The Wayward Widow

by William Campbell Gault

  I stopped at the branch post office on the north end of town and dropped a card to the manager of my apartment building, telling him which of my few clothes to ship me.

  Then I drove downtown to the office of Winters, Delamater, Hartford and Smith. It was a law office and the girl in the reception room rang Mr. Winters for me. He was available.

  Mr. Winters was a white-haired man, trim and thin and fairly tall. The walls of his office were covered with pictures of racing cars, going back to the old Marmons and Stutz’s. He said, “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Puma. I followed your last case with great interest. I had no idea you were this big.”

  I smiled. “I need to be this big. Is that a Marmon behind you? My rich uncle had a Marmon.”

  He nodded. “That’s the Marmon Ray Harroun drove to victory at Indianapolis in 1911.”

  “Dawson finished in a Marmon, too, that year, didn’t he? Didn’t he finish in the first ten?”

  Winters nodded. “In a four cylinder Marmon. He finished fifth.” He shook his head. “You share my interest, I see. You’re well informed.”

  “Not really,” I admitted. “Just on Marmons. You see, we thought this uncle might leave me his money, so I listened to him by the hour about the marvelous Marmon. And then he went and left his money to Loyola University.”

  Mr. Winters chuckled, nodded to a chair, and waited until I was seated before he sat down. Then he asked genially, “Well, now what can I do for you?”

  “You can tell me about Dennis Greene,” I said. He frowned and caution seemed to creep into the office. “About Mr. Greene — ? What do you want to know about him?”

  “If you have the time, about his life and his death, his wife and his secretary.”

  His frown deepened. “You’re being facetious, of course. Is there anything particular you want to know about Mr. Greene, anything I could ethically tell you?”

  “Could you ethically tell me how competent the doctor was who signed his death certificate?”

  “Doctor West?” He stared at me. “Has someone doubted his competence?”

  “Not yet, I guess. Frankly, I’m just fishing, Mr. Winters.”

  He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “For some reason I had the idea you were sent here by Mr. Darbo. I realize you didn’t state that, but I knew he had recommended you to Miss Destry.”

  “I wasn’t sent here by Mr. Darbo,” I answered. “And Miss Destry terminated our contract this morning.”

  “Then who is your client, Mr. Puma?”

  “An interested party. I’m working with the local police force, with their permission and cooperation, I mean.”

  “Chief Slauson sent you over here?”

  “No. I haven’t met the chief yet, though he sent word to me, through Lieutenant Ortega that I be permitted to investigate.”

  “Ortega? He gave you permission to investigate Mr. Greene’s death?”

  “No,” I answered. “Elmer Duggan’s death.” Mr. Winters took a deep breath and leaned forward. He laced his hands together on the desk in front of him and said earnestly, “Try to be coherent, Mr. Puma. You started this conversation asking about Mr. Greene and now tell me you are investigating the death of young Duggan. Are you trying to imply there is some connection between Mr. Greene’s death and young Duggan’s?”

  “Do I have to? It would be stretching the long arm of coincidence right out of its socket to assume there wasn’t a connection. I hope we’re both intelligent enough to see that, Mr. Winters.”

  He stared at me, honestly perplexed. I said, “Even granting that Mr. Greene’s death was due to natural causes, that rock through the window two nights ago and the murder of Elmer Duggan last night would indicate that Greene’s death unleashed certain violent forces, wouldn’t they?”

  “Not to me,” he said. “But I’ve been trained to think logically and perhaps that isn’t an advantage in your profession, Mr. Puma.”

  “Touché,” I said. “Okay, let’s get to Doctor West. Both you and he have been residents here a long time. You should know about his reputation.”

  “His reputation, so far as I know, is unassailable. His competence is something you would have to ask the County Medical Board about.”

  “A lot of good that would do me,” I said. “You know how those doctors stick together.”

  I stood up, and he said, “I have a feeling you’re not telling me all you know, Mr. Puma.”

