The picture of Duncan Guest that emerged from this conversation was radically changed from the picture I had in my mind after talking with Adonis. But then, Einar Hansen had changed it, too, and I had learned long before tonight that one can learn very little about a man from hearsay alone. Guest could easily have been different from all his friends’ appraisals.
I had enough Jack Daniels to mellow me, and we were almost friends by the time I left. Deborah wanted to hire me before that, but I repeated that it would be best if she withheld her decision until tomorrow.
First of all, I wanted to be sure she had come home at eleven-thirty on Tuesday night.
And stayed home.
THREE
ADONIS DEVINE received a nice promotional splash in the next day’s papers. He had offered a reward of three thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of Duncan Guest’s murderer.
In the story, Guest was identified as Duncan’s manager and publicity man but not as his roommate. At one time, early in their respective careers, according to Adonis, Guest had divided his last dollar with him.
It was a properly sentimental account and there was a pose of Adonis in wrestling tights, arms crossed, feet spread and handsome face aglow in anticipation.
The boy from Iowa had learned about promotion.
I phoned Sergeant Macrae before going down to the office. I told him Miss Huntington wanted to employ me and I wondered if she had been cleared.
“She’s been checked,” he said. “Unless she’s got two lying servants and a lying neighbor, she’s clear. We’re checking them now.”
“Which brings us back to Joe Puma,” I said. “What’s your decision on me, Sergeant?”
“I don’t make those decisions,” he said. “I talked it over with Captain Michaels and he said it would be all right, if you kept in daily touch with us.”
“Fair enough, Sergeant. Thank you. How about the Syndicate? Are you checking into that?”
“What Syndicate?”
“The wrestling syndicate, Sergeant. Somebody from on high has to decide who wins which bouts, doesn’t he?”
A silence, and then, “Are you trying to be funny again, Puma?”
“Believe me, I’m not. It’s a big business and it’s staged. Now, there has to be someone who decides, doesn’t there?”
“Sure,” he said, “and that would be a job for you. You dig into that, Puma. And keep me posted.” He hung up.
At my office, the phone-answering service informed me that a Miss Huntington had called and was expecting a return call. I opened my mail, first, and was rewarded by a check only six months overdue. Things were picking up.
Deborah Huntington asked, “Well, Mr. Puma?”
“I’m agreeable if you are,” I answered. “There’s a contract that has to be signed. Shall I bring it out?”
“If that’s your usual service. I wouldn’t want to impose. After all, you’re not a servant.”
“At a hundred a day and expenses,” I assured her, “I’ll be your servant while it lasts.”
“Never mind,” she said. “I’m leaving now anyway. Couldn’t you mail it to me? Or I’ll be shopping — I could drop in at your office.”
“I’ll mail it to you,” I told her. “I don’t spend much time in the office.”
The bank was open by now; I took the check over there before going up to the Strip.
Adonis was in a dressing gown when he opened the door to me. He said, “I’ve decided to let the reward be the incentive, Mr. Puma. I won’t be hiring you on a daily basis.”
“I already have a client,” I said. “I came for information, not your business.”
He stared at me. Then, “Come in.”
I came in and he nodded toward an electric percolator on the coffee table. “I’m just having coffee. Would you like a cup?”
“I would, thanks.” I went over to sit on a davenport. “What about this Einar Hansen? Do you know him very well?”
“We were never close friends. I know him pretty well. He’s certainly no killer. It was a girl who killed Duncan, anyway, wasn’t it?”
“It seems logical to guess that, if the story of that girl next door can be believed.”
Devine poured me a cup of coffee. “You got any reason to doubt her?”
“Some. I wasn’t really thinking of Hansen as the murderer. But he was such a good friend of Duncan Guest’s, I thought there was a possibility he knew more about him than he told the police.”
Devine said quietly, “I didn’t know he was such a good friend. Duncan certainly didn’t talk about him much.”
I didn’t argue with him, I sipped my coffee and asked, “Do you have any favorite suspects?”
He frowned and stared at the carpeted floor. “I — would hate to say anything that would jeopardize my career.” He looked at me. “Or my neck.”
“I’m a private investigator,” I reminded him.
He took a deep breath and looked past me. “I don’t know who the big boys are in this … game. But I know who the policeman is. Through him, you might get to the big boys.”
“The policeman — ?”
“That’s right. Mike Petalious.”
“I’m not following you,” I said. “What do you mean by policeman?”
“The man who keeps the boys in line. Every once in a while, you see, some wrestler might decide he could do it honestly, wrestle his way to prominence in honest matches. Well, there are a couple of ways that can be stopped. After his first straight bout, he wouldn’t get another. But what if he beefs, threatens to get political about it, go to the boxing and wrestling commission?”
“You tell me.”
Devine shrugged. “He’s matched with Petalious. Now, most of the hams you see on TV couldn’t honestly defeat their mothers. But Petalious is a wrestler, and a real nasty one. He can cripple you. He can send you into another trade.”
“I see,” I said. “The policeman, Mike Petalious.” I put his name in the book. “But that wouldn’t have anything to do with Duncan Guest, would it? He never wrestled.
