Blood on the Boards

by Gault, William Campbell

  Norah said to Joe, “You must have seen a lot of corpses.”

  “I never could get used to it, though. Actually, I was too much of a softie for Homicide.”

  Norah nodded. “I think you would be. My glass is empty.”

  They emptied some glasses. Not crowding it, not going over the edge. Norah and Larry talked theater and it made good listening for Joe. The combo talked melodically to themselves and to anyone who wanted to listen.

  The horror of the body on the slope grew dimmer, the memory of the crowding kids and the glaring bulbs began to recede.

  A little before midnight, Larry said, “Well, I work for a living. And Sam doesn’t hold with tardy clerks.” He left some money on the table. “See you at rehearsal Thursday.”

  They watched his big back disappear through the door, and then Norah looked at Joe. “I’ve had enough, too. Will you be able to drive all right?”

  “Very well. Whisky never gets to me in less than quarts.”

  “Big, strong man.” She rose. “Though I’m not drunk, by any standards, I feel sentimental.”

  He studied her. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe the night air will make me sane again.”

  They went out and the night was warm, the wind still coming from the desert. Norah said, “We haven’t had a winter like this since 1939.”

  “When you were four years old?”

  “When I was sixteen. Now you know that about me. I should be old enough to know my mind, shouldn’t I?”

  “Don’t make an issue of it. I haven’t suggested a thing.”

  “No. But if it were Sharon, walking here with you—Oh, I’m talking nonsense.”

  He opened the door on the curb side for her. “I like the sound of it. You are the first woman I’ve met who seduced herself.”

  “I haven’t. I’ve known you forty-eight hours, Joe Burke, and I’m not a tramp. I have gone through a horrible emotional experience tonight, and then the whisky—” She paused, as he walked around to open the other door and climb in behind the wheel.

  She stared through the windshield. “Take me home, quickly.”

  “Yes, m’am.” He kicked the hundred and eighty horses into life. “Isn’t it a beautiful night? From my living-room, I can see all the coast lights, way down to Palos Verdes. And there’ll be a moon, over the water. And you can hear the waves—”

  “Shut up.”

  He cut down to the Coast Highway, and they could see the path of the full moon on the water. Joe asked, “Want a cigarette?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I’m getting to like that Larry Puma. He’s no dummy about show business, is he?”

  “Larry is very discerning and knowledgable about the theater.”

  Joe laughed. “Duchess, who are you fighting?”

  “It’s ‘whom.’”

  “Who’s hoom?”

  Silence, and then she laughed faintly. “You bum. You Irish bum.”

  “Want a cigarette?”

  “All right. Friends, aren’t we, Joe? Always friends?”

  “Always. And don’t be anything you don’t want to be with me. And be anything you do want to be. I’m not a complete slob, you know.”

  “I know.” She’d lighted a cigarette, and he could feel her eyes on him. “And you are handsome. And clean, no doubt. And gentle?”

  “Don’t talk it to death. When I get to the stop light on Via, you can say ‘turn left,’ if you want. That’s the way I live, to the left. Otherwise, I drive straight on and deposit you safely at your apartment. But don’t yak about it; that’s too phony for me.”

  “All right, Joe. Lordy, what a beautiful night.”

  He nodded. They’d stopped for the light at Chautauqua, and when it changed, he turned right, climbing toward Sunset. He wondered if she was thinking about Dick Metzger, who’d driven his Jaguar off this cliff three years ago.

  At the bend of Sunset, they stopped for the sign, and she said, “Alan Dysart is the one that sergeant suspects, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know. The sergeant doesn’t like him.”

  “So, could he railroad him?”

  “No.”

  “Is this just loyalty to the Force, Joe?”

  “No. Sergeant Krivick’s a pretty good man. Even if he wanted to frame somebody, it would be impossible, after the murder. And that isn’t done, despite what you read in the newspapers.”

  She sighed. “I have kind of a soft spot for the Alan Dysart type, young men in revolt. Haven’t you?”

  “No. I’ve jailed too many of them.”

