by Josh Lanyon
But if they had already found out how young Phil supplemented his income, then they had him. Spain already suspected what Nathan was—and he could arrest him on suspicion alone.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were with the Arlen kid?” Spain asked again, and his voice was a little harsher. “It looks a little suspicious from our perspective, if you see what I mean.”
“A lot of people were there that night,” Nathan said. “I guess I didn’t think I had anything important to tell. I knew you’d find out about it, so it’s not like I was trying to hide anything.”
Jonesy snorted. Nathan glanced back at him, stubbed his cigarette out, declining to respond.
“Anything else you want to tell us?” Spain asked finally.
Nathan looked up, and knew his surprised look gave the game away, but he couldn’t help it. Of course he should have told them he was with Arlen. Of course his actions looked suspicious. Of course he was hiding something. He knew it. They knew it. So what was going on? Meeting Spain’s eyes again, he understood that Spain wasn’t fooled for one minute, but for some reason he was letting him walk away. For now.
Nathan replied, “No.”
“Okay.” Spain nodded politely, and Nathan rose, picking up his hat. “We’ll be in touch,” Spain added.
Nathan nodded and went out. The door swung gently closed behind him.
He expected to be followed, and although he could see no sign of a tail, he took it for granted that he was shadowed. It didn’t present an immediate problem. Stopping for breakfast at a diner, he treated himself to eggs and bacon, not because he was hungry but because he knew he had to keep his energy up. He paid with cash and his red stamp coupons—practically the first he’d used since getting back—and then had a cup of real coffee, watching through the Christmas-painted windows as a phalanx of P-38 Lightnings headed out toward the ocean.
Despite his fatigue, he needed to get over to the paper. He felt weirdly numb, but when he thought of the night before in Pershing Square, he knew he wasn’t nearly numb enough. And when he was that numb, the best thing would be to take that liberated Walther paratrooper Harry Ryan had given him, put it in his mouth and pull the trigger.
He rubbed his forehead tiredly, thought about Mathew Spain. Thought about the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice when he’d said, “What did you need?”
For a minute he let himself believe what he thought he’d seen, but it was too dangerous to kid himself about that.
Finishing his coffee, he left the restaurant. He would go to the paper, and he’d turn in some kind of story on the Arlen investigation, and then he’d try again to find Pearl Jarvis.
“Well, well,” Jonesy said. “I think we have a winner.”
Matt looked up, distracted from his own thoughts. “Is that so? What do you think Doyle’s motive is?”
“It’ll turn up soon enough. He’s a cool customer, but it’ll turn up.”
They both knew motive was the least important element in putting together a case. People killed for all kinds of reasons that didn’t make any sense to other people. If the means and opportunity were there, you could generally come up with a motive that would serve to convince a jury. All the same, Matt preferred his prime suspects to have strong and compelling reasons for their crimes. He preferred to believe in their guilt as he built his case.
Jonesy said, “He tried to protect Arlen’s wife. Could there be something there?”
“No.” Matt realized that was too final. “I doubt it.” At the expression on Jonesy’s face, he said, “We’ve got plenty of suspects. Don’t make your mind up too fast.”
“It’s mighty convenient him walking out of the club the same time as the Arlen kid. If he wasn’t the last person to see Arlen alive, he was damn close to it.”
Matt said slowly, “He’s not well. Not strong. I’m pretty sure Arlen wouldn’t have gone with him without a fight, and I don’t think Doyle could have taken him.”
“According to Doc Mason the Arlen kid had a bruise on his jaw.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a fight.”
Jonesy conceded, “I guess if they’d actually tangled, Doyle would be carrying a few bruises. Of course, he could have taken him at gunpoint.”
“True.” Matt thought it over. “Or maybe the kid wasn’t beat up because he went willingly with his kidnappers.”
“If there was a kidnapping.”
The Arlen case was little more than forty-eight hours old, but Matt was already taking heat from above to get it solved. Of course, technically the case was Jonesy’s, but from the minute the victim had been identified as Phil Arlen, Matt had been acting as lead investigator. There was too much hanging on it. The Arlens were important people according to Police Chief Clarence B. Horrall, and the least LAPD could do was get the kidnapping and homicide of their youngest son solved in a timely fashion. Matt was treading carefully. Most of the suspects in young Arlen’s murder were wealthy and influential people—a number of them also Arlens—and this was the kind of case that could destroy a promising police career if the officer in charge didn’t play his cards exactly right.
“A botched kidnapping isn’t a bad cover for a murder,” Matt agreed with a wry smile. “Especially if the killer walked away with a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Assuming Bob Arlen delivered that ransom money.”
“Assuming Bob Arlen didn’t knock off his baby brother himself.”
“He had plenty of provocation,” Jonesy agreed. “From what I can make out there was no love lost between those two. Phil was the apple of the old man’s eye, and never did a damn thing to deserve it according to just about everyone who ever knew him.”
“Bob Arlen doesn’t have much of an alibi. He was supposedly home alone Saturday night while his wife was at the ballet enjoying The Nutcracker with two other couples.”
Jonesy nodded. “He could have waited outside the club for him. Seems likely big brother could get close to Philip without arousing a lot of suspicion, and even with a bum leg, he’s a big, powerful guy.”
