Come Die with Me

by William Campbell Gault

  “Who else would be guarding Giovanni’s girl friend?”

  He stared. “Giovanni’s girl friend? You mean Lily Chen …?”

  “Of course, Sergeant. You mean, with all the facilities at your command, you haven’t learned a simple thing like that?”

  His stare changed to a glare. “I haven’t. And I’d be interested in hearing where you did.”

  “I might tell you—someday,” I promised him. “And which hoodlum pushed me off the cliff?”

  “I suppose it was Jessup. She said it was a short, fat and bald man. We’ve had the call out for Jessup. No luck. As soon as you were pushed, Miss Chen claims she ran for the house and phoned the Sheriff’s station out there.”

  “Do you think she’ll identify Jessup if you pick him up?”

  “If he’s the man, I think she will. She struck me as an honest and responsible citizen, Brock.”

  “Strangest damned thing, Sergeant, but she struck me as that, too, at first.”

  And then the nurse came, and he had to leave.

  Gloria Duster Malone came. She looked like hell, her face puffed from crying, her eyes dull from lack of sleep.

  “You’re going to quit now, I suppose,” she said. “They’ve scared you off, haven’t they?”

  “A little,” I admitted. “I don’t know if they’ve scared me off completely or not. At the bottom of that canyon, I was ripe to kill all of them. But I’m more rational now and I’m alive for sure, and it’s an enjoyable sensation, just staying alive.”

  “I thought you were more of a man than that,” she said.

  “You thought I was more of a hero,” I corrected her. “It’s a lonely trade, Mrs. Malone. A man has no allies on that side of the stream.”

  She was silent for seconds. And then she said, “I’ll consider you as still working for me until you notify me you aren’t. Hurry and get well, Mr. Callahan.”

  Pete Petroff came. “Believe me now?” he asked. “He’ll kill you, Brock. You need a friend. I’m willing to stick my neck out.”

  “Good,” I said. “I’ll be calling on you.”

  Jan came three times the first day. She was furious and disconsolate, full of recriminations and solace, hot and cold, verbose and silent. She was everything; she was Jan.

  And then, believe it or not, Lily Chen came.

  “Frank had nothing to do with it,” she said fervently. “He swore to me had had nothing to do with it. He doesn’t want you to worry now. He’ll pay for everything.”

  “I don’t want anything from him,” I said. “Go back to your enameled showcase, Miss Chen. Go back to your inner world and believe your unbelievable dreams. We have no basis of communication.”

  “That isn’t fair,” she said. “You’re not thinking straight.”

  “I’m trying to. But you’re not. He gave you the material things. He took you from worse to what looked like better and you’re now obliged to believe only what you want to believe. Good-bye, Miss Chen. I hope your awakening won’t be too violent.”

  And Selina Stone came. She brought some girlie magazines and a portable radio and a five pound box of expensive chocolates, all wrapped in silver foil and satin ribbon.

  “My hero,” she said. “You certainly lead with your chin, don’t you, Muscles?”

  I nodded and smiled at her.

  “You’re vulnerable again,” she said. “Does the door lock?”

  I shook my head.

  She leaned over to kiss my forehead. “You look so helpless. When are you going to be whole and strong again?”

  “Soon. Sooner than the doctor thinks.”

  “Don’t be a fool now,” she said. “Don’t argue with the doctor. Be adult.”

  I smiled.

  “Did you learn anything?” she asked me. “Are you getting anywhere?”

  I shook my head.

  “Do you ever get anywhere? Do you ever learn anything?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I work hard and I’m lucky and people confide in me, for some reason.”

  “Women, particularly, I’ll bet,” she said.

  “That’s all I’ve got,” I told her, “since I left the Church.”

  That night the nurse said, “You certainly have a lot of friends, don’t you?”

  “Not many,” I said. “Not enough.”

  She closed the door and a thought came to me, a rather original thought, and I pass it on for your contemplation: Your mother has to be there when you’re born but nobody has to be there when you die.

