Come Die with Me

by William Campbell Gault

  Tommy spelled it out, diplomatically and lucidly, reminding them of my past contributions and the necessity for me to maintain a personal and private attitude toward my profession. He used the word “integrity” a little too often, I thought, but maybe repetition was necessary.

  When he had finished, Trask looked at Pascal, and then they both looked at me. Trask sighed. Pascal shrugged.

  I said, “Unless you can match up that .32 slug, where are you? And that would only nail Adler’s murderer. You haven’t got a ghost of a chance on Malone. That would be the tricky one.”

  Trask frowned. Pascal said, “Does it always have to be tricky with you? What’s wrong with standard procedure?”

  “You tell me,” I suggested. “What has it got you, so far?”

  Trask smiled. “It’s got you in the can. That alone is rather rewarding.” He looked at Pascal. “You work it out with him. I can’t get involved in something this cute.”

  Pascal’s face froze. He said evenly, “Yes, sir.”

  Trask smiled again and left. Tommy Self raised his eyebrows.

  “So long, Tommy,” I said. “Your Harvard conscience might be offended. Thanks for coming down.”

  “Don’t thank me,” he said cooly. “Thank your client. He’ll pay for my time.”

  “It’s a woman,” I corrected him.

  “Of course,” he said. “I should have known. It always is.” He waved and went out.

  Pascal was breathing heavily. I said, “Easy, Sergeant. Politics we will always have. And politicians. While working stiffs like you and I do the world’s dirty work.”

  He was silent, still fuming.

  I said, “If we’re successful, the way I plan to tell the papers about it is this: ‘After being refused cooperation by Lieutenant Trask of the West Los Angeles Station, investigator Callahan appealed to …’ You know, a real nasty write-up.”

  He looked at me hopefully. “You wouldn’t. He’d get your scalp. He’d …”

  “Sergeant,” I said quietly, “you know me and you are damned well aware of what I will do and what I won’t. I promise you I’ll give it to them that way, but I can’t promise you they’ll print it that way, of course.”

  His thin, long face was more cheerful. “Maybe they’d print it. Do you think they might?”

  I shrugged. “It’s worth a try. Now, about this girl, not a word about her leaks out, understand? That includes your hand-washing superiors, Pontius Apoyan and Pilate Trask.”

  “All right! Man, what is she to you? Why do you always have to cover for somebody, protect somebody?”

  “I don’t have to. I want to. Let me give you the story, all the way back to 1943.”

  Strange thing about my relationship with Sergeant Pascal; when I first met him, we developed an almost instant antipathy for each other. Since then, I’d learned to respect him as a first-class officer and he had almost learned to accept me as an honest man. Which I almost am. We would never be lodge brothers but we had learned to work together.

  When I had finished my story, he said, “You don’t think we could do better at Headquarters?”

  “I don’t, Sergeant. And I can go it alone, if you think it’s too tricky to be dignified by Department cooperation.”

  “I’m with you,” he said, “all the way. Caroline will work with me. He can use the ink.”

  I didn’t see either Lieutenant Trask or Captain Apoyan again before I left. They were staying out of my way because of their stainless and important (to them) reputations.

  I went from there to the office to check my mail and phone calls. Pete Petroff had called and Jan, I learned, and a Sergeant Pascal had phoned nine times. I took the mail home with me. I was bushed and I needed a few hours of restful contemplation. Alone.

  I washed my face and shaved. I scrambled four eggs and made some toast and a pot of tea. I was drinking the tea and reading a letter from my aunt in La Jolla when I had a visitor.

  It was Lily Chen. She looked around my little rattrap with almost the same expression on her face that Gina Ronico had shown.

  “Poor but neat,” I explained. “That’s Callahan. What’s bothering you, Miss Chen?”

  “You,” she said. “I have been thinking about you.”

  I smiled. “I wear well, don’t I?” I brought another chair over to the small table on which I ate.

