Night Lady

by William Campbell Gault

  “How about the thump and the scream?”

  I told her, “If all the thumps and screams one hears at night in Venice would indicate murder, there’d be no residents left.”

  She shook her head. “You’re not making sense. You’re not making sense at all.”

  “Murder never does,” I told her. “It’s not a rational act.”

  “Let’s talk about something else,” she said.

  It was a long meal and a full one and we sat for some time after that. At nine o’clock, I suggested leaving.

  Her gaze held mine. “I don’t want to go home. Couldn’t I come to your place for a while?”

  That was plain enough. And I thought of Petalious and his woman and remembered their scorn for this girl and some latent integrity stirred in me, but I was still more man than saint.

  I said, “I guess. It’s not much of a place.” My voice shook.

  “You think I’m cheap, don’t you?”

  “I think you’re honest. Do you think you’re cheap?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, then don’t come to my place.”

  “I want to,” she said. “I have to.” She followed me home in the big black Continental. She went up the stairs with me to my utilitarian apartment and looked around and said, “For a man, you keep it very clean.”

  “I grew up doing my own housekeeping.”

  She went to the window and looked out. Then she came over to stand in front me, looking up. I pulled her close and kissed her and she whimpered softly, her body pressed hungrily to mine.

  “There are worse compulsions,” I said.

  “Aren’t there, though? Are you gentle, Joe Puma?”

  “Usually. I don’t like to be considered a sedative, though.”

  “You’re not, you’re not, you’re not — ” She squirmed free to look at me. “I want to take a shower, first.” I nodded. “Be my guest.”

  I went to the window as she went to the bathroom. I thought again of Mike Petalious, that moral man who was almost married. That moral man who was hired to keep wrestling crooked. What right did that bastard have to a moral judgment?

  And why should his opinions bother me?

  She came out finally, rounded and tanned and fragrant, and I didn’t think about Mike Petalious any more.

  FIVE

  SHE LEFT before midnight, and I sat up for a while, drinking a can of beer and thinking back on the day. The Gallegan girl was a possible key; I would have to get back to her.

  The muscular twins hadn’t followed up their original threat and I wondered why. My address was in the phone book. Had they been called off, or did they presume they had scared me off the hunt? I couldn’t be sure my visit to Petalious had triggered them. My name had been in the paper yesterday as the man who had found Duncan Guest’s body. And they knew Adonis had hired me.

  Mike had broken Adonis’ arm, a little item Adonis had never mentioned to me. Had Adonis tried to win one he wasn’t scheduled to win? That seemed like the reason for the broken arm, but it had never been stated; I had inferred it from the knowledge that Petalious was the policeman.

  I slept right through until nine o’clock and was wakened by the phone. It was Sergeant Macrae. “We’ve had a small beef on you, Puma,” he told me. “From whom, Sergeant?”

  “From a man named Mike Petalious. Know him?”

  “I talked with him yesterday. What’s his beef? He was friendly enough then.”

  “He couldn’t understand why he had to be bothered by a private investigator. He said if the Department had reason to question him, they should send an authorized man to do it.”

  “I didn’t twist his arm. Sergeant. I wouldn’t try to. He’s tougher than I am.”

  “He must be some man. Why did you question him, Puma?”

  “Because I heard he was the man who took care of any wrestler who got ambitious. I was trying to find out who gave him his orders.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  I said, “In the trade, they call him the policeman. Any wrestler who decides he’d rather try to win than follow the predetermined routine of a bout is matched with Petalious. And Petalious puts him back on the crooked and narrow.”

  “You’re telling me wrestling is actually fixed?”

  “Do I have to? My God, you’ve got a television set, haven’t you?”

  “Sure. But I don’t watch wrestling. My wife does, though, and I’d hate to tell her it’s fixed. She’d scalp me.”

  I said nothing as there was nothing to say.

  He said, “Wouldn’t that be information for the Boxing and Wrestling Commission?”

