Convertible Hearse

by William Campbell Gault

  I handed her my card. “No, I didn’t. I have a very nice place in Westwood at a much lower rental.”

  She looked at my card and back at me. “A snoop …!”

  “You’re angry,” I said, “because of the phone call. But remember that George Tomsic could very possibly be allied with killers and he lives next door to you. I am on the side of the law.”

  “I have talked to the law,” she said. “I’m sorry, Mr. Callahan, but it’s been a bad morning. I have nothing to say to you.”

  I said, “Okay.” I smiled at her. “Don’t take it. Not from him or anyone else. And don’t make bad decisions because you are momentarily angry. If you’re as substantial a citizen as you appear to be, you’d want to help the law by helping me.”

  She looked at the card again. “Are you that friend of Jan Bonnet’s, that baseball player?”

  “I’m a friend of Jan Bonnet’s and a former football player. Do you know Jan well?”

  She shook her head doubtfully. “I met her once, through Les Hartley. I know her by reputation, of course.”

  I smiled. “I’ll tell her how you said that. What’s wrong with her reputation?”

  She glared at me and then the glare softened and she almost smiled. “I meant her professional reputation, and there is certainly nothing wrong with that. I work for a decorator, too, or did. We had a horrible fight yesterday and …” She expelled her breath.

  “What an amazing coincidence,” I said. “Jan and I had a horrible fight day before yesterday. Is that coffee I smell?”

  She looked at me very coolly.

  I said, “I’m no worse than Les Hartley. Though more of a threat, I suppose.”

  She said coolly, “Les is a fine man. And very comforting to be with. He isn’t always — making a pass.”

  “Is that comforting?”

  She nodded, looking past me, out at the pool.

  “Jan is my only girl,” I said, “and I’m usually true to her. But I could certainly use a cup of coffee. However …” I sighed, “it’s your house and your coffee.” I half turned, looking sad.

  “Oh, come in,” she said. “Stop the bad dramatics and come in.”

  The apartment I came into was something like the girl, warm and cool at the same time, in grays and yellows. I paused in front of a geometric water-color reproduction on the wall that led to her dinette.

  “Whose?” she asked.

  “Kandinsky,” I said.

  “All right, you’ve earned a cup of coffee. But I really know very little about Mr. Tomsic.”

  “So do the police,” I said. “That’s why they released him. But often people will tell private men things they don’t tell the police. A number of citizens have a tendency to freeze up around policemen.”

  She indicated a chair at one end of the oval dinette table. I sat down while she went to the kitchen for the coffee. When she came back, with a silver coffeepot, she said, “It’s almost time for lunch. Could you eat something?”

  “I can always use a couple eggs,” I admitted, “but I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “Not much, you don’t. Fried?”

  “Scrambled would be fine. Why don’t you smile? It’s really a lovely day.”

  “Would you, if you were out of work?”

  “I’m usually out of work. You’ll make out. Who did you work for, until yesterday?”

  “Elbert Kronen. Have you heard of him?”

  “Only from some casual remarks of Jan’s. From which I gathered the man is a monstrous little son-of-a-bitch.”

  The girl smiled. “Did Jan Bonnet say that?”

  “More or less. She also said just last week that Revolt Associates are looking for more associates. Couldn’t you be one of those?”

  “I could be, I suppose, though I’d rather not. Would you like some cream mixed with the scrambled eggs?”

  “If you’ve got it. I usually use half and half.”

  She looked at me without rancor. “You’re definitely the dominant type in your pseudo-humble way, aren’t you? I can understand why you might not get along with a true talent like Miss Bonnet.”

  “It’s my job she doesn’t like,” I explained. “Otherwise, we get along very well. You must be doing all right to afford a place like this.”

  She shrugged. “In this town, a good address helps. I get a rate. I’m Mr. Tomsic’s — color consultant. And he certainly needs one.”

  “Don’t salt the eggs, huh? I’ll handle that.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ll remember, sir.”

