Convertible Hearse

by William Campbell Gault

  Officer Caroline opened my door and stuck his head in. “I’m ready if you are, Sergeant.”

  “I’m not ready,” Pascal said. “Get somebody in to wash up the blood. Brock and I are going to take a little walk in the outside air.”

  Caroline stared at him. “Sarge, for criyi — ”

  “You heard me,” Pascal said roughly.

  “Sergeant,” I said evenly, “I’m going to be all right. I can wash up the blood; there isn’t much. And it wasn’t because you told me to; put your mind to rest on that. It was just a coincidence that I met them so soon after leaving you. And it was too bad he was carrying a knife. I wouldn’t have needed the gun if he wasn’t. With a chair, I could easily have handled both of those boys. I’m going to be all right.”

  He rose and nodded. “Sure you are. And keep in touch, right? Close touch?”

  “I will. Any idea who the other man could have been?”

  He shook his head.

  I said, “Again, I didn’t get the license number.”

  “So, it’s probably a stolen car, anyway. Don’t worry; we’re going to make out on this. If I have to go to Las Vegas and kidnap that son-of-a-bitch, I’ll get an entry somewhere.” He expelled his breath and looked out into space. “I wonder how Samuels feels now, that solid citizen.”

  “You’re reaching, Sergeant,” I said. “You can’t go that far back into the pattern and blame Reno’s death on Samuels.”

  “I want to,” he said. “Well, see you.” He went out and closed the door.

  I had misjudged him. He was cynical and rough. He dealt with all the wrong people all day long and into some nights. He was bound to be a skeptic and I had judged him wrong. He had tried his best to bring me through a bad period, though there wasn’t really time in his day for coddling grown men.

  I was sick, lonely and cold. I phoned Jan at her home and her shop but there was no answer at either place. I rinsed my mouth and washed my face and drove over to Brentwood. Armed.

  Mary Macarty was home. She came to the door in a terry-cloth finger-tip jacket and a swimming suit. She asked anxiously, “What’s the matter? Something has happened, hasn’t it?”

  I said, “I just wanted the sound of a friendly voice. Something has happened. Am I interrupting your swim?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve had my swim. I was loafing, and I haven’t bothered to change. What happened?”

  “I — shot a man.”

  She stared at me, started to say something and stopped. Then she said quietly, “Come on in.”

  I came in and she closed the door. She asked softly, “How did it happen?”

  “He came at me with a knife. He’s dead. It — shook me up a little. His name was Louis Reno. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  She shook her head. “Do the — have you told the police?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m in the clear on it.” I took a deep breath. “He said something, Reno did, about your telling me his name. So he must have thought you knew him.”

  She frowned. “Was he a friend of George Tomsic’s?”

  “He could very well have been.”

  “That might be it, then. From time to time, when I’d be out at the pool, George would introduce me to friends of his. Was this Reno a …”

  “A hoodlum,” I said. “Short, broad and pockmarked. Have you heard any sign of George?”

  She shook her head.

  I said, “You were out last night, weren’t you? I dropped over.”

  She gazed at me candidly. “Why?”

  “I don’t know why. Is it important?”

  She smiled. “Callahan, you’ve had a fight with your girl and I can imagine you’re on the prowl. But don’t come knocking at my door for an interim affair. I’m not that easy or that hungry.”

  “Of course you aren’t,” I said. “Believe me, I wasn’t even thinking of you in that way. I mean — not completely. I like you, Mary Macarty, beyond your — enormous physical appeal.”

  “My, you do spread it, don’t you? Why do you always come so close to meal time? Have you had lunch?”

  “I had a late breakfast. It’s past lunch time, isn’t it?”

  “Not past mine. Eggs, again?”

  “I hate to be a bother.”

  “You said that last time. You’re not, much. Come out to the kitchen and talk to me.”