  Talk, above the pound of his heart. The car moved steadily, though his hands on the wheel trembled. She talked, but the words had no meaning to him.

  They passed the theater and the shopping district and the light on Via was flashing in a steady caution warning. The light grew bigger and Norah grew quiet.

  Then, just as the front wheels entered the intersection, she said, “Turn left, Joe.”

  Not another word from either of them all the way to his house. There, as he closed the front door behind them, she said, “No lights. I can see the place in the morning.”

  And a little later: “Be gentle with me, honey. It’s been three years.”

  • • •

  In the morning, when he wakened, he was alone in the room and he wondered if she’d left during the night. A remarkable girl. For a moment he thought of the dilettante who’d gone over the cliff, and the thought pained him.

  She was too nice a girl for playboys. And too nice for a plaything. He remembered Walter Hamilton’s, “She’s a really fine girl—” Well, damn it, he hadn’t pressured her. He was glad it had happened, but he hadn’t laid any plans for it. And now she was gone.

  He thought—until he smelled the coffee. And heard the closing of the refrigerator door. He rose and put on a robe and went out to the kitchen.

  Her back was to him; she was plugging the toaster into the breakfast-nook receptacle.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  She turned and there was the faintest color in her cheeks. “Good morning, beast.” “You’re blushing.”

  “I don’t do this every day. Or night. Aren’t you going to shave?”

  “I’m going to shave. I just wanted to look at you, first. I thought you’d gone and it—disturbed me.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. It was only a crumb, but it helps. Do you like me, Joe?”

  “I like you, Norah Payne. I will go to make myself pretty for you.” He winked at her, and went out.

  As he shaved, he smiled. And shaving, he naturally saw the smile. And seeing it, he stopped smiling. It had looked too much like a smirk. He was no smirker.

  Beeg man, he told himself. Beeg, lustful, dominating animal, you dumb Irish bastard. You’re just lucky.

  Adultery wasn’t a game he could completely enjoy. He had left the church at twenty-one, but he still remembered all the things Father Riley had told him.

  Orange juice and scrambled eggs and little pork sausages. Toast and marmalade and coffee. Everything just right.

  Even the pompous Times had given the death of Bruce Dysart a big splash on the first page. For Dysart had not only been a famous man; he had been a wealthy one and politically active in the industry on the Times’s side of the fence.

  The words heinous, barbarous, fiendish and brutal were used. No lead as to the identity of the killer was stated, though the holding of Alan Dysart was given enough ink. And the Times made it clear he was no Republican.

  Norah said, “They don’t know any more now than they did last night, do they?”

  “The newspapers don’t. But the police might. They’re holding young Dysart.”

  “They would.”

  “Was he a—or is he a Commie?”

  “I don’t know. He was in college when Wallace ran, and I read he was making speeches for Wallace around the campus. He went to UCLA.”

  “That was kind of a hot b
ed, at one time, wasn’t it?”

  “UCLA? No. If you want to go to a major college in this town, and you don’t play football, where else can you go?”

  “Loyola. He was probably one of those parlor pinks.”

  Norah took a deep breath. “Joe, you’re not real right wing, are you?”

  “I voted for Ike. Krivick is going to give that kid a workout; you can be sure. The kid’s too lippy.”

  “Around policemen I have a tendency to become lippy myself. They bring out the worst in me.”

  He grinned at her. “I know it.”

  She was reaching for a cup to throw when the front door chime sounded. She paused to stare at Joe, her hand still reaching for the cup.

  “Migawd,” she said hoarsely. “Who could it be?”

  “Somebody selling vacuum cleaners.”

  “Not this time of the morning. Don’t go.”

  Joe leaned back in his chair to where he could see through the dining-room wing to the front porch. “It’s Sharon Cassidy.”

  Norah’s chin went up and she lifted a hand to fluff out her hair. “Open the door, Joe. Bring her in for a cup of coffee. This, I want her to see.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AT THE DOOR, Sharon said, “I have to see you, Joe. Alan needs your help.”