  She sat down and said, “I was thinking about all the things you told me.”

  “Tea?” I asked her.

  “Please,” she said.

  I poured her a cup of tea and poured some more for myself. “Toast?” I asked her.

  “No, thank you.” She sipped the tea and looked at me squarely. “I misjudged you. I was lied to about you.”

  “You were undoubtedly lied to about a lot of things, Miss Chen,” I said politely. “Have you considered how important it is to your physical well-being to believe those lies?”

  “I have.”

  There was a silence. I didn’t prompt her. Whatever compulsion had brought her here would keep her talking, I knew.

  Finally, “He has always been kind to me. He has always been gentle and thoughtful.”

  “So okay. And what has changed now?”

  “When I was forced to lie about that man, that Anthony Jessup. He was the one who pushed you, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “The lie,” she said, “that changed everything.”

  “Only if you have an active conscience,” I said. “What you did is no worse than things millions of citizens do every day. You came to the support of a hoodlum. Every person who ever bets on a horse through a bookie or who spends money in Las Vegas does exactly that same thing. Your personal conscience has been asleep for some time. This rude awakening has bothered you, but it will go away, and you’ll be able to sleep again, like all the other solid citizens.”

  She sighed. “You always have to make a speech, don’t you? You always have to philosophize. You sound like you are angry all the time.”

  “I am, more or less. I’m not the last of the angry men, Miss Chen, but I’m among the last of the heavy angry men.”

  “That’s a joke, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s a joke. I find I need a few jokes here and there to keep me from screaming.”

  She sipped her tea and looked at the table. “I don’t understand you. I try to, but it’s not easy.”

  “Is it easy to understand Frank Giovanni?”

  “The Frank I know is very easy to understand. He’s like a little boy, the Frank I know.”

  “All right,” I said. “Go back to him. Forget the lie and believe what you want to believe. You won’t be any worse or better than your neighbors.”

  She was silent again. Then she said, “You make good tea, for an American.”

  “Thank you. More?”

  She shook her head and stood up. “No. I must go. I am going to think about what you said, Mr. Callahan. And I am going to think about my lie.” She gestured. “Don’t get up. Rest your leg.”

  She went out but the faint incense of her fragrance lingered, spicing my tea. The things a man can’t do with money … I sat there, luxuriating in self-pity.

  I can’t hate women. A number of them have given me reason to, but I can’t hate them. They are forced to live in this absurd world that man created, and all their perversions, all their maliciousness, stem from that sad destiny.

  And they are, of course, in essence, lambs.

  I put some liniment on my bad knee. The broken ankle on the other leg had thrown the load on my weak knee. It was swollen.

  The eggs hadn’t filled the void in my stomach or afforded me any new energy I could discover. I lay down and stared at the ceiling and traced my adventures back to the rainy morning Gloria Duster Malone had first come to my office.

  The threads were all there and they were woven now, but only in my mind. Unless we could uncover the .32 that had killed Harry Adler, where were we?

  I didn’t like the work ahe
ad. I didn’t want to move. I dozed.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE PHONE WAKENED ME, and it was my beloved. In nondulcet tones she asked, “Where in hell have you been?”

  “Oxnard and Santa Barbara. I’ve been working, honey. I’m a working man.” I yawned. “What time is it?”

  “You’d know, unless you’ve been asleep. Is that what you’ve been doing, sleeping?”

  “No. What time is it?”

  “Dinner time. It’s really past dinner time, but I thought you could bring some steaks and we could broil them out in back.”

  “I’m working tonight,” I said.

  A silence. “Sleeping days and working nights. That figures.”

  “Just tonight,” I said patiently. “Maybe, with luck, I can wrap this thing up tonight. With some help.”

  Another silence, longer. Then, “Brock, you’re telling the truth, aren’t you.”

  “I never lie about murder. This week end, could we take a trip up to Santa Barbara? It’s so peaceful up there.”

