“You won’t do work for him anymore?” And even though I wasn’t sure it would be as easy as washing your hands, I had no doubt it was the right thing for Dex. He looked better already just thinking about it, like he was getting over the grippe.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BY FIVE MINUTES after nine the following morning I was at my desk and on the telephone. I didn’t know where Dex was but I figured that, like most days, I’d be lucky to see him before eleven.
Not long after I got to the office, I finally managed to get Xander Dean on the phone. He answered himself with a crisp “Hullo.” I explained that Dex was requesting a meeting and we sewed one up for two that afternoon. I figured that Dex would be sober and sitting in his chair by then. I hoped so, anyway. Sometimes hope is all we have.
Xander Dean showed up at two minutes of two, exactly on time. Dex, on the other hand, didn’t wander off the street until two fifteen.
To his credit, Dex hadn’t actually known when his appointment with Dean would be, but he’d been the one to request it. And he hadn’t checked in. So he was late.
Though he showed no outward signs of impatience, I could tell Dean was less than happy at being kept waiting. I didn’t blame him. Not only had Dex not shown up on time for a meeting that he himself had called, the best reading material I could offer was the July 1929 issue of The Cunarder. It was the magazine of the Cunard Steamship Company and I couldn’t imagine how a copy had ended up in our waiting room, let alone one more than two years old. Xander flipped through it fixedly, as though determined to wring some value from this lost time, but he rechecked his watch every few minutes as he sat there.
When Dex finally breezed into the office, he pulled with him the scent of sunshine and an air of ease. I was relieved to see he had recently shaved and was wearing a fresh collar. And he looked quite sober. I was relieved about that, as well.
“Why Xander Dean!” he said, moving toward the big man with his arm extended, then patting him on the back two or three times while they shook. “It’s good to see you, sir! And to what do I owe the pleasure on this fine afternoon?”
I rushed in with an answer before Dex had the chance to make things worse. “Why, you asked that I make an appointment, Dex. You remember, I’m sure.”
“My apologies, old chum,” he said to Xander. “Of course I remember. Of course I do. But it’s a beautiful day with a lot in it. You’ll forgive my tardiness? And my forgetfulness, as well?” He pounded him again on the back, guided the big man to his feet, then led him into his office.
When Xander closed the door behind him, I allowed myself a sliver of disappointment. Though I understood why the door was closed, a part of me had hoped to eavesdrop on what I was sure would be Xander and Dex’s final meeting. I didn’t have long to think about it, though, because, pretty much as soon as the door closed, the shrill voice of the phone demanded my attention.
“Good afternoon, Dexter Theroux’s office. How can I help you?”
“I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Theroux, please.” The voice was male and neither especially old nor young. From the precise way he’d phrased his words, I’d have guessed the caller was educated. Beyond that, I had no clues.
“Certainly,” I said, pulling Dex’s appointment book toward me while I spoke. It was tundra clean and just as white. “Let’s see what we have available. When did you want to come in?”
“That’s just it. The appointment isn’t for me; it’s for a client of mine. And he wouldn’t be able to come to the office. He’s being held at Number 11.”
“You mean the new jail?”
“That’s right, in Lincoln Heights. So it will have to be during visiting hours. But it can be at Mr. Theroux’s convenience.”
“Oh, I see,” I said. “No, wait, I guess I don’t see. Sorry. What is it you feel Mr. Theroux can do for you?”
“Not for me, I told you,” the man said, though there was patience in his voice, “for my client. My name is Steward Sterling. Esquire,” he added, as though it were an afterthought. “I’m a lawyer. He asked that I make this call on his behalf.”
“He who?”
“Who what?”
“You’re not making this appointment for yourself you said. But for someone. A he, you said. And I said … ‘He who?’”
“Ah, right. Yes. It’s for a client.”
“I see,” I said again. But I did not. We were getting nowhere fast. “Is … is your client someone Mr. Theroux has met with before?”
“No. I don’t believe that to be the case.”
