I moved back into the front bedroom and went through it carefully. The wastebasket had been emptied, which probably accounted for the burned paper in the upstairs fireplace. Damis had gone to a lot of trouble to cover his traces.
But he had overlooked one piece of paper. It was jammed between the sliding glass door and its frame, evidently to keep the door from rattling. It was thick and yellowish paper, folded small. When I unfolded it, I recognized it as one of those envelopes that airlines give their passengers to keep their tickets in.
This was a Mexicana Airlines envelope, with flight instructions typed inside the flap. Mr. Q. R. Simpson, the instructions said, was to leave the Guadalajara airport at 8:40 A.M. on July 10 and arrive at Los Angeles International at 1:30 P.M. the same day.
I messed around in the bedroom some more, discovered only some dust mice under the bed, and went upstairs. The painting drew me back to it. It affected me differently each time. This time I saw, or thought I saw, that it was powerful and ugly—an assault of dark forces on the vision. Perhaps I was reading my fantasy into it, but it seemed to me that its darkness was the ultimate darkness of death.
I had an impulse to take it along and find an expert to show it to. If Damis was a known artist, his style should be recognizable. But I couldn’t move the thing. The oils were still wet and would smear.
I went out to the car to get my camera. The zebra-striped hearse was standing empty beside it. The sky had cleared, and a few sun-bathers were lying around in the sand like bodies after a catastrophe. Beyond the surf line the six surfers waited in prayerful attitudes on their boards.
A big wave rose toward them. Five of the surfers rode it in, like statues on a traveling blue hillside. The sixth was less skillful. The wave collapsed on her. She lost her board and swam in after it.
Instead of taking it out to sea again, she carried it up the beach on her head. She left it on the sand above the tide line and climbed the rocky bank to the parking space. She had the bust and shoulders of a young Amazon, but she was shivering and close to tears.
It was the girl who had made the face at me, which gave us something in common. I said: “You took quite a spill.”
She looked at me as if she had never seen me before, almost as if she wasn’t seeing me now. I was a member of another tribe or species. Her eyes were wet and wild, like the eyes of sea lions.
She got a man’s topcoat out of the back of the hearse and put it on. It was good brown tweed which looked expensive, but there were wavy white salt marks on it, as if it had been immersed in the sea. Her fingers trembled on the brown leather buttons. One of the buttons, the top one, was missing. She turned up the collar around the back of her head where the wet hair clung like a golden helmet.
“If you’re cold I have a heater in my car.”
“Blah,” she said, and turned her tweed back on me.
I loaded the camera with color film and took some careful shots of Damis’s painting. On my way to the airport I dropped the film off with a photographer friend in Santa Monica. He promised to get it developed in a hurry.
The very polite young man at the Mexicana desk did a few minutes’ research and came up with the information that Q. R. Simpson had indeed been on the July 10 flight from Guadalajara. So had Harriet Blackwell. Burke Damis hadn’t.
My tentative conclusion, which I kept to myself, was that Damis had entered the United States under the name of Simpson. Since he couldn’t leave Mexico without a nontransferable tourist card or enter this country without proof of citizenship, the chances were that Q. R. Simpson was Damis’s real name.
The polite young Mexican told me further that the crew of the July 10 flight had flown in from Mexico again early this afternoon. The pilot and copilot were in the office now, but they wouldn’t know anything about the passengers. The steward and stewardess, who would, had already gone for the day. They were due to fly out again tomorrow morning. If I came out to the airport before flight time, perhaps they would have a few minutes to talk to me about my friend Señor Simpson.
Exhilarated by his Latin courtesy, I walked back to the Immigration and Customs shed. The officers on duty took turns looking at my license as if it was something I’d found in a box of breakfast cereal.
Feeling the need to check in with some friendly authority, I drove downtown. Peter Colton was in his cubicle in the District Attorney’s office, behind a door that said Chief Criminal Investigator.
