I had lost a battle; that much seemed plain. Would I lose the war? I thanked her for the beer and went around the side of the house to where my car was parked.
The sun was low on the hills to the west and not a moving thing was in sight in Halcyon Heights. Far off on the highway, traffic moved normally and above a jet plane climbed on its tail. But in Halcyon Heights, nothing moved. This was the pause before cocktail time.
Insular? Oh, yes. But subject, I hoped, to the same laws that governed the unwashed. Better lawyers and more polite police officers and a few connections with the prominent members of the judiciary, but this was still America. I hoped I would never get cynical enough to think it wasn’t. I hoped I would never get as cynical as Patricia Duggan or Carol Destry — or Doctor Alvin West.
I was going down the winding road that led to the highway when I heard a blast from a horn behind. I pulled over quickly. The customized Merc gunned past me, tires squealing, with the tall boy called Lenny behind the wheel. Next to him, the Mexican lad turned around in his seat and shook his fist at me. They were both laughing.
Kids. At the crossroads. No, beyond it a little, on the wrong road. And whose fault was that? Examine yourself; what have you done to change it? I was glad Donald Malcolm wasn’t with them.
Doctor West was worrying, but Carol Destry didn’t seem to be. Why should she worry: he had signed the death certificate. And it was rather late to be looking for purchasers of arsenic now.
My job was to get everybody worried, everyone who was involved. Because that would instigate a move from them and when they began to make moves, they would begin to show patterns.
All this thinking made me hungry, and not for my own cooking. I found a first-class restaurant about half a mile from the motel and treated myself to a T-bone. It was dusk when I left the restaurant and went back to the motel. It had brought the evening chill with it, but the pool was heated and I needed the exercise.
I swam for an hour and then went in to take a shower and check the ice cubes. She hadn’t definitely promised to come, but my prescience told me she would.
I was almost through with my reports for the day when she came.
“You bastard,” she said, “you do have a strong magnetism, don’t you?”
“Mix yourself a drink,” I told her. “I’m almost through here.” I went back to the typewriter.
When I’d finished, I turned around and saw that she had done more than merely mix a drink. She was sitting on the bed, stark naked, a highball in her hand.
“What’s your hurry?” I asked. “I thought you were thirty-seven?”
“Not tonight,” she said. “You’re an unusual man, Joe Puma.”
“Thank you,” I said, and heard the shakiness in my voice.
The pressure grew in me and my knees wobbled a little as I stood up. Her blue eyes mocked me, her dark hair glistened in the reflected light from the bathroom.
I took a step toward the bed — and my damned phone rang.
“Don’t answer it,” she whispered. “Don’t answer it now!”
It was an absurd time to answer a phone, but that old prescience was still strong in me and I fought my way over there and managed to pick it up.
And Donald Malcolm’s hushed voice said, “If you’ve got a babe in there, Joe, get rid of her. The law is on the way over right now.”
“Thanks,” I said, and hung up. I turned to Mona. “The police are on the way over here right now. How fast can you get dressed?”
It was less than a minute, I would bet. Of course, she put on only her shoes and the dress; her stockings, slip, bra and panties she carried.
I stood in the back doorway, watching her drive away, and then slipped into my swimming trunks, leaving the robe on. I was back at the typewriter by the time they came. It was real cute, Ortega at the front door and Purvis at the rear. I decided the decent officer would automatically go to the front door, so that was the summons I answered.
“Busy, Mr. Puma?” he asked politely.
“I’ve just finished my reports,” I told him, “and in a couple minutes I’ll be watching Playhouse 90, but I can give you until then. Come in, come in.” I opened the door wide, and switched on the overhead light.
He came in, looked briefly around and said, “Could I use your bathroom?”
“Hell, yes,” I said. “Look in the closet, too, while you’re at it.”
He stared at me. “What did you mean by that?” I didn’t have time to answer. My back doorbell rang and I went to answer it.
Sergeant Purvis started to come in and I put a hand on his chest. “Wait for an invitation, mister.”