“No, he didn’t. But he had a real weird idea. He thought that honest wrestling would pay. I mean, just for the change.” Adonis shook his head sadly.
“You don’t think it would pay?”
Adonis looked at me wonderingly. “You’re kidding. You’ve got to be. Have you ever seen it?” I shook my head.
“I wrestled some in college,” he told me. “It’s real dull. You take about twenty minutes to find a hold on a man and he takes a half hour to try to wriggle out of it. Dullest damned sport in the world. You couldn’t get two dozen people in this town to watch it.”
“So, okay,” I said. “And you think Duncan tried to find out who the big boys are so he could suggest this world-shaking idea of his?”
“I know he did.”
I finished my coffee. I asked, “Do you think Curtis Huntington could be one of the big boys?”
“Do you mean the man who owns the Wilshire Arena?”
“That’s the man.”
Adonis shook his head. “Huntington’s not really interested in wrestling. As a matter of fact, he thought so little of it he was encouraging Duncan to put his idea over, just for fun.”
“Maybe,” I said, “Duncan Guest was killed after he talked with Mike Petalious. Maybe the big boys don’t like people who try to find out about them. ‘
“It’s a possibility,” Adonis said grudgingly. “I’ll stick with the woman theory. Duncan was quite a wolf.” He paused. “Among both sexes.”
“Do you have Petalious’ address?” I asked. “Or could I find it in the phone book?”
“I don’t have it. It could be in the book. Who’s your client, Mr. Puma?”
“A lawyer by the name of Gregory Harvest. I get quite a lot of work out of him.”
“And what’s his interest in Duncan’s death?”
“I don’t know. Where’s your phone book?”
There was a Mike Petalio
us in the phone book with a Brentwood address. He was the only man of that name in the Western Section Phone Book, and Adonis was certain he was the man known as the “policeman.”
At the doorway, Adonis said, “Call on me any time. I’ll be glad to help all I can.”
“Just keep that three thousand dollars posted,” I told him. “That’s the biggest help of all.”
I could be wasting my time. There was a very strong possibility that the death of Duncan Guest was in no way connected with the wrestling dodge. The fact that he had probably been killed by a woman would seem to indicate that his extracurricular tomcatting had led to his death.
But if he was a man of many conquests, which currently seemed likely, delving into the backgrounds of his many conquests would take more time than most of us are allotted on this earth.
The kind of women he must have known weren’t generally ready to die or kill for love. He could have been killed by a woman, but not because of love. Or even lust.
The address of Mike Petalious was the rear half of a modest stucco duplex on Braham Street. The joint was saved from complete banality by the stark white of the stucco against the rich red of the bougainvillaea that climbed all over it.
A woman in shorts and halter was in front of the Petalious address, adding peat moss to a window box that fronted the picture window.
She was no midget. I would guess that she weighed in just under the middleweight limit of a hundred and sixty pounds. But she was tall and nowhere pudgy. She was an extremely seductive big woman.
She turned to smile at me as I came up the walk. Her hair was black and lustrous, her smile warm.
“I’m looking for Mike Petalious,” I told her.
“He should be here any minute,” she said. “Do you want to wait out here or in the house?”
“This will do. Are you Mrs. Petalious?”
She smiled. “What makes that your business? I could be, some day.”
I smiled back at her. “Sorry. My name is Joe Puma. Im investigating the death of Duncan Guest.”
“For Adonis?”
I shook my head. “Why did you ask that?”
“Because if you were working for Adonis, this would be the first place he’d send you. Mike put him out of business for three months.”
“Really? How?”
“Mike broke his arm, in a match over at Gardena.”
I grinned. “Mike plays for keeps, huh?”
She brushed the peat moss off her hands. “When he has to.” She looked at me candidly. “I’ll bet you do, too.”
“When I have to,” I admitted. “I get a feeling-Adonis isn’t very well liked by his playmates.”
She started to say something and stopped. She said, “Nobody’s perfect.”
“Be honest with me,” I said lightly.
“Why?” She picked up the half-empty bag of peat moss. “Come into the house. I’m going to have a cup of coffee.”
We went in through the side door. She put the peat moss in the service porch and led me into a white and blue kitchen with red flowered curtains on the windows. It was a highly feminine kitchen. And despite her size, she was a highly feminine woman.
She went over to get the coffee pot from the stove as I sat down in an upholstered breakfast nook. “Are you Greek?” she asked.
“Italian. Why?”
“You look Greek. Mike’s a Greek.” I made no comment on that.
She took two cups from a cupboard. “He’s a lot of man. So are you. Don’t antagonize him, will you?”
“I’ll try not to. Does he antagonize easily?”
“Lately he does. You know, Mike is probably the best wrestler in the country? And I’ll bet you’ve never heard of him.”
“It’s a big country,” I said.
She laughed and poured my coffee. She said, “I’ll bet you’re fun at a party. Mike is. He can chin himself one hand. Can you chin yourself with one hand?”
“No.” I sipped the coffee and smiled at her. “You know, it’s entirely possible that if wrestling wasn’t staged, Mike would be the heavyweight champion. And he might earn less as champion than he does now.”
