Once a Mutt (Trace 5)

by Warren Murphy

  “Well, then, this is probably it for us,” Trace said.

  “I’m really sorry about that,” she said.

  “If I shouldn’t call again, remember…well, remember that I only wanted the best for you.”

  “I will,” Chico promised. “Good night.”

  “Wait a minute,” Trace said.

  “What?”

  “Do I know anybody named E.L.V.?”

  “E.L.V.?” Chico said. “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Somebody called and left those initials,” Trace said.

  “Man or woman?”

  “I don’t know. I forgot to ask.”

  “Probably some woman you’ve picked up in the last couple of days. That broad you bopped the other night when you were mad at me.”

  “I’m still mad at you,” he said. He was thinking that Chico was right. E.L.V. stood for Elvira. She hadn’t wanted to leave her name, so she left the code initials. Good thinking, Elvira.

  “You’ll sleep it off,” Chico said.

  “Not this time,” Trace said.

  “Good night,” Chico said.

  “Good-bye forever,” Trace said.

  He hung up the telephone. He didn’t want to call Elvira. He didn’t want to call anybody. All he wanted to do was to feel sorry for himself.

  It was midnight.

  14

  Trace’s Log: Devlin Tracy in the Paddington matter, three A.M. Thursday, two more tapes in the master file.

  Well, this is it, folks. My very last report in my very last case in my very last day on earth. I’ve finally found the solution to my problems, courtesy of a Jesuit professor in college who told me once that suicide represented a drastic attempt to improve one’s life condition.

  It’s the only way I have left.

  What, you may ask, brought me to this low point? And all I can answer is mathematics.

  For instance, I never knew the meaning of geometric progression until I heard Eddie’s reports on storm damage and what it’ll cost to swab out a cellar. Ten thousand, twelve thousand, fourteen thousand, eighteen thousand. Every day I don’t pay is another day that the water puddles sit in the cellar, festering, and the bill goes up.

  And I’ve got no chance of getting the money, no chance at all. Chico won’t lend it to me, Sarge doesn’t have it, my mother won’t lend it to me because my name’s not Bruce. My ex-wife didn’t respond to my telepathic messages to send me a check. The loan sharks would put electric drills into my kneecaps if I borrow and can’t pay back. I’m done. Doomed to a life of poverty, all my savings gone, my hopes for the future vanished in a puff. But before I live poor, I’m taking the pipe.

  I harbored some slim hope that I might be able to find out something in this Paddington case that might get me a fat fee, but that hope is gone. I tried everything. Walter Marks, damn his pelt, wouldn’t bite when I tried to let him think I was being bribed by Mrs. Paddington. How did he know? If I were the vice-president for claims of an insurance company, I would sure as hell have a more open mind than that. But, no, not Groucho.

  So, world, how did I spend my last day on earth? I spent it, most of it anyway, with Alphonse Bigot, late of Hoboken, soon of Hollywood. And, of course, his platinum-blond wife, Teddy.

  Just thinking about him makes me even sadder. Here’s a guy under indictment for defrauding the elderly, and he thinks the town hates him because he sings better than Frank Sinatra. He wants to be a Hollywood swinger so much he can taste it and he’s forced to resort to sitting in a hot tub in New Hampshire with his wife, drinking Major André champagne.

  Sad. But all men are sad who have hair on their shoulders. Why do men who have hair on their shoulders and backs never have any on their heads? Is there a certain amount of hair juice in your body, and if you waste it all on your back and shoulders, your head gets starved? The gorilla component. Maybe everybody’s got a certain gorilla component. Some use it for back and shoulders. Others, the civilized decent ones like me, spend most of it on their heads. This is a scientific point I would check out if I were going to continue living. If we could understand the gorilla component, we could predict baldness early. Then we could hustle the suckers with all kinds of things. Shoulder and Back Hair Retardant. Call it Fur No More. Make hair grow on your head, where it’s supposed to, instead.

  I should mention this to someone to look into. Ah, well, forget it. It’s just another one in a long string of real good ideas that I had and the world ignored. Now that I’ve decided on suicide, it makes me no never-mind.