  A third silence. “I guess. You sound—dispirited, Brock.”

  “It will go away. It always does. Kid, believe in me? Everyone needs someone who believes in him.”

  “I love you,” she said. “Be careful. Very careful?”

  “I will. And you, too. It’s very important these days.”

  “I love you,” she said again, and hung up.

  I phoned Pete Petroff and he said, “I called you this morning. I located Dave. He went to Phoenix, like I thought he might. He’s on his way home now.”

  “Good,” I said. “Pete, my ankle has managed to weaken my bum knee and I can’t drive so well. Would you chauffeur me tonight?”

  “Hell, yes,” he said. “Are we going after those hoodlums?”

  “Not tonight. Around eight? I have to make some dinner first.”

  “I’ll be there,” he said.

  As I heated the beans and the frankfurters, I thought about this case and realized it had never been a whodunit. It had been a whydunit all along and my unconscious mind had tried to throw up the obvious to me, but what had triggered the unconscious? The facial resemblance, no doubt. The resemblance I had noticed that first day but couldn’t put together.

  My stomach rumbled and I knew it wouldn’t improve to fill it with beans and frankfurters, but there was nothing else in the house. Menus, menus, menus—it’s enough to drive a fellow insane.

  I was rinsing the dishes when Pete Petroff came. “Dave’s due any minute,” he told me, “but I didn’t wait. At your service, Muscles.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

  When we went out it was dark and over toward the Westwood Village center searchlights were probing the sky. Another première of some big-money picture, undoubtedly; another major local investment going out to a disinterested audience. When the movies died, if the movies died, would the fraudulence also leave this town? I doubted it; TV would carry on.

  Pete helped me into his Continental and asked, “Where to?”

  “Toward Malibu. Toward the hills.”

  He stood for a moment outside the car, staring at me. “You’re not going to see that Lily Chen, are you?”

  “Not tonight, Pete,” I answered. “Tonight I’m going to a reunion.”

  He still stood there. “You’re not making sense.”

  “Get in,” I said. “I’ll brief you on the way.”

  He continued to stare for a moment, and then he went around to climb in behind the wheel.

  As we moved through the traffic on Wilshire, I told him about Selina Stone. How I had heard of her through Gina Ronico and how she had admitted being at Tip Malone’s lake cottage the night he was killed. And I told him about Larry Crewe.

  When I had finished, we were on the Cabrillo Highway. The night was warm, the ocean calm and the traffic heavy.

  “I don’t see that you’ve got anything,” he said. “About her being at Malone’s that night, it would be her word against yours, if you went to court. She sure as hell isn’t going to stick to that story if she gets a smart lawyer.”

  “I don’t know,” I said wearily. “She’s about as honest as anyone can be in her business. I don’t know …”

  “You tell me when to turn off,” he said. “This sure as hell looks like a blind alley to me. What’s her connection with Giovanni?”

  “I don’t know. Pete, she’s the only solid lead I have so far and I have to explore it, don’t I?”

  He shrugged, his eyes on the road.

  “Turn off here,” I said.

  The big Continental swung to the right and started up the climb that led to the eucalyptus grove. To our left the canyon was dark and frightening. The rear wheels sent a rock clattering over the brink as we swung around the curve leading to the mesa.

  “Crazy,” Pete muttered.

  “Intuitive,” I said. “Discerning.”

  He turned to look at me. “What …?”

  “Keep your eyes on the road,” I said quickly. “Man, that’s a drop!”

  His voice was low. “It is, isn’t it? You’re not leveling with me, Brock.”

  “I’m leveling. I’m not telling you everything, naturally. I’m a private detective.”

  “I think you’re way out in left field,” he said, “and you’ll never get to bat.”

  “That won’t bother me too much. I never liked this case. With the exception of Miss Stone and one or two others, I’ve met some nasty people on this case.”

  He was silent for a few seconds. Then, “You are a private detective, as you said. And work for profit, don’t you?”