  “It certainly wouldn’t be news to them. And I’m not working for them. I’m trying to help you, Sergeant.”

  “I’ll bet. Who gave you the lead to Petalious?”

  “Adonis Devine.”

  “Did you make a report of all this?”

  “Not yet. I will, as soon as I get to the office.”

  There was a silence. Then Macrae said musingly, “I wonder why Petalious phoned us?”

  “I imagine he was told to. By someone a little brighter than he is. And I imagine this brighter person knew you Department men loathe and despise private operatives. And I can assume from that this bright man would expect you to tell me to keep my big nose out of the case. Is that what you phoned to tell me?”

  “But why in hell should he fear you if he doesn’t fear us?”

  “Sergeant,” I said humbly, “modesty forbids my answering that question.”

  Another silence. Then, “Smart, aren’t you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Okay, Puma, stay with it. And make carbons of each daily report. And mail them to me every day.”

  “Yes, Sergeant. Thank you.”

  “And don’t be so God-damned humble. On you, it looks bad.”

  “Check,” I said. “Right!”

  I hung up and went to the bathroom to shave. So that was why the belligerent pair hadn’t followed up their initial threat of yesterday. An easier way to get rid of Puma had been dreamed up by someone.

  I poached three eggs and placed them neatly on raisin bread toast. Silly combination, but I have always liked it. I made tea instead of coffee, this morning. It is little changes like these that add color to the drab life of the poor and lonely.

  The Times informed me that the “mysterious mink-garbed murderess” was still a mystery to the police but new leads from Department informants had made the investigating officers optimistic of imminent revelations. That meant there was nothing new on the case.

  In a day or so, another murder would come along; they always did. And this one would be forgotten. Duncan Guest had not been a very important man.

  I went to the office and typed up the report for yesterday, making a copy for Sergeant Macrae. The Herald-Express identified the girl as the “woman in white” and I liked that better than “mink-garbed murderess.” The Times is really too dignified to be successfully trashy. Though they certainly achieve it in their sport pages.

  I went from the office to the Wilshire Arena. Offices fronting on the Boulevard were a part of the structure and Gregory Harvest, Attorney-at-Law, had one of the offices. He must have moved in there recently. I didn’t stop in to see him.

  I went in past a pair of sweating, grunting monsters in the gym to the balcony office of Curtis Huntington, President of Huntington Properties, Inc.

  A capable-looking woman of about fifty in the outer office told me Mr. Huntington was in and she would check to see if he was busy.

  He wasn’t busy, and she ushered me into a dim and paneled office a minute later. The dapper, elegant brother of my client was in gray flannel today, a fabric soft as mist and delicate as a maiden’s dream.

  “Mr. Puma,” he said. “What have you learned?”

  “Very little. I thought you might be able to help.”

  “Sit down,” he said. “Drink?”

  “Not in the morning, thanks. I talked with Mike Petal
ious yesterday.”

  “So?”

  “I heard he was what is known in the trade as the ‘policeman.’ Is that correct?”

  Curt Huntington put the tips of his fingers together. “That’s correct. Mike’s the best wrestler in the business. Though I guess that doesn’t mean much, today.”

  “He was friendly enough yesterday, but after I left, he complained to the police about my visit.”

  Huntington smiled. “Somebody up there didn’t like it.”

  “That’s what I figured. Who’s up there?”

  “I don’t really know,” Huntington said. “The question has intrigued me from time to time, but never enough to prompt an investigation by me. I could find out, though, I’m sure.”

  “Would you? For me?”

  Huntington nodded.

  I said, “Somebody else told me yesterday that Duncan Guest was obsessed with the absurd idea that honest wrestling might pay. Just as a change.”

  “You were told the truth. I even encouraged Duncan. Not that wrestling of any kind interests me, but I had a lot of faith in his judgment. You see, boxing once a week is about the best I can hope for in the Arena, and wrestling receipts were falling off. Duncan was a gifted promotional mari.”

