Million Dollar Tramp

by William Campbell Gault

  “How did you know he was here? Did you come here, looking for him?”

  He nodded.

  “How long ago?”

  He turned to face me. “A couple minutes, seconds ago. I don’t know. What the hell, you don’t think I — ?”

  “Turn around,” I said, “and put your hands up on that post.”

  He stared at me. “Are you crazy?” “Hurry,” I said.

  He turned around and put his hands high on one of the pillars that supported the roof of the porch. I frisked him and found nothing. I asked, “Is there a phone here? Does it work?”

  He shrugged.

  “Let’s go in and see,” I said. “You first.”

  There was a phone in the house, but it was dead. The place had that vacancy smell and the dust was heavy on all the window sills.

  I debated it in my mind and finally told Lou, “You get to the nearest phone and call the police. I’ll stay here. And don’t take off, or you’ll be in serious trouble.”

  He nodded. “Don’t worry; I’ll call ‘em.”

  The room in the Venice Station smelled of cigar smoke, though Sergeant Macrae wasn’t smoking. He was a sour, thin-faced Scotsman, an excellent officer, hard-working, cynical and efficient.

  “You and murder,” he said. “Why do they always go together?”

  “Most of my cases have nothing to do with murder, Sergeant. You only see me on the Venice jobs and murder seems to be routine down here lately.”

  He looked at me sharply, “What do you mean, lately? Was that a crack?”

  “You know it wasn’t,” I said softly. “It’s a bad time.”

  He picked up my report from the desk in front of him. “I see you didn’t check Serano’s car for a gun. Now, why not?”

  “I guess,” I said humbly, “because I’m a lousy investigator. But; hell, would he be hanging around the house if he’d already been out to his car?”

  “So,” he said, “next question — where’s Serano now?”

  I said nothing, looking at the top of his desk.

  “Didn’t you tell him to wait for us?” he asked.

  “I told him to call you. I assumed he’d wait. Taking off like he did would be a dumb move. Didn’t he identify himself when he phoned?”

  “Hell, yes. He identified himself as Joe Puma. Well, we’ll get him. And he won’t run, next time.”

  “I warned him about taking off,” I said. “He must have thought I meant he shouldn’t take off without phoning. You see, Sergeant, he’s a hustler and I’m sure that right now he’s seeking first-class legal advice. His lawyer will bring him in.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “I don’t know. I can only guess. The guess is in the report, in that background sheet I added.”

  An officer came in and handed Macrae my gun and also a small sheet of paper, probably a ballistics report.

  Macrae looked at the report and handed me back my gun.

  “Clear?” I asked him.

  He sniffed. “Not by a damned sight. Puma, I wish to hell you’d stay in the other end of town.”

  “Sergeant,” I reminded him softly, “you have a short memory. Didn’t I get you a whole front page of publicity last time we worked together? Didn’t I wrestle that freak Devine for your Pension Fund? You owe me more courtesy than I’m getting, Sergeant Macrae.”

  The officer grinned. Sergeant Macrae glowered and told the officer. “Okay, you can go.”

  The officer was still grinning as he went out.

  Macrae said, “Mouthy as ever, aren’t you? I’m surprised your face isn’t marked up more.”

  “I’ve got a nasty slice between my ribs that Robert Tampett put there.”

  “I know,” he said. “So then you’re found in the same house with him and he’s dead. And everybody knows about your temper. Now, isn’t it reasonable that you should be in jail this second? Think like a police officer for one second and then answer.”

  “Serano will clear me. Wait until he shows.”

  “Serano, hell! How do we know you didn’t kill Tampett some time ago and then come back?”

  “Do you know when Tampett died?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. But if and when we do, you’d better be ready with a story, Puma.”

  “Easy, now,” I said. “You’re sounding like a cop out of a ? picture, Sergeant. You know me and you know my reputation. And so do a dozen highly placed police officers in this town.”

  “Don’t drop names at me, Puma.” He glowered and his hands clenched atop the desk.

  I said nothing, meeting his glare unflinchingly.