  I smiled down at him. “Damnedest thing, I have the same feeling about you. Well, thanks for your time.”

  He nodded and I went out. I could have gone to see Doctor West, but I decided I would wait until I knew more about the doctor, first.

  I went to a supermarket and stocked up on steak and frozen vegetables to cook in my tiny kitchenette. By the time I had finished my steak, it was growing dark.

  I have some pleasant superstitions and one of them is my belief that I have an often uncertain but occasionally sound gift of prescience. Now, tonight, as it grew darker outside, I had a feeling I was about to greet a visitor.

  I had a further feeling that it would not be a casual visit and that it could turn out to be rather pleasant. I don’t know why I should assume it would be a visit from Carol Destry.

  Because it wasn’t. About a quarter to nine, a sleek, black Continental came whispering to my rear door, the one that opened on the parking area.

  The front door was visible from the pool and there were still some people sitting around the pool. This visitor wanted privacy.

  When she got out of the car, I could see her hair was black. I recognized her then. Her eyes, I remembered, were blue and she was highly attractive, this wealthy and burnished widow of Dennis Greene.

  I stepped away from the rear window as she came toward the rear door of my unit. I mixed another drink and waited for her to knock.

  When she did, I opened the door and smiled. I asked, “Has something happened, Mrs. Greene?”

  “Nothing,” she said calmly. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  I stood aside. “Of course. Drink?”

  “Please.” She came in and looked around. “You didn’t take the cheapest unit by any means, did you?”

  “I never do. It all goes on the expense account. You wouldn’t want a representative of yours to haggle, would you, Mrs. Greene?”

  “You may call me Mona,” she said, and turned to face me squarely. “I was informed by a former client of yours, Joe, a feminine client, that you offer a complete service for single women. I’m single now, finally.”

  I gulped. That was putting it rather crudely. I said, “That’s putting it rather crudely.”

  “Frankly,” she said. “Not crudely. Aren’t you going to mix my drink?”

  “Hell yes, Mona,” I said. “Glad to be of service.”

  “Take your time,” she said. “I know you Latins. Remember, I’m thirty-seven.”

  “So many of my clients are,” I said. “That’s the best age.”

  Chapter Six

  LATER, as we lay on the bed in the dark room, looking out at the people splashing in the flood-lighted pool, I said, “You have been more or less faithful to Dennis Greene, I would guess.”

  “How could you guess that? Oh, I see. That was discreetly put. Dennis Greene had nothing to do with it; I was simply not indiscriminately wanton.”

  “Why, then, from nowhere, this sudden lust for Joe Puma?”

  “I’ve been wondering about that,” she said thoughtfully. “Your animal magnetism is very high, of course. But it wasn’t only that. I think I’m a snob, though I fight it, and you are an employee, more or less, and so the surrender is yours, you see, not mine.”

  “A very adult attitude,” I said. “I wish more of the girls would see it that way. I surrender much more easily than they do.”

  “Don’t talk that way,” she said. “Not tonight. I need the illusion.”

  “How about another belt of that booze?” I suggested.

  “Stop it,” she said sharply.
“Don’t be excessively virile. Just ask me if I want another drink.” I chuckled. She sat up, naked and indignant. I said, “Don’t lecture me. You came here, remember. Would you like another drink, Mrs. Greene?”

  She sat there looking down at me. She had a fine firm body and a true appreciation of the bed and a first-rate mind. She was a vintage partner and I hoped she wouldn’t go complex on me.

  Finally, in the reflected light, she smiled. “You’re for rent, but not for sale, is that it?”

  “Just about. I’m probably for sale, too, but nobody has ever come up with the price. Let me mix you a cold, strong drink, Mona Greene, and we can talk about the life and death of Dennis Greene. Mr. Winters wouldn’t talk about it this afternoon.”

  I climbed out of bed and put a robe on. I went over to pull the drapes across the windows and then turned on a dim light.

  I was mixing the drinks when she said, “You went to see Winters? You didn’t tell him you were working for me, did you?”

