Blood on the Boards

by Gault, William Campbell

“It’s a nice day,” Joe went on. “The beach would be warm.”

  “I’m sure it would. Was there anything else, Mr. Burke?”

  “Yes. Nothing happened last night. Nothing, except for a fight.”

  The line went dead.

  Women. … He picked up a robe and went out to the car. He drove down to the Santa Monica beach, and it was well populated with figures to please any taste. He couldn’t shake his mind from thoughts of Norah.

  I’m lonely, he told himself, that’s all. No woman could mean this much to me in this short a time if I wasn’t lonely. I haven’t learned how to loaf.

  He was close to “Muscle Beach” and he could see the over-developed muscular freaks posturing and tumbling, doing handstands and flips or just standing in statuesque poses. Some of them were wrestlers, some beach bums, all of them were ugly with bunched muscle. All of them had a vacuum between the ears.

  And yet there were girls watching and applauding, girls as rounded and shapely as the men were bunched and ugly. Women….

  Woman. Norah, to be explicit. The three-year virgin. The real estate and doughnut seller, painter, amateur actress, set designer. The girl who wouldn’t go back to Cedar Rapids.

  To hell with Norah.

  The girls giggled, the muscle-bound freaks cavorted. The sun burned his back and he turned over, draping a towel over his eyes.

  He dozed and dreamed of Sharon alone on a stage, doing a dance that somehow involved a snake. And then the muscle boys were in it, throwing her around like a beach ball. And then, in mid-air, Sharon changed into Norah and he charged in to protest, and one of them threw a handful of sand in his face.

  Joe wakened, spitting sand, and saw one of the beach boys bending over to retrieve a ball near by.

  Joe sat up and said, “Haven’t you freaks got enough beach to play on?”

  The man was burned by the sun to a rich brown and his body was muscled right down to his big toes. He held the ball lightly in his finger tips and considered Joe impersonally.

  “There are others on the beach, you know,” Joe went on. “Normal people.”

  The beach bum smiled easily. “By the looks of your face, you’ve had enough trouble for one day, major. Simmer down, eh?”

  Joe stood up. “I don’t think you’re man enough to give me any trouble.”

  For seconds the man considered Joe’s two hundred pounds. Then he said, “You might be right, at that. Sorry, major.” He went away.

  Next to Joe, a hennaed woman said, “He’s just too much of a gentleman to fight with you, sourpuss. You’re lucky he is.”

  Joe looked at the woman and she glared at him.

  Joe picked up his towel and slid into his shoes.

  The pseudo-redhead said, “Good riddance, sorehead. Don’t hurry back.”

  Joe smiled at her. “You can stop screaming now. The bum can’t hear you. And if he could, it probably wouldn’t do you any good. I don’t think he’s got the three dollars.”

  He left her with her mouth open.

  By the time she had regained her voice, he was out of understandable range, though her shrieks were audible. Women….

  The Chrysler murmured at him, the sun was warm. The sky was blue and clear, the ocean flecked with white. And he was sour. Rich and single and sour; it didn’t add.

  He went home and dressed and then drove to the playground. Once again he went over the scene from the incinerator to the curved parking area.

  He came up to the patio and heard the sound of hammers, and went in through the kitchen to the prop room. Peter Delahunt and Leonard Smith were in there working with saw and hammer.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Smith asked him. “We phoned you three times.”

  “At the beach. Are these the risers?”

  “No. Platforms. We have to use our own money. C’mon, you’re just the right size to saw some of these two-by-sixes.”

  They finished a little before six. Pete went home for dinner. Leonard asked Joe, “Any plans for dinner? I’d like a steak.”

  They washed at the clubhouse and drove over in Joe’s car to Ned’s Grille in the Santa Monica Canyon. Ned had steaks for all purses.

  Over their pre-dinner drink, Leonard said, “What brought you to the clubhouse? Not that you didn’t come at the right time, of course.”

  “The murder,” Joe said. “There’s something that bothers me about it, something I should see, but don’t.”

  “You never left the Force, huh?” Leonard said. “Like an old fire horse.”