  The door opened again, and an officer stuck his head in to say, “Serano’s here, Sergeant, with his attorney.”

  “Send ‘em in,” Macrae said hoarsely.

  Lou Serano came in, saw me and said quickly, “Joe, I didn’t put you in a bind, did I?”

  “Almost,” I said. “Glad you showed, Lou.”

  Macrae said crisply, “You can go now, Puma. Keep in touch.”

  “I’d like to wait to see what Mr. Serano has to say,” I objected.

  A tall, gray-haired man came into the room behind Serano.

  Macrae said, “Good-bye, Puma. Keep in touch.” He didn’t look at me. “Close the door behind you.”

  I resisted the impulse to slam it. I went out to my car and waited. I had no place special to go and there was a possibility Serano wouldn’t be long.

  Macrae had been unreasonable. We had worked well together the last time we met and wound up the case as friends. Perhaps he had missed a promotion; he had been a sergeant for a long time.

  If he had harbored any real suspicion of me, I wouldn’t be sitting in my car; I’d be in a cell. So throwing his weight around had been a low-grade cop attitude and less than I had expected from him.

  The death of Brian Delsy was still of official concern to the police, but they had lots of deaths to deal with and each received the approved and efficient mass treatment. Lou and I had a more restricted interest; the other deaths, outside of Tampett’s, wouldn’t require our attention. Our interest was personal; the Department’s official. I sat and waited.

  I smoked a cigarette and listened to a platter program on the car radio. I smoked another cigarette without the radio, and then Lou Serano and his attorney came down the steps to the sidewalk.

  I got out of the car. Lou saw me and left his lawyer to come over.

  He was grinning. “Hot? Going to swing at me?”

  I shook my head and smiled. “You came in. Any sensible man would be properly represented before he came in. You tried to get in touch with me this morning through Fidelia. Why?”

  “To tell you I’d found out where Tampett was.”

  “How?”

  “I won’t ask you how you found out and you won’t ask me. Okay?”

  “Okay. One other thing — who was the swish who gave you the information on Brian’s coming to warn Fidelia?”

  He hesitated, looking at me thoughtfully. Then, “All I know is that the boys around Eddie’s call him Leslie. I don’t know his last name or where he lives.”

  “And,” I said, “ — if you want to answer — why did you go to see Tampett?”

  “Because I got the word he was covered at the time Delsy died. And if he didn’t kill Delsy, maybe, for enough money, he could tell me who did.”

  “Why do you care who killed Delsy?”

  “I don’t.” He smiled. “Unless, of course, it was Foy. And it could have been.”

  We stood there quietly a moment. And then I asked, “Who are you working for, Lou? Who’s your big-shot friend?”

  He chewed his lip. He looked over at his lawyer, who was waiting for him, and back at me. “I — won’t tell you, because it’s none of your business. But you can tell Fidelia it’s the man who tore up the check. She’ll know.”

  “Fidelia will tell me,” I said.

  “Maybe.” He lifted a hand. “Take care of yourself, Joe. The road’s getting rocki
er.” He went back to join the other man.

  When they pulled away, I went back to the Station. Sergeant Macrae was still in the small room and I didn’t go there. I found Lieutenant Lusk in his office.

  Briefly, I gave him the story leading up to Tampett’s death, and then asked, “Has the slug that killed Tampett been found?”

  He nodded.“And Sergeant Loepke from Santa Monica has already inquired about it.It’s a.38,Joe,but too battered to identify.” He paused.“Didn’t Sergeant Macrae tell you that?”.

  “I forgot to ask him,” I said.“Anything else I should know, Lieutenant?”

  “We’ve got a fingerprint,” he said, “but no local identification of it. We’re trying Washington.” “And — ?”

  He shrugged.“And that’s it.”

  Outside, I climbed into the Plymouth again and contemplated my next move. It was four o’clock and I didn’t want to go any place that would tangle me with the going-home traffic that was soon to start.

  A sense of futility was strong in me. I had had a picture in my mind, the case as I saw it and as I had worded it to Willis Morley. At that time, the flaw in the logical sequence had been the alibi of Robert Tampett, my number-one choice as the killer.