  I am leaving all this data for whom it may concern so that old Gone Fishing knows I did my best. Please make a copy of this tape and send it to Chico so she knows how she hurt and destroyed me in the final painful moments of my life. If you decide to cremate my body, please make sure I’m wearing my underwear.

  If I ramble a little, it’s because I want to leave this permanent record of my thoughts in the hope that they will help someone else later on. Just call it building a bridge for those who will come after me.

  So I thought I had a chance of proving that Mrs. Paddington killed her husband because he was catting around on her, but then I met Dr. Alphonse Bigot of the Medical School of Guiana and Beverly Hills. And he blew away my last hope.

  Bigot knew the Paddingtons, not real well, but at least better than anybody else in town. And he set up all that Hollywood-starlet crap, just as a joke, just to get Paddington into trouble with his wife.

  That’s what he told me, and I believe him because he didn’t have any reason to lie to me. Probably he could tell he was talking to a dying man.

  But he didn’t know anything about Paddington’s death, and Paddington had a chronic cough but nothing else, and he was in good health and so was Nadine and she didn’t have pinkeye, and he didn’t know who their Westport doctor was. Ooops, her Westport doctor; Hemmie was dead before the move.

  A doctor with a Hollywood press agent. I do, I truly do want to die.

  And this silly-looking Band-Aid on my face when I got punched and all this tape on my ribs don’t help either. I hurt. My body hurts and my spirit hurts even more.

  I can’t wait to get out of here. Bigot was my last chance and he wasn’t any help at all.

  Lawyer Benjamin Johnson was no more help. “Purported death.” What a pain in the ass he was. I couldn’t even bring myself to ask him if he thought that Nadine might have killed her husband. He wouldn’t have known anything. They weren’t friends, not real friends anyway, I guess, and when Nadine wanted to move, all she did was write to him.

  And real-estate man Barton McNick just collects the checks and sends the money to Mrs. Paddington, and he thinks that Nadine doesn’t want to sell.

  Groucho, if you get any advertisements for houses in New Hampshire or any late-night calls about good restaurant deals, it’s just my little gift to you. Barton McNick handles good stuff and I thought it might be perfect for you to look into.

  So that’s it. If anybody takes this case after me—and I don’t know why anybody should ’cause there’s nothing here—anyway, this is what I would do.

  I would check into Nadine’s financial status in Westport, her mortgage, stuff like that. I don’t know why, but I would. I think I would go talk to the cops to see if they know anything. I would go make love to Elvira.

  How fitting it is, Chico. You abandoned me in my moment of need and my last thoughts on earth were of making love to somebody else. I hope you carry that shame with you for a long time.

  Oh, a final thing. Chico, please take care of this for me. I forgot my expenses the day before yesterday, and while I didn’t leave the room that much, I had a lot of food sent in, so that was ninety-five dollars, including tips for the delivery boys. Add another fifty for miscellaneous. That’s one-forty-five. And yesterday or today, whatever, I went up to New Hampshire and I drove and ate on the road and made a lot of phone calls and all kinds of stuff like that, and so it was at least two hundred and fifty dollars, so make it three hundred. So that’s
four-forty-five for the two days.

  Chico, please make sure you collect this money from Garrison Fidelity. I want you to use it to endow a special college fund to help lift the burden of making a living from big thinkers, so they have time to pursue their dreams. Just make sure that nobody who owns a restaurant ever gets a penny of it.

  Well, I guess this is it. The end of everything. I feel as if I should make a big complicated speech in leaving this earth, but I don’t have one in me. I have been hurt too many times in my life, but I forgive you all. Remember that, folks. Remember that, Chico. The last thing I did was to forgive you.

  On my tombstone, I just want my name engraved. Well, maybe you could add a small line or two. Nothing fancy or pretentious. Just something simple. Maybe “Here lies Devlin Tracy where savage indignation can no longer rend his mighty heart.” Write it in Latin.

  Take care of that, Chico. Thank you very much.

  Hoping all your news is good news, this is Devlin Tracy saying good night and good-bye forever.