  “My help? Come in. Have you had breakfast?”

  “I could certainly use a cup of coffee. That poor kid is being— Oh, it’s a mess.”

  They came into the kitchen.

  Sharon paused, staring at Norah. “Oh? Hello, Norah.”

  “Hello, dear. I just dropped in for a cup of coffee.”

  “I‘ll bet. Last night.” Sharon sat across from her.

  Joe sat down on the bench next to her. “You called him a kid. He’s more than that, Sharon. Larry called him that, too. The Department’s more realistic. They consider a twenty-five-year-old male a man. He should start acting like one.”

  “They’re trying to railroad him,” Sharon said. “I got him a lawyer, but I thought you, having been a policeman and all, might be able—”

  Joe said, “I can find out what the real story is on him. But I certainly can’t interfere in the Department’s business.” He poured her a cup of coffee. “You two aren’t—I mean he isn’t—” He held both hands out, palms up. “What do I want to say?”

  “You want to know if she’s soft on him,” Norah said. “Are you, Sharon?”

  “Of course not. I admire him, tremendously, but, well, he’s so—so immature.”

  “He’s probably the only heir,” Norah said acidly, “though I’m sure Bruce Dysart wouldn’t mention him if he left a will.”

  Sharon said, “That wasn’t necessary, Norah.”

  Norah nodded gravely. “I apologize. It wasn’t.” She looked at Joe, and away.

  Sharon said, “What about that paraffin test they took? Wouldn’t that clear him?”

  Joe shook his head. “It would depend on the gun. They don’t know what kind of gun was used yet, probably. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Sharon. I’ll get in touch with Sergeant Krivick today, and then I’ll phone you. You’re in the West Los Angeles book, are you?”

  “No. It’s an unlisted number.”

  Joe found a piece of paper and a pencil and wrote it down. Then he asked, “Couldn’t I fix you something to eat? You look beat out, lassie.”

  “I couldn‘t eat anything. That Sergeant Krivick goes out of his way to be rude, doesn’t he?”

  “He’s rough,” Joe admitted. “But he’s a good officer. He wouldn’t try to railroad anyone, Sharon. We have a fine Police Department in Los Angeles. I mean that.”

  Norah slid out and stood up. “Well, I have to get back to the office. Thanks for the coffee, Joe.”

  “Wait for me,” Sharon said. “I’ll drive you over. Unless your car is somewhere around? I didn’t see it.”

  “I’ll wait,” Norah said. She went through the doorway that led to the dining-room.

  Sharon sipped her coffee and rummaged in her purse for a cigarette. “That girl certainly doesn’t like me, does she?”

  “I imagine most women don’t.” He held a light for her.

  “You’re right about that,” she said, and blew smoke past him. “And I don’t give a damn. Women bore me silly.”

  Joe chuckled. “Not me. I’ve always found them good company.”

  She nodded. “I’ll accept that. Some place you have here.”

  “It’s kind of cozy.” He lighted a cigarette for himself. “Have you known Alan very long?”

  “Two years. He was directing at an experimental theater in Redondo Beach. It folded, of course; those things need a genius. But I was impressed with his—oh, fire, I suppose is the easy word for it. Actually, he’s a very interesting lad. But romantically—?” She shrugged. “Well, you’ve seen him.”

  “He didn’t look too repulsive to me.”

  “I didn’t mean physically. But he looks so—young.”

  “And he’s brought out the maternal in you?”

  “That’s nicer than what Norah said.” She stood up and stretched. “I’m dead.”

  The stretch had brought her chief allure into prominence. Joe pretended not to notice.

  Then Norah came out into the kitchen. “It’s a nice house, Joe.” She was carrying her purse and the short coat she’d worn last night. She looked at Sharon. “Ready to go?”

  “Ready.” She looked at the coat, and smiled. Norah flushed, but said nothing. Joe said, “Drop in any time, girls. I never run out of coffee.”

  Sharon nodded. “Don’t forget about phoning that sergeant.”