  Under the cast my ankle itched, and I could only sleep on my left side because the cracked ribs on the right. But I wasn’t going to stay here; I hate hospitals.

  In the morning the nurse brought me the Times. There was nothing new in there on the death of Tip Malone. There was only a quarter of a column rehashing the old stuff and quoting the Department as promising a continued and thorough investigation. There was a picture of me on the first page of the local news section, and the story with the picture identified me as the “former Ram All-League guard.”

  Former, that was the word for Callahan.

  The doctor came in right after breakfast and I told him, “I’m leaving here soon. I can get around on a little cast like that. I have before.”

  “You’ll leave when I say so,” he said. “Big man …!”

  Outside, it was raining again. One of those apparently light and harmless rains that keeps falling until the gutters run over, the hills begin to slide and the Valley intersections get clogged with stalled cars.

  The only thing duller than a hospital room is a hospital room on a rainy day. It would drive me crazy eventually, I knew. But who could I trust? Too many of my friends are conformists, with the conformist’s reverent regard for the qualified medical opinion.

  I had had as many broken ankles (two) as any doctor I had ever met. It follows that my judgment on their importance should be as qualified as the doctor’s. And I knew I could get around very well with a crutch.

  But which of my conformist friends would bring me a crutch and keep a watch in the corridor? I ticked my visitors off in my mind and realized not one of them had the true spirit of adventure.

  And then, at this lowest ebb in my outlook, who should walk in? My fan. My one-man fan club, the man behind the lunch counter at the drug store, my most constant friend. And I didn’t even know his name.

  “I had to come over,” he said. “I called in sick, just to come over and cheer you up, Brock. I’m supposed to be working.”

  “You’re going to be working,” I said. “Bring me my wallet from my jacket over there.”

  He brought me my wallet and I took out some money and told him where I guessed would be the nearest place he could buy a crutch.

  “How will I bring it in?” he asked.

  “You’ll think of a way,” I told him. “I have a lot of faith in you. And then I’ll want you to watch the corridor for me. I’ll leave you a blank check, so you can pay the bill.”

  “Nix,” he said. “Boy, that puts me right in the middle of it.”

  “Of what? Look, hospitals aren’t happy if people leave of their own accord. But what really bugs them is people who try to leave without paying. They’re very sensitive about that, because they are nonprofit institutions and they need the money for their nonprofit. I guarantee you nobody will have trouble, if we pay the bill.”

  “So it gets in the papers,” he complained, “and my boss reads it, and he’ll know I wasn’t home sick, and then what …?”

  I shrugged. “To me it’s a simple problem. Either you are a friend or you’re not. The rest is hairsplitting.”

  He looked at me steadily, some mist in his eyes. And then he said, “I’m on the way, Brock, old buddy.” And he went out proudly.

  A few minutes later, the nurse came in and I beckoned her closer. I said in a loud whisper, “My friend has gone to get some evidence for me to examine. I would appreciate it if we’re not disturbed while I examine it.”

  Her eyes wid
ened. “About the Tip Malone murder?”

  I paused and then nodded. “You are one of the three people in the world who know that now. We’ll keep it at three, won’t we?”

  “You have my solemn word, Mr. Callahan,” she promised.

  Getting around in the car would be no problem. The flivver has an automatic transmission, and who needs a left foot with an automatic transmission?

  My fan would drive me to the office and I could have my car picked up from the police garage. Once out of this depressing hospital atmosphere, perhaps I could decide whether I wanted any more of this case. At the moment I had had too much of it.

  My fan came back with the crutch wrapped in brown paper. He told me, “I cased this joint. You go to the left when you leave the room. There’s an automatic service elevator at the end of the corridor. The door at the bottom leads to an alley and my car is parked on the lot right across from the alley. Don’t take the radio; I’ll bring that.”