Peter had grown old in law enforcement. The grooves of discipline and thought ware like saber scars in his cheeks. His triangular eyes glinted at me over half-glasses which had slid down his large aggressive nose.
He finished reading a multigraphed sheet, initialed it, and scaled it into his out-basket.
“Sit down, Lew. How’s it going?”
“All right. I dropped by to thank you for recommending me to Colonel Blackwell.”
He regarded me quizzically. “You don’t sound very grateful. Is Blackie giving you a bad time?”
“Something is. He handed me a peculiar case. I don’t know whether it’s a case or not. It may be only Blackwell’s imagination.”
“He never struck me as the imaginative type.”
“Known him long?”
“I served under him, for my sins, in Bavaria just after the war. He was in Military Government, and I was in charge of a plain-clothes section of Military Police.”
“What was he like to work for?”
“Tough,” Colton said, and added reflectively: “Blackie liked command, too much. He didn’t get enough of it during the fighting. Some friend in Washington, or some enemy, kept him in the rear echelons. I don’t know whether it was for Blackie’s own protection or the protection of the troops. He was bitter about it, and it made him hard on his men. But he’s a bit of an ass, and we didn’t take him too seriously.”
“In what way was he hard on his men?”
“All the ways he could think of. He went in for enforcement of petty rules. He was very keen on the anti-fraternization policy. My men had murder and rape and black-marketeering to contend with. But Blackie expected us to spend our nights patrolling the cabarets suppressing fraternization. It drove him crazy to think of all the fraternization that was going on between innocent American youths and man-eating Fräuleins.”
“Is he some kind of a sex nut?”
“I wouldn’t put it that strongly.” But Colton’s grin was wolfish. “He’s a Puritan, from a long line of Puritans. What made it worse, he was having fraternization problems in his own family. His wife was interested in various other men. I heard later she divorced him.”
“What sort of a woman is she?”
“Quite a dish, in those days, but I never knew her up close. Does it matter?”
“It could. Her daugher Harriet went to Mexico to visit her a few weeks ago and made a bad connection. At least it doesn’t look too promising. He’s a painter named Burke Damis, or possibly Q. R. Simpson. She brought him back here with her, intends to marry him. Blackwell thinks the man is trying to take her for her money. He hired me to investigate that angle, or anything else that I can find on Damis.”
“Or possibly Q. R. Simpson, you said. Is Damis using an alias?”
“I haven’t confirmed it. I’m fairly sure he entered the country a week ago under the Q. R. Simpson name. It may be his real name, since it isn’t a likely alias.”
“And you want me to check it out”
“That would be nice.”
Colton picked up his ball-point pen and jabbed with it in my direction. “You know I can’t spend public time and money on a private deal like this.”
“Even for an old friend?”
“Blackwell’s no friend of mine. I recommended you to get him out of my hair in one quick easy motion.”
“I was referring to myself,” I said, “no doubt presumptuously. A simple query to the State Bureau of Criminal Investigation wouldn’t take much time, and it might save trouble in the long run. You always say you’re mor
e interested in preventing crime than punishing it.”
“What crime do you have in mind?”
“Murder for profit is a possibility. I don’t say it’s probable. I’m mainly concerned with saving a naïve young woman from a lot of potential grief.”
“And saving yourself a lot of potential legwork.”
“I’m doing my own legwork as usual. But I could knock on every door from here to San Luis Obispo and it wouldn’t tell me what I need to know.”
“What, exactly, is that?”
“Whether Q. R. Simpson, or Burke Damis, has a record.”
Colton wrote the names on a memo pad. I’d succeeded in arousing his curiosity.
“I suppose I could check with Sacramento.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly four. “If the circuits aren’t too loaded, we might get an answer before we close up for the night. You want to wait outside?”
I read a law-enforcement trade journal in the anteroom, all the way through to the advertisements. Police recruits were being offered as much as four hundred and fifty dollars a month in certain localities.
