Convertible Hearse

by William Campbell Gault

  He chuckled and shook his head. “Turn your collar around when you talk like that, Callahan. What next one?”

  I said nothing.

  “I’m a Polack,” he said, “and you’re a Mick. But maybe you stayed with the Church, huh?”

  “No, not completely.”

  “What do you mean — not completely? Man, with that church, you’re either in or out. Make up your mind, Irish. That’s why guys like you never amount to nothing, you won’t go all the way either way.”

  He was probably right. I said, “I’ll tell Ryerson you can give him Wilding. I’ll see what he says to that. You phone me tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Good enough,” he said. He tapped his breast pocket. “I’ve got it right here, all he needs. When I get the word from you, I’ll tell you where you can pick this up.” He finished his drink. “And there’ll be a C-note in it for you.”

  “I don’t want your money, George,” I said.

  “Why not? Man, I can’t take it with me. I got …”

  He stopped talking, staring past me at the doorway. He opened his mouth, and I turned to look at the door.

  Tony Vanyo stood there, the inevitable gun in his hand. He’d have looked naked without it. He was right inside the doorway, and now he took two steps and it brought him close enough.

  The stocky blonde screamed, George tried to duck, and I went for my .38.

  I hadn’t even got to it before Vanyo fired twice. George was slammed back into the corner of the booth by the force of the bullets, and I looked out from behind the high back of my seat to see Vanyo turn and run out the door.

  I said to the waitress, “Call the police and an ambulance. I’m going after that man.”

  The bartender came out from the washroom as I went through the door after Vanyo. He was climbing into a Chev that had been parked with the engine running. He was under way before I could get to the car door on the curb side.

  I sent two shots in the general direction of the Chev’s gas tank before climbing into my flivver.

  She started like a dream. The Chev had no more than a block’s lead on me before I was under way. He turned onto Main Street, heading toward Playa del Rey.

  It was a narrow street and there were a lot of crossings and a lot of kids on the sidewalks. School was just letting out. Vanyo drove the Chev through it all like a man qualifying for the five hundred at Indianapolis. I kept him in sight and prayed no kid would decide to run out into the street.

  People on the walks stopped to watch us hurtle past but not a prowl car was in sight. The houses were getting thinner now, and the beach was visible to our right. The flivver began to whine, as I kicked her up to eighty.

  And then, two blocks ahead, a school bus loomed, inching her way ponderously out of an intersection. Vanyo was a block from it and going as fast as I was. It would block the street. And if he didn’t slow now, he would crash it.

  I saw him bear down on it, his horn screaming, and I was almost sorry I hadn’t killed him yesterday when I’d looked down at his unprotected face, a rock in my hand. The bus continued across the street.

  And Vanyo swung the Chev to the right, toward the sandy side of the road. He’ll never make it, I thought, never …

  The Chev went off the asphalt, lurching into the soft sand, swaying, twisting — and then miraculously finding traction and cutting back toward the hard surface. This Vanyo could wheel.

  The bus was out of my way; all the kids were looking back at us as Vanyo swerved the Chev toward the asphalt.

  He had lost too much speed in the sand; I was abreast of him.

  I swung sharply, aiming the heaviest part of my car at his front door. The Chev was still tilted, half up on the road, half still on the sand.

  She went over with a crash, as I went spinning off to the left, my front tire grinding herself to shreds with a horrible shriek on the torn right front fender.

  It was the friction of that fender that saved me, swinging the rear to the left, straightening out my path so my brakes could take hold straight ahead.

  I was out and running back to the Chev when his door opened straight up, and he started to climb out over the steering column. There was no gun in his hand; he must have lost it in the impact.

  He paused as I came close and stared down at me blankly. There was blood dribbling down from his nose and from a torn lower lip.

  “Keep coming just the way you are, Tony,” I said. “Don’t go back for your gun. I’m looking for an excuse to shoot you.”

  “I’m going back for it,” he said. “Shoot, if you want. It’s no worse than the gas chamber.”