  “I suppose. I’m going to work on it. This loafing is something I can’t handle right yet. I don’t know why it is, but I sure hate an unsolved murder.”

  “There must be thousands of them.” Leonard finished his drink. “Including some that are officially solved.”

  “Sure. But these tricky ones should be easy. This one looked planned and they’re the ones that are usually loaded with leads.”

  Leonard started to say something and stopped. Joe looked at him curiously.

  Leonard smiled. “All right. I’m no informer, but I saw young Dysart rummaging through the incinerator this morning. It probably doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “No, I was driving by on Alma. He’s the Department’s favorite, isn’t he?”

  “I guess. I’m not sure. He was over to see me this morning. The more I see of him, the less I dislike him. They gave him a bad time, down at the station, I guess. But his uncle’s lawyers are working for him now, so they must know he’s the heir.”

  “I thought he might be. A lot of people seem to think that Bruce Dysart hated his nephew as much as his nephew disliked him. That, I happen to know, isn’t true. Alan is what Bruce would have been if Bruce hadn’t happened to have a great love for the dollar. Alan’s completely uncompromising. Bruce wasn’t.”

  “Then Alan might guess he was the heir.”

  Smith frowned. “I wasn’t trying to put that construction on my remarks. But I’m sure he knew it.”

  Joe smiled at Smith. “Okay, Leonard, you’ve sold me. I’ll pick him up in the morning.”

  “You go to hell,” Smith said. “I—kind of like him, too. Though I admit I’m glad the police have somebody besides me they’re suspicious of.”

  There was a rehearsal that night, and Joe went over with Smith. From the clubhouse office, he phoned Krivick at his home.

  “I wondered if you’d found the slug,” Joe asked him.

  “We did. All luck, too. It was in the trunk of that eucalyptus tree on top of the slope.”

  “Then the shot was fired from below. And at quite an angle. What caliber?”

  “Thirty-two. You working on this, Joe?”

  “I can’t seem to stay out of it. I’d have figured a bigger caliber than that. Ballistics make anything of it?”

  “No, it was too battered. You going to be home tonight?”

  “No. I’m phoning from the clubhouse. I’ll be here. There’s a rehearsal tonight.”

  “Fine. I’ll be over. Wait for me there. That Cassidy doll will be there, won’t she?”

  “Yup.”

  “Great.”

  Joe turned from the phone to find Larry Puma standing near one of the desks in the room. Larry said, “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Had a call to make.”

  Joe smiled. “You don’t need to apologize to me, Larry. I’m not the law.”

  “You were giving a good imitation of it.” Larry went past him and began to dial a number.

  In the auditorium, a couple of kids were practicing from the free throw line. Smith and Sharon and Walter Hamilton were talking in a little group over near the stage.

  Outside, that dry, gusty Santa Ana was starting up again. Joe glanced into the kitchen as he went past, but it was dark.

  As he joined the group, Sharon made a face at him. “I’ve been telling them about last night before Norah got a chance to. They don’t want to believe we’re innocent.”

  Smith said, “That
’s what happened to your face. You certainly pack a wallop, Sharon.”

  Joe could feel himself blushing as they all looked at him. He said, “As long as Norah isn’t here, I’ll start the coffee.” He could hear them laugh as he headed for the kitchen.

  He was alone in the kitchen, reading the Times, when Krivick came. Joe looked up and gestured toward a chair. “Sit down and have a cup of coffee. You look tired, Sergeant.”

  “I’ve been giving this stinking case eighteen hours a day.” Krivick slumped into a chair at one end of the table. “That Cassidy girl has some history.”

  Joe was at the stove, pouring the coffee. “I’ll bet.” He turned to find the sergeant watching him closely.

  Then Krivick said, “You know her, don’t you? Spent last night with her. Had a fight, too, at the Shalimar, didn’t you?”

  Joe shook his head. “The other guy had the fight. You’ve got a man on me, Sergeant?”

  Krivick shook his head. “I’ve been hearing things. Did you know that Cassidy girl was bedded down with Lonnie Goetz for almost two years?”