  “No. I don’t plan to tell anyone that, though Lieutenant Ortega will know it, of course.”

  “And Chief Slauson?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “I know him. I lived here for ten years.”

  “Honest man?” I brought her her drink. She nodded her thanks and said, “I don’t know. There’s never been any scandal about him.”

  I sat on the bed next to her. “I once knew a racketeer, a smooth and wealthy homo named Dennis Greene. Your late husband wasn’t related to him, was he?”

  “Not that I know of I remember that other man when he appeared before one of those Congressional Committees. But I was separated from my husband by then, so I never did ask him.”

  “All right,” I said, ‘let’s get to Carol Destry. How did your husband happen to meet her?”

  “He knew her father. Her father was a real nothing, all front and gentle manners and not a dollar to his name. Then little Carol moved in and her papa didn’t seem to mind. Maybe he was naïve, but I don’t think so. Miss Destry moved in and I began to hate her, and we had a showdown, finally, Dennis and I.”

  “I didn’t think you cared that much.”

  “I cared about appearances. I still do and always will. I didn’t care what he did, so long as he was discreet.”

  “Brother!” I said. “There’s a new morality for you. Manners are everything.”

  “Aren’t they? Think now, aren’t they?”

  “No,” I said. “Though they are important. Go on, so you moved out and then what?”

  “And then I stayed on here in town for a few years and finally grew bored and began to travel.”

  “And then,” I added for her, “while you were sunning yourself in Bermuda, Dennis Greene died and left a couple million and it bothered you. You had no idea he was that wealthy, did you?”

  “Of course I did. Mr. Puma, I’m wealthier than that. I told you I was the person who financed his first picture-”

  “You’re wealthier than that?” I interrupted. “Then you don’t really need any share of your late husband’s estate?”

  “I wish you would stop calling him my late husband. And I didn’t hire you to investigate his death, remember; I hired you to investigate the death of Elmer Duggan.”

  “Not really,” I said. “You hired me, I’m sure, to discredit Carol Destry.”

  She stretched her slim body. She was still naked. She sipped her drink and said, “It must be the whisky.”

  “What must?”

  “The whisky must be responsible for this new desire growing in me. It’s absurd. Ye gods, I’m thirty-seven.”

  “Let it grow,” I said. “I’m only thirty-two.”

  • • •

  She left while I was asleep, some time after two o’clock. I loved her. I love them all, before and after the act. I love them when they’re too young to know about the act and too old to remember it. I guess it’s been said before but it is important to understand, because otherwise I would appear immoral and that is one thing I am not.

  I wakened around eight-thirty and lay in bed thinking about all of them, even Winters. Then I thought about Doctor West. I hadn’t met him yet, but I decided it was about time I did.

  There was a restaurant a block away that sold nothing but pancakes, dozens of different kinds of pancakes. Being a conformist, I had potato pancakes and apple sauce and little pork sausages and bacon and eggs. And three cups of coffee.

  • • •

  Doctor Alvin West didn’t put on too much front.

  He wore an ancient bathrobe over khaki dungarees and a dirty white collarless shirt. His hair was whiter than his shirt. His fierce blue eyes glared at me through steel-rimmed spectacles.

  “What the hell do you want, Mr. Puma?”

  “Some information, sir, if it’s possible — and convenient.”

  “Well, it’s sure as hell not convenient this morning. What kind of information?”

  “Information about the death of Dennis Greene.” His face stiffened and he sat more erectly in his wicker armchair. ‘Who gave you the authority to bring a request like that here, Pumar?”

  “I’m working for an interested party and with the sanction of the San Valdesto Police Department,” I answered.

  “Dallas, I’ll bet. Was he the one told you to come up here?”

  I shook my head. “Don’t you want to talk about Mr. Greene’s death, Doctor?”

  ‘What if I don’t? Don’t threaten me with the County Medical Board; I’ve tangled with them before.” He paused. “And won.”