Peter Colton opened his door at five o’clock on the nose and beckoned me into his office. A teletype flimsy rustled in his hand.
“Nothing on Burke Damis,” he said. “Quincy Ralph Simpson is another story: he’s on the Missing Persons list, has been for a couple of weeks. According to his wife, he’s been gone much longer than that.”
“His wife?”
“She’s the one who reported him missing. She lives up north, in San Mateo County.”
chapter 7
IT WAS CLEAR late twilight when the jet dropped down over the Peninsula. The lights of its cities were scattered like a broken necklace along the dark rim of the Bay. At its tip stood San Francisco, remote and brilliant as a city of the mind, hawsered to reality by her two great bridges—if Marin and Berkeley were reality.
I took a cab to Redwood City. The deputy on duty on the ground floor of the Hall of Justice was a young man with red chipmunk cheeks and eyes that were neither bright nor stupid. He looked me over noncommittally, waiting to see if I was a citizen or one of the others.
I showed him my license and told him I was interested in a man named Quincy Ralph Simpson. “The Los Angeles D.A.’s office says you reported him missing about two weeks ago.”
He said after a ruminative pause: “Have you spotted him?”
“I may have.”
“Where?”
“In the Los Angeles area. Do you have a picture of Simpson?”
“I’ll see.” He went into the back of the office, rummaged through a drawerful of bulletins and circulars, and came back empty-handed. “I can’t find any, sorry. But I can tell you what he looks like. Medium height, about five-nine or -ten; medium build, one-sixty-five or so; black hair; I don’t know the color of his eyes; no visible scars or other distinguishing marks.”
“Age?”
“About my age. I’m twenty-nine. Is he your man?”
“It’s possible.” Just barely possible. “Is Simpson wanted for anything?”
“Non-support, maybe, but I don’t know of any complaint. What makes you think he’s wanted?”
“The fact that you can describe him.”
“I know him. That is, I’ve seen him around here.”
“Doing what?”
He leaned on the counter with a kind of confidential hostility. “I’m not supposed to talk about what I see around here, friend. You want to know anything about that, you’ll have to take it up with the boys upstairs.”
“Is Captain Royal upstairs?”
“The Captain’s off duty. I wouldn’t want to disturb him at home. You know him well?”
“We worked together on a case.”
“What case was that?”
“I’m not supposed to talk about it, friend. Can you give me Mrs. Simpson’s address?”
He reached under the counter and produced a phone book which he pushed in my direction. Q. R. Simpson was listed, at 2160 Marvista Drive. My taxi driver told me that this was in a tract on the far side of Skyline, toward Luna Bay: a five-dollar run.
We drove through darkening hills and eventually turned off the road past a tattered billboard which announced: “No Down Payment. No Closing Costs.” The tract houses were new and small and all alike and already declining into slums. Zigzagging through the grid of streets like motorized rats in a maze, we found the address we were looking for.
It stood between two empty houses, and had a rather abandoned air itself. The tiny plot of grass in front of it looked brown and withered in the headlights. A 1952 Ford convertible with the back window torn out was parked in the carport.
I asked the driver to wait, and rang the doorbell. A young woman answered. The door was warped, and she had some trouble opening it all the way.
She was a striking brunette, very thin and tense, with a red slash of mouth and hungry dark eyes. She had on a short black tight dress which revealed her slender knees and only half concealed her various other attractions.
She was aware of these. “This isn’t free show night. What is it you want?”
“If you’re Mrs. Simpson, I’d like to talk about your husband.”
“Go ahead and talk about him. I’m listening.” She cocked her head in an angry parody of interest.
“You reported him missing.”
“Yes, I reported him missing. I haven’t set eyes on him for two whole months. And that suits me just fine. Who needs him?” Her voice was rough with grief and resentment. She was looking past me across the scraggy untended lawn. “Who’s that in the taxi?”
“Just the driver. I asked him to wait for me.”