“OK then,” I said.
“I’m sorry to be so opaque,” the man said, reinforcing my thoughts about his education. The whole idea of opacity can be somewhat tricky. “It’s just that… well, it’s a fairly sensitive matter.”
“Sensitive,” I repeated.
“That’s right. You see, my client is … well, quite high profile, put it that way. And if you sense I’m being careful,” I could hear him inject a smile into his voice, “it’s because I am.”
“All right. Fair enough. But you’ve called to make an appointment—one that won’t be held at Mr. Theroux’s office—and yet you’re being, as you yourself said, quite opaque.”
“Yes, yes,” the man said. Sounding friendly and careful all at once. “I suppose I am. It’s just… well… you’re right, of course. I suppose Mr. Theroux would need to know my client’s name?”
“He would. He does. He’s funny that way.” I was getting a bit impatient with him just bumping his gums down the blower.
“All right then. But you’ll not tell a soul?”
“Of course. It’s our business to be discreet.”
“Fair enough. I understand. All right then. Laird Wyndham.”
“Pardon?” I said, though I’d heard him perfectly well.
“That’s who Mr. Theroux is to meet at Number 11: Laird Wyndham would like to see him as soon as possible. But in confidence. You understand.”
“Of course,” I said. And this time, I actually did.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I WASN’T SURPRISED when Dex and Dean’s meeting didn’t go as long as the previous ones had. It was less than fifteen minutes before Dex’s office door opened, though no one came right out. Instead I heard Xander Dean’s voice fully inflated for the first time. It was firm. Loud and firm. And he wasn’t quite yelling, but he had the volume dialed way up.
“I don’t know what sort of racket you run here,” was what the big man said in his biggest voice, “but you’re not playing it with me. When I hire someone, they stays hired.” Anger had slid the culture off Dean’s voice. It was not reassuring.
“I told you, Mr. Dean …” Dex began but Dean didn’t let him complete the thought.
“No. I told you: we ain’t finished here.” Though while he was telling Dex they weren’t finished, he started moving toward the door. “You give some thought to what I said. Just see as you come up with the right decision.”
He didn’t quite slam the door on his way out, but he closed so hard that the glass window with Dex’s name stenciled on it rattled in its frame.
I continued to sit at my desk for a moment, letting everything sink in. While it was sinking and I was thinking, Dex poked his head out at me, gave me a sheepish grin.
“Well that’s that done,” he said.
“I don’t know, Dex. That didn’t sound done to me.”
Dex shrugged. “It’s as done as I can make it. He’s not my girlfriend, Kitty. And, even if he was, I told him straight out. He’s just going to have to figure that no means no.” He cracked a silly smile. I could tell he was liking his analogy just fine.
“And you two broke up just in time,” I said with a smirk.
“How so?”
“Guy called while you were in your meeting.”
“When my ears stop ringing, maybe you can tell me who.”
“Said a client of his wants to meet you.” I didn’t get the response I wanted out of Dex, so I pushed
on. “He said he was a lawyer, Dex. And his client is being held at Number 11.”
At that Dex raised his eyebrows at me, then rested his behind on the corner of my desk as is his wont at times of great thought.
“Hmmm,” was all he said.
“Hmmm? That’s it? No big guess?”
“I could make a guess, all right,” Dex said, “but it’s so foolish, I don’t even want to say it out loud.”
“It would be the right guess,” I said quietly.
Dex just lifted his eyebrows some more.
“And the lawyer wants you to meet him during visiting hours which, I gather, is pretty much any time you want to go. And I’m coming with you,” I said as though it were an afterthought. Though, of course, it was not.
“You are?”
“I am,” I said with confidence.
“Look, I can’t have little sister tagging along all the time,” Dex began, but I didn’t let him finish.
“Last time I let you go on your own and I’ve had cause to regret it. But this time? Well, you’ll have figured this out already, but there’s just no way I’m going to let you go meet Laird Wyndham on your own.”