  I came out with her and sat next to a small kitchen table. “I’m not sure I could eat eggs. Perhaps a piece of toast would be enough. I was — sick.”

  She turned to stare at me. “You mean you — you were nauseous? You vomited?”

  “Mmmm-hmmm. Let’s not talk about it. A piece of toast and maybe some fruit or tomato juice?”

  “Coming right up. When this Reno mentioned my name — was there some threat involved? To me, I mean?”

  “An oral threat. I don’t know if he meant to follow through on it. You’re going to be careful, though, aren’t you? His partner is still free and dangerous.”

  She looked at me quietly and back at the stove.

  I said, “Perhaps George introduced you to too many of his friends. It seems likely now that he was tied up with a stolen-car ring. And the sad part of living next door to violence is the certainty that eventually it’s going to touch you.”

  She said in a near whisper, “I didn’t know I was living next door to violence.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t. Though most of us are, today, one way or another.”

  She took a toaster out of the cupboard and put it on the small kitchen table. She brought over a plastic orange juice bottle and a glass. Her hands were shaking.

  I said, “I didn’t mean to scare you, only to warn you. Is there something you want to tell me, Mary Macarty?”

  Her face stiffened. “Are you implying that I’m withholding something?”

  “Innocent people quite often do for a variety of reasons.”

  “I’m not. Not consciously. Why are you in this ridiculous business?”

  “I don’t think it’s ridiculous. You sound like Jan, now.”

  “I sound like any sensible woman. Mixing with — dirty people, with killers and thieves and hoodlums. What kind of a life would that make for a wife?”

  “There are times when it’s profitable. And a man doesn’t have to bring his job problems home with him.”

  “In a good marriage, he does. How do you like your toast?”

  I told her any way would be all right and sat quietly, watching her work. To me, there is always something comforting about a kitchen, even an apartment kitchen. Jan was right; marriage had its points.

  Reaction had set in and fatigue was settling in my bones. The gurgle of the coffee percolator seemed subdued and from outside came the lazy sound of a lawn mower. I had a sense of sanctuary, of retreat.

  And the phone rang.

  “Don’t answer it,” I said. “Let me.”

  She shook her head. “I know who it is. It’s a call I’ve been expecting.” She put the frying pan off the flame and went into the living room.

  I heard her say, “Yes, this is she.” Pause. “I don’t understand. Who is this, please?” A longer pause, and then her frightened voice. “But I don’t know anything I could tell him. Why are you bothering me?”

  I was up in a second and heading for the living room, but she had replaced the receiver by the time I got there. She stood next to the phone, pale and rigid, staring at me.

  There was no sense of sanctuary now; a phone call had brought us back to the world.

  She said hoarsely, “It was a man. He said I should tell you nothing, and he said I should tell you that he’ll see you again.” She looked toward the window. “Could he be watching us? How did he know you’re here?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t, but assumed I’d see you. I never should have come in yesterday, should I? None of this concerns you.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “I should call the police, shouldn’t I?”

  “I will,” I told her. “You finish c
ooking your eggs.”

  She looked at me blankly and went past me to the kitchen. I phoned the West Side Station and asked for Pascal. He wasn’t there, but I got Lieutenant Trask and told him what had happened.

  “We’ll keep an eye on the place,” he assured me. “And you watch your step, Brock.”

  “You can be sure I will, Dave. Anything new there?”

  “Nothing. Stay in touch with us.”

  Back in the kitchen, Mary Macarty was putting plates on the small table. She didn’t look at me as she said, “I’ve been thinking I owe you an apology. Knowing George Tomsic is what caused me trouble, not your being here yesterday.”

  “My questioning you is what attracted the attention of those hoodlums, though.”

  “The police questioned me before you did.”

  I sat at the chair next to the wall and tried to keep my voice casual. “It’s strange that that mobster should keep insisting you know something.”

  Her voice was more casual than mine. “Isn’t it strange?”

  “Did you ever attend any of George’s parties?”