“I thought it might be Ralph,” she said in a different tone, “afraid to come in the house and all.”
“It isn’t Ralph. You say he’s been gone a couple of months, but you only reported him missing two weeks ago.”
“I gave him all the leeway I could. He’s taken off before, but never for this long. Mr. Haley at the motel said I ought to clue in the cops. I had to go back to work at the motel. Even with that I can’t keep up the house payments without some help from Ralph. But a lot of good it did telling the cops. They don’t do much unless you can prove foul play or something.” She wrinkled her expressive upper lip. “Are you one?”
“I’m a private detective.” I told her my name. “I ran into a man today who could be your missing husband. May I come in?”
“I guess so.”
She moved sideways into her living room, glancing around as if to see it through a visitor’s eyes. It was tiny and clean and poor, furnished with the kind of cheap plastic pieces that you’re still paying installments on when they disintegrate. She turned up the three-way lamp and invited me to sit at one end of the chesterfield. She sat at the other end, hunched forward, her sharp elbows resting on her knees.
“So where did you see him?”
“Malibu.”
I wasn’t paying much attention to what I said. There was a framed oil painting on the wall above the television set. Though it was recognizable as a portrait of Mrs. Simpson, it looked amateurish to me. I went over and examined it more closely.
“That’s supposed to be me,” she said behind me.
“It’s not a bad likeness. Did your husband do it?”
“Yeah. It’s a hobby he has. He wanted to take it up seriously at one time but a man he knew, a real painter, told him he wasn’t good enough. That’s the story of his life, hopeful beginnings and nothing endings. So now he’s living the life of Riley in Malibu while I stay here and work my fingers to the bone. What’s he doing, beachcombing?”
I didn’t answer her question right away. A dog-eared paperback entitled The Art of Detection lay on top of the television set. It was the only book I could see in the room. I picked it up and riffled through the pages. Many of them were heavily underlined; some of them were illustrated with bad cartoons penciled in the margins.
“That was anot
her one of Ralph’s big deals,” she said. “He was going to be a great detective and put us on easy street. Naturally he didn’t get to first base. He never got to first base with any of his big wheels and deals. A man he knows on the cops told him with his record—” She covered her mouth with her hand.
I laid the book down. “Ralph has a record?”
“Not really. That was just a manner of speaking.” Her eyes had hardened defensively. “You didn’t tell me what he was doing in Malibu.”
“I’m not even certain it was your husband I saw there.”
“What did he look like?”
I described Burke Damis, and thought I caught the light of recognition in her eyes. But she said definitely: “It isn’t him.”
“I’d like to be sure about that. Do you have a photograph of Ralph?”
“No. He never had his picture taken.”
“Not even a wedding picture?”
“We had one taken, but Ralph never got around to picking up the copies. We were married in Reno, see, and he couldn’t hold on to the twenty dollars long enough. He can’t keep away from the tables when he’s in Reno.”
“Does he spend much time in Reno?”
“All the time he can get away from work. I used to go along with him, I used to think it was fun. I had another think coming. It’s the reason we never been able to save a nickel.”
I moved across the room and sat beside her. “What does Ralph do for a living, Mrs. Simpson?”
“Anything he can get. He never finished high school, and that makes it tough. He’s a pretty good short-order cook, but he hated the hours. Same with bartending, which he did for a while. He’s had some good-paying houseboy jobs around the Peninsula. But he’s too proud for that kind of work. He hates to take orders from people. Maybe,” she added bitterly, “he’s too proud for any kind of work, and that’s why he ran out on me.”
“How long ago did he leave?”
“Two months ago, I told you that. He left here on the night of May eighteen. He just got back from Nevada that same day, and he took right off for Los Angeles. I think he only came home to try and talk me out of the car. But I told him he wasn’t going to leave me marooned without a car. So he finally broke down and took a bus. I drove him down to the bus station.”
The Zebra-Striped Hearse Page 5