  Joe stared at the sergeant, the cup of coffee motionless in his hand. “Lonnie Goetz? That gun of Brennan’s? That—little monster?”

  “The same. And there’s a rumor that he’s been seen around town in the last couple months. Maybe he did a job for her, right?”

  Joe set the cup of coffee in front of the sergeant and went to get himself one. “I thought he was dead. I’ve forgotten the details, but I remember reading something—”

  “Look at me, Joe.”

  Joe turned from the stove to face the sergeant.

  Krivick’s voice was low. “You wouldn’t cover for the broad? She was here, in this room, at the time?”

  “I wouldn’t cover, Ernie. You know damned well I wouldn’t. And neither would the others. None of them like her.”

  “Okay, then we look for Lonnie. I know what you read, that he’d been killed in an air liner crash. But half the bodies were never identified, and his was one of them.” Krivick expelled his breath. “It was a long time ago she was shacked up with him. She was just fifteen when she moved in.”

  Joe shuddered. “The poor damned kid. Ernie, what did you know at fifteen?”

  “I knew about violation of the marriage bed. My folks taught me that, and the church.”

  “But who taught her?”

  “I guess nobody, huh? What are you, a bleeder? You sure stopped being a cop awful damned fast.” Krivick ran a finger tip around the edge of the coffee cup. “Or maybe you’re soft on the doll?”

  “Maybe I’m soft on all kids fifteen years old. And you should be, if you’re fit to wear the badge.”

  “You’re talking like the Daily News, Joe. Save that crap for the women’s clubs. A real big man’s been murdered.”

  “Sure, and the Times is on your neck.”

  For seconds there was no dialogue, and then Joe grinned. “I’ll apologize if you will.”

  “All right, you son-of-a-bitch. Watch your tongue, though. Remember when you had to work for a living.”

  “I’m sorry. Ernie, if I had a brother and he was a murderer, I’d bring him in, even now, off the Force.”

  “Okay, okay. I watch Dragnet, too. But about this plane crash, a few bucks in the right places could change one name on the passenger list, couldn’t it? It was just a break, you know. Things were getting hot for Lonnie at the time and he might have wanted to hide in town. The passenger list could have been gimmicked before the accident, to make it look like he was simply leaving town. Or it could have been gimmicked after the accident, to make it look like he was dead.”

  Joe frowned. “I’d say it would be damned near impossible after the accident. He wouldn’t hear about it until long after the papers did, and they’d want the passenger list immediately. How good is this rumor about Lonnie being around town lately?”

  “It’s a little more than a rumor. A pigeon who’s been right more often than wrong.”

  “Do I know him?”

  Krivick shook his head.

  “How about flight insurance? Most passengers take that.”

  “At twenty-five cents for five thousand dollars? Who wouldn’t? All but two on this flight did. One of the two was Lonnie.”

  Joe looked past the sergeant, toward the patio where the kids were playing table tennis. He said, “Sharon ought to be out here any minute.”

  “I’ll wait. How about this young Dysart? Know him well?”

  “Not too well. He was over at my house this morning moaning about the way you boys treated him. I like him better than I did at first.”

  “Pinko, isn’t he? One of those intellectual red-hots?”

  “I don’t know. I guess he was, in college. How can a man tell these days? Young men with any guts are always radical. And suckers for false fronts. The kid claims to be a Democrat now and maybe he is.”

  “Not my kind of Democrat,” Krivick said, “and I’ve been one all my life.”

  “And I’ve voted Republican all my adult life,” Joe told him, “and still there are fascists in my party I’d love to read obituaries on. By the American Legion standards, that makes me a Commie, too.”

  “Not by my standards. Between working for Wallace and fighting fascism, there’s a wide stretch of ground, Joe.”

  Joe shrugged and sipped his coffee. From the stage came the muffled sounds of the players.

  Sergeant Krivick was leafing through a notebook. “How about this Norah Payne? She here tonight?”

  Joe shook his head.

  “Puma?”

  Joe nodded.