  “I try to, Pete. Turn off at that road that leads to the eucalyptus grove. It’s one of those supermodern houses. It’s on the Big Rock Road.”

  He started to say something and then evidently decided not to. The car turned onto Big Rock Road and continued down to Selina Stone’s house.

  “Here,” I said. “Where that Aston-Martin is parked.”

  He pulled in next to the little black car. He cut the ignition and looked at me. “Shall I wait here?”

  I shrugged. “Do you want to?”

  He didn’t answer. There was a long silence and then he got out of the car. We went up to her front door together.

  I rang and in a moment the overhead light went on and the door opened.

  “Well,” she said genially, and then her eyes went past me and saw Pete and I thought she flinched.

  “This is Pete Petroff, Selina,” I said. “May we come in?”

  Her face was masked and her voice tight. “Of course.” She stepped aside.

  We came in and she closed the door. I hobbled to the davenport. Pete stood near the door.

  Selina looked at him. “Aren’t you going to sit down, Mr. Petroff?”

  He shook his head, staring at her.

  “Would either or both of you like a drink?” she asked. Her poise seemed to be returning.

  I shook my head and so did Pete.

  She took a deep breath. “There’s—something in the air. Why are you here, Brock?”

  “Just to talk.” I rubbed my swollen knee. “There’s a quotation been bothering me: ‘… upon this rock I will build my Church’. Do you recognize it, Selina?”

  “Of course. It’s what the Lord said to Peter. He said, ‘Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my Church.’ It’s in the Bible.”

  I nodded. “Peter means rock. Does Petroff mean Peter?”

  She looked at Pete and back at me. “You’d have to ask Mr. Petroff. That’s a strange question, Brock.”

  “It puzzled me for a while,” I admitted. “If Petroff means Peter and Peter means rock, we have a start, though, don’t we? Because we all know a rock is a stone.”

  Pete said, “I said it, and you are. You’re crazy.”

  “It kicked around in my unconscious,” I went on, “because when I first met Selina, she reminded me of someone. My unconscious mind told me she looked like Pete Petroff, but it didn’t
come into my conscious mind until a long time later. So I checked back and it added. I saw your mother’s grave this morning, Selina.”

  She stared at me and then turned to Pete. “Perhaps you had better sit down, Mr. Petroff.”

  He shook his head.

  “Her name was Selina, too,” I went on. “Selina Petroff. And I got the story of the young Selina Petroff, who changed her name to Selina Stone and came up in the world.”

  “From whom?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I saw the house she lived in and was living in when her mother died and her brothers were in the service. They were very close, those two brothers, and Selina was an outsider to them. They were close as thieves and in a way they were thieves. And they didn’t come home for their mother’s funeral and they didn’t worry about their fifteen-year-old sister, left there in Oxnard without money or many friends.”

  Pete was breathing hard. Selina looked at me without any emotion on her face.

  “She hated them, this deserted sister. And after the war, when they tried to make amends, she would have nothing to do with them. But their consciences were finally alive. Maybe the war did that. And they watched over her though she didn’t want their protection. And a guy got beat up, here and there, any man who tried to get fresh with Selina Petroff Stone. And she hated that, too and tried to find a home where she could hide from them. But they had their sources of information.”

  Pete said, “How much, Callahan? Get to the meat. I’ll pay.”

  “I’m getting to the meat,” I said. “This Tip Malone romance was too much for the brothers to stomach. They followed him around, trying to get a line on him, trying to figure a way to take him out of the picture. When I got on Tip’s trail, they worried about me learning about Selina Stone, so the brothers came to me and tried to steer me off the trail, onto Giovanni. But Giovanni’s stooges were also trailing this Malone for their boss.”

  “You make sense,” Pete said. “Get to the meat. Get to a figure.”

  “I’m not sure I’m for sale, Pete,” I said. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  He came over to sit in a chair near me. He looked at his sister and then at me.