  When she finally sat down at the other end of the table, the towel was off her head and I could see her hair was dark and short. She had put on some lipstick, too, and she was all in all a very attractive and fairly intelligent girl. We talked about Elbert Kronen and Les Hartley and Jan and the Rams.

  And finally got around to George Tomsic.

  I had explained to her how I’d first met him while shopping for a car for Jan. I had told her about Loony Leo but not about his first wife, for whom I was working.

  She said, “I think this Loony Leo has been to George’s place a number of times for parties. Isn’t he the man who used to be on Channel 13?”

  “That’s the one. Who did he bring to the party? An imitation blonde?”

  “I don’t remember definitely, though God knows there were a number of imitation blondes at all the parties. There always are.”

  “Tomsic didn’t strike me as a lady’s man. He’s certainly not the best-looking gent in the world, is he?”

  “I’ve seen worse. With less money. The kind of girls who were there can be bought by the dozen.”

  “I suppose. What’s your name?”

  “Mary Macarty. It used to be Mary McCarthy, but I think the other sounds more like a decorator, don’t you?”

  “Mmmmm-hmmm. How did you happen to learn that George Tomsic was looking for a color consultant?”

  “I didn’t. I came here at the full rate, and then happened to see one of the apartments he was redecorating. Why did you ask that?”

  I shrugged.

  She said quietly, “Were you implying I might be mixed up in the nasty end of Mr. Tomsic’s various businesses?”

  “Of course not. It was just a random question.”

  “I don’t think you ask those.” She glared at me over the length of the table.

  “You decorators are all too sensitive,” I said soothingly. “That’s the cross of the artistic.”

  Silence, while she sipped her coffee and ignored me.

  I said, “If you kept your eyes and ears open, it’s possible you might learn something about George Tomsic that would help to uncover a murderer. Could you do that for me, keep your eyes and ears open?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I’m the law, in a sense, and you’re a citizen.”

  “Don’t look so damned smug. You’re a man being paid for a job and you wouldn’t do it if you weren’t being paid.”

  “Okay,” I said, “okay.” I stood up. “Thank you very much for the tasty lunch. I hope you get a job soon.”

  Now she smiled. “I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. And you do the same for me in case somebody talks about an opening, won’t you?”

  “I’ll mention you to Jan as soon as she starts talking to me again,” I promised.

  She came to the door with me and we parted good friends. I stopped at the next door to see if George Tomsic had come in, but there was no response to my ring.

  I wondered if George was still working at Leo’s. There was one way to find out; I could phone. Or better still, I could drive over there.

  I was just getting into the flivver when a dusty Plymouth pulled into the curb behind me. The driver tootled his horn and I looked back to see Hans Deutscher climbing out from behind the wheel.

  Hans had lost his license there for a while; I didn’t know if he had regained it. He was a private operative who had allowed himself to get involved in a kidnapping.

 
; He was a big man, with a broad coarse-featured face and he had never been on my hit parade.

  He came alongside my car and smiled at me through the open window. “Looking for Tomsic?”

  “Could be. You, too?”

  He nodded. “He’s not over at the showroom. Is he home?”

  I shook my head. “You licensed again, Hans?”

  “No. You going to turn me in for asking questions?”

  “No. Working for yourself?”

  “Let’s try to get along,” he said. “I didn’t ask you who you’re working for and I won’t tell you who I’m working for. Maybe we’re working for the same party, huh?”

  “I doubt it, Hans. I doubt if they’re even on the same side of the law.”

  He studied me contemptuously. “Lily-white and lippy, the same old Callahan. What do you figure it gets you, being so snotty?”

  “It saves me a lot of wasted conversations,” I told him.

  “Yeh? You don’t figure I can do you any good?”

  “Not if you can help it. Prove it, Hans. Do me some good.”

  He nodded curtly and his pale blue eyes held mine. “I’ll give you this much. Move carefully. You’re up against some boys who could buy you and sell you and kill you without blinking an eye.”

  “So? And you’re with them?”

  “I didn’t say that. Just remember you were warned, Irish.”