He stood there quietly. I could feel him tremble against the palm of my hand.
I said, “I’m right on the edge of doing something violent and stupid. Don’t make the mistake of triggering me.”
Behind me, Ortega said, “Take it easy, Puma. Nobody’s pushing you.”
Purvis said tightly, “May I come in?” I took my hand from his chest and stepped aside. He came in and said to Ortega, “She must be around here somewhere.”
“Who is ‘she’?” I asked. “What is this, a vice squad raid?”
Ortega went to the bathroom and the kitchenette and the closet. He finished, and stared at Purvis.
“Will somebody start making sense?” I asked. “What’s going on?”
Purvis said, “This is a moral town. We try to keep it that way.”
“Come off it,” I said. “This is a resort town and morality would put eighty per cent of the motels out of business. I’m being persecuted.”
“Sign off, Puma,” Ortega said. “If I want a speech, I’ll attend a lecture. Was Mrs. Greene here tonight?”
“Yes. For a minute. She wanted to talk about this case.”
“You’re slipperier than I thought, Mr. Puma,” Ortega said.
“I’m an honest man, Lieutenant,” I said quietly.
“And a stud,” he added calmly. “It was all in the reports we got on you.”
“Okay,” I said irritably, “Okay! And what in hell has my private sex life got to do with the investigation of a double murder?”
“In San Valdesto,” he answered, “we don’t consider murder the only immorality. This is a mission town, Mr. Puma. And personally, I take a stricter view of morality than you do. I haven’t left the church.”
I said nothing. He said, “What did you mean — double murder?”
“I was speaking of Dennis Greene,” I said, “and my conversation with Doctor Alvin West this morning.” I pointed at my reports. “The story of it is right there. You may take the carbon along and save me postage, if you want to.”
Purvis said, “Doctor West is one of the old-timers, Puma, a highly respected name in this town.”
“That’s the town’s mistake, not mine.” Ortega said, “Careful, Mr. Puma. Doctor West delivered all of my children. I think I’m more familiar with his reputation than you are.”
“Don’t let sentiment warp your judgment,” I said. “The story is there.”
They left without saying good-by and I waited until they were out on the highway before going to the phone.
Mona said, “God, I feel — cheap. Running out like some — ”
“Don’t say it. You’re not one of those, honey. You’re thirty-seven and afraid you might have missed something. It makes you a little desperate, but you’re certainly not cheap.”
“Keep talking, Puma.”
“Why? You can’t come back now; they’ll have an eye on the place.”
“Keep talking anyway; you have a nice voice.”
“Gee, I’d like to,” I said, “but I don’t want to miss Playhouse 90.”
She called me a name I’d rather not repeat and hung up.
Chapter Nine
IN THE MORNING the wind had shifted and the dry, hot air was coming from inland and off the mountains. My sinuses nagged at me, but I knew a cup of coffee would cure that. I made my own in my little kitchenette and scram
bled four eggs with bacon and made some toast. The local paper had been delivered, compliments of the house, and the news of Elmer Duggan’s death had been demoted to the fourth page.
I sat at the little table with my third cup of coffee and looked back on my adventures up to now. I had learned some things about the death of Dennis Greene, but nothing about the death of Elmer Duggan. And it was Duggan’s death I was being paid to investigate.
To me, it seemed an eighty per cent certainty that Dennis Greene had been poisoned and a sixty-five percent certainty that he had been poisoned by Carol Destry. And a hundred per cent certainty, that if he had been poisoned, it had been done with her full knowledge and consent. But that would be something to prove, doctors being what they were, highly conservative when it came to dangerous decisions. So where was I? I was nowhere with Greene and nowhere with Duggan, but it seemed like a logical course to investigate both in the hope of finding the truth about one. They were connected, sequential; they had to be. This was a quiet town and murder almost a stranger here.
• • •
I drove over to Headquarters. Ortega was in Slauson’s office and the man at the desk in the outer office of the chief told me to go right in.
