Convertible Hearse

by William Campbell Gault

  “There is absolutely no reason for you to apologize, absolutely none.”

  “Now, what did that mean?”

  “I mean — why should you apologize?”

  “Brock Callahan, I know you. That isn’t what you meant. What are you doing tonight? Are you free, or otherwise engaged?”

  “No. Tonight, I am going to try to trap a killer. And I shouldn’t have told you that, so don’t repeat it.”

  “A killer? You’re going after one of those hoodlums? And without the police, I’ll bet. Brock Callahan, I won’t have …”

  “Quiet, please,” I said. “I’ve told you too much already. I’ll tell you this much more — the police are coöperating.”

  “Honey, one more question. Is it Mary Macarty?”

  “I’ve told you all I’m going to. You can get the complete story tomorrow.”

  Her voice was cooler. “In the papers, you mean? You told me I could keep in touch with you through the newspapers.”

  “That was before we were friends again. Jan, you’re working yourself into a peeve. Let’s be sane and sensible, like you suggested.”

  A pause, and then, “All right. I was looking forward to seeing you tonight.”

  “We’re young,” I said. “There are thousands of nights ahead for us.”

  “We’re not so young,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. And you be very, very careful tonight.”

  I promised I would.

  The latest word on Hans Deutscher was that he was improving. Pascal had promised that word would not get out and nobody would be permitted to see him until tomorrow. Pascal had given me the check from Leo’s account that had been paid to Hans.

  I spent the rest of the day checking every angle I could think of.

  FIFTEEN

  THE GOLF COURSE below was deserted; the hills were black paper cutouts in the purple dusk. The dark green Porsche stood on the driveway all alone. I left the borrowed Pontiac and went up to ring the bell.

  The maid came to the door and behind her I could hear quiet voices from the living room. I said, “Remember me?”

  She nodded. “I’ll see if Mrs. Dunbar is home.”

  She had left the door ajar and Mavis Dunbar’s voice was fairly strident this evening. I heard her say, “Hell, yes, I’ll see that Irishman. Wheel him in.”

  Alcohol would be an ally tonight.

  They were both on the davenport. Curtis Winthrop King was reading one of the theatrical trade magazines. He was wearing horn-rimmed glasses for this. He took them off as I came in.

  Mavis Dunbar was sitting propped up against the arm of the davenport, her legs up and again encased in slacks. She lifted her drink in salute.

  “Good evening, folks,” I said. “I come in your interest.”

  King said quietly, “Interest or interests, plural or singular?”

  “Singular in a sense. Your interests are one, aren’t they?”

  King said nothing. Mavis said, “Drink, Callahan?”

  “Not right away, maybe later. Hans Deutscher is dying.”

  King looked quickly at Mavis; she continued to look at me. I went over to sit down in the tapestry chair.

  King asked, “Who is Hans Deutscher? I’ve read that name somewhere.”

  I said, “He’s the detective Leo Dunbar hired to spy on you two. Leo had been backdoored once, you know. Twice was too much, wasn’t it?”

  Mavis Dunbar set her drink down unsteadily and leaned back again. “I’m not following you. How do you know Leo hired this Deutscher?”

  “I’ve a check he made out to him. Leo had the canceled checks for last month sent to the office instead of here. He didn’t want you to see them. I got it down there.”

  King said coldly, “That’s illegal. You haven’t that authority.”

  “I didn’t get it legally, I’ll admit.” I took it out of my pocket. “Would you like to see it?”

  Mavis Dunbar held her hand out. “I’ll take it. It’s not yours.”

  I came over and held it up in front of her so she could see the signature. She made an awkward grab for it, and I put it back in my pocket and sat down again.

  Silence in the room. From the kitchen came the whirr of a mixer.

  I said, “What threw us off was proximity — or time sequence, if you like. Leo rushed out to the Malibu place about the same time the police discovered he had sold a stolen car. It was logical to suppose Leo had gone there to avoid the police. I thought he had, but then learned he had gone out there before he knew about the police. He went out there to catch you two, didn’t he? Deutscher had told him you were out there.”