She nodded. “Mike said that’s true. And he earns more than you’d guess by looking at this duplex. He’s got four duplexes and two triplexes. That isn’t enough for Mike.”
“What does he want — office buildings?”
She shook her head gravely. “He wants to have pride in his trade.”
I said nothing.
She said, “You’re thinking it’s a pretty crummy trade, even when it’s honest.” I shrugged.
She said, “Well, so is yours. But I’ll bet you take pride in it.”
“At times,” I said. “Like Mike does, at times. When we’re both honestly playing policeman.”
She stared at me. ‘Don’t use that word to Mike.”
“All right, I won’t.”
“Only one man would have told you that, only one man in the game, Adonis. You wouldn’t want him laid up again, would you?”
I didn’t answer.
She sipped her coffee and didn’t look at me. “Tell me,” I said, “what did you think of Duncan Guest?”
She looked at me steadily. “He was slime. I can stand a homo. I can take the tough guys. I don’t like men who take advantage of other men’s weaknesses. Duncan Guest was a two hundred percent son-of-a-bitch.”
There was the sound of the side door opening and in a few seconds a man came through the service porch doorway into the kitchen.
He was as tall as I am and about four inches broader. He had one cauliflower ear and a badly bent nose. His eyes were brown and friendly, his hair parted right down the middle.
He grinned at the big woman. “Back-dooring me, eh? You pick ‘em big enough, don’t you?”
“I have to,” she said, “so they’re not embarrassed. Mike, this is Joe Puma.”
He frowned. “Puma? You ever wrestle?”
“Occasionally,” I admitted. “But never with men.” I stood up and offered my hand.
I could feel his strength even through the casual pressure of his handshake. I said, “I came to inquire into the death of Duncan Guest.”
He stared at me. “Yuh? So why here?”
“Because,” I ad libbed, “I thought his death might be connected with wrestling and I’ve been told you are the most honest man in the game.”
“Who told you that?”
“My client,” I lied.
“Adonis?”
I shook my head.
“Sit down,” he said.
I sat down. He sat down. The woman poured him a cup of coffee. He took out a package of cigarettes and offered me one. I shook my head.
It was very quiet in the bright kitchen.
Finally, he asked, “Who’s your client?”
“He’s a wealthy man and he’s connected with wrestling. I don’t want to tell you any more than that.”
“Okay.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t think Dunk’s death had anything to do with wrestling. I think it’s just the way the papers stated; I think he was killed by a woman.”
“Why — ?”
“How do I know why? He was a louse. He played both ends against the middle. He used people. Personally, I had nothing against him. I deal with bastards all the time; he was just another one. But some broads expect more from a man. Broads are harder to please than men, you know.”
I sipped my coffee.
He asked, “Are you working for Curt Huntington?”
“I lied to you,” I admitted. “I’m working for his sister.”
“Oh.” He stared at his housemate and back at me. “Know much about her?”
“Very little, except that she seems to be wealthy.”
The woman said, “You’re no scandal-monger, Mike.”
He shook his head irritably. “I’m not saying anything he can’t find out a dozen other places.” He looked at me. “That Huntington girl was going with Duncan Guest. Some broad she must be, hu
h?”
“Love — ” I said, and shrugged.
“Love,” he said, and made a face. “You check her wardrobe, mister. I’ll bet she’s got a white dress and a cerulean mink stole. And enough money to buy all the alibis she wants.”
“And enough of everything to get all the lovers she wants, too,” I pointed out. “Why would she kill one?”
“Maybe Dunk found out something about her. That figures, right?”
“What could he find out?”
“Jesus, how would I know? A rich good-looking broad and she hangs around with scum. There must be something there an angle-shooter can milk a few bucks from, right? And if there was an angle, Duncan Guest would find it. That’s how he lived.”
The woman said, “You’re getting all worked up, Mike. Relax.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the table top. He looked up at me. “I suppose you see all kinds of trash, too.”
“Some,” I agreed. “Who’s the big man in the wrestling game locally, Mike?”
“Right now,” he answered, “Adonis is making the most money.”
“That isn’t what I meant,” I said.
He nodded. “I know, I know. That was my answer. You won’t get an answer to what you meant.”
“Could I ask one more question?”
“Ask a million. I’m not going anyhere.”
“I’ll ask two. First, did Dunk ask you recently who the big man was?”
He paused. “He might have.”
“And second, do you know Einar Hansen?”
He frowned. “The guy runs that hamburger joint?”
I nodded.
“I know him to say ‘hello’ to. Good friend of Dunk’s.”
“Okay, thanks.” I stood up and looked at the woman. “I never did get your name.”
She smiled. “Who needs it? Just think of me as Mike’s woman.” She winked. “This week.”
He reached over to put a big hand on hers atop the table. “And every week. We’ll get married, that’s what.”
“Why?” she asked. “This is more fun.”
He patted her hand gently. “Don’t talk like that.”
FOUR
EINAR HANSEN sliced onions and said, “The funeral is tomorrow. You going?”
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