Convertible Hearse

by William Campbell Gault

  Her eyes widened and she nodded.

  “The police already have that name,” I said. “George was released by them. Why does he think they have something new on him now?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not familiar with his extracurricular activities. But he is a property-owner and a fairly big one, and I can imagine he wants to come out of this mess clean.”

  “I’ll talk with him,” I said. “The police haven’t a case against Wilding yet. Maybe George can give them one.”

  She went to the kitchen to get the steaks ready and I sat and thought about George Tomsic. One mistake? If Deutscher was right, George had doctored a lot of cars. As a technician, of course, and not sharing in the profit of the transaction, but that still made him a crook.

  I finished the beer and phoned Ryerson. He told me, “We caught a couple of the boys. That one Deutscher shot is dead, but Vanyo wasn’t anywhere around. Maybe he was still down there where you conked him and woke up in time to hear the sirens and took off the same way you did. We’re combing the area.”

  “How about Deutscher?”

  “We’ve got him at the hospital. The doctor says he has a very, very slim chance of pulling through.”

  “Maybe he’ll talk if he thinks he’s going to die. He must know something.”

  “Maybe. But he’s a stubborn man.”

  “Could I talk with him? Is he conscious?”

  “Nobody can talk with him until tomorrow. Doctor’s orders. Call me again tomorrow on that.”

  “How about the men you picked up?”

  “They won’t even tell us what they think of the Dodgers. Real close-mouthed pros.”

  “How about the house? That must be listed as belonging to somebody.”

  “It belongs to a very solid citizen named Arthur Knaefel who has been in Europe for three years. He rented it to these people through an agent.”

  “How about the agent?”

  “Clean, so far as we can tell at the moment. It wasn’t an easy property to rent at the price Knaefel was asking, so perhaps the agent wasn’t as fussy as he should have been.”

  “I see. Lieutenant, I’ve heard indirectly from George Tomsic. He wants to make some kind of deal. He claims to have information that might nail Wilding.”

  “We don’t make deals, Callahan.”

  “I’ll tell him that. Good night, Lieutenant.”

  “Slow down,” he said. “How can we get in touch with him?”

  “Through me. Did you find my gun out there?”

  “It’s here. And the gun you took away from Vanyo matches the slug they took out of Deutscher. That will help.”

  “When you get Vanyo, that will help. And when you get Tomsic, that might help, too. If you get either of them.”

  “What are you being smart about, Callahan? Why the change?”

  “It followed your change. Tomsic wants to talk with me so I immediately tell you about it. And you act like I’m a snooping citizen instead of a licensed and coöperative investigator.”

  His voice was dry. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were sensitive. You don’t look sensitive. You talk to Tomsic, if you want, and then come in for a little chat with me. See you in the morning?”

  “I’ll be there,” I promised. “I paid sixty dollars for that gun.”

  I hung up and turned to see Mary Macarty studying me from the doorway to the kitchen.

  “Business, business, business,” she said.

  “That’s all for today. I’ve had it.”

  “How about this Deutscher?” she asked. “Is he — all right?”

  “He’s alive. Is there another bottle of that beer?”

  She nodded. “Come into the kitchen and drink it. I don’t want to be alone.”

  She had put an apron over the yellow dress, and she was making the salad dressing with the cheese I had brought. I sat at the small table with another bottle of beer.

  “Tell me about Jan Bonnet, now,” she said. “Why was she so nasty to me?”

  “I’ve no idea. She’s a moody girl. She and I just told each other to go to hell.” I put the cold bottle to my swollen lips. “You knew Leo Dunbar better than you admitted to me, didn’t you?”

  She nodded. “I knew him. You came as a — a detective. I thought that the farther I could get from Leo Dunbar and George Tomsic in your mind, the less trouble I would have from the police. I guess that was a mistake, wasn’t it? It’s made you suspicious of me.”

  “Not very,” I said. “Are you engaged or anything like that?”

  “Nothing remotely like that. Why?”

  I shrugged. “Just wondered. Making conversation.”

