Her turquoise eyes looked at me gravely and she nodded. “I was teasing about the beach, anyway. I have an appointment with Dr. Foy this afternoon.”
She kept her eyes on my face, as though awaiting a reaction. I tried to look unconcerned, not to show the displeasure I felt.
She had come through a murder and some police rancor; she had witnessed three scenes of Puma semi-violence unscathed. If she was flawed, if she needed psychiatric help, it hadn’t been evident to me.
She had an unusual dependence on men, it was true. But I had the same obsessive dependence on women and always considered it normal for a healthy American boy.
“You’re thinking about Dr. Foy,” she accused me.
I shrugged. “And about Tampett and Sergeant Loepke and Lou Serano and Eddie and Willis Morley and Pete Richards.”
“And Mona Greene?” she asked.
I smiled. “Who’s Mona Greene?”
She threw a roll at me, and I ducked. She said, “Joe, when this is over, could we take a trip? Could we go to Arrowhead or La Jolla or some place?”
I sighed. “Don’t you realize your face is as well known as a movie star’s? How could we do a thing like that and stay out of trouble?”
She smiled. “You could be my chauffeur. I could get you a real slick black gabardine uniform and one of those caps with a glossy visor and we’d take a limousine and put on airs and nobody would ever guess.”
“I don’t like black,” I said. “Fidelia, why this compulsion to flout convention?”
“Look who’s talking!” she said.
“I’m conventional,” I protested, “in many ways. Every way but emotional, I’m highly conventional.”
She chuckled. “So am I. I could get you a blue uniform or a gray one.”
I finished my coffee and stood up. “We’ll think about it. But first things first.”
She looked up at me, and, though she tried to play it lightly, there was some wistfulness in her voice. “You don’t really like me, do you?”
I held her gaze steadily. “Of course I do. And you know, every person I’ve met in these last two days shares that emotion. They all like Fidelia Sherwood Richards, even sour Eddie.”
“Sergeant Loepke doesn’t,” she answered. “And you called him an honest man. You implied he was about the last honest man in the world.”
“Sergeant Loepke,” I explained, “is an honest bitter man. Because of his job, he has reason to resent the power of wealth, the political power of wealth. So he’s not quite normal on that one level. If Sergeant Loepke was the chief of police, he’d love you.”
“You’re an honest man, and not bitter. Do you love me, Joe?”
“At the moment, yes.” I smiled. “But free souls like we are don’t love anybody too much very long, do we?”
“You bastard!” she said. “Kiss me and go.”
I kissed her and went. The overcast morning had turned into a sunny afternoon without burning away the smog. It got thicker and the traffic murderous as I sent the Plymouth boring into the heart of downtown Los Angeles.
In the shoddy area on Figueroa, the smog seemed to be intensified, and my eyes watered and my sinuses ached as I climbed the steps to Willis Morley’s office. Even the odor of new varnish on the handrail couldn’t break through this afternoon’s smog.
Heirs, Incorporated, still had the dignified Please Enter invitation on the door. Willis wasn’t wearing the tweed suit; he was more subdued today in salmon gabardine. He looked at me through the open doorway to the waiting room and smiled.
“Come in, Mr. Puma. Didn’t you get my check?”
“I haven’t been to the office today. That’s not why I’m here.” I came in and sat in his customer’s chair. “Mrs. Richards told me what was in the letter.”
He frowned. “And — ”
“I wondered what you knew about Foy, Dr. Arnold Foy.”
Willis Morley clasped his chubby hands on top of his desk and continued to frown. “Are you here in some — official capacity, Mr. Puma?”
“I’m here looking for an ally, I guess. I have reason to distrust Dr. Foy, myself.”
“Oh? And what is your interest in the affairs of Mrs. Richards?”
“Financial,” I said, “like yours. She’s paying me to investigate the murder of Brian Delsy. Under the assumption that the person who killed him might also be a threat to Mrs. Richards, I’m investigating the people who knew Brian Delsy.”