  He went back in again, as sirens came up from behind.

  The prowl car pulled abreast and I pointed at the Chev. A uniformed man got out, and I called, “There’s an armed man in that car — Tony Vanyo. I’m a private investigator. I was chasing him.”

  “Drop your gun,” the officer said. His was pointed at me.

  “Gladly,” I said. “But couldn’t I just put it in my pocket?”

  He nodded, I did, and the other officer came out from behind the wheel, his own gun in his hand.

  I said, “Vanyo might not have found his gun. He must have lost it when I crashed him. But I warn you, he’ll come out shooting. He’s already a cinch for the gas chamber.”

  The driver of the prowl car said, “Aren’t you Callahan, the man who was kidnapped yesterday?”

  “That’s right. I’ve identification right here.”

  “I know you,” he said. “You can get your gun out again.”

  From the Chev, there was not a sound. The driver said, “We could see him through the windshield, or the rear window. Should I take a peak?”

  The other officer nodded. “Try the rear, first.” He looked at me. “Why’d you crash him?”

  “He shot a man back at Lydia’s Bar, in Venice. I chased him. This was the only way I could stop him.”

  The man at the rear of the Chev said, “Can’t see him from here. He must be crouched in the front seat.”

  The man next to me called, “All right, Vanyo, come out without the gun or we’ll start shooting through the windshield.”

  Nothing from the car.

  The man next to me looked up at the still open door. “We could toss a tear gas bomb in there. That’d bring him out.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “he’s unconscious. He could have been going on his reflexes when he first started to climb out. His nose was bleeding pretty badly.”

  He shrugged. He looked at his partner and then edged cautiously around to peer in through the windshield. “By God,” he said, “he is out. Or he’s faking it. I can see both his hands, and there’s no gun in either.” He studied the car. “You know, the three of us could tip this thing back onto its wheels.”

  The other man was waving traffic past now and another prowl car was approaching from the north. I said, “I’m going over and sit in my heap. Holler when you need me.”

  He didn’t call me. There were three Department cars there before they tipped the Chev back onto its wheels, and all the help they needed.

  I changed the shredded tire on my car and hammered the fender away from the front wheel and checked the steering before driving back to the Venice Station. Ryerson had short-waved out that he wanted to see me there.

  He was in a small room off the front of the corridor and the bartender from Lydia’s was with him. As I walked in, the bartender pointed at me.

  “That’s the man,” he said. “That’s the man that shot him.”

  THIRTEEN

  RYERSON SAID, “HE wasn’t even armed, Callahan. What’s your story?”

  “My story is that I’m sending in a bill for a lot of repair work to my flivver. I ruined the front end crashing the man who shot Tomsic. The boys have already brought him in.”

  Ryerson looked back at the bartender doubtfully.

  I said, “Everybody likes ink, Lieutenant. In this town, publicity means increased income. This man didn’t even see it hap
pen.”

  “He was tending bar, wasn’t he? He was right there.”

  “Not when Vanyo walked in, he wasn’t tending bar. He was in the washroom. He came out just as I took off after Vanyo.”

  The bartender said uncomfortably, “I heard two shots; I come running out and find a man bleeding in the booth and see this guy take off. I see him fire two more shots outside and then blow.”

  “You heard four shots, then?”

  “That’s right, four shots.” He looked at me belligerently.

  I handed Lieutenant Ryerson my gun. “I tried two shots at Vanyo’s gas tank.”

  Ryerson snapped it open, looked at the two empty chambers and closed it again. He said nothing.

  I said, “The waitress will know. She screamed when she saw Vanyo standing there with the gun in his hand. Get the waitress.”

  “This man insisted on coming,” Ryerson said. “He told the waitress to take care of the bar.”

  “Ten will get you fifteen he’s got a Screen Actors’ Guild card in his pocket.” I looked at the man. “Right?”

  He looked at Ryerson and away. “I done a little acting here and there. I got a right to the card.”