  We closed the door and he helped me dress. Getting out of bed was the worst part; the blood rushed down to my bad ankle and almost blacked me out for a second. But the worst went away, and it began to throb with a pulsating ache.

  When we were ready, he looked out and said, “All clear.”

  I went out, turned to the left and he went to the right, to the bend in the corridor where he could intercept any busybodies who might be coming from that direction.

  Once in the elevator, I began to breathe again. Once outside, I began to live. The rain had momentarily slowed and there was a hint of a clearing in the north. There was a remote possibility we would even see the sun sometime today.

  The parking-lot attendant helped me into my fan’s car, and I sat there, holding my thumbs.

  He came out grinning. He looked very pleased with himself as he came over to the car and put the radio on the seat between us.

  “I knew you could do it,” I told him. “Didn’t I tell you you could do it?”

  “I surprised myself,” he said. “You know what I told ’em?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I told ’em that if there was any fuss, I would have to hold up payment, that they wouldn’t get a check.” He shook his head. “And suddenly there wasn’t any fuss.”

  “You’re a born diplomat,” I said. “I’m recommending you to the State department.”

  He shook his head again, this time in wonder. “Tell me, Brock, why is it I can get a room in the finest hotel in town for fifteen bucks, but a crummy hospital room like that costs thirty a day?”

  “It’s very simple,” I explained. “Hospitals are nonprofit, like the government.”

  We rode out of the lot and headed west, toward my office and his lunch counter. I still didn’t know his name.

  ELEVEN

  IN MY OFFICE I TOOK four aspirins and drank two long glasses of spring water, sat down at my desk and typed up the story of my adventures since last I had sat here, trying to remember the exact words and the meaningful inflections.

  And then I read it, everything you have read up to now. And it seemed odd to me how often I had used the word “naïve.” I had accused Selina Stone of naïveté; also Gina Ronico, Frank Giovanni, Lily Chen, Gloria Duster Malone. It didn’t seem likely to me that any one of them was guilty of that.

  Was I, then, becoming cynical? Or were they pretending an innocence that hid guilt? What else would a pretended innocence be used for? To hide implication; it seemed logical that all of them hadn’t killed Tip Malone.

  Four of the five were women. Women generally are less naïve than men. It’s men who read the sport pages and believe the economists and get emotional about politicians. Most men never get beyond the emotional age of seven. Women read mystery stories and are therefore generally hep about what goes on in the world.

  I looked at the last page I had typed and considered the advisability of making it the last page of this case. Murder was nothing special; it went on all the time, physical, spiritual and mental murder. We were all dead, one way or another.

  Who was Tip Malone and what was he to me? He was something to his widow and she had the money. I was profiting by his death and was I so naïve I didn’t realize it was money that was important, not murder? Money, money, money … Get smart, Callahan. Listen to your beloved about that. She’s got the word. Money, money, money …

  I looked at my ankle cast and was conscious of my ribs and remembered the old wheeze—there are no pockets in a shroud.

  I would do almost anything for money. Would I commit suicide for it?

  Nonsense, this was negative thinking. They had tried to kill me and failed. From now on I would be more careful. I would be more polite and more careful and …

  And nothing. It was too late for that. I was already on Frank Giovanni’s list of people least likely to achieve Social Security status. Politeness wouldn’t change that, only a publicly announced withdrawal from investigation of his affairs and affairs that impinged on his affairs.

  Two hundred and twenty pounds on the horns of a dilemma, a ludicrous image. Was I a man or wasn’t I?

  A man I was, and therefore vulnerable. I didn’t think a simple wish to continue living necessarily made me gutless. It is a basic and universal wish, shared even by jockeys and bullfighters.

  I went to the window and saw that the clear patch of sky in the north was growing, but the rain was still falling steadily on the street below.

  My phone rang, and it was Gloria Duster Malone. “I called the hospital,” she said, “and they told me you had sneaked out. That was foolish of you.”

  “I suppose.”

  A pause, and then, “Are you still working for me?”