  A momentary pause and then she said, “Yes, a few times. That’s why I was wrong to blame you for that telephoned threat. George was a gangster, wasn’t he?”

  “Was …? What makes you think he’s dead?”

  Color came to her face and her voice was tight. “I was thinking of him as missing, not dead. And he is missing, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he’s missing. But as for him being a gangster, I don’t think he is. He was a technical man who worked for them; he had a skill they could use. But he also had his steady job at Leo’s. Do you think you would remember any of the people you met at these parties?”

  “I doubt it. Certainly not by name. Do you mean — could I identify some police photographs?”

  I nodded.

  She shook her head. “I was down there yesterday, trying that.”

  I ate my toast, she ate her eggs. An innocent she might be, but I still had a feeling she knew some things she was consciously withholding. It was only a hunch and my hunches had been wrong before.

  She said, “George can’t stay in hiding, can he? There’ll be rent to collect here, and I think he has other properties. What happens to them?”

  “He won’t stay in hiding, probably. If he’s alive.” I put more butter on my toast. “Did you go back to your job?”

  “Not yet. But I hear from the hired help that dear Elbert needs me sorely. I imagine I’ll be back before the end of the week.” She smiled. “It’s nothing I’d want repeated, and particularly in the trade, but Elbert Kronen is almost color-blind.”

  Again the phone rang.

  I looked at Mary doubtfully, but she said, “This one has to be the call I’m expecting.”

  As she went out, I reflected that that first time I’d met her she’d been expecting a call. This time I heard her say, “Hello.” Pause. “George …? Where are you?” Silence, and then, “All right. I’ll do that. Are you sure you’re being smart?” Pause. “I’ll do that.”

  She came back into the kitchen and said, “It was George Tomsic. He wants me to collect the rent and bank it for him.”

  “You should have called me, Mary. Are you sure it was George?”

  “I’m sure. I recognized his voice immediately. He says he’s all right, but he has to hide out for a few days. Until this thing blows over, as he put it.”

  “He can’t be hiding from the police,” I said. “They already released him. Did he sound frightened or nervous?”

  She shook her head. “Very — matter of fact.”

  “If he phones again,” I said, “will you tell him I’d like to talk with him? Will you tell him I’m working in the interest of his old friend, Leo Dunbar, and he can safely talk to me?”

  “If he calls again, I will. But he wouldn’t have any reason to phone again, would he?”

  I finished my coffee and stood up. “I don’t know. It’s only a hope. Thank you, Mary, for another free lunch.”

  She took a deep breath and looked at the table.

  I said, “You’ll be all right. The police will be keeping an eye on the place.”

  “I’ll be careful,” she said. “I’ll keep the door locked.” She smiled up at me. “Look around out there, won’t you, when you walk to the car? I feel — under observation.”

  I promised I would.

  It was overcast now and there was a faint tinge of smog in the air. I drove back to Beverly Hills, to my office. From there, I phoned Dorothy Dunbar and told her what had happened so far.

  “You’ve been busy,” she said, “haven’t you? But learned very little.”

  “That’s fairly correct. I warned you that might be the case.”

  “I — wasn’t being critical. Stay with it, Mr. Callahan. I think you’ll discover that Leo had no connection with this Louis Reno or others of his sort. Is that Macarty girl a decorator?”

  “She — works for one.”

  “I’m sure Leo mentioned her from time to time. He thought she was extremely talented.”

  That didn’t jibe with the impression of their relationship Mary had given me. She had, I remembered, identified him questioningly as “the man who used to be on Channel 13.” And then I remembered, too, that Mary had suggested she might have met some of George Tomsic’s friends “at the pool.” Later, she had admitted going to the parties.

  She hadn’t been a completely frank confidante. But I didn’t want to mention this to the police as yet and subject her to a grilling. After all, she was not obligated to answer any of my questions.