  “And a right to get publicity any way you can. I know your answer. There is no such thing as bad publicity.”

  Ryerson said, “There are some awfully cold cells, though.” He shook his head. “Witnesses …”

  “How about Tomsic?” I asked. “Is he alive?”

  The lieutenant nodded. “He’s breathing. For how long, I wouldn’t guess. I’ll hear from the hospital soon.”

  “How about my flivver?” I asked. “It costs a mint to bump out a body and replace a fender these days. The fenders are all integral; you have to buy the headlight assembly and everything.”

  He frowned. “You don’t consider that our responsibility. You weren’t working for us, Callahan.”

  I sat down and looked at the floor. “Now I see why we have the Deutschers in our business.”

  “Take it easy,” he said. “I couldn’t authorize anything like that.” He turned to the bartender. “Wait outside. Don’t go away.”

  The man went out and Ryerson said, “I can finagle to get your car over to the Department Garage. Good men over there. I didn’t want that son-of-a-bitch to hear me say it.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant. Have you ever lain awake nights wondering how many men were sent up by witnesses as publicity-hungry as that one?”

  “No. But I’ve thought of the thousands who should have gone up and didn’t. What were you and Tomsic talking about?”

  “He asked me if he could go free if he gave you enough to nail Horace Wilding. He tapped his pocket when he said this; he must have some documentary evidence. He said he could guarantee you a conviction on Wilding.”

  “He tapped his pocket?” Ryerson smiled. “That means we’ve got the evidence now.” He yawned and examined his nails hammily. “About that car, Callahan, the Department Garage is really overloaded with work, these days and …”

  “Cops …”I said.

  “Officers,” he corrected me. He went to the door and signaled for a uniformed man. He told him, “Get the waitress at that bar. Bring her here.”

  I said, “While you’re up, Lieutenant, would you bring me a glass of water?”

  He turned to stare at me.

  I said, “I got a little shaken up, working for you. I’ve had a couple of real rough days cleaning up this ring for you. I’m not asking for a banner headline, just a glass of water.”

  His smile was thin. “Ice water?”

  “If you can manage it.”

  “I can manage it. I know the proprietor.” He went out.

  He was gone for about five minutes. When he came back, he had a brown vacuum carafe with him and a glass tumbler. “Spring water,” he said. “I phoned the boys at the hospital and told them to look for that evidence. About your car. I was kidding; I’ll have it fixed if I have to pay for it myself.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You just turned me away from the trail Hans Deutscher took.”

  He laughed. “Like hell. You’re about as honest a man as I have ever met, Brock Callahan. Well, that waitress ought to be here soon, and we’ll get you cleared.”

  I drank the water without smiling. I was as honest a man as he had ever met and as soon as a honky-tonk waitress gave me a clean bill of health, I’d be free to go. The contradiction in his two statements might have been funny — at another time. Today and yesterday, I’d had it. I’d seen the cars the hoodlums drove and compared them with my flivver.

  In my mind, I saw Leo Dunbar, the craziest trader of them all, sitting in his big Lincoln convertible, staring out at the gray hills with a hole in his head.

  This much I had, I was still alive. I drank the cold, clean, mountain water and rubbed my aching knee while we waited for the blonde waitress.

  She looked older when she came in; the bar had been dimmer than this room in the station. She looked at me and said in a monotone, “That’s the man that was sitting in the booth. The other man you showed me is the one that did the shooting.”

  “Thank you,” Ryerson said. “Had George Tomsic been in your place before?”

  She nodded. “I’ve known George for years. You’re wrong if you think there’s anything crooked about him.”

  Ryerson smiled and said politely, “We’ve been wrong before, ma’am. Don’t worry, we don’t intend to railroad him.”

  She looked blankly at Ryerson and back at me. “Are you Brock Callahan, the private detective?”

  I nodded.

  Ryerson asked, “Why did you want to know that, ma’am?”

  “I seen him in the papers,” she said. “I just wondered.”