  “Huh? Making time, you mean. Or trying to.” She turned from the countertop to face my way. “Are you investigating me, Brock Callahan?”

  I half lied with a shake of the head. “I’m sitting here quietly, soaking in your beauty. It’s an antidote for an ugly day.”

  She smiled. “You’re farily glib, for an athlete. And you have an undeniable attraction for me, I must admit. You might make out at that. Keep working on me, Callahan.”

  “That was my plan,” I told her.

  ELEVEN

  THE CLEAN AIR of her bedroom held only a hint of her perfume. Next to me on the big bed she slept easily, breathing lightly, occasionally stirring.

  Round heels …? One way or another, who isn’t? A lovely girl, vulnerable, hard working, making her way alone. Didn’t she and shouldn’t she have the same freedom as a single man?

  Her firm, bronzed body was like sculpture in the reflected light from the living room. She always kept a light on in the living room all night, she had told me. She was afraid of the dark.

  “You’re so gentle for a big man,” she had told me. “You’re all right, Brock ‘the Rock’ Callahan.”

  I felt no twinge of conscience. Was I lost? Since leaving the Church, I had decided there could be no sin unless malice was present. There was no malice in this. There was only love. If, to you, it is only animal passion, then you are an animal. It is exactly what you think it is in your mind.

  To me, it’s always love. And communication.

  Rationalize, Callahan, pontificate … Jan is your girl. This is not your girl. Jan is your girl. And neither one of them is your wife.

  Before falling asleep, she had said, “Go if you get restless, or stay for breakfast. Do as you will, Callahan.”

  I wondered what Jan was doing. I wondered how Deutscher was doing. Mary Macarty had gone back to work for Elbert Kronen. Elbert had even given her a raise.

  Outside, a car stopped and I heard voices through the open window. I thought of Vanyo and his still-free friends and tensed. But then I heard a woman’s voice and another and relaxed once more.

  I wondered if Vanyo and his friends would bother Mary Macarty. And why had they originally? And why had Deutscher? How did he know about her? I’d first met him in front of this apartment, but he’d claimed he was checking on Tomsic that evening.

  Tomsic was supposed to phone in the morning to get my answer about our talk from Mary. But Tomsic didn’t look like as much of a key as I had originally thought. Deutscher looked like more of a key, now.

  I fell asleep thinking about Deutscher.

  When I wakened Friday morning, Mary was already in the kitchen. The clock at her bedside indicated I’d had a long sleep. It was almost nine o’clock.

  She came to the doorway to tell me, “I didn’t wake you because I knew you could use the sleep. I have to run; I’ll be late to work now. Thanks for the steaks, Brock.”

  “Thanks for cooking them,” I said. “I’ll see you soon, huh?”

  Her smile was skeptical. “Maybe. If your girl doesn’t whistle you home.”

  I must have blushed. She laughed and came over to kiss me on the forehead. “You’re all right. You’re a fine man. I wish you were mine.”

  She’d left the percolator connected, the frying pan out and a carton of eggs. I drank two glasses of milk before frying a few
eggs. I was on my second cup of coffee when the phone rang.

  It wasn’t my house, but that could very easily be Tomsic. I went to the phone and said, “Brock Callahan speaking.”

  And the quietly furious voice of my Jan said, “Just checking, you …” I’d rather not repeat that last word. Her receiver crashed down.

  Mary Macarty had said she wished I was hers. Perhaps that wouldn’t be so hard to arrange now. Jan had probably started to phone some time last night or her finding me at this place after nine in the morning would have had no significance.

  I phoned Scooter and said, “I played poker at your place last night. Until late, and then slept there. Unless, of course, Jan has already phoned you.”

  “She hasn’t. Who did you sleep with, Rock?”

  “You’re being vulgar, Scooter,” I said.

  “Not vulgar enough to need an excuse for my girl. Okay, but you guys sure take advantage of my deceptive nature.”

