Honey West: A Kiss for a Killer
Page 11
Mark hitched up his pants. “You can’t hang a man for not being observant, Honey. What about this Tunny dame?”
“She was in the living room with me when we heard Wetzel cry out. He’d gone into his bedroom to get something he wanted to show me. I never found out what that was.”
“What about the other guests?”
“I’d guess there were about thirty. More men than women. Probably a bunch of minor lights in the Hollywood firmament.”
He made a note on his scratch pad. “I’ll see if I can’t check them out.”
“What about Fred Sims?” I asked.
The deputy cocked his head at me and said, “I couldn’t locate him. When I got up to Meadow Falls he’d already blown.”
“Where, Mark?”
“Nobody knew. Incidentally, I checked those machines under the temple. They’d been disassembled.”
I nodded. “We’re batting a thousand all the way around.”
“Yeah. But don’t worry. I’ve got plans for Tunny.”
“And Fred?”
“The jury’s still out.” He shook his head. “Get off my back, Honey! Fred’s my best friend.”
“Toy Tunny says Fred was intimately acquainted with Angela Scali.”
Mark spun around, eyes glaring. “So what? Fred’s a newspaper man. Don’t you imagine he knows a lot of film personalities?”
“Sure,” I said simply.
“Then take your cockeyed theories someplace else, will you?” he blared. “I’m sick of them!”
“Come on, Mark—”
“Come on, nothing!” He fixed a hard gaze on me. “You’re always picking somebody’s guts, aren’t you, Honey? I’m surprised when your father wound up in that gutter you didn’t blame Fred for killing him. He was the first one on the scene, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” I said faintly.
He straightened, towering over me, glaring angrily. “Lay off Fred. In fact, take my advice and lay off this whole case before you get hurt!”
“I’m already hurt, Lieutenant,” I said, crossing to his office door.
I walked out to the parking lot and climbed into my car. The clock on the dash indicated it was nearly three, but as far as I was concerned the night was still young.
I drove back to Box Canyon and up the steep road to Sol Wetzel’s place again. The garage door was closed now and the house dark. The wind had died and stars blinked in the inky sky.
When deputies from the Sheriff’s office checked Wetzel’s bedroom they had looked for the obvious: fingerprints, shoe impressions, signs of a scuffle. They had not been aware of Wetzel’s plan to show me something. I was certain that whatever it was, the object or objects had some bearing on the case.
I parked in the driveway and removed my .22 from its garter holster, then proceeded along the dark walk-way to the bedroom door. It was locked. I continued on into the circular patio to a set of French doors. They were secured also, but I changed that with a quick rap of my revolver’s butt against a pane of glass. The window splintered, leaving a hole wide enough for me to reach inside and release the latch. The doors opened into a small dining area, off the kitchen.
Once inside, I stiffened at the sound of a clock chiming somewhere in the house. The bell tolled three times and stopped. I moved around a table and chairs to the living room where I’d stood with Toy Tunny hours earlier.
Suddenly I got the feeling I was not alone in the house. I flattened against a wall listening, my gun hand lifted in readiness. A clock ticked on the fireplace mantel. Crickets drummed ceaselessly outside.
Finally I continued on into Wetzel’s bedroom and switched on a desk lamp. The floor was still covered with papers, crumpled rugs and books which had fallen when the wind had blown them from a shelf. The bed had been torn apart by investigating deputies. Bloody sheets and blankets had been removed, leaving only a darkly stained mattress. I surveyed the room. Beside the desk and bed there was an old bureau in one corner and a clothes hamper. Next to this was a closet. The door stood open, revealing neatly hung suits and sports clothes and another bureau built inside the closet. I crossed quietly, keeping my ears tuned to any sounds that might emanate from other parts of the house. The closet bureau produced nothing but stacks of socks, undershorts, ties and white shirts. I checked the rear of each drawer carefully for any sign of papers or photographs.