“I didn’t know Mr. Delsy.”
“You’re being evasive, Mr. Morley. I explained to you why I came here.”
He unclasped his hands and fiddled with the slide rule again. “Mrs. Richards’ attorneys were worried about Dr. Foy’s — influence. She won’t listen to them, so they appealed to me. They felt Mrs. Richards might listen to me.”
I stared at him. “Her attorneys appealed to you? Are you in frequent contact with them?”
“Rather frequent,” he said slowly. “After all, I couldn’t advance Mrs. Richards the sums I have without some knowledge of her legal claims and the extent of her inheritance. Why should that be surprising, Mr. Puma?”
“Well, I thought, with dignified — I mean, with probably stuffy lawyers like she’d have — ”
He raised a hand. “You assumed men of that stature would not be working with a Figueroa Street loan shark.”
“Now, wait, Mr. Morley, I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it. I’m sure you think of me as a usurer.
• • •
Some day, when you have the time, figure the interest rates the banks and building-and-loan companies charge. Or the finance companies that specialize in automobile and personal loans. Once the lawyers have dealt with them, I appear old-fashioned, Mr. Puma. You see, they don’t call it interest; the law prevents an overcharge there, though even there the law is too generous. They have fees and commissions and handling charges instead.”
I smiled. “But in your old-fashioned way, you think it’s really interest.”
He said firmly, “Any time you pay rent for money, it’s interest, no matter what your bank calls it.”
“Well,” I said, “now that I realize you’re on the side of the angels, Mr. Morley, we can confide in each other. You tell me what you know about Dr. Foy.”
He sat quietly, looking like a grim Santa Claus.
“I know some things about him, Mr. Morley. I’ve talked with his ex-wife and with the chancellor of his so-called college. But perhaps you know something I don’t about him?”
Willis Morley shook his head. “The college is all I know about. Except that Doctor Foy didn’t even graduate from high school.”
“Then we’re agreed he’s not qualified to practice. But what harm can he do Mrs. Richards that would concern you?”
“I explained that,” he said mildly, “earlier in our conversation. I was performing a requested service for those in charge of her estate.”
“And why are they concerned?”
“Because they are ethical men and she is their client. Because the senior partner of the firm was a very close friend of her father’s.” Willis looked at me sadly. “Can’t you believe, Mr. Puma, that there are people in the world who don’t expect to be paid for every good deed?”
“I can believe that, Mr. Morley, because I’m naturally sentimental. But you damned well don’t believe it.”
He smiled tolerantly and fiddled with the slide rule. “What did you learn from Dr. Foy’s wife, Mr. Puma?”
I stood up and looked down at him. “Nothing you’ve paid me to tell you. We don’t seem to be doing each other much good, do we? Don’t you believe I’m working for Mrs. Richards?”
“I believe you’re working for the money she pays you,” he answered, “and honestly earning it. I don’t picture you as a knight on a white charger, if that’s the illusion you want me to accept.”
I shook my head. “I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Morley. And I’m sure Mrs. Richards will be, too.”
Hi
s bright blue eyes clouded momentarily, and I thought he was about to protest. But all he finally said was, “Good afternoon, Mr. Puma.”
What it probably boiled down to was my antipathy for loan sharks and the universal antipathy he shared for private eyes. I nodded a good-bye and went out.
I didn’t expect to learn much at my next destination, but there weren’t many other places to go. I headed for Dr. Foy’s office on Wilshire.
His receptionist was middle-aged and pleasant, a trim gray-haired woman with a soothing voice and a firm chin-line.
I asked her, “Has Mrs. Richards been in yet? I thought I’d meet her here.”
She looked perplexed and then studied an appointment book on her desk. She looked up again. “Was she planning to come in? She hasn’t an appointment.”
“She was planning to come in,” I said. “Is Dr. Foy busy now?”
“I can check,” she said. “Your name, please?”
I told her my name and she went into his office. She came back in seconds to tell me Dr. Foy was not busy and would see me immediately.