  “You don’t think Guest could have been killed because he pursued this idea?”

  Huntington shook his head. “Of course not. However, it’s entirely possible he might have learned something else in pursuing the idea, something not connected with the obvious dishonesty of wrestling.”

  I stared at the window.

  Huntington asked, “Did you question Adonis yesterday?”

  I nodded.

  “A strange man, isn’t he?”

  I looked up. “Did you mean queer, or strange?”

  “I meant strange. He’s no longer queer, I understand.”

  “He cried,” I said, “when I broke the news to him of Duncan’s death.”

  “I saw him cry in a ring, once,” Huntington said thoughtfully.

  “The night Petalious broke his arm?”

  “Yes. But before Petalious broke his arm. He was crying because of frustration. Mike made him look pitiful.”

  “Adonis wrestled in college,” I explained. “Perhaps he thought he really had it.”

  “Quite a few have thought so, before they were matched with Mike. Did you meet Mike’s girl friend?”

  “Big woman?”

  He nodded. “And from a big family. She was a Quintana and I’m sure that name’s as big as any in town. Old California money and Mike wouldn’t take a nickel of it.”

  It was a name even bigger than Huntington. I said, “Neither of them think much of Duncan Guest.”

  Curtis Huntington smiled. “Mike takes his trade too seriously. And Mike’s attitudes are always his wife’s. He’s her personal god.”

  I stood up. “Well, you try to find out the name I want. I’ll call you. And thanks for your time.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he told me genially. “Time is one thing I have plenty of.”

  Time and money, I thought. What a life. It was enough to make a Democrat out of a man. I went out through the gym and there were a few more hams grappling now, and I stood for a minute, watching them. They put on a better show here than they ever did for the public. Perhaps in all of them lurked the unadmitted belief that they could actually wrestle. Perhaps the workouts in the gym were the only solace in their days. Except for the money.

  Outside, I stood for a moment on the curb as a Jaguar slid into a parking spot.

  The man looked up and I saw it was Gregory Harvest. “Just a minute, Joe,” he called. “I want to talk with you.”

  He had sent me some business, but we had never been real friends. I waited while he parked, wondering what angle he was cooking up now.

  He’d been a hot-shot halfback at SC and a first-rate college poker player. On graduation from law school, he had gone to work first for one of the local, conservative investment firms. Once his beguiling personality had endeared him to the money families, he had started his own law firm. He had a very alert eye for the main chance and it was probably envy that made me dislike him faintly.

  He came along the sidewalk frowning and I waited with a smile. “I hope you have a minute,” he said. “I’d like to talk with you in my office.”

  “I’m pretty busy,” I said grudgingly, “but I guess I can spare a minute.”

  He studied me for a second, a muscle flexing in his jaw, like the heavy in a B picture. He continued toward office without a word and I went along. We went through a silver and gray reception room to a gray and maroon private office. There, he went to the water cooler and drank three cups full of water.

  Then he sat down behind his desk and nodded toward a chair at the side of the desk. I sat in that.

  He leaned back, looking thoughtful and not looking at me. He was as much of a ham as any wrestler in that gym.

  Not that wrestling of any kind interests me, but I had a lot of faith in his judgment. You see, boxing once a week is about the best I can hope for in the Arena, and wrestling receipts were falling off. Duncan was a gifted promotional man.”

  “You don’t think Guest could have been killed because he pursued this idea?”

  Huntington shook his head. “Of course not. However, it’s entirely possible he might have learned something else in pursuing the idea, something not connected with the obvious dishonesty of wrestling.”

  I stared at the window.

  Huntington asked, “Did you question Adonis yesterday?” I nodded.

  “A strange man, isn’t he?”

  I looked up. “Did you mean queer, or strange?”

  “I meant strange. He’s no longer queer, I understand.”