  “You’re guessing,” Mavis said, “and your guesses are wild.” King said nothing. He was pale and his eyes never left my face.”

  “I don’t think my guesses are wild. Deutscher then switched to you. He gave me information about the gang which you must have given him. He was trying to lead me to the hoodlum angle, to keep the investigation away from you. You tried, too. You gave me Wilding, a name that could mean your death. You said Leo was broke, another lie, but you didn’t want me to think of inheritance as a motive. Not that it was; you played it too safe.”

  King said hoarsely, “This is all conjecture.”

  “Not completely. Leo must have been furious, twice-burned as he was. He took his little .32 and rushed out there. The indications are he was killed in the house. Though the house was locked when I got there, and Leo out in the car. Somebody with a key must have killed him.”

  Mavis Dunbar reached forward for her drink again. King said softly, “Do you think now is the time to get drunk, dear?”

  She glared at him, but settled back again without the glass.

  I said, “The police have already given this case six days, and there are a lot of murders in this town. And they do have Tomsic, dead. He can close the file if they think it logical he killed Leo.”

  Mavis stared at me. “George is dead?”

  I nodded. “And Deutscher is dying. He’s asked for a priest.”

  King said quickly, “A priest …? He isn’t Catholic — I mean, he wouldn’t be, with a name like that, would he?”

  Mavis grimaced and looked at the floor.

  “That’s the trouble with amateurs,” I told her, “they always say the wrong thing.” I looked at King. “Maybe he hasn’t been since you started dealing with him, but he was as a kid, and old habits are hard to break.”

  Mavis said, “I was shopping the day Leo was killed. The police have already accepted that.”

  “They were concerned with another case then, with the auto theft ring. But this check puts a different picture on the case. I think you need me.”

  King asked quietly, “Are you trying to blackmail her?”

  “She’s got the money,” I said. “You haven’t. I checked your financial background very thoroughly. She’s not the first rich girl you’ve made a play for.”

  Mavis looked at him steadily and back at me.

  I said, “You shouldn’t have tried so hard to put me off on the hoodlum trail. You shouldn’t have said Leo was broke.”

  Her face was emotionless. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Maybe not. But will the police accept that?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked at King again. “And you haven’t been nearly as servile since you got that part at Columbia. Was it only my money that attracted you, Curtis Winthrop King?”

  “Mavis, this man is trying to trick you.” King glared at me. “Did you come here for money? Speak up.”

  “I wouldn’t want to phrase a thing as vulgar as that.” I ignored him and turned again to her. “Even in the unlikely event that King should stay with you, a corpse is a discomforting thing to have between you, particularly the corpse of a husband.”

  She said calmly, “You have no way of knowing that a man named Deutscher ever worked for me.”

  “Almost. He gave the police Wilding’s name. Only you and Tomsic knew about Wilding, and Deutscher didn’t work for Tomsic,
I learned. You hired Deutscher as a red herring, didn’t you? His job was to divert the investigation to the ring. But what about blackmail? That’s going to show up in his account when he dies. He was broke before he began to milk you.”

  King said, “We don’t think he’s going to die. I think that’s a lie of yours.”

  “Call the hospital,” I said.

  Mavis said, “That bull-headed bastard will stay bought right to the grave. I don’t worry about him.”

  King said sharply, “You damned little fool; be careful of what you say.”

  Mavis was almost smiling now. “And I don’t worry about Callahan, either. You like me, don’t you, Irish?”

  “I think you’re kind of cute,” I admitted. “But a man must eat, of course.”

  Her smile deepened. “You can’t live on love, eh?”

  “I suppose I could try it for a while. I still say a corpse is a bad thing to have between you. And a smart girl wouldn’t take the rap for anybody.”

  “You don’t think I killed my husband?”

  “I don’t.”

  King said, “But you’re not the police. And the profit motive was considerable. Mavis, we’ve got to be careful of this man’s trickery.”