  I nodded. “And I’ll remember who warned me. So don’t go out of town; I may be looking for you.”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “You scare me. Even if you carried an axe, you wouldn’t scare me.” He went back to his car.

  There didn’t seem to be any point in going over to the showroom. I thought of dropping in to see Sergeant Pascal, and then decided a trip to the second Mrs. Dunbar wouldn’t be a bad idea. I headed for Bel Air.

  First Leo had been missing and he was found dead. Now George was missing. I hoped he wouldn’t be found dead. I’d kind of liked George.

  The smooth, round surface of this killing showed no points of entry. If it was a gang killing, and it probably was, the only point of entry I had known was George Tomsic. Now he had pulled behind the smooth, round surface of this killing and obliterated his point of entry.

  What was there to do but drive around and ask questions? If it was a gang kill, that would elicit some action from the other side. They don’t like people who ask questions. But if it was a gang kill, I wasn’t equipped to do anything about it. They had more lawyers than the D.A.’s office and killers who could be brought into town for one job and then spirited three thousand miles away. Looking at it all objectively, I was really wasting the first Mrs. Dunbar’s money.

  But of course she had a lot of money. That helped my limping ethics, knowing that.

  Hans Deutscher could be trying to throw me off. I didn’t think any well-organized gang would need to hire a discredited private investigator. They had more efficient men in their own organization who could be better trusted.

  Then who was Hans Deutscher working for? Maybe learning that could prove to be another point of entry. I should have been more polite to Hans. Later on I had reason to say that again.

  The Bel Air home of Mavis Lillian Dunbar was halfway up a hill that overlooked a country club. It was a two-story place of stucco and brown wood trim, faintly Norman. On the post that supported the rural mailbox, there was a sign warning me to beware of the dog.

  Dogs don’t like me, an attitude that is reciprocal. I kept a wary eye open in all directions as I drove up the green concrete drive to the front door.

  I surveyed the area minutely before getting out of the flivver and no dog was in sight. On the fairway below, a tanned and shapely girl in shorts was ready to send a hundred-and-fifty-yard shot to the green. I waited to see if she made it.

  She was short by ten yards. I went up to ring the bell of the Dunbar home.

  A Negro maid came to the door, and I gave her my card. I told her, “I’m the man who found Mr. Dunbar. I’d like to talk with Mrs. Dunbar, if it’s possible.”

  She looked doubtful. “Mrs. Dunbar isn’t — well, I mean, she’s kind of — down, this afternoon, sir. I don’t know …”

  “Take my card in, anyway,” I said. “She might want to talk with me.”

  The girl still looked doubtful. Behind her, through the open doorway, I could hear music and I thought I heard a woman laugh.

  I said, “She’d want you to ask. If she doesn’t want to see me, she’ll say so.”

  She was still looking doubtful as she took my card in to her mistress.

  In a few seconds, the music stopped. And perhaps a full minute after that, the maid came back to tell me Mrs. Dunbar would see me.

  I followed the maid through a slate-tiled entry hall to a lofty, story-and-a-half living room with a slanting ceiling. The high windows opposite the entry way looked out on a formal, terraced garden beyond the pool.

  The imitation blonde in a tapestry chair was dressed in black toreador pants and white turtleneck cashmere sweater. On a tapestry davenport nearby, a blond and athletic-looking man in his thirties was lounging, a drink in his hand. I couldn’t tell whether he was a natural blond or not. I had a feeling I had interrupted a matinée.

  Mavis Dunbar smiled as I entered. “I wasn’t going to see you, Mr. Callahan, but Curt insisted. He’s one of your fans.”

  The blond lad stood up with a smile and came over to offer his hand. “Curtis King, Brock. It is a pleasure and an honor. Could I offer you a drink?”

  He had a strong grip. I said, “Thank you. No drink, unless you happen to have Einlicher.”

  Mrs. Dunbar frowned. “Einlicher? What kind of whiskey is that?”

  “It’s a beer,” Curtis King informed her. “It’s the kind of beer one finds only in the best homes.”