  Tomsic, now. In my mind, he still remained the key. And what better way to get an outlet for hot cars in this car-happy town than to kill the owner of a major used-car dealership? George could be the logical man to run the business for the widow. George knew the hoodlums; the murder would not need to be his personally.

  It wouldn’t follow, however, that George would be hiding out from the hoods if he was in alliance with them on the kill. And it had to be the hoods George was hiding from; the police had no case against him.

  But if the hoodlums did, hiding out for a few days wouldn’t help him any. It was logical to expect the gang might fear George would not be an invulnerable witness. It was logical to guess that Cad he’d changed the numbers on had been for personal profit, not for the enrichment of the organization’s coffers. For that men are often disciplined — with a gun.

  That might be it; George hoped a few days and a few arguments would cool off the mob’s top men and he could go back to his honest day labor and his remunerative evening sideline.

  If George was trying to deal with the gang, he would need a liaison man. And who could that be? Hans Deutscher? Hans had known how the gang operated and he could have got that information from George. But also, Hans had put George right in the soup with his accusations, though none of them were currently provable.

  The mob then? Was Hans working for the mob, or was he on some other track entirely? I vaguely suspected he was but could not put my finger on it.

  And was there perhaps some shyster lawyer acting as liaison man with the mob for George? Or maybe Mary Macarty? She’d seemed frightened after that phone call, but that could be simulated to impress me. And quite possibly frighten me.

  I didn’t want to think of Mary Macarty as anything but what she appeared to be. I liked her, and that’s a bad attitude for an investigator; it’s not objective.

  I was on a merry-go-round, getting nowhere. George Tomsic might have some important answers, but George wasn’t available. Hans Deutscher was. I looked him up in the phone book.

  There was no listing for him. He probably didn’t have an office any more and his home number must be unlisted.

  I typed up the report of my day so far, making the extra copy. I got out all my reports and tried to read a pattern in them, the discrepancy, the flaw, the lie that would keep me on the road to the killer.

  There were a number of edges that didn’t jibe,
but no pattern. Innocent people often lie, even when questioned about murder. Self-interest governs us all, even at the graveside. Among those I had questioned, some lies stood out, or at least some words phrased with intent to mislead. That’s lying, even if indirect. Though it wouldn’t convict a man in court. Nobody I’d talked to had been under oath; none of them were legally bound to answer my questions truthfully. I was licensed by the state, but not a police officer in the true sense.

  In my mind, I saw Louis Reno slam back into the wall, and again I saw his slack face and limp hands. I drank two glasses of water and stood by the window, looking at the traffic below.

  There were national organizations in my profession that Mrs. Dunbar could have gone to with better hope of success. She had come to me because of Glenys Christopher’s endorsement and because of my initial connection with the death of Leo. Had it been fraudulence on my part, accepting her business? Was I any better than the fender-thumpers on TV?

  A national organization would have the men to locate Hans Deutscher, the prestige to get police coöperation, the experience that would prevent this repetitious requestioning of the same wary people.

  Or would they? How did I know? I’d never worked for a national organization. And I had serviced all my previous clients to their complete satisfaction. Gird up your loins. Callahan, and get back on your horse.

  On the parking lot across the street, I saw a black Lincoln four-door. It couldn’t be Louis Reno’s partner; if he had the brains of a rabbit, he would be a long way from this town by now.

  Though he had phoned Mary Macarty an hour ago. Or had he? It could be any member of the mob. It must have been someone else. Any experienced hood would not stay in town if he was as hot as Reno’s partner.

  There was very little organized crime in Los Angeles, except for the infiltration of the Las Vegas trash. The police would give a lot of attention to any new alliance that seemed to be forming, such as this stolen-car ring.

  I went back to the desk and phoned Mavis Dunbar.

  I asked her, “Do you know a Mary Macarty?”

  Her voice was faintly blurred. “Pretty girl? Works for Elbert Kronen, the decorator?”