CHAPTER NINE
IT WASN’T AS simple as all that, of course.
Even though Dex had ended his official relationship with Xander Dean and was theoretically clear to take on a different one, there is such a thing as conflict of interest. Viewed from certain angles, there were a couple of places where such a conflict might figure here. Dex didn’t seem particularly concerned about such things, so I had to worry for the both of us.
Though Dex had told Dean he wanted out, it didn’t seem like Dean was going to take no for an answer. At least, that’s how it seemed to me. Both of these things seemed cause for concern, though neither appeared to bother Dex. The only thing he seemed at all troubled about was how he was going to get up to Lincoln Heights.
If I’d been making the trek on my own, I would have taken a streetcar or, with enough time on my hands and without a lot of ready cash, I would have walked the three or so miles. Dex considered neither option; instead he had me call Mustard for a car.
When I got him on the phone, Mustard told me I’d just caught him on the way out the door. He said he hadn’t planned on heading toward Lincoln Heights, but that dropping us off wouldn’t be far out of his way. That meant Dex and I would be on our own on the way back, but I didn’t point this out to Dex. We could jump that hurdle when we got to it.
When he arrived at the office, Mustard looked sportier than usual. He was wearing plus-fours, no jacket and a shirt with no tie and the top few buttons undone. Garters held his sleeves up and off his forearms. His head was bare and his ginger hair curled gently, as though it had been recently washed. He looked amazingly crisp and fresh. I almost didn’t recognize him.
“What are you dressed up for?” I demanded when I got a load of him.
“Golf,” he said.
“Golf?” This was Dex, standing in his office doorway, pulling on his jacket. His tie was nicely done up and he had his hat in his hand. He and Mustard couldn’t have looked more different. “When did you get to be a swell?”
“Ha,” Mustard said crisply. “I’ve always been a swell. I’ve just been hiding it from you. Guess you’re not shamus enough to catch on.”
“Not bloody likely,” Dex said with a grin.
The car Mustard led us to was of a red so dark it was almost black. Dex let out a whistle.
“You know I’m not much of an automobile buff, Mustard,” Dex said as we got in. I hopped into the backseat, letting the boys sit together up front. “But this one changes my mind. This is the prettiest car ever rolled. Dussie?”
“Naw,” Mustard replied while we got going. “Marmon Sixteen. They call it the world’s most advanced car.”
“Wow,” Dex said.
“It’s not brand new. Looks it though, don’t it? The guy I got it from … well, let’s just say it was suddenly more car than he could afford.”
Unobserved in the back seat, I felt my eyebrows raise, but didn’t say anything. I’d never seen anyone who owed Mustard money. Not with my own eyes. But I figured it probably wasn’t a position many wanted.
It was only a couple of miles to Number 11 and, before we even knew it, Mustard was pulling up in front.
“Who are you seeing?” Mustard asked as we got out.
“You don’t wanna know,” Dex said with a grin, “and I don’t wanna tell, so I guess that works out about even.”
“Huh,” Mustard said cheerfully. “Well, that’s a fine how do you do. I’ll remember that the next time you ask a favor.” With that the dark red Marmon growled powerfully away from the curb. Dex looked after it longingly. “Golf,” he said with a shake of his head as we watched the car disappear. “Imagine!”
Mustard’s banter and his jovial presence had danced my attention away from the business at hand. Now Dex and I stood on the pavement outside the imposing exterior of Number 11, and I felt the apprehension I’d been unconsciously suppressing rise like a live thing.
Dex must have seen my discomfort. “You sure you want to go through with this?” he said. “‘Cause you don’t have to, you know. You’re the one who wanted to tag along. You could sit out here in the sunshine if you wanted. Wait for me.”
“I know I don’t have to,” I said, conscious that we were already moving toward the building, approaching an imposing front entrance via a half score of stairs. “Like you said, it was my idea to come. Anyway, if I’m not there, who would hold your hand when things get rough?”