Matt agreed. “And if the wife did get home and discover Bob gone, she’d lie her head off. That dame’s crazy for him. Even the muckrakers admit she didn’t marry him for his dough. Not that he has a lot of his own. The old man controls the purse strings.”
Jonesy scratched his nose reflectively. “All the same, Bob Arlen doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would fool around with an antique pistol. If he was going to kill baby brother, my guess is he’d just use his service revolver.”
Matt nodded to himself. “You’re right. We can’t forget about that gun. Who the hell walks around packing an antique pistol?”
“Where would Doyle have got such a thing?”
“Where would anybody?” Matt mulled this over. “The old man, Benedict Arlen, collects antiques and western memorabilia. Find out if he’s got a gun collection.”
Jonesy’s eyes brightened. “Now you’re talking!”
“Uh-huh. The real question is where is that gat now? If we could find it—”
Jonesy shook his head. “I’m guessing that gun’s buried way down deep in the tar with all those dinosaur bones.”
“Even if the pistol did come from a collection belonging to Benedict Arlen, it doesn’t exactly narrow our field of suspects. Just about everybody except Doyle probably had access to it—Bob Arlen, Claire Arlen and, possibly, Claire’s brother Carl Winters.”
“Winters is supposed to have a hot temper,” Jonesy said. “And there have been rumors for years that some of those fancy books he sells aren’t the genuine article.”
Matt contemplated Jonesy’s homely face. The blackmail angle. They couldn’t get away from it. Suppose Phil had known—had proof—that Carl faked the fine, the rare and the antiquarian? “That fancy bookstore Carl Winters owns is full of antiques. Let’s bring in Winters,” he added. “I wouldn’t want him to think we were neglecting his side of the family.”
Jonesy nodded, turned to
leave the office and paused. “You sure you don’t want Doyle followed?”
“I’m sure,” Matt said.
In a creative fever, Doyle typed up a story from the standpoint of doomed young Phil Arlen and handed it in to Whitey Whitlock. It wasn’t journalism—it was more suitable to Black Mask than the Tribune-Herald—but Whitlock read it, whistled and offered Doyle one of his rare snaggle-toothed smiles.
“Well, it’s certainly a new angle,” was all he said.
“I thought I’d head over to Griffith Park Observatory and see if I could pick up the trail,” Doyle said.
Whitlock considered this and then nodded. Nathan hadn’t worked for him long, but he had the kind of track record that inclined Whitlock to give him his head and let him run.
“Thanks,” Nathan said, and turned away.
“You all right, Doyle?” Whitlock growled, and Nathan turned back, startled.
“Fine,” he said.
Whitlock considered this, not appearing particularly convinced—or particularly concerned—and he turned back to the mountain of paperwork on his desk.
Nathan decided to take his own car to Griffith Park. He kept it garaged and rarely used it as gas was tightly rationed—and tires were even harder to get—but he was thinking he might take a run down to San Diego. Pearl had family there, and anything was worth a try at this point.
Including revisiting the scene of the crime—or one of the scenes.
He didn’t expect to discover anything significant at the Griffith Park Observatory and Planetarium, and he was not disappointed. It had changed some since the last time he had visited as a school boy on a field trip. Now soldiers were garrisoned in the park, and a large air-raid siren had been set up adjacent to the observatory. Class was being held inside the planetarium for a new crop of navy fliers who needed to learn to navigate by the stars.
Nathan ran upstairs to the east terrace, poked around and found nothing. He stood for a moment staring across the wild hills at the old Hollywood sign, and then he returned downstairs.
Out of ideas, he returned to Pearl’s Hill Street rooming house in time to see Sid Szabo leaving it. Szabo carried what appeared to be one of those small women’s overnight suitcases. Nathan watched him get into his car—he was alone—and, as Szabo pulled away from the curb, Nathan pulled out after him.
Szabo drove slowly, carefully, clearly having no idea he was being followed. Nathan had no problem tailing him even in the rainy weather. He kept a safe distance, leaving two cars between his Chrysler Highlander and the bright green Oldsmobile.
Szabo turned off onto South Spring Street, pulling into the two-level underground garage of the enormous old Alexandria Hotel. Nathan parked on the street and went inside.
The Alexandria had been built back in 1906, and in its heyday it was the center of Los Angeles social life and the city’s crown jewel. But the glory days were gone now and, despite the crystal chandeliers, marble columns and “million dollar carpet,” it had a sad, haunted quality to it. It was hard to picture someone like Szabo living there. Nathan would have pegged him for the swankiest, flashiest hotel in town.
The front desk clerk eventually stopped shuffling through mail and greeted him without enthusiasm.
“Sid Szabo?” Nathan inquired.
The clerk sighed, as one much put-upon. “I’ll ring him for you, sir.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll just run up and say hello. Third floor?”
“Second floor,” the clerk said. “If you think it’s really all right…”
He was speaking to the wrought-iron gate of the closing elevator.
Nathan stood in the peeling red velvet hallway outside Szabo’s door listening for a few minutes. There wasn’t a lot to hear. The murmur of voices, male and female, but that could have been the radio—or another skirt with Szabo.