  I went back and finished my coffee and the paper. I was again credited by the Department for having worked in close coöperation with them to uncover what this paper called “the headquarters for the stolen-car ring that has plagued our city for so long.” I didn’t think it was the headquarters. It could very easily be a minor station in what looked like a mammoth operation. Eighteen hundred cars a year meant that an average of five a day had to be serviced with a complete change of new numbers.

  If Tomsic had done them all at — say, fifty dollars each, he would have a fine supplementary income, none of it taxable. No wonder he had thrown a lot of parties. How could he explain to the Internal Revenue boys an additional two hundred and fifty dollars a day?

  I wondered if Tomsic had brought Wilding into the operation or vice versa? They had known each other back in Pasadena, years before there was a stolen-car ring to plague our city.

  On the sports page, I read that the Rams were considered a seven-point underdog in their Sunday game with Detroit, and Stanford was favored over U.C.L.A. Oklahoma was considered the best college team in the country, as usual. One scribe went so far as to say they would do very well in the professional league. He had a lot to learn. The best college team in the country makes more mistakes in one quarter than a pro team is guilty of in a complete season. And in pro ball, one mistake is six points for the opposition.

  I went home to shave and change my shirt and then drove downtown to check in with Lieutenant Ryerson.

  Of the two men he’d picked up, I identified the short man who had been Vanyo’s new partner. The other man I had never seen. The man Deutscher had shot was in the morgue.

  Ryerson gave me my gun back and asked, “Have you heard from Tomsic?”

  “Not yet, Lieutenant. But I’m expecting to. Anything new on Wilding?”

  “Nothing I’d want to take into court.”

  “And Vanyo?”

  He shook his head.

  “Would it be all right for me to talk with Hans Deutscher? Would you phone the hospital and okay me?”

  “What good would that do?”

  “Lieutenant, you know there are times when a man like Deutscher isn’t going to confide in the law.”

  “Then he shouldn’t confide in a man who’s working with the law.”

  “He doesn’t have to know I’m that honest, does he?”

  He looked at me quietly for a moment. “We went into this before. Once you get a reputation for being shady, however untrue that reputation is, you are going to get some offers. And a number of them are going to be tempting. And that is exactly where the road to Alcatraz starts.”

  “It’s a road I don’t have to take, though. And you’ve got to remember how much I hate hoodlums.”

  “Maybe Leo Dunbar wasn’t killed by hoodlums.”

  “All right, then, it boils down to this — do you trust me?”

  He sighed. “Oh, man … You sounded just like an Eagle Scout. All right, I’ll phone the hospital.”

  The lieutenant had a point; there are a numnber of ways to pick up a dirty dollar in my profession and not all of them completely outside the law. There isn’t much labor spying today, but there’s enough divorce work around to keep a man humping. And there is a variety of angles in divorce work, including blackmail.

  There was a uniformed man at Deutscher’s door. Not that there was a likelihood of his going anywhere, but there was a definite likelihood of unfriendly visitors. Deutscher knew too much about too many people.

  I identified myself to the officer and went into the small room where Hans lay, staring at the ceiling with his one good eye. He was pale and his hands lay limp and listless on top of the blanket.

  He turned as I came closer. He said softly, “You made it, huh, Callahan? Think I will?”

  “I think so, Hans. Feel any more coöperative than you did?”

  “No,” he said. “A client is a client. They pay for privacy.”

  “You’re not permitted to have clients, Hans.”

  “That’s right. So I haven’t got one. I’m working just to keep in shape. They didn’t pick up Vanyo yet, huh?”

  “Not yet.”

  “That guy I want. Personally and away from the law. That guy I owe some lumps.” He closed his eyes and his face looked even paler for a moment. “Jesus …”

  “Pain?” I asked. “Should I call the nurse?”

  “Pain,” he said. “But if I called her every time I had one, she’d never get out of the room.” He managed a tight smile. “And I ain’t paying for that kind of service, right, Callahan?”

  “I guess not. I thought about you last night, Hans. I was thinking you’ve got all the courage a man needs and plenty of people have told me you are competent. What put you over on the trashy side of the law?”