  “I didn’t intend to threaten you with anything, Doctor. I’m sorry if I’ve intruded.” I turned, pretending to go.

  “Don’t go racing off,” he said. “I’m not finished.” I turned back and put my patient look onto my face.

  “Superior bastard, aren’t you?” he said. I shook my head, saying nothing. He scratched his chest thoughtfully. Then, “The man had cancer. He was in the damnedest kind of pain you can imagine for his last two years.”

  “I didn’t see that in the papers, I mentioned.

  “Jesus Christ, man, how old are you? You’re certainly not young enough to believe anything you read in the papers.”

  “I believe the baseball scores.” He glared at me. Then he sighed and shook his head. “Pretty fine man for a movie maker. Always paid on the dot. So he had cancer and he died. And I signed the death certificate. And now you’re here to make trouble?”

  “Why should I be? I’m not the police, Doctor West. I work with them, but not for them.”

  His glare was suspicious. “You trying to tell me something?”

  I smiled. “You’re certainly not trying to tell me anything.”

  “All right.” He took a breath. “There was a profound circulatory collapse, low blood pressure, shallow respiration. It looked to me like an attack on the central nervous system, particularly the medullary centers. Does that make any sense to you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But there was no gastrointestinal irritation. What would that indicate?”

  “I have no idea, unless it would indicate he wasn’t poisoned.”

  “It wouldn’t indicate that at all. He could have been poisoned, but not slowly. With the picture I’ve given you, he could have poisoned himself with a walloping dose of arsenic.”

  “That’s a medical estimate. The fact that he poisoned himself is a layman’s opinion. Those are the kind of opinions the police should make.”

  “You’re being ridiculous. A man with cancer isn’t going to be poisoned by anyone who can profit from it, is he? All they have to do is wait and avoid the gas chamber.”

  “Under special conditions, Doctor, a man who is going to die in two hours might be murdered in the first five minutes of it.”

  “That’s absurd, Puma, and you know it.”

  “Maybe. And then, out of deference to the reputation of Dennis Greene, you signed the death certificate without mentioning the possibility of poison? Because you
thought he might have committed suicide?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Almost.” He scratched himself some more. He didn’t look quite as fierce. “Stop and think a minute, Puma. A man is in horrible pain and he’s got a week or two to live, a month at the outside. He’s got a good name and all those close to him know he’s going to die soon. If he was poisoned, and I’m not saying he was, what could it be but suicide?”

  “It could be murder,” I said.

  “You’re crazy,” he said. “You’re trying to stir up some trouble and make a job for yourself. Well, there won’t be any trouble without an autopsy, and who’s going to order that now?” Some of his glare was back. “Who’s got the authority to order the body exhumed?”

  “Mrs. Greene has.” He snorted. “Her? What does she care about him; what did she ever care about him? She wasn’t even here for the funeral. She’s lying around Bermuda, soaking up the sun.”

  “Are you sure?” His face tightened again. “Isn’t she? Where is she, if she isn’t in Bermuda?”

  “Call Chief Slauson and ask him,” I said.

  “Slauson?” Some apprehension in the glaring eyes now. “He sent you here — the Chief of Police?”

  “No. I came of my own volition. I came up here originally to work for Miss Destry as a bodyguard, but she fired me yesterday.”

  “And now you’re trying to pin something on her?”

  “Now what kind of a statement is that, Doctor? You make her sound like a murderess.”

  “Listen,” he said hoarsely, “I’ve had enough of your impertinence. We’re civilized people up here and we can get along very well without your kind of trash from Los Angeles. You be a smart boy now, and forget your grievance against Miss Destry. You get on your little horse and go back to Smogtown and your smart-aleck friends.”

  “Okay, Doc,” I said. “Sorry if I stepped up your blood pressure.”

  “Get out of here,” he said, “before I phone the police.”

  “I’m going,” I told him. “I’ll see you at the autopsy.” I walked along in the warm sun, down the quiet street to my car. And then I stopped.