I thought Chief Slauson looked at me coldly when I entered. Ortega looked as he usually did, politely interested but never committed, a first-class police officer.
Slauson said, “This arsenic theme of yours could cause a lot of rumbles around town and disturb some armed alliances. Is Mrs. Greene going to push it?”
“She told me yesterday she’s saving it until we’re sure I can get nowhere on the Duggan murder. Is Doctor West that well thought of in town?”
“There is a sharp and heated difference of opinion in this town about Doctor Alvin West, Mr. Puma. About half the people who know him swear by him and the other half at him. He’s not a personal favorite of mine, I don’t mind telling you.”
I looked meaningly at Ortega and his face stiffened. Slauson drawled, “Don’t be cryptic, Mr. Puma. Exactly what did that glance mean?”
I shrugged. Ortega said evenly, “I told him last night that Doctor West had delivered all of my children.” He colored faintly and addressed me. “Doctor West is revered by the Spanish-Americans in this town and not too well thought of by most of the Anglos.”
“Dennis Greene wasn’t Mexican,” I said. Ortega looked at me steadily, thoughtfully. Slauson said, “This much I feel sure of — if Doctor West suspected or knew Greene had been poisoned, he must have felt certain it was suicide.”
“I believe that,” I said. “But that determination isn’t his to make. The least he could have done was inform you quietly.”
Ortega said, “So who orders the exhumation and starts the pot boiling? Who brings all the quiet resentments out into the open?” He looked at me. “Mrs. Greene?”
“Not yet,” I said. “And something else — my shoulders are broad and my skin thick. And I have no stake in the town. Why don’t you give me the names of those servants who left when Miss Destry took over the house? If anybody gets indignant, I’ll be the target.”
Slauson shook his head. “That wouldn’t be fair.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’m not expecting equity, not until I start working for the same salary as the municipal man.”
Slauson frowned. I said, “And what about this attorney, Winters? He lets Miss Destry stay on at the house. He gives her attorney reason to think she has a case. What about that old Marmon-lover?”
“An irreproachably ethical man,” Slauson said. “You can forget him.’’
Ortega frowned. “Ethical in many ways. And old, of course. But until only recently possessed of a reputation as a — a woman chaser.”
I thought Slauson smiled. I said, “Lieutenant, there are a number of intelligent people who consider adultery a much less serious moral offense than bingo. Perhaps you’re a little narrow on that one subject.”
He looked at me coldly. “Perhaps.” A uniformed man stuck his head through the doorway to say, “Mrs. Mendez is here now, Lieutenant.”
He nodded, and looked at Slauson. Slauson said, “You may go. I’ll decide about Puma.”
After Ortega had closed the door behind him, the chief said, “He told me about his visit to you last night. Don’t rag him about his moral standards. I don’t feel that they are anything you’re qualified to sneer at.”
“Maybe not. It has always been my belief that the devil doesn’t need murder if poker will do it.”
“That’s sophistry, Mr. Puma. You have some holes in your education.”
I didn’t say anything, starting to burn a little. For the first time in our relationship, I resented him.
He smiled. “I’m glad I’m a Chief of Police. If I weren’t, you’d have swung at me by now, wouldn’t you?”
I shook my head.
“Shall I go?” I asked.
“Not until I apologize,” he said. “Sergeant Dallas, out in my waiting room, will give you the names of Mr. Greene’s former servants. They all still live in town. Who can blame them, with a town as lovely as this one? Right, Mr. Puma?”
It’s a pippin, Chief,” I said. He smiled. “There are a lot of motels beyond the city limits, Mr. Puma. And the county police officers have no Lieutenant Ortega to keep them as narrowly moral. Good luck.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “And for the record, I’m not a sophist; I’m a hedonist.”