  The story was further awry now; the killer was killed.

  If his alibi was cracked, he could still be the original killer, but who, then, was guilty of the second murder?

  There didn’t seem to be any point in leaning on Tampett’s neighbors. If the police with all their authority couldn’t crack that alibi, it would be reasonable to expect that a man with no authority would have even less luck.

  I went home.

  I soaked off the bandage on my side and bathed in the tub for a change, slowly and lazily, trying to loosen my tense shoulder muscles, to warm away the ache at the back of my neck.

  I was a big nothing getting nowhere. Even at half-pay, Fidelia Sherwood Richards was being cheated. I’d had a case, damn it! A logical, solid, sequential — and impossible — case.

  Go back over the route, Punchy Puma, looking for an error or a road fork you missed. Who else but Tampett? Who else? Who, who, who?

  Tampett had been a pawn. Had there been others?

  After I’d dried myself, I put a fresh pad of gauze on my ribs and sat in the kitchen with a can of beer, thinking back to the beginning, trying to find another route as solid as the one I’d voiced to Willis Morley.

  My phone rang. It was Mrs. Foy.“I heard Bob Tampett was killed this afternoon. Is that true?”

  “It’s true, Mrs. Foy.”

  There was relief in her voice.“Good. Then I can go home again. I miss that dump.”

  Good? A man dies and she says “good.” I said nothing.

  “You still there, Puma?”

  “I’m here, ma’am. It’s safe to go home, now. Good luck.”

  “Thanks. Remember now, you got a lonely evening, or even afternoon, I got a phone.” “I’ll remember.” I hung up.

  The going-home traffic had thinned out by six o’clock as I drove over to the Avalon Beach, but the beach crowd was still coming in from the west.

  Fidelia was in brown and white polished cotton, looking like a college sophomore, cool and innocent, middle-class, adjusted.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.“You look weary.”

  “I am. Bob Tampett’s been killed.”

  She sat motionless, staring at me.

  I went over to sit down.

  She didn’t move.“Do they — do the police know who did it?”

  “Nope. Not at four o’clock, they didn’t, anyway.” She turned to face me.“Do you?” “No. Would I be depressed if I did? What kind of question is that?”

  “God, you’re touchy, aren’t you?” I nodded.

  She came over to sit near me.“What’s happened, Joe?”

  “Two murders, violence and deceit and a big, fat preponderance of self-interest, cynicism, fraudulence and pretense. The same things that always fill my despairing days.”

  “Maybe you’re in the wrong profession.” I said nothing.

  “You’re quite a bleeder, aren’t you?” she asked quietly.

  “Tonight, I am.” I thought of Mrs. Foy.“There’s a lot of loneliness in the world, you know it?”

  “Yes, gloomy. Is this a new thought for you? Actually, there isn’t much of anything else. Are you going to be depressed all evening?”

  “Maybe not. A steak and a couple of beers can do a lot for me. Ready?” I stood up.

  She stood up.“I suppose. Smile, Joe Puma. Kiss me gently.”

  I smiled and kissed her on the forehead and we went out to my car.

  “We were going down Ocean Front when I asked her, “Do you know a friend of Brian Delsy’s named Leslie?”

  “Not well. But I know who he is — Les Elkins.” A pause.“What did Lou Serano want with you? Did you hear from him?”

  “I ran into him over at the house when I found Tampett. I asked him who he was working for and he told me you’d know. It was the man who tore up the check. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “It does. He’s a — a man I knew in Las Vegas.”

  “Anybody I know?”

  “I doubt it. He’s a gambler, I guess. His wife was a patient of Dr. Foy’s.”

  “Serano seems to be checking out clean,” I said.“And that eliminates another suspect.”

  Nothing from her.

  The Plymouth rumbled on. One would think we were strangers, or married, the way we sat so quietly and dull. In the west, the sun was burning through the mist beginning to rise from the ocean.

  At Eddie’s, the boss nodded to us without interest or apparent animosity as we headed for the back corner booth.

  The waiter came over and I changed my mind about the beer. I ordered a double bourbon. Fidelia ordered a Manhattan.