  “I haven’t decided, Mrs. Malone. It’s a difficult decision to make.”

  “I suppose it is,” she admitted. “But you’ve been—so much more successful than the police so far, that—well, I hoped you would decide in my favor.”

  “I’ll let you know. Good-bye, Mrs. Malone.”

  “Just a second,” she said. “Have you seen Harry Adler?”

  “I haven’t. Did he have some message for me?”

  “I didn’t mean that,” she said. “His sister phoned and asked if I’d seen him. He must be missing. She sounded very worried.”

  “I’ll phone her,” I said, “and inquire. And I’ll call you the moment I’ve made up my mind.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be waiting.”

  Harry Adler missing … A senseless premonition stirred in me and I sat down and stared at the top of my desk. Harry Adler missing. Had he, too, been investigating Malone’s death and was that why he was missing.

  I heard footsteps in the hall outside and then my door opened and Pete Petroff stood there. He looked tense and nervous.

  “I went to the hospital first,” he said. “They told me you’d left.” He took a breath. “Dave’s missing. I haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon.”

  “Something awful weird is going on,” I said. “I just learned that Harry Adler is missing, too.”

  “Adler …?” He frowned. “Oh, that little guy. Malone’s agent?”

  I nodded.

  We stared at each other. And he asked, “What in hell is going on, Brock? It’s all Giovanni’s work, isn’t it?”

  I shrugged. “Dave may just have taken off. He was scared as hell last time I saw him. I wouldn’t be a damned bit surprised if he left town for his own protection.”

  “Without telling me? We’re close, Brock. Hell, we’ve never been separated.”

  “If you’re that close,” I said, “he wouldn’t know anything you wouldn’t know, would he? And if he disappeared because he knew something, maybe now would be the right time for you to tell me what he knew.”

  Petroff stared and then came over to sit in my customer’s chair. “If I knew anything, wouldn’t I tell you? I want to nail Giovanni as much as you do.”

  “You’re still on that kick, are you? If you’re so close to your brother, tell me why Jessup was w
orking him over that day?”

  “Because he thought we were friends of Malone’s, that’s why. But we were never real close to him. Tell me, when did this Adler disappear?”

  “I don’t know if he has, for sure,” I said. “Just a minute.”

  I looked up his number and dialed it and his sister Bertha answered. I said, “This is Brock Callahan, Mrs. Fine. Have you heard from your brother?”

  “Not a word,” she said. “And Harry always lets me know where he is going when he goes away. Where could he be?”

  “I’ve no idea,” I answered. “Have you told the police?”

  “This morning,” she said. “I tell you, I’m worried sick.” She sniffed. “Yesterday afternoon he said he was going over to Heinie’s for some pinochle. But he never went there.” She began to cry. “It’s that Giovanni, isn’t it? He’s behind this.” She began to sob and then she hung up.

  Petroff looked at me questioningly and I nodded. “She’s notified the police about her brother,” I said. “Have you told them about yours?”

  “I’m going to,” he said, “right now.” He stood up. “If you need a chauffeur, Brock …?”

  “I’ll holler,” I promised him. “And if you learn anything, let me know, won’t you?”

  He promised he would.

  He left and I sat there, my heart hammering, my ankle throbbing. Malone first? Then Adler and Dave Petroff? Giovanni’s work? Captain Apoyan had told me that so far as he knew Giovanni was out of the rackets, in the investment business.

  I phoned the West Los Angeles Station and Captain Apoyan was in. I asked him, “Changed your mind about Giovanni, Captain?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Malone murdered, Dave Petroff and Harry Adler missing. Whose work is that?”

  “You tell me. Can you prove it’s Giovanni’s?”

  “Give me a likelier suspect.”

  “I don’t have any at the moment. But you see, my impetuous and emotional friend, we don’t work on hunches and hearsay. We try to be more factual.”

  “Captain,” I said evenly, “I often wonder whether the boys in the Department want to work on men like Giovanni at all.”