He was sitting behind his desk in there, slim, smooth and handsome. He examined me speculatively as he said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Puma.” He waved to a chair.
I nodded to his greeting and sat down. I said, “I’m looking for Robert Tampett. I thought you might know where he is.”
He shook his head, still studying me. “I’ve never heard of him. You’ve been investigating me, haven’t you?” I nodded. “Why?”
“One of your patients was killed. His body was found next to the cottage of another of your patients. The chief suspect, so far, for the murder is an employee of yours. Add that up, Dr. Foy, and I’m sure you’ll realize your question was idiotic.”
His face was stone and his eyes glared at me.
I looked over his head, at the fancy diploma with the baby-blue ribbons. I smiled and said, “The Sunset College of Clinical Psychology. Doctor, get off the dignity kick — you’re a quack!”
The eyes, too, were stone now, his voice deadly. “Would you be willing to repeat that statement in court?”
I nodded. “Any court you suggest. I’m not one of your frightened widows, Foy. You don’t begin to impress me.”
He said nothing. On top of his desk, his hands clenched tightly.
I said, “Do you want to go into court and swear you never heard of Robert Tampett?”
He took a deep breath. “Mr. Puma, no matter what you may think of me, I have reason to believe you hold some regard for Mrs. Richards.”
I nodded.
“Perhaps,” he suggested, “in your layman’s ignorance, you assume you have taken my place with her?”
I frowned. “Your place? What does that mean?”
“It means she is very dependent on you, perhaps, for some service you are performing. But let me assure you she is totally dependent on me.” He paused. “For her continued sanity.”
I just stared at him.
“Learn for yourself,” he said. “Take her to any psychiatrist in this town and get an opinion.”
“I intend to,” I assured him. “Do you want to tell me where Tampett is now?”
“I have no idea who, or where, he is. But let me repeat, it would be very dangerous to Mrs. Richards for you to destroy my image.”
“Hypnosis?” I asked him. “What’s your gimmick, Foy?”
“Good-bye,” he said coldly.
I stood up. “Something you learned at the cult, maybe? Some drug you’ve picked up?”
“Get out,” he said hoarsely. “Get out before I call the police.” He reached for the phone, glaring at me.
I picked up the phone and handed it to him. I said, “Call them. I’ll wait right here.”
He was breathing heavily now and his hands trembled. He replaced the phone shakily on its cradle and stared at the top of his desk. His voice was a strained whisper. “Get out, get out, get out, get out — ”
I closed his door quietly behind me. In the outer office, I told his receptionist, “If Mrs. Richards comes in, have her ask the doctor about Robert Tampett. She’d like to be reminded, because she always forgets it when she gets here. Some sort of block, you know. I was supposed to remind her, but I can’t wait.”
The woman nodded. “I’ll be sure to tell her, Mr. Puma.”
I went to the office to check the mail and my answering service. The calls weren’t important; the only important mail was Willis Morley’s check. I dropped that off with a deposit slip in the bank’s night depository on the way home.
I was getting nowhere and should have been dispirited. But it was always this way before the first break, before the first glimmer of light that might lead to truth. It was always around and around the same deceptive circle, both the innocent and the guilty lying for their own protective reasons, until fright or panic or occasionally even conscience opened a crack to the light.
In my little Westwood cave, I found one cold can of beer in the refrigerator. I took off my shoes and sat on the worn studio couch, nursing the beer and remembering my day, searching for the small and obvious lies that might point a finger.
I was facing the door as I sat there, and I thought I saw the doorknob turn. Right then, I should have moved off that couch. I was only five or six steps from my gun, buried under a pile of shirts in the chest across the room.
But I thought it was an illusion, the weary day and a can of beer on an empty stomach. I didn’t move, though I continued to stare at the doorknob.
This time it was no illusion. The knob turned quickly, the door opened and Robert Tampett came in, closing the door behind him. He looked drunk to me.
And he loked dangerous, despite his size. Because there was a revolver in his hand and it was pointed at me.