  “Oh. And the bartender didn’t see the shooting?”

  “Him? That ham? No. He won’t even have a job after I tell Lydia about this.”

  A uniformed man came in to say, “Vanyo’s okay now. Should we take him downtown?”

  Ryerson nodded. “I’ll go along with you.” He turned to me. “I’m having your car taken to the garage. The boys here will drop you any place you want to go.”

  “And what do I do, rent a car?”

  “Easy, man,” he said. “Don’t make it stink. You’ve got a client, haven’t you? Put the rented car on the swindle sheet.”

  “That wouldn’t be fair to my client,” I said.

  His face was stiff. “Callahan, you’re crowding me.”

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” I said humbly. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”

  He went out, and for a moment the waitress was standing next to me. She said softly, “Your office is in Beverly Hills, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll be there at six-thirty. I got something for you.”

  “Is it something the police should know about?”

  She started to answer and a sergeant put his head through the door to ask, “Ready to roll, Callahan?”

  “Coming,” I said. He went back down the corridor and I said to the waitress, “I’ll be at my office at six-thirty.”

  She nodded, her face still blank.

  It was after five now, and traffic was murder. I sat in the front seat with the sergeant; there were just the two of us. He said, “You know, one of those traffic men from downtown told me that if they really had a serious accident on a main artery, they might not be able to clean up the jam for a week?”

  “That seems like an exaggeration to me, Sergeant.”

  He shook his head. “How long do you think those drivers would sit there in their stalled cars? They’d desert ‘em, and some of them wouldn’t get back right away to get ‘em. ‘From four to six-thirty.’ this man told me, ‘Traffic just prays nothing serious will happen.’”

  “I don’t see how a man can live in this town without a car,” I said. “The city fathers certainly goofed on the public transportation, didn’t they?”

  “This town must have been founded by automobile dealers,” he sai
d. “That’s the only answer I can see. The bus lobby must have been weak then.”

  It was five-thirty when he dropped me at my office. I walked over to Cini’s. I ate slowly, trying to find a pattern in the day’s chaos, trying to get back to that proximity kick, looking for a clue.

  I was too emotionally fatigued for anything lucid to pass through my brain. The events of the last few days were a kaleidoscope of images, pictures of fright and violence without a narrative thread.

  If I had hammered Vanyo with that rock, Tomsic would not now be in the hospital. Should I have hammered Vanyo with the rock? If Samuels had not been such a socially conscious citizen, Tomsic would be in jail and not in the hospital. Should Samuels have been such a socially conscious citizen? For that matter, if Jan hadn’t wanted a Cadillac convertible, I wouldn’t have slept with Mary Macarty.

  It served Jan right for wanting a Cadillac convertible.

  It matters not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game. Try to tell the alumni that!

  The waiter asked, “Did you call me, sir?”

  “No, I was talking to myself.”

  He smiled kindly. “So many of our customers do. It’s a troubled time, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. I thought of Vanyo and was chilled. A strange, almost emotionless man, a machine killer for the machine age. He was now in jail, I reminded myself. The law had finally got to him. And you helped, Callahan. You brought him to the law. Carry on, kid. Nobody’s perfect.

  At six-fifteen, from my office, I phoned Dorothy Hartland Dunbar. I told her about my afternoon and said, “I don’t think it would be quite fair to put a rental car on the expense account for you to pay. Thought I went to see Tomsic in your interest.”

  She said, “I have a car the help uses from time to time. I’ll have it brought over to your office.”

  It was there in ten minutes, a six-year-old Pontiac. A Japanese gardener brought the keys up to me and pointed the car out to me at the curb below.

  He left, and it was six-twenty-six.

  The traffic had dwindled to almost nothing; the office was quiet. I felt sleepy, a reaction probably from the tension of this day.

  At six-thirty-two, the blonde came in. She looked around the pine-paneled office and said, “Nice. I figured you were cheaper than this. That’s what George said. He said you were a cheap private eye.”