Then I returned to the desk, noting the tape recorder had been moved to allow a fingerprint expert to work. The deputies had placed the machine on top of the clothes hamper, but I noticed its long cord had not been disconnected from the wall socket. I started to lift the recorder down from the hamper when I realized the metal sides were warm. I examined the knobs. The one indicating volume was turned up to almost full. Both plastic reels were missing. I looked around for the one which had been knocked to the floor by the wind, but couldn’t see it in the tangle of papers and books.
I froze again. Something rattled lightly in the living room. I placed the recorder back on the hamper and tiptoed to the desk lamp, flicking it off.
Certain sounds are hard to distinguish. This wasn’t. The rhythmic thump of a cane striking a hard surface drifted in the darkness, drawing nearer, a leg dragging slightly. A huge shadow loomed in the door, then stopped.
“I know you’re here,” a voice said. “So don’t pretend.”
With my free hand I switched on the desk lamp again. Standing in the doorway, his head bent slightly, a cane gripped in his raw-boned fingers, was Thor Tunny.
And, of all things, he was fully clothed.
TWELVE
The huge, seven-foot cult leader didn’t even wince at the sight of my revolver. He limped into the room slowly, head still bent, right hand gripping the cane. He was dressed in a brown business suit and a grey hat that slanted low on his forehead.
I waved the gun abruptly. “That’s near enough, Mr. Tunny.”
He glowered at me from under the hat, but didn’t stop. “You’d be a fool to pull that trigger, Miss West.”
“I’d be a bigger fool if I didn’t,” I said, index finger tightening. “Take my advice.”
He made a quick move, sliding his cane on the floor, and hunched down on Wetzel’s stained mattress, groaning softly. “All right. I’ve had enough exercise for the moment. Besides, my leg hurts.”
“I thought it was your head that was in bad shape, Mr. Tunny.”
He removed his hat, revealing a bandage. “That, too. You did a thorough job, Miss West. Remind me to repay you sometime.”
My gaze shifted to the door. “Who’s with you?”
“No one,” he said simply. “I drove up alone.”
“I didn’t hear your car.”
He glanced around the room. “Perhaps your mind was further occupied. Apparently you’ve been busy. Did you find them?”
“Find what?”
He laughed oddly. “You’re a poor detective, Miss West. You don’t expect me to furnish your clues, do you?”
“I don’t expect you to furnish anything, Mr. Tunny, except some answers to some questions. Like what are you doing here?”
He grinned cockily. “This is my house. Don’t I have the right to be in my own place?”
“Don’t be smart. You know Sol Wetzel’s dead.”
“Of course. Toy called me. Most unfortunate accident. Especially since for the second time such a thing occurs on my property.”
“You own this house, is that it?”
“You are becoming more accurate by the second, Miss West. Bravo!” He applauded lightly, eyes scanning me. “And I might add, you are becoming more beautiful by the hour. Lissome legs, nicely tapered hips, good—”
“You can cut the geographical survey, Mr. Tunny.”
He laced his fingers together, cracking their brittle joints. “Despite your uninhibited show of physical violence, Miss West, I find you extremely engaging. Too bad you chose such an unfortunate field of endeavor.”
“Listen, Mr. Tin God,” I countered. “I got a l
ong look at your chamber of horrors. You talk about physical violence. I had a 22-year-old client who took one of your joy rides. She hasn’t been able to talk straight since.”
He shook his head, lips puckering. “You must be mistaken. My society is one of puritanical absolution. We frown on the sensual qualities.”
I poked the gun under his nose. “Well start frowning at this.”
Tunny nibbled at a fingernail for an instant, then said, “What is it that you wish?”
“What was your connection with Sol Wetzel?”
“I was his landlord.”
“And?”
“That’s all.”
I pushed the gun against his forehead.
He swallowed deeply. “We—we were business partners.”
“Keep talking.”
“Sol had a—a financial interest in the camp.”
“How big?”
Tunny winced. “Two-thirds.”
