed to be seeing, a guy named Alan Chalmers.”

  “I’ve heard of him. Big man.”

  “Right. Got a show place, northwest of the Strip. Giovanni was supposed to be staying with Chalmers there. The law checked with Chalmers and Chalmers said it was all true. And the housekeeper said it was true. And so did the chauffeur.”

  “So …?”

  “So I happened to know the chauffeur. I’m still holding a chit for four grand he owes me. And I got the word from him—Giovanni was never there.”

  I looked at Pete levelly. “For four grand some men will say anything.”

  “What the hell do you mean by that?”

  “I mean you hate Giovanni enough to frame him. I’ll bet that chauffeur doesn’t even owe you four grand any more.”

  He stared at me. “Man, you’re absolutely nuts. You think, because Dave got slapped around a little, I’d want to frame Giovanni?”

  I shook my head. “I think it goes back further than that, though I don’t know to what. But why would you be so anxious to involve Giovanni’s niece with Tip Malone? Why did you and Dave come here that afternoon to make sure I got the picture?”

  “We came here,” he said quietly, “and asked you not to mention Gina Ronico’s name to Mrs. Malone.”

  “Sure you did. Knowing that I don’t relish taking advice from men on your side of the law. And hoping you had made it clear that she and Tip were involved and that maybe that would hurt Giovanni where he can be hurt.”

  He continued to stare. He said nothing.

  “What’s your beef with Giovanni?” I asked.

  “What damned difference does it make?” he said. “I’m bringing you facts, facts, facts! Don’t you want them?”

  “They aren’t facts yet. Would this chauffeur stand up in court and swear that Giovanni wasn’t a house guest of Chalmers?”

  “Of course not. You couldn’t expect him to. I’m not giving you a court case; I’m trying to give you some leads that will bring the case to court eventually.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Okay.”

  “What the hell are you hot about?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I thought you were giving me a sour lead. And this case is hopeless enough already. Look, if Giovanni wasn’t in Vegas, where was he?”

  “One guess is all you should need for that.”

  I shook my head. “He’s too big. He can hire all the killers he wants. He wouldn’t take the chance.”

  “Wouldn’t he? This one was personal. You should know the way he feels about his niece. It’s like a religion.”

  “I know,” I said. “I talked with him yesterday.”

  There was wonder in his eyes. “You did?”

  I nodded. “He phoned me. He warned me he would go to some length to protect his niece’s reputation.”

  “He’s already gone to murder. What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I was working with the L.A.P.D. and would not be diverted. Frankly, I was very brave.”

  Pete lit a cigarette. He blew smoke at the ceiling and stared thoughtfully at nothing. I had the feeling he had something on his mind that he hesitated to voice.

  Finally he said, “Maybe I ought to tell the law what I learned about Giovanni’s alibi.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  He frowned. “Ah—couldn’t you?”

  “Sure. And they’d come to you and you’d have to go on record as my informant. And that chauffeur would never back you up publicly.”

  “You couldn’t just drop the word to the law without using my name?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  Pete said softly, “I sure hate that man. I’d like to see him in the gas chamber.”

  “The hell of it is,” I said, “you don’t hate him as much as you fear him. I’m not fighting your battles, Pete. I’ll check out the information and any other information you might bring me. But don’t expect me to have the guts you lack.”

  “Boy!” he said. “You are in a mood, aren’t you? All right. I’ll keep in touch with you.” He smiled. “I’ll help you despite yourself.”

  He went out and I picked up the phone. I dialed Frank Giovanni’s number—and changed my mind before the phone rang. It wasn’t anything I wanted to ask him over the phone. I wanted to see his face when I sprung this latest one on him.

  I got the dial tone again and dialed Jan’s shop. When she answered the phone I said, “This is Brock and I love you very much.” I hung up and went out.

  It had probably been an unfortunate whim, that call to Jan. Because a man would need to be drunk or guilty to do a thing like that. And she knew I didn’t drink.

  From the desk in the lobby the clerk called Giovanni’s apartment, and he was in and would see me. I went up in the quiet elevator, framing soft words in my mind.

  Again his niece was not in view. The maid led me to the mahogany-paneled study and he was sitting behind the big desk. Was he trying to hide his legs?

  “Well, Brock,” he said, “what is it now?”

  I waited until the maid had closed the door. Then I said, “I’m checking out a rumor. I understand your alibi for the night Tip Malone was killed is a man named Alan Chalmers.”

  He said evenly, “I wasn’t asked for an alibi.”

  “You probably will be, as soon as the D.A. gets back to town. He’s in Phoenix on a little vacation.”

  “I know. Don’t the police accept Mr. Chalmers’ story? His chauffeur and housekeeper corroborated it.”

  I nodded. “And now I’ve heard you weren’t there that night.”

  “From some official source?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then why are you here.”