  Mavis asked, “Why don’t you think I killed my husband?”

  “I don’t think you could kill anybody. I don’t think you’re one-tenth as hard as you think you are. I think Leo came out there with his little .32 and Curt took the gun away from him and shot him. Maybe by accident. I think you two moved the body out to the car, then, because a husband found shot in the house immediately leads the police to think of infidelity. And I think you then were approached by Deutscher and with your knowledge of the Tomsic participation in the ring, immediately sent the police on a blind trail.”

  Mavis said, “You’re a real hep kid, aren’t you, Callahan? And solid with the police?”

  “Very solid at the moment,” I admitted.

  King said, “You’re drunk, Mavis. Just remember you’re drunk.”

  She looked at him bleakly. “Don’t you think I’ve had reason to be this week?” She looked back at me. “You and I could get me clear. You and I and a couple of expensive lawyers.”

  “Maybe. The neighbors remember that Porsche of King’s going up the hill quite often. That was a favorite rendezvous spot for you two, wasn’t it?”

  “Let’s talk about me,” Mavis said. “Let’s forget about Curt.”

  “Damn you,” King said. “Can’t you see how you’re being tricked?”

  Her eyes went wide. “Me? I didn’t kill Leo.”

  “Even if you didn’t, you could be implicated if you don’t shut up. This man’s no Deutscher; he’s got a reputation.”

  “I didn’t kill Leo,” she said calmly. She reached forward and got the drink this time and sipped it. “I like a man with a reputation. I like a solid citizen. Sure, he’s trying to trick us. But I didn’t kill Leo.”

  “You’ll have one hell of a time proving that,” he said. “I didn’t have any motive, but you did.” He took a deep breath. “It would be my word against yours.”

  She sighed and nodded. “Your word and my word and Leo’s gun.”

  Silence, while he stared at her. I stared at her, too.

  She gave it the full theatrical treatment. “I watch ‘Dragnet.’ I saw how they hold the gun with a pencil in the barrel. I didn’t have a pencil, so I used a split emery board. That protects the fingerprints, doesn’t it? That was clever of me, wasn’t it?”

  “Very,” I admitted. “Have you the gun now?”

  She nodded.

  King said, “You little bitch, you conniving …”

  “Take it easy,” I told him. “It could still be an accident. That’s manslaughter, not murder.” I looked at her. “Didn’t you trust Curt?”

  Her chin lifted. “I’ve always watched out for myself, Callahan. Always. The gun’s still out here, and nobody will ever find it unless I tell them where I put it. The police went all over the house and didn’t find it.”

  King stood up. “I’ve heard all I want to hear of this nonsense. I’m going home.” He looked at me contemptuously. “Send the police to pick me up, if you think you have something.”

  “You had better stay here until Mavis gives me the complete picture,” I said. “There’s no point in running out to Malibu, Curt. She probably has hidden it too well.”

  He looked at me levelly. “I had no intention of going to Malibu. I’m going home.”

  “All right. I’ll phone the police and tell them to watch the Malibu house. They’ll be there before you will.”

  Mavis said, “Let’s not get the police involved in this, Brock, until you and I figure out my story. Aren’t you armed? You can keep Curt here with your gun, can’t you?”

  “If he wants to go without telling me something that might change the charge from murder to manslaughter, he’s being very foolish,” I said sadly. “But I won’t prevent his going.”

  She watched him as he walked toward the door. “Callahan, stop him. You know where he’s going. He’s going out there to Malibu or he’s going to run away. And where does that leave me?”

  “Right where you were,” I said. I stood up. I heard the door slam, and said to her, “The police are waiting for him out there. The police have had the house surrounded all the time I’ve been here.”

  She looked at the open window next to the fireplace. “And they’ve been listening, too, haven’t they?”

  I nodded. “But if you cooperate, you could get off with maybe only ten years.”