  Krivick held the book open to that page. “I understand that night was the first time he’s ever been late for rehearsal.”

  “From Alan Dysart, you understand that. Alan told me that same thing.”

  “So, you believe him, don’t you? You like him more than you used to. He’s an honest kid, isn’t he?”

  “He’s no kid and I don’t know if he’s honest or not. I think he might be too honest for his own good, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  “Neither would I. Well, to get back to Puma, do you happen to know where he parked his car that night?”

  Joe thought back to the night he and Larry and Norah had left. Larry had taken his car to the Melody Club; where had it been parked? And then he remembered.

  He said, “It was parked on the bend, right near the corner of the building. And that seems strange.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s about the favorite parking spot, and it should have been filled by the time Larry got here.” “Uh-huh. If he got here late.”

  “If he didn’t, you’d have learned it by now,” Joe thought aloud. “Because the others who came after him would have noticed his car.”

  “A ‘46 Ford Tudor? There were three cars here that night close enough to the model to be mistaken for it. Ford didn’t change much from ‘41 to ‘48, you know. You’re sure the car was parked there?”

  “I’m sure. I followed him over to Santa Monica.”

  Krivick asked, “Get the angle I’m working on?”

  Joe nodded. “I thought of it myself. Shoot Dysart, dump the gun in the car, and then come in the front door, as though you just arrived.”

  “Mmmm-hmm. We checked the cars, but we didn’t lift the seats, or anything.”

  “And motive?” Joe asked.

  “Oh, yes. Nothing, so far. Two had motive, Alan Dysart and this Cassidy dame. But anybody could have. This could be a political kill, too, you know, Joe. Bruce Dysart was a hard worker against all the Commies in the industry. He had a fine record on that. And he was a powerful man in the business.”

  “I know. And today Leonard Smith told me something else. He claims Bruce Dysart liked his nephew a lot better than his nephew liked him. Alan could have known that he was the heir.”

  “I knew that.”

  Joe asked, “More coffee?”

  “I could use some.”

  At the stove, Joe said,
“Are you going to give it to the papers, about Sharon and Lonnie Goetz?”

  A few seconds of silence, and then Krivick said, “No.”

  Joe brought over the cup. “Going soft, Ernie?”

  “No. I like kids, too. I’m not like you; I don’t make speeches about it. But I’ve been active in the Scouts for fourteen years.”

  Joe coughed. “I—uh—I—”

  “You’re a professional bleeding heart,” Krivick said. “The only thing that keeps me from laughing out loud is your record with the Department.”

  “You checked that, too, Ernie?”

  “Right. When are those uncured hams going to be finished in there?”

  “I’ll go and find out,” Joe said.

  But at that moment, Sharon came through the doorway from the prop room.

  Joe said, “The sergeant would like to talk to you, Sharon.”

  She looked from him to the sergeant and back at Joe. “It’s not mutual.”

  Krivick said, “About Lonnie Goetz I’d like to talk, Miss Cassidy. If you don’t mind.”

  Again Sharon’s glance traveled between them and there was something close to panic in her eyes.

  Joe said, “I’ll take some coffee out for the others. I’ll keep them in the prop room.”

  “You can stay, if you want,” Krivick said.

  “I don’t want to,” Joe told him. “I don’t think it’s any of my business.”

  Sharon was still standing stiffly near the doorway, staring at the sergeant when Joe went out with the coffeepot and a carton of paper cups.

  He closed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IN THE PROP ROOM, Joe set up some chairs and pushed a couple of make-up tables together. He connected the hot plate and put the huge pot on it and went into the auditorium.

  Walter Hamilton and Larry were sitting at a small table in front of the stage, and Joe beckoned to Walter.

  When Walter came over, he told him, “Sergeant Krivick is talking to someone in the kitchen. Keep the others out, huh?”

  “Sure. Who’s the ‘someone’? Sharon?”

  Joe nodded.

  Walter shook his head worriedly. “The police still feel one of us is the—the murderer, then?”

  “I don’t know, Walter. They can’t afford to overlook anything. This case is going to get a lot of Department attention.”