  That first double jolt accomplished what the hot bath had failed to do; my tensions began to melt. I had two more before our steaks came and the world didn’t look nearly as bleak.

  We were finished with our steaks and back to the booze when Fidelia said, “Here comes that Leslie Elkins now.”

  She was facing the doorway. I turned to see a tanned, lean young man with long flaxen hair and brilliant blue eyes. He smiled at Fidelia, looked blankly at me, and headed for a booth at the far end of the room. There was another man with him who was fat and moon-faced.

  I excused myself and went over to their booth. Both of them looked up without smiling.

  “My name is Joe Puma,” I said.“Im a private investigator.”

  “I know,” Leslie Elkins said.“We’re not in the market for an investigator at the moment, Mr. Puma.”

  “So run along,” the fat boy said.

  I looked at him steadily. He looked back at me contemptuously.

  I said, “Maybe you haven’t heard about my temper, Chubby. I don’t want another word out of you.” I looked at Elkins.“But I would like to have about a minute of private conversation with you.”

  The fat one muttered something. Elkins said, “Would you go to the bar for a minute, Roy?”

  Roy got up grumpily and Elkins watched him go with a smile. Then he looked at me and said, “I suppose you want to talk about Brian?”

  “That’s right. I understand that you know something about him that the police don’t.”

  “I do. And the police will never learn it from me directly. I have no reason to respect the police in this town, Mr. Puma.”

  I said nothing. The obvious comment would be embarrassing to both of us.

  He said, “I was very close to Brian. I’m going to tell you this, but if you tell the police I was your informant, I’ll deny it.”

  I nodded.

  He looked back to see if Fidelia was out of earshot. Then he said, “Brian learned that Dr. Foy and this Morley person — this loan shark — were working together. Dr. Foy thought Morley would be better equipped to handle Fidelia’s money; he’d know better how to rob her.”

  I nodded a
gain, “I suspected as much.”

  “But then,” he went on, “Fidelia became so dependent on Foy, he realized he didn’t need Morley. He hoped to marry her. He was sure he could swing it. That was what Brian wanted to tell Fidelia that night he was thrown out of here.”

  “I’m with you,” I said.“It’s all solid and it’s the way I had it figured. But who killed Brian?”

  He shrugged.“That should be easy. Foy’s stooge, Bob Tampett.”

  “Uh-huh. And who, then, killed Tampett?”

  He stared at me.“Tampett? Bob Tampett? Has he been killed? When?”

  “I don’t know. I found him this afternoon, dead, in a shack over on Alta Canal.”

  Elkins’ stare widened.“Two-eighteen Alta Canal?”

  “That’s right. Do you know the house?”

  “It belongs to Dr. Foy. Or did. I’ve been there. That was before he was divorced. When he moved to Beverly Hills, he rented that place to some Mexicans, I remember.”

  “The police must know that,” I mused.“It’s strange that they didn’t tell me.”

  “The police,” Leslie Elkins said stiffly, “don’t confide in anyone but the newspapers. And in the newspapers only when they can destroy someone with filthy publicity.”

  Again, I didn’t comment.

  I asked, “Was Tampett your choice for the murderer?” He nodded.

  “He was checked out and clean for the time,” I said.“Why not Dr. Foy?”

  He shook his head.“Arnold has a temper, quick and furious. But he couldn’t maintain his malice long enough for a premeditated murder.”

  “That’s only an opinion,” I argued.

  “Of course. I guess any of us could kill, if we had to, couldn’t we?”

  “Almost. Well, Mr. Elkins, thank you. Can you think of anything else that might help? Nobody seems to be mourning poor Mr. Delsy, but I’m determined to find his murderer.”

  “A lot of people are mourning Brian,” he corrected me.“But I can’t think of another thing that would help you, Mr. Puma.”

  When I came back to our booth, Pete Richards was there, talking animatedly with Fidelia.

  “You two never should have separated,” I said.

  Richards smiled.“Yes. we should have. We enjoy each other much more this way.”

  Fidelia said, “Pete was telling me about your namesake.”