“Where’d he get that kind of money?”
“I don’t know.”
“You lie!”
He stared up at the gleaming muzzle. “All right. He received it from Angela Scali.”
“You mean he took it, don’t you?”
“No. She gave him nearly everything she had. It was a bargain between them.”
“What kind of a bargain?”
“She—Angela wanted out of the motion picture business. But she had an iron-clad contract with the studio. There was only one thing she could do. Disappear.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I said. “She could have bought her way out.”
“She couldn’t,” Tunny protested. “She wanted to live at Meadow Falls. Angela and Wetzel both knew she’d never be free of publicity if she did it in the open. They had to go undercover.”
“That still doesn’t add up.”
He shot pleading eyes in my direction. “The studio would have sued her for every cent she owned. It was either a case of disappear, or pay and be persecuted by the press. You know an Academy Award winner can’t just step out because she wants to. Angela had too many obligations. To the American public, to newspapers and magazines and to her studio.”
I lowered the revolver slowly. “Okay. How’d you figure in this?”
He gripped his sunburnt forehead with his hands as if trying to ward off any more thrusts of the gun barrel.
“I—I was ready to go under,” he stammered. “There just weren’t enough contributions, and too many mouths to feed. Their investment put us back on our feet.”
“Are you sure this wasn’t a deal cooked up by you and Wetzel alone?”
“No! I swear to you! It was all her idea. Wetzel was afraid from the very beginning.”
“What was he afraid of?”
“That someone at the camp would talk. Or that Fred Sims would break his promise and print a story.”
I straightened. “You knew Fred Sims then. You were pretending when we came into the temple yesterday.”
“Of course. Fred was an old friend of the Angel’s. In fact, he helped effect her escape the night of the awards at the Pantages Theatre.”
I suddenly had the feeling he was feeding me. That he’d come here for that purpose.
“Let’s go back to the beginning, Mr. T. Back twenty-four hours, to Rip Spensor. Why did his death bother you so much?”
Tunny cracked his knuckles, grimacing. “Angela disappeared early that same afternoon. She and Spensor had had a love affair during the summer. He’d been sworn to secrecy, but when I heard the report of his death over the radio I knew we were in trouble.”
“Did you suspect Angela?”
“I didn’t know whom to suspect. I only knew that with her gone and Spensor dead, we were sitting on a Mount Vesuvius.”
“How did you get my name?”
“I called Fred Sims. He suggested I send somebody after you. So I sent Adam.”
“Keep going.”
“Well, the next thing I knew Adam returned empty-handed. He told me some crazy story about having a run-in with the Long Beach police. I was nearly frantic. I called a meeting of the congregation—”
“And that’s when Fred and I came in, right?”
“Yes. I didn’t know then that Toy and Ray Spensor had found Angela in your apartment. Or that—that Angela was dead.”
“That just about brings us up to the present, doesn’t it, Mr. T.? Except for a few minor hours, including those I spent trying to escape from your sex trap.”
“I—I assure you, Miss West, that was all a grave mistake brought about by Fred’s insistence that you be detained.”
“Fred’s insistence?”
“Yes,” Tunny said, wiping his mouth. “He argued that your life was in danger. That you’d be better off if we created some nonsensical reason for your staying at Meadow Falls.”
“It was nonsensical all right, Mr. Tunny. If you had tried that playground bit on me, sooner or later I’d have torn the place apart.
He tried to rise, but my gun held him in his place. “That was a pretense, Miss West. Don’t you understand? Fred told us to suspect anybody, including Ray Spensor. When we found Spensor with you we only assumed—”
“You assumed wrong, Mr. T. Ray was trying to do anything but kill me. You’re still reaching.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“And what’s the truth about your daughter? What was her connection with Sol Wetzel?”
He shook his head dismally. “They were friends. What more can I say?”
“You could say they were a couple of perverted pals. That knife games to them were like a rubber of bridge to Charles Goren.”