“You bastard,” he said quietly. “You put them on to me, didn’t you? You nosed around and dug up the dirt for them.”
“For whom?” I asked shakily.
“For the police. You filled them in on me real good, didn’t you?”
“Is that the gun that killed Delsy?” I asked him. “Don’t tell me you’re an amateur and didn’t get rid of the gun?”
His smile was twisted and I thought he wavered on his feet. “Why don’t you call me ‘little man,’ like you did before? Maybe I’m not a little man now, huh?”
He sure as hell wasn’t, not with that gun in his hand. He was bigger than life.
I licked my lips. “You’re drunk, Bob. Don’t do anything you’ll regret later. That thing could go off, you know, and then you’d really be in the soup. Put it away, and I’ll forget you ever had it.”
“Forget?” he said. “I didn’t come here to scare you; I came here to get you.”
“Easy,” I said soothingly. “Stop and think. Use your head. Nobody’s got a damned thing on you — yet.” I hefted the beer can, wondering what luck I’d have if I threw it.
“Don’t move,” he said. “Don’t move and don’t whine.” His voice was thicker now. The barrel of the revolver lifted slightly and I could guess it was now pointed at my chest.
He stared at me and I tried to read his face, searching for the first sign of indecision. I thought I saw it and lowered my eyes toward the gun to see if it was turning away from me.
What I saw was his trigger finger tightening. I tensed — and the gun clicked. A misfire, and the life juices stirred in me and I stood up quickly and started for him.
And Vesuvius erupted in the room and something smashed my side, spinning me half around, and I heard another smashing roar and glass tinkled.
And before the lights went out I thought I heard another “click.” And another and another ….
Chapter Nine
I came to on the studio couch. My side burned; I reached out a hand to touch it. My shirt was off and my fingers touched the bandages that covered a spot about over one of the middle ribs. My toes tingled, for some reason, and there was a steady ache behind my eyes.
“…a.38 slug,” some voice was saying.
“ We got it in pretty good shape.Must have caught the edges of two ribs before it passed on.Damn it,I’ll bet it spun him like a top”.
“Water?” I asked weakly.
“Hey, Sarge, he’s coming to,” the voice said, and then a cheerful young face came into my line of vision as he looked down at me.“Water, sir, coming right up.”
He went away and a more familiar face came into view, my near-enemy, Sergeant Loepke. He looked down anxiously.“You all right?”
“I don’t know, Sergeant. What are you doing here? This is Los Angeles.”
“Donner, Sergeant Donner of the West Side Station thought I might be interested. I’m here with him. Who did it, Puma?”
“Robert Tampett, that son-of-a-bitch. I think he meant to kill me, Sergeant. The first time, his gun just clicked, so I went for him. Then there were two explosions and some more clicks. How many times was I hit?”
“Just once; jammed out a furrow between your ribs at the side. Took some splinters of bone along. Jesus, it could have been the end!”
I smiled.“You sound as though you cared, Sergeant. The last time I saw Captain Amos, he said Tampett couldn’t be found. Was he found and released before he came here?”
Loepke shook his head.
“Somebody leaked to him,” I said.“He came here, a gun in his hand, and accused me of putting the police on him. How did he know you boys were looking for him?”
Loepke’s face stiffened.“You tell me.”
The young interne came with the water, now, and helped me raise enough to drink some. The headache increased and I closed my eyes and pursed my lips.
I drank, and asked, “Aspirin? About four of ‘em, maybe?”
“I’ll bring you something better than that,” he promised. He paused.“If you’re not up to being questioned right now …?”
“I’m up to it,” I said.“I’ve been damaged more than this in bar fights.”
He went away and Loepke’s face was again in view.“Let’s get back to your remark about a ‘leak,’ Puma,” he said.
“Don’t be so damned sensitive,” I said.“Let’s forget it. Maybe there wasn’t a leak. We started this discussion real friendly, Sergeant.”
Million Dollar Tramp Page 8