  She giggled. “Then we must get some, and be a best home. What brings you here this fine afternoon, Mr. Callahan?”

  “Your husband’s death, ma’am.”

  Her face hardened imperceptibly. “I’ve adjusted to that. I suppose you’re working for Dorothy?”

  “I’m working with the police,” I said. “They seem to think a stolen-car ring is involved in — what happened. On the remote possibility some lead to that could be uncovered here, I was presumptuous enough to intrude on your grief.”

  Curtis King smiled slightly. Mavis Dunbar didn’t. She said, “You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you? You’re one of those big, arrogant, sarcastic Irishmen, aren’t you?”

  I shook my head and looked at her gravely.

  “I don’t have to mourn,” she said. “He’s dead, isn’t he? Will crying bring him back?”

  Curtis King said, “Mavis, you’ve been drinking. You’re being vulgar.”

  She looked at him coolly. “So I’m drunk and vulgar. It’s my house, isn’t it? I guess I’ve got a right to be drunk and vulgar in my own house. Don’t forget that, Curtis Winthrop King.”

  He must be an actor, I thought. No boy named Curtis Winthrop King would live through adolescence. I took a deep breath and smiled at Mavis Dunbar.

  She looked me over blandly from head to toe. She shook her head and said, “Mix me another, Curt. Put some whiskey in it, this time.”

  He hesitated, and then went to a corner of the room where the liquor cabinet was located.

  Mavis Dunbar said, “If you want to know about Leo, he was a square. He thought he was a real bomb, pounding those fenders and flipping price cards and putting on the hard sell. But he was a square. He never should have left Pasadena.”

  “Maybe he wanted to get out of the smog,” I suggested. “Do you know anything about George Tomsic?”

  “Enough,” she said. “Why?”

  “He’s missing,” I said. “The police feel he’s tied in with that Cadillac that was stolen.”

  “They released him, didn’t they?”

  “Yes’m. They didn’t have enough proof to hold him. Maybe he’d be better off now if they had held him, huh?” />
  Curtis King handed her a drink, dark with whiskey. She sipped it, ignoring me.

  King said, “You don’t really think anything — serious has happened to that Tomsic person, do you?”

  Mavis Dunbar chuckled. “… that Tomsic person — doesn’t Curt throw those fancy lines well? You’d never guess he was from Iowa, would you?”

  I shook my head and tried not to smile.

  Mavis looked at her glass. “And what an actor. The absolute worst. But will he take over the business, like I want him to? Not Curtis Winthrop King. He’s got stars in his eyes.”

  “It’s a common failing in this area,” I said. “He’s certainly handsome enough to make it.”

  King smiled and said, “Thank you, Brock. Mavis isn’t always this rude.”

  And even when she is, I thought, she’s still got the money, buddy boy. A man can take a lot for money. It seemed logical to assume the late and apparently unlamented Leo Dunbar had been backdoored by both his wives. Now just what could this have to do with a gang killing?

  It wasn’t something I did more than twice a year, but now seemed a good time. I said, “I’ll take a drink, if you insist.”

  FIVE

  THE WAY I figured it, I was getting nowhere sliding around the smooth outer shell of this murder. I was an outsider, asking questions of the insiders and I would get just as much of an answer as they were willing to give. Which hadn’t been much.

  Here was a situation where an incipient conflict seemed possible and alcohol might dissolve some of the wary reticence I sensed in the room. The remark she had made about knowing “enough” about George Tomsic was the first interesting information I had uncovered since Leo died. It could have been alcoholic braggadocio, but if it wasn’t, there would be at least a crack in the frustrating shell.

  I sat down with a big drink and asked her if she had given up her screen career since marrying Leo. I figured that should get the conversational ball rolling. I’d never known it to fail.

  In the careful tones of the conscious drunk, she began to outline her interrupted career at Universal. The way she told it, she hadn’t known all of the right people, but she’d known enough of them and she was just about ready for some big parts when Leo came into her life.