  He went to the door with them and watched them drive off. Sharon’s car, he saw, was a replica of the ‘47 Chev he’d traded in.

  He did the dishes and went into the bedroom to make the bed. The scent of Norah’s fragrance was still in there. He was hanging up his clothes, checking the pockets as he did, when he came across the piece of cardboard he’d picked up on the slope last night.

  He told Krivick about it when he finally got him on the phone.

  “What kind of cardboard?” Krivick asked. “You mean—you think it’s important or something?”

  “I’m not getting paid to think, Ernie. It’s a piece of yellow cardboard with the word Smith on it and I found it on the slope.”

  “Near the body? On the body?”

  “No. Twenty feet away. I just thought I’d mention it. How about Alan Dysart?”

  “He went home fifteen minutes ago. I haven’t got a case, but I’d like to fit one around him. Looks like he’s the heir; that should be motive enough, huh?”

  “Not for a purely artistic young man.”

  “Cut out the crap. I’ve been in this business a long time, and I never met an artist yet that hated money. They just hate somebody else having it.”

  “Yes, Captain. Are you coming out this way today?”

  “In about an hour. You’ll be home?”

  “I’ll be home.” Joe gave him the address and hung up.

  The ridiculous Chamber of Commerce weather had persisted; it was another beautiful day. Joe took the books on little theater he’d checked out yesterday and went into the study.

  But he couldn’t get interested. He put some Chopin on the record player and stretched out on a green leather couch. He was half asleep when Sergeant Krivick rang his bell.

  The sergeant stood in the middle of the huge living-room and shook his head. “You really hit the jackpot, didn’t you?”

  “Yup. Have you any favorites in this case besides Alan Dysart?”

  He shrugged. “I haven’t any favorites, Joe. Where’s that piece of cardboard?”

  Joe went into the bedroom to get it. When he came back, Krivick was in the kitchen, admiring all the tile. He looked at the cardboard casually, turning it over in his hand.

  “What makes you think it could be important?”

  “I don’t, necessarily. But it looked clean and new compared to the other rubbish around there. And
I suppose it caught my eye, being bright yellow.”

  “Mmmmm. Smith—it wouldn’t be a calling card, yellow like this.”

  “No. It’s not the right stock for a calling card, either.”

  “There’s a Leonard Smith in that gang of actors, but he’s one of the best alibied in the bunch. I’ll have this checked.” Krivick put the piece of cardboard in his pocket. “What do you know about that gang?”

  “Not much. I just joined them a couple days ago. They’re all amateurs though about half of them have had some professional experience. Young Dysart directed at an experimental theater in Redondo Beach. Larry Puma has directed and acted in a dozen amateur groups around town.”

  “That’s the guy who was late for rehearsal, that Puma, wasn’t it?”

  “He said he was. I didn’t see him come in. I was in the kitchen. He’s directing the current play. Did you get the slug?”

  “No. It went right through his head. I’ve a couple men combing the park, right now.”

  “It entered through the face, though, didn’t it?” “Right.”

  “And he was lying on his back,” Joe went on. “That should mean he was facing downhill. He wouldn’t be, if he was just walking up the slope from his house.”

  “I don’t follow you, Joe.”

  “If he was walking toward the killer, uphill, he’d fall forward, wouldn’t he? Isn’t the body always balanced against the slope, walking up or down?”

  “Sure. But aren’t you forgetting the impact of a slug in the face.”

  “No. The impact would stop him, coming up, but if he was influenced by that, he’d fall either flat forward on his face, or he’d spin and fall with his head pointing down the slope. He was on his back, his head higher than his feet. He’d have to turn. Somebody must have stopped him, coming up the slope, and he turned to see who it was or talk to him, and—bingo.”

  Krivick was frowning. “That adds, Joe. You’re right. That would put the killer below him on the slope. In about twenty steps from the bottom of the slope, the killer could get to that service yard, there. You know, he could have been hiding behind that big incinerator, waiting for you to turn your back to him. When you did, he took off through the yard and up to Toyopa.”