Inside, you could tell the building was so new the paint had yet to dry: you could smell it thick on the air. The building was even newer than that, it wasn’t quite finished and, as soon as we passed through the large front doors, we could see teams of workmen completing details. The Los Angeles City Jail was so new it had yet to be officially opened. But it was so badly needed and so overdue that, even before its opening, the brand new six-story building was moving toward capacity.
The officer on duty at the front desk was approaching middle age, but was beyond middle size. He filled his uniform near to overflow and the cloth tugged unmercifully at the brass buttons that cinched him up in front.
“We’re here to see Laird Wyndham,” Dex said without embarrassment or preamble, just as though Wyndham’s fans hadn’t been constantly trying to get in to meet the star almost from the moment he was arrested.
“Are you now?” the officer said. His eyes slid over Dex but lingered on me overlong. I didn’t like to wonder if it was insult or invitation, nor did I have to. I could see where the eyes stopped, where they rested. He didn’t bother raising them to our faces as he spoke. “‘Fraid you’re gonna hafta do better n’ that,” he said.
“His lawyer asked me to come down here,” Dex said. His voice a low growl. You didn’t have to know him to figure it was a dangerous sound. “I’m Dexter J. Theroux.”
“The shamus?” the man said, to my relief meeting Dex’s eyes.
“That’s right.”
“Let me see your ticket.”
“Here you go,” Dex said as he produced a billfold and handed his license across.
“OK,” the cop said when he’d scrutinized the thing as close as could be. “This looks jake. But what about the frail?” he said, jerking a thumb at me.
“This is Miss Katherine Pangborn,” Dex said, drawing out the syllables and holding them taut. “She is my secretary and I require she record my meeting with Mr. Wyndham.”
“Record, huh?” the cop said skeptically. “That’s a good one. Lookee here Theroux, your name is on the list.” He did indeed have a list and Dex’s name was on it. Wyndham’s lawyer must have fixed things, just as he’d said he would. But he’d had no way of knowing about me. “But see? No Kathleen Pambo, or whatever it was you said. ‘Fraid she’s gonna hafta wait right here.” His eyes leeched across me again. “But she’ll be OK,” he said. “I’ll keep her company.”
; I suppressed a shudder. Visible revulsion didn’t seem absolutely politic.
Dex took out his billfold again and drew out his license, fiddling with it quickly but carefully before handing it across once more. “I don’t think you looked closely enough at this, officer. Here: have another gander.”
I saw the cop reach out and take the license, the confusion on his face clearing as soon as he touched it. The folding money Dex had pressed to the back of the license was in his pocket so quickly, I almost thought I hadn’t seen right, but the cop’s change of opinion convinced me I had. He started singing a different tune straight off.
“Well I guess you’re right. She’s just a little thing. I don’t see what harm it’ll do. Follow this hallway down until you get to the staircase, then go up two flights, then hard left until you see a guy at a desk. Tell him Officer Stacey sent you and sez it’s just jake for you to see Wyndham.”
“Architect forget to scribble elevators on the plans?” Dex asked before we got underway.
Stacey shook his head. The guys are workin’ on them today. We’re not even supposed to be open yet. You’re lucky you don’t have to climb a rope.”
That rope was starting to sound good before Dex and I got to the part of the building that Stacey had sent us, the place where they were holding Laird Wyndham. I found the building eerie. From outside it was beautiful. Teal-tinted concrete in the most moderne style. From the outside it looked like a museum. Or a bank. Something noble, something regal. It seemed almost funny that a building where so many police officers would work should look so respectable.
Inside the building things looked different: it could have been a government-run structure anywhere. I followed Dex silently down gleaming corridors, up new-smelling stairwells and then down some more corridors until we came to the place the desk officer had described.
At the desk, Dex had to go through pretty much the whole thing again with another officer. Once again, I saw a small donation disappear into a uniform pocket. I was getting the idea that it was possible to get just about anything you wanted, provided you had the right greenbacked motivation and an inconspicuous way of presenting it.
Death Was in the Picture Page 6