“I don’t understand my daughter,” Tunny said, “so I don’t attempt to analyze her or her friends.”
“Bully for you. Well analyze this then, Mr. Sun God. Toy and Ray Spensor spirited Angela Scali away from my apartment. They, above anyone else, knew she was back at camp. Now who else possibly could have known?”
“Adam, I suppose. He acted very strangely that morning.”
“Who else?”
“Fred Sims.”
My fist slammed on the desk. “Why do you keep bringing up his name. You know very well Fred was with me. How could he possibly have known?”
Tunny exhaled loudly, drumming his cane on the floor. “Miss West, you remind me of a lost soul wandering in the dark. Don’t you know who Fred Sims really is?”
“Sure,” I said, thinking about the ribbon I’d found. “He’s a nice friendly guy who got half a leg blown off and has half a Congressional Medal of Honor to show for it. Now you tell me.”
He laughed grimly, rising halfway on his injured leg and shifting his cane under him. “Don’t you know why he kept the secret?”
“I’ve been wondering,” I said. “Fred usually keeps only one secret and that’s where he’s hidden the next bottle.”
“Angela met him during the war,” Tunny said.
“So?”
“He saved her life. She was just a dark-haired kid hiding in a shell hole. Mother and father blown to bits. Fred carried her across a mine field to safety. Angela never forgot that.”
“I can understand why,” I said. “But that was par for the course for Fred Sims. He turned Bastogne into a Roman holiday for the Allies.”
“I’ve heard that story,” Tunny said, staring at me blankly. “Have you heard this one?”
“Which one?”
“Fred and Angela.” His eyes gleamed when he said the words. “They were married in a small church outside Rome. Fifteen years ago.”
THIRTEEN
The roof might have fallen in on me. I hunched forward, lowered my revolver and exhaled. The room spun around and then straightened.
“You—you have proof?” I demanded.
“Fred showed me the paper when he brought Angela to the camp. I accepted the document for what it was worth.”
My teeth clamped tight. “And it was worth plenty to you, wasn’t it, Mr. T? Another sucker. Another big bankr
oll.”
“Despite what you imagine, Miss West,” he countered, “the camp is a legitimate operation. We’ve accepted donations, yes, but always openly.”
“How open was Angela Scali?”
“She was the exception. I only did that, as I told you, because of extreme financial circumstances. If need be, I’ll testify to that fact.”
“And will you testify to the machines beneath your temple?”
His forehead ridged. “Those were Toy’s idea. I must admit they were crude and perverse. They did serve one purpose.”
“And what’s that?” I said. “Ruining a dozen or more nice young girls?”
“No,” he said flatly. “Unfortunately there are some people who enjoyed them. In every society there are those few.”
“Yourself included?”
“They’ve been junked, Miss West. And that ends that. So why pursue the matter?”
I didn’t answer. The revelation of Fred and Angela’s marriage in Italy kept ramming through my brain. It seemed utterly impossible that Fred could keep such a secret all these years. Worse was the fact that he’d been in on the Rip Spensor-Angela Scali case from the very start and yet never said anything. Never tipped his hand. I glowered at Tunny’s cane.
“Where’d you get that stick?” I demanded, anger welling hotly inside me.
“This? I’ve had it for years. Developed a bad case of gout when I first opened Meadow Falls. Why?”
“Where was it yesterday?”
“In my office at the camp.”
“Did anybody borrow it?”
“I don’t believe so. What are you getting at, Miss West?”
“Who has access to your office besides yourself?”
“Several people. All my directors have keys.”
“Adam Jason?”
“Yes. Even Ray Spensor has a key, I believe. In fact, he makes a hobby of collecting keys. I was going to change the lock after he left my organization, but I don’t keep my valuables there so I didn’t bother.”
“Where does Ray Spensor live?”
Tunny scratched his neck thoughtfully. “I understand he’s been sharing a house with his cousin, Rip. Out near a hundred and eighty-something and Figueroa.”