Browning PI

by Peter Corris

  I sighed