  “As I said, to check a rumor.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm. Where does your informant claim I was that night?”

  “The only information I have is that you didn’t stay with Chalmers.”

  His gray face was bleak, his dark eyes thoughtful. Finally, “I’m trying to decide if you came here to question me, threaten me or blackmail me. What difference does it make to you whether I was with Alan Chalmers or not?”

  “If you weren’t,” I said, “you must have had a reason for pretending to be. That reason could be connected with the death of Tip Malone, and I’m investigating that.”

  “I see. But you haven’t told the police about this rumor?”

  “Not yet. It will go into my report for today and the police get a carbon copy of all my daily reports.”

  His eyes were skeptical. “Do you put everything into those reports?”

  “Everything that seems to be important. I didn’t tell Mrs. Malone about your niece and I haven’t told the polic
e about Miss Stone.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I didn’t want to harm anyone unnecessarily.”

  “Oh? Or perhaps you’re withholding the information to use for blackmail purposes later.”

  The redness moved into my brain and my hands trembled. I said as evenly as I could, “Mr. Giovanni, you’re a powerful and dangerous man, but nobody in the world talks to me like that.”

  He smiled. “I just have.”

  “And I’m waiting for your apology,” I said.

  He continued to smile and the redness in me continued to grow and I thought of my father and took a step toward him—and he said, “I apologize.”

  I stood where I was, breathing heavily, faintly embarrassed.

  He said, “You have me temporarily at a disadvantage. I happen to be alone at the moment. Has it ever occurred to you that a person like you could be killed rather cheaply?”

  “It has,” I said. “I made a mistake, being a gentleman when I first came here. Keep your boys out of my way and if you hire someone, be sure he’s a good shot.”

  I turned to go, and he said, “Nobody in the world talks to me like that.”

  “To use your line,” I said, “I just have.”

  I went out, the brass in my mouth and the tremble in my legs. I was more angry than frightened but I was frightened enough.

  NINE

  I WENT DIRECTLY BACK to the office. And from the locked drawer in my file cabinet I took out my pistol harness and the .38. Because of the heat I hadn’t worn it today but from now on I would feel naked without it.

  If I had to declare war on somebody, why not somebody I could lick? Well, I had never been known as a rational man.

  At the drug-store lunch counter my fan said, “That woman was in here asking for you, that dame that runs the decorating shop a couple blocks away.”

  “You are speaking of my truly beloved,” I told him, “and she’s no dame.”

  “So, okay. Anyway, I told her I hadn’t seen you all morning. Maybe you’d better call her.”

  “I did,” I told him, “and that’s why she was in here. What’s edible in this crummy joint today?”

  “The short ribs are pretty good,” he answered. “And we got boysenberry pie.”

  I had the short ribs. And some monologue from my fan about the Dodgers, who weren’t looking so good in spring training, and about the Rams and their miserable showing of last fall.

  His words slid off my consciousness; I was thinking of Giovanni. If he hadn’t been at his friend’s place in Las Vegas, it still didn’t mean he had anything to do with Malone’s death. But if Captain Apoyan had been right about him, if he was now out of the rackets, where else could he have been that required an alibi?

  I was planning my afternoon and attacking the boysenberry pie when my love took the next stool. She looked furious.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Murder,” I told her, “and idolatry. Chicanery and incest, high finance and low adultery. It always is.”

  “Adultery,” she said. “That’s a key word. You’ve been up to something.”

  I looked at her candidly and pityingly. “Darling, I have been up to my hips in homicide and hoodlums. I simply haven’t had time for adultery.”

  She studied me carefully, suspiciously.

  “I love you,” I said quietly. “Why don’t you have some boysenberry pie? It’s pretty good for drug-store pie.”

  Some moisture in her eyes now and she asked, “Why do I love you?”

  “It’s a natural reciprocal emotion for the great love I bear you. With the boysenberry pie, you could have vanilla ice cream.”

  “Damn you,” she said. “Damn you, damn you, damn you …!”

  I put a hand on hers. “Easy. You don’t need me. You don’t need anybody. You could have your pick of all the eligible males in Beverly Hills.”

  “Damn you,” she said. “Why didn’t you answer your phone? I called right back.”

  “I was hungry. I didn’t know it was you.”

  “I had a message,” she said. “From Mr. Duster. You didn’t go to see him, did you?”

  “His son-in-law’s funeral was this morning,” I said. “How could I see him?”

  “Well, he wants to see you. That’s why I called back. He wants to see you this afternoon.”

  “I’ll see him. How about some pie now? I’ll pay for it.”

  “You’ll pay,” she assured me. “If I find out the real reason for that silly phone call, you’ll pay plenty.”

  “I love you,” I said. “Have ice cream, too.”

  She sniffed. My fan came over and I ordered the pie for her, with ice cream, and coffee for both of us.