  “He cried,” I said, “when I broke the news to him of Duncan’s death.”

  “I saw him cry in a ring, once,” Huntington said thoughtfully.

  “The night Petalious broke his arm?”

  “Yes. But before Petalious broke his arm. He was crying because of frustration. Mike made him look pitiful.”

  “Adonis wrestled in college,” I explained. “Perhaps he thought he really had it.”

  “Quite a few have thought so, before they were matched with Mike. Did you meet Mike’s girl friend?”

  “Big woman?”

  He nodded. “And from a big family. She was a Quintana and I’m sure that name’s as big as any in town. Old California money and Mike wouldn’t take a nickel of it.”

  It was a name even bigger than Huntington. I said, “Neither of them think much of Duncan Guest.”

  Curtis Huntington smiled. “Mike takes his trade too seriously. And Mike’s attitudes are always his wife’s. He’s her personal god.”

  I stood up. “Well, you try to find out the name I want. I’ll call you. And thanks for your time.”

  “Dont mention it,” he told me genially. “Time is one thing I have plenty of.”

  Time and money, I thought. What a life. It was enough to make a Democrat out of a man. I went out through the gym and there were a few more hams grappling now, and I stood for a minute, watching them. They put on a better show here than they ever did for the public. Perhaps in all of them lurked the unadmitted belief that they could actually wrestle. Perhaps the workouts in the gym were the only solace in their days. Except for the money.

  Outside, I stood for a moment on the curb as a Jaguar slid into a parking spot.

  The man looked up and I saw it was Gregory Harvest. “Just a minute, Joe,” he called. “I want to talk with you.

  He had sent me some business, but we had never been real friends. I waited while he parked, wondering what angle he was cooking up now.

  He’d been a hot-shot halfback at SC and a first-rate college poker player. On graduation from law school, he had gone to work first for one of the local, conservative investment firms. Once his beguiling personality had endeared him to the money families, he had started his own law firm. He had a very alert eye for the ma
in chance and it was probably envy that made me dislike him faintly.

  He came along the sidewalk frowning and I waited with a smile. “I hope you have a minute,” he said. “I’d like to talk with you in my office.”

  “I’m pretty busy,” I said grudgingly, “but I guess I can spare a minute.”

  He studied me for a second, a muscle flexing in his jaw, like the heavy in a B picture. He continued toward his office without a word and I went along.

  We went through a silver and gray reception room to a gray and maroon private office. There, he went to the water cooler and drank three cups full of water.

  Then he sat down behind his desk and nodded toward a chair at the side of the desk. I sat in that.

  He leaned back, looking thoughtful and not looking at me. He was as much of a ham as any wrestler in that gym.

  “I can’t be that important,” I said.

  He looked at me and smiled absently. “I’m searching for — diplomatic phrasing of some words that need to be said.”

  “Don’t try too hard,” I said. “I’m not sensitive.”

  He had a fairly round face and curly chestnut hair. The combination should have made him look cherubic but it never had. He somehow looked like what he was — a shrewd, cool operator.

  “Now,” he said quietly, “I sense that you don’t always approve of me, Joe, but I have a lot of regard for your talents and I intend to use them whenever it makes good business sense.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “That’s very comforting. It isn’t disapproval you sense in me, it’s envy.”

  He smiled cooly. “Well, thank you. In this current unpleasantness, however, perhaps you were a bad choice for the job.”

  “I wasn’t your choice,” I reminded him. “Remember, when you phoned me, you told me Deborah Huntington had seen my name in the paper and she wanted me called in.”

  “I know, I know,” he said impatiently. “I didn’t say this was my bad choice. I said perhaps you were a bad choice.”

  “By God, you did,” I said admiringly. “I never would have made a lawyer, would I, Greg?”

  The muscle in his jaw flexed again. He didn’t like humor from inferiors, particularly bad humor. He said, “Discretion and dignity, those should be the dominant motifs in this investigation.”