  He grimaced. “Same thing that puts every solvent citizen over there — money, money, money … Christ, Callahan, how dumb can you stay?”

  “And where did the money go? You’re not exactly in the high rent district right now.”

  “I had to beat that kidnapping rap, didn’t I? I had to pay off all the way up the ladder. And those big boys don’t settle for peanuts. That’s why they’re so high on the ladder.”

  “You’re cynical, Hans,” I said.

  “Realistic,” he said. “To a square like you, that’s cynicism.”

  “So, okay. Nothing for me, then? The man who dreamed up the scheme that saved your life — nothing for me?”

  “Nothing for you,” he said. “My life isn’t saved, yet.”

  If he had gone out ahead of me instead of pushing me to the front at that hideaway, perhaps he would have made the hill as I did. This thought I had, but didn’t voice. I told him to take it easy and worry as little as possible, and went out again to the world of the living.

  From the office, I phoned Ryerson and told him Hans had been as coöperative with me as he had with the police.

  “I know it,” he said. “I even heard about the home, heaven and mother talk you gave him. What do you think the man at the door is doing there, directing traffic?”

  “Thanks for the example of your faith in me, Lieutenant.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said mildly. “Keep in touch, Callahan.”

  I promised him I would. I called my phone-answering service and learned that a Miss Jan Bonnet had phoned me three times here and twice at home last night. The last call had been made at two-thirty in the morning.

  So I phoned her back.

  “You …” she said, but didn’t hang up.

  “So I played poker. How did I know you wanted to see me?”

  “Poker! I can imagine the kind of poker you played with her.”

  “Her …? Are you crazy? I dropped in there this morning on the way back from Scooter Calvin’s house to find out if she’d heard from George Tomsic, that man who’s missing. For your information, she had, and Tomsic wants to talk with me. This could mean a nice bonus if Tomsic has the information I need.”

  “You’re lying, Brock Callahan,” she said.
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  “Jan, honey, I’ve gone through too much the last couple of days. I simply haven’t the strength left to argue with you. Why did you phone me last night?”

  “Because I’d read about the horrible things you’d gone through and I wanted to comfort you. But I see you have other comfort stations.”

  “I’m not going to argue.”

  “Don’t. And don’t phone me, either, or try to see me. For any reason.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Sure it’s okay. You’ve got Miss round heels now. Why shouldn’t it be okay?”

  “Why indeed? Stay sober, kid.”

  She terminated the conversation with the same name she’d called me earlier this morning. I replaced the receiver gently and sadly and went over to the mirror to study my swollen lips.

  I had her worried. She had denied me solace in my hour of need, and I had found it elsewhere. I had her worried. My lips were less swollen. Soon, they would be again kissable.

  Fearless Fosdick leering at himself in a mirror … I must be getting punchy. I went over to open a window.

  There was a cool breeze from the west and the smell of autumn in the air. Across the street, at the curb in front of the parking lot, a Dodge Lancer was parked. I couldn’t be sure from this distance, but the man behind the wheel bore an uncomfortable resemblance to Tony Vanyo.

  I was seeing ghosts. There would be no reason for Vanyo to heckle me; the police now knew all I knew. The papers were full of it. And Mr. Vanyo was a pro; personal resentment was not one of a professional criminal’s attributes. There was no profit in that, and the bright ones worked only for profit.

  Violence … Jan was right and so was Mary Macarty. This was not a trade for an intelligent man, though it could certainly use them.

  Beyond the Dodge now, on the parking lot, a woman stepped from a Lincoln Capri as the attendant held the door for her. The woman was Dorothy Hartland Dunbar. I waited at the window, wondering if she was coming to see me.

  She walked up the other side of the street and disappeared through the entrance to an exclusive women’s apparel shop. The man in the Dodge stayed where he was.

  The coincidence of proximity, I thought. If that was Vanyo, though it probably wasn’t, he had been only feet away from a woman who had been married to a man whose death had been indirectly responsible for the death of Vanyo’s partner. If one had unlimited time and enough help, a connection could be found between all those people walking and driving below.