He knocked and the voices stopped. Footsteps approached, the door opened and Szabo peered out suspiciously.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he said.
Doyle looked down at the brown alligator overnight bag sitting on the floor a few feet from the door. “I was hoping for an interview.”
“Some other time.” Szabo tried to close the door, and Doyle’s foot shot out.
“Just a couple of quick questions.”
“I don’t have time. And if I did have time, I wouldn’t have the inclination.” Szabo’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Move your foot or I’ll crush it. Don’t think I won’t.”
Nathan withdrew his foot. “You can talk to me or you can talk to the cops.”
Szabo sneered, “About what?”
“Among other things, about where Pearl Jarvis is hiding out.”
Szabo laughed. “I guess I’ll talk to the cops then.” He slammed shut the door.
After a moment, Nathan knocked on the door. It flew open.
“What the hell now?”
“If you should see Pearl, would you ask her to get in touch with me?” He handed Szabo his press card, but the other man made no move to take it.
“She’s allergic to reporters,” Szabo said.
“It must be catching.”
He shook his head disbelievingly. “Why do you want to talk to her?”
“A little bird told me she’s got a story worth telling.”
Szabo’s blue eyes narrowed. “What’s it worth?”
“It depends on the story.”
Szabo studied him. “Well, if I see her—if I see her—I’ll let her know.”
Doyle went downstairs and parked himself in his car, waiting.
Two rumors persisted about Carl Winters. The prevailing rumor was that the majority of his income came from his romancing of rich widows. Seeing him, Matt had no trouble believing this. Winters was a walking illustration for Esquire magazine, from the soles of his black blucher town shoes to the velvet collar of his chesterfield. But the rumor that most interested Matt, the rumor that was little more than a whisper, was that Winters faked a number of the rare and valuable old books he sold. So far no one had been willing to actually come forward and press charges, but that was because many of Winters’ clients were the kind of collectors willing to not look too closely at a valuable antique’s sales history.
“So against your better judgment you allowed your sister to persuade you to drive her to the Las Palmas Club?” Matt asked, continuing their interview.
“Claire is a headstrong girl,” Winters said. “She was going to confront Phil with or without me. I thought that my presence would help to keep their encounter…civil.”
“And was it a civil encounter?”
“No. Perhaps if that girl had not been there, it might have been different. Perhaps.”
“Pearl Jarvis?”
“Yes. Phil had become entangled with this creature. She doesn’t sing at the club on weekends, so I’d imagined it was relatively safe allowing Claire to go there. Unfortunately the girl was with a group of her cronies when we arrived. Although they weren’t together, I believe her presence egged Phil on.”
“Egged him on to do what?”
“To…behave badly.”
Matt made a couple of notes, although he knew all this, had heard from a number of witnesses just how badly Phil Arlen had behaved toward his wife. He’d heard plenty also about how Pearl Jarvis had sat at her own table with her own circle of friends smirking and smiling and making little asides until Sid Szabo had taken her by the arm and gently but firmly removed her from the domestic limelight.
“So your brother-in-law declined to accompany your sister home. What happened then?”
“I saw Claire home.”
“Just like that?”
“When she realized that the situation was hopeless, that she was playing to a crowd of spectators, Claire naturally wanted to leave. She felt humiliated.”
“You’re a man of the world. Do you think your brother-in-law was having an affair with the Jarvis woman?”
“Yes.”
“Does your sister own a gun?”
“No, of course not. Claire is terrified of guns.”
“Did Arlen own a gun?”
“I don’t believe so. I don’t believe Claire would have permitted a gun in their home.”
It seemed to Matt that Claire had had to put up with a number of things from Arlen that she might not have been expected to permit.
“Do you own a gun, Mr. Winters?”
Winters hesitated. “I’m a member of the North Valley Hunt Club. I own a rifle.”
Matt had heard a few things about the North Valley Hunt Club. Fox hunting in Los Angeles. During wartime no less. Christ almighty. “No hand guns?” Matt asked politely.
“No.”
“Any antique or replica weapons?”
“No.” Winters looked puzzled. “I own a pair of Civil War sabers.”
“Were you fond of your late brother-in-law?”
Carl Winters sighed, as though he had known this question was inevitable. “Not particularly. I didn’t kill him, though.”
The phone on Matt’s desk rang. He picked it up. Jonesy said, “Is Winters still with you? I think we found the murder weapon. A Remington Rider Single Shot Derringer pistol. It was hidden in a large Ming vase in the back of his shop.”
Matt’s eyes went to Carl Winters’ bland handsome face. “Is that so?” he said noncommittally.
“There’s a hitch, Loot,” Jonesy said. “According to the salesgirl, just about everyone and his brother has been through this shop since Sunday night. Mrs. Robert Arlen was here Christmas shopping yesterday, Claire Arlen stopped by on her way to lunch with her brother, Robert Arlen was here this morning to pick up a book. Sounds to me like anyone could have planted it—including your pal. He was here early Tuesday afternoon.”
“My pal?” Matt asked carefully.
“The reporter,” Jonesy said. “Nathan Doyle.”