  15

  Trace filled his glass with vodka and drank that. Then he did it again. Then he saw the bottle was empty and he thought it was a hell of a way to die, wanting a drink.

  So he decided not to kill himself and went to sleep. Tomorrow was another day.

  16

  He wished he was dead when the telephone rang, loud, insistent, squawking, next to his ear.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Trace. This is Elvira. You didn’t call.”

  “Who?”

  “How quickly they forget. Elvira.”

  “Oh, sure. Sorry. You woke me up. I got in late,” Trace said.

  “And when did you go to sleep?” she asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. You are groggy. You want me to wait while you light a cigarette or something?”

  “My something’s all empty. I finished it last night. You talk, I’ll light a cigarette,” Trace said.

  “I missed you yesterday,” Elvira said.

  Trace was silent as he lit his cigarette. He hated possessive women. Was she going to try to become one on the basis of one tumble? Didn’t she know how close he had been to death the night before? Didn’t she care?

  But now Elvira was silent too, so finally Trace mumbled “Uhuh” in agreement

  “But I thought about you all day she said brightly. “I was working for you.”

  “How’s that?” Trace asked.

  “I kept an eye on the place across the street all day. I didn’t take my eyes off it for a minute.”

  “And?”

  “And nobody went in or out all day. Not a soul.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that’s the big breakthrough I need,” Trace said.

  “I saw the woman, what’s her name?”

  “Mrs. Paddington?” Trace said.

  “No, the other one. Maggie. And the man working around the garage.”

  “Maggie Winters and Ferdinand,” Trace said

  “Right. They were working around the garage most of the day.” She paused for comment.

  “That’s real good,” Trace said.

  “That doesn’t help at all, does it?”

  “I can’t think of how right this minute. Trace admitted.

  “Hell, I was trying to be helpful

  “I know.” Why had she called him? Trace wondered.

  “Do you know why I was trying to be helpful?”

  “You believe in truth, justice, and the American way?”

  “Because I wanted you to come over here and sleep with me last night,” Elvira said.

  “I’m sorry. I had to go out of town and I was real late getting back.”

  “You’re in town now. Come over today.”

  “I’ve got some stops to make today,” Trace said.

  “Can’t they wait?”

  “They’re kind of important, actually,” Trace said.

  “Can I help? God, I’m begging you. Do you realize that? You’re not even handsome and I’m begging you. Why is that?”

  “Because you know I’m a good person,” Trace said. “Maybe you can help. You know anybody at the local bank? Or the town real-estate office?”

  “Probably. I have to think about it,” Elvira said. “Why?”

  “I’d like to know about the house across the street. Who owns it? What the mortgage is? Do they pay on time? Like that.”

  “That’s a tall order,” Elvira said.

  “If it were easy, anyone could do it,” Trace said.

  “I’ll try. Will you call me later?”

  “Yes, I will. I promise,” Trace said.

  “You make sure,” Elvira said as she hung up.

  Trace finished his cigarette while deciding whether to throw up or not. He was annoyed that his butt can had been removed again by the maid. But there was something nice about starting the day talking to a woman so crazed for your body that she pleaded. All he needed now was for some other crazed woman to call, so crazed that she would lend him money, something on a sliding scale from ten thousand to eighteen thousand dollars, depending on how crazed she was. For eighteen thousand dollars, he would perform the Hindu rope trick in bed. Without a rope. For ten thousand, he wouldn’t. He had his pride.

  He smoked three more cigarettes, stubbing them out in the midget ashtray, waiting, but nobody called to offer him money. He got up, greatly annoyed, and in the bathroom found out that he didn’t have to throw up anymore either. If that was the kind of day it was going to be, he might just as well stay in bed.

  He couldn’t remember when he had eaten last. It was a good thing to eat every so often, especially when you reached forty. Every doctor would tell you that. And you should have fiber in your diet. That’s why he ate Fish-Doodles at bars while having a drink. He really liked cashews better, but it was a rare bar that put out cashews. The best he ever really hoped for was salted peanuts and smoked-sausage sticks.