  It is a dilemma, my relationship with Jan. She won’t marry me, because of my trade and almost guaranteed poverty, but she wouldn’t marry a man she couldn’t sleep with, and she can’t sleep with the other men. To the best of my available knowledge.

  Women with careers shouldn’t earn more than their husbands. It’s not good for either one of them and Jan earns much more than I do, on a yearly average.

  It is a dilemma, so we drift along, getting nowhere. Though we do have our moments of ecstasy. It is a hell of a situation.

  We didn’t talk much. We ate and listened to the music on the little FM radio behind the counter and more or less thought our separate thoughts.

  And I am ashamed to admit my thoughts were divided between Giovanni and Selina Stone. That girl … That slim, elegant, perfumed and sensual girl …

  Jan said, “What in hell are you smirking about?”

  “Was I smirking? I was thinking of the time I nailed Otto Graham for a forty-six-yard loss.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  I finished my coffee and stood up. “Let’s not fight. Let’s part friends. I’m going up to see your Mr. Duster now. I’m already working for his daughter.”

  She stared at me. “She’s paying you?”

  I nodded. “She will. Harry Adler hired me but it’s her money.”

  She expelled a big breath. “Well, that’s better. I’m glad to see you’re getting some financial sanity.” She stood up.

  We went out together and on the sidewalk, right there, almost in the center of Beverly Hills, she stretched to kiss me and then went hurrying off toward her exclusive shop.

  That was another part of our trouble: we dealt with the rich all day long, the troubled rich and the wasteful rich, and that had a tendency to make us discontented and resentful.

  I climbed into the flivver and headed for the residence of William Duster, a man reputed to be worth twenty-seven million. In the north the clouds were forming; more rain was coming down the coast, heading our way.

  There was a possibility that it hadn’t been Duster’s idea to see me. Perhaps Jan had been putting in a sales pitch. If there is any flaw in my beloved, it is a persistent and exaggerated commercialism. It is a common fault among interior decorators, despite their artistic pretensions. They certainly know how to squeeze a client dry.

  The house was a two-story structure of fieldstone and Arizona flagstone, on a rise overlooking Roxbury Drive. The green concrete driveway wound through two acres of perfect lawn and continued around the house. The flivver sniffed in class-conscious disdain.

  The Negro butler told me Mr. Duster had been expecting me and led me through a breezeway that led to the covered patio on the sunny side of the house.

  Big Bill Duster was in a deck chair out there, looking tall and gaunt and green. The green came from the translucent panels overhead. He stood up and I figured him for about six-seven. He had short, wiry gray hair, fierce black eyes and a voice right out of the Oklahoma oil fields.

  He said harshly, “it’s about time, Callahan.”

  “Miss Bonnet only gave me your message twenty minutes ago,” I explained. “I’ve been busy, Mr. Duster.”

  “I’ll bet you have. And I’ll bet you know plenty about him, don’t you?”

  I stared at
Duster questioningly. The servant went quietly away. I asked, “Him …?”

  “Malone, that little bastard. I went to the funeral, just to please my daughter. But it didn’t do any good. She didn’t even come home with me. I want to know about him, Callahan, him and that niece of Giovanni’s.” He took a breath. “Her—and all the others, too. I want you to work on it. I’ll show her what kind of man she was married to.”

  I continued to stare.

  He said, “Sit down.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Could you lower your voice? My hearing is good.”

  “Don’t get smart with me,” he said.

  I sat down. “I won’t if you won’t. I already have a client, Mr. Duster. I’m not in the scandal business.”

  “Don’t con me. All you peepers are in the scandal racket. You couldn’t stay alive without divorce work, not you small-time operators.”

  I thought of Jan and kept my voice polite. I said, “Mr. Duster, you are taller than I am, but I’m wider. Because you are also richer than I am, I’m trying to be patient. But don’t push it.”

  Now, he stared. He picked at a rear tooth with his tongue and looked at me thoughtfully. Finally he said, “You are a big son-of-a-bitch at that, aren’t you?”

  I said nothing.

  He looked past me, out at the blue slate pool. “I love her. She’s all I’ve got. Absolutely all.” His face was bleak.

  I continued to say nothing.

  He looked at the clouds. “Rain coming.”

  “I know,” I said. “I can feel it in my bad knee.”

  “You got one, too?” He went over to sit in the deck chair again. He rubbed his left knee and said, “She’s a wonderful girl. No spite in her, no malice, nothing petty. And then to get tied up with a creep like that …”

  “He seemed to have an unusual attraction for women,” I said. “Maybe he brought out the maternal in them.”

  “Hmmmmm!” he said. “Had trouble with a couple of minors, too, didn’t he?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard, Mr. Duster. I didn’t check it. I think he was a minor, too, at the time, so the records wouldn’t be open to me.”