  Outside, we could hear voices now. And then they were drowned out by all the naughty words Mavis Lillian Dunbar was using, words she had learned through all the bitter years she had had to watch out for herself.

  Pascal said, “Deutscher will talk to protect himself now, and between them we’ve got a conviction, for sure.” He looked in a drawer of Trask’s desk and found a match. He lighted his cigarette. “If the gun was oily enough, kept oiled, the prints might still be good. She told us where she’d hidden it.”

  “How come Lieutenant Trask isn’t here?”

  Pascal smiled. “I — uh, forgot to tell him we were working this tonight. He said I was on my own, you’ll remember. The reporters are out there. Joint statement, sort of a mutual admiration deal?”

  “That suits me. I can use the ink.”

  The night was warm and traffic heavy on Wilshire. Quite a few of the convertibles had their tops down. The six-year-old Pontiac went chugging along, sedate and uncomplaining.

  Taking hoodlums to the law gives me satisfaction, but not the kind of citizens I’d betrayed tonight. Neither of them had any previous record; they were victims of their own lust.

  And who isn’t? Mr. Maugham delineated this much better than I can hope to, years ago, in his best novel. Both of them had come from nothing to a current precarious eminence and been the victims of a betrayed husband who hadn’t taken the properly sophisticated modern view of the situation. Now if Leo had only been Noel Coward, there would have been no bloodshed.

  And if I hadn’t been such a tomcat myself, I would have taken a more serious view of Leo’s betrayal and not gone charging off after the hoods who play it rough. I would have saved myself a lot of lumps.

  I wanted to see Jan, but she had said tomorrow. There weren’t enough tomorrows. I drove over to Beverly Glen and the house was dark and her car gone. Damn her; we were running out of tomorrows.

  She always failed me when I needed her most. Well, not always. As a matter of fact, rarely. Hardly ever.

  I turned off on Westwood Boulevard and bore down on my little apartment and ahead I could see a familiar car. I pulled into the parking area next to my garage and walked back.

  From her reclaimed Chev, Jan looked out at me. “I got restless. I got to thinking there just aren’t enough tomorrows.”

  “I’ve been thinking exactly the same thing myself,” I said. “Come on up and I’ll make some cocoa and we can
talk.”

  “Sure we can,” she said, “but will we?”

  “If you want,” I said. “I’ll do anything you want to do except watch television.”

  She got out of the car and took my hand and we went up the steps together.

  If you liked The Convertible Hearse check out:

  Sweet Wild Wench

  1

  THAT WAS SOME AUTUMN. Deke had graduated from college and was hanging around with the wrong people. And business was lousy. So when Griffin offered me a temporary job, I took it.

  Deke’s my brother and Griffin was the D.A. at the time. I knew Griffin’s sister very well. Thirty-seven years old, she was, and it bothered her. Adele is her name. A looker, a real looker.

  Deke was twenty-seven; he’d gone to college late. He’d had three years in the army and a little over a year at Las Vegas before enrolling. And he’d learned to gamble. He’d paid his way through school over a poker table.

  He’s all right. Don’t get me wrong. His friends you can have, but Deke’s okay. Mom always used to call me her “steady son” and in front of Deke, too. Mom didn’t know about child psychology.

  I tried to straighten him out about his new friends without playing the heavy brother, but as usual Deke had an answer.

  “It’s not morality you’re preaching,” he said, “not you, I hope, a dame chaser like you.”

  “So I like women,” I said.

  “And horizontal only,” he added.

  Which was unfair and untrue. I like women — all ages, sizes and colors. I like the way they walk and dress and gossip. I like the way they face reality much better than men.

  Naturally I like them best when they’re at their best, and that’s quite often horizontal.

  As I implied earlier, it was a woman who suggested me to the D.A. I’d known Adele for six years and we understood each other. No strings, live for now, these few moments, some of them ecstatic.

  She knew I’d had a rough couple of months and mentioned my name to her brother on a touchy investigation he was just starting. And he looked up my old record with the Department and called me in for an interview.