  Maybe his life was meant to be cursed.

  Maybe there would never be a moment he could put his head down to rest. Maybe there would never be anyone who could share the burdens and the glory with him.

  It certainly hadn’t been Jaws, his ex-wife. He had figured that out in the earlier days of their marriage. He had been working as an accountant and he had rented a summer shore cottage for Jaws, What’s-his-name and the girl, his two kids.

  One night, after a particularly tedious day of double-entry bookkeeping, he had stopped for a few drinks on his way from work to the shore. Women just didn’t understand pressure.

  He went into the bungalow, lay on the couch, and fell instantly asleep. Jaws seemed to think this was intended to be an insult aimed at her cooking. She tried to wake him up to eat. He grumbled that he was tired. He could always eat, but he had to sleep now.

  “You don’t like my cooking,” she had said.

  Trace had mumbled, “You’re the only woman I ever saw who needed Helper Helper in the kitchen.”

  He had gone back to sleep. They were alone in the bungalow. What’s-his-name and the girl were out firing crosses on people’s lawns or something.

  He must have been snoring a little bit. He always did when he lay on his back. Later, his wife said that his snoring really annoyed her. So she went out the rear door of the bungalow, which was right on the beach, and brought in a Styrofoam cup filled with dry sand.

  Then while he lay on his back, mouth open, snoring, she poured sand down his throat.

  No one who has never had sand poured down his throat would ever understand. He coughed, choked, and sputtered. He washed it out finally with water, left the house and washed away his hurts with vodka, and decided then and there that his marriage was doomed.

  It took years before he could afford the divorce settlement, but as soon as he could, he left. The cost was pretty steep because his lawyer refused to state in court that What’s-his-name and the girl weren’t Trace’s children, and that they were fathered by person or persons unknown or were the results of spontaneous
conception. Even after Trace had sent him an article from a science magazine that said a thirteen-year-old virgin in Peru had given birth to twins.

  Trace wondered what people paid lawyers for anyway. All lawyers were perfectly willing to lie and cheat and steal for themselves, but when it came to their clients, they all turned into George Washington near the cherry tree.

  After his shower, Trace taped his small recorder to his right side over his kidney. Then he dressed, carefully threading the wire that led to the golden-frog microphone through his shirt, before attaching it to his tie. He found the clipping file Walter Marks had sent him in a dresser drawer and looked through it until he found the report of the private detective, C. S. Brunner. Attached to his report was the list of people he had spoken to, and Trace found the name he had been looking for.

  “Lt. Sam Roscoe, please,” Trace said.

  “Who are you?” The uniformed clerk in police headquarters was pleasant. Public servants in towns like Westport were always polite, because they never knew that the person they were talking to wasn’t the president of a television network.

  “Roone Arledge,” Trace mumbled. The sun had made his head throb and his ribs hurt under the tape. Maybe suicide had been the right idea, after all.

  “Sorry, sir, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Devlin Tracy.” Trace handed him a business card. The policeman looked at it, and when he saw it didn’t have anything to do with Hollywood or television, he said gruffly, “Sit down over there, please. I’ll see if the lieutenant’s free.”

  The office where Trace waited was plastered with no-smoking signs. Westport was a quiche-eater’s paradise, he thought. He lit a cigarette and flicked the ashes in an old Styrofoam coffeecup that the police department’s maid service obviously had overlooked.

  Lt. Sam Roscoe was a two-cigarette wait and then Trace was nodded into a back office by the uniformed clerk.

  Roscoe’s office was small but seemed as brightly lighted as the Los Angeles Coliseum for a night baseball game. There were two separate overhead fixtures, two floor lamps, and a desk lamp. All were turned on. Roscoe was a short lean man with handsome hawklike features. His mouth was thin-lipped but seemed always on the verge of smiling, as if he had noticed something funny where others had not. The suit he wore was very expensive. Trace knew that because he owned very expensive suits too. The difference was that it looked like an expensive suit on Lt. Roscoe; on Trace all suits looked like junk and Chico had once accused him of stealing all his clothes from a Volunteers of America collection container.