“It’s possible to be both,” he told me. “It’s impossible to be the last without being the first, as a matter of fact. Carry on.” It was too nice a day to stand inside and argue; I said good-by to him and went out. The sergeant in the outer office gave me the names and addresses of the former servants. Sergeant Purvis was coming up the hallway as I came down it. He smiled and said, “Good morning, Romeo. Sleep well?”
“Like a tiger,” I assured him, and went past without stopping.
• • •
The first servant I interviewed was one Mary Valdez, maid. She was a dark and attractive girl in her thirties who lived with her mother on the south end of town. I caught her at home.
If she knew anything, she wasn’t revealing it to Joe Puma this warm morning. Mr. Greene had paid her adequately and promptly and given her six months salary as terminal leave bonus. Miss Destry, according to Miss Valdez, had run the house efficiently and treated the servants humanely. Mr. Greene had thought very highly of Miss Destry. Yes, Mr. Hawley had been a frequent visitor and Mr. Greene hadn’t seemed to dislike him.
The girl was so obviously a Carol Destry fan that I didn’t go into the arsenic motive at all. I told her I was merely checking for the State Employment Board and thanked her for nothing.
There had been two other servants in the house at the same time, a married couple. The wife had been housekeeper and cook, the husband gardener and chauffeur and handyman. Their names were Mr. and Mrs. Paul Martino.
Paisans, both of them, and much more co-operative than Miss Valdez had been. They lived in a hill-top house above the Table, not more than three or four blocks from the Duggan cottage.
They were both over fifty, though they weren’t the kind who would ever act old. Paul was in front, cutting the lawn with a small power mower when I drove up.
I told him who I was and what I was doing and he told me to come out to the back yard where his wife was sunning herself.
Their opinion of Carol Destry differed sharply from the maid’s. Mrs. Martino said, “She knew all the gimmicks and she handled all the household money. I’d make out a list for whatever food was needed, and she’d order it. The same thing with Paul. She ordered the fertilizer and plants and told him what garage to take the cars to.”
“And the merchants would kick back to her?” I asked.
Mrs. Martino shrugged. “I couldn’t prove it — but what else?”
Paul winked at me. “My wife is bitter; usually all the kickbacks come to the housekeeper.”
I said, “I don’t suppose it
would do any good to interrogate some of the merchants?”
He shook his head. “It was petty thievery, but common practice and they’d be insulted if you questioned them.”
“I’ve heard somewhere,” I told them, “that Miss Destry has stashed quite a bundle. But she certainly didn’t make it with this kind of petty larceny.”
“I don’t know what you call a bundle,” Paul answered, “but figure fifteen years of that.” He shook his head. “I wish I had it; I’d buy this whole damned mountain.”
“And,” Mrs. Martino added, “remember that Mr. Greene was in pain and under narcotics for a long time before the end. And getting senile. For the last three months before he died, he simply signed a handful of blank checks and Miss Destry used them without being checked. She could have milked plenty more those last few months.’“
There was a silence. This would make her look bad, but less of a murderer. Who would kill a goose that was spewing golden eggs?
Paul said quietly, “You’re not checking her financially anyway, are you?”
“Why not?” He smiled at me. “You’re wondering if she killed him, or you’re being paid to investigate by somebody who is wondering.”
I smiled back at him. “What gave you that idea? Do you think she killed him?”
“I wouldn’t want to say. It would only be a guess, and that wouldn’t be fair to her. Actually, we might dislike her only because she took away our chance of stealing a few dollars for ourselves.” Mrs. Martino sniffed.
“I’ll take your guess for what it is, simply a guess,” I said.
Paul Martino looked at his wife and back at me. “I think she could, if there was a dollar in it, some way. I think she could have figured she was in the will and she knew wills could be changed.”
“That’s a complicated guess,” I said. “Did you people know Elmer Duggan?”
They both nodded and Paul said, “Good kid. Mr. Greene thought the world and all of him.”
“Don’t you think there’s a sound possibility his death could be connected with Mr. Greene’s?”
They both nodded. Neither said anything. I asked, “Was there ever any poison around the house?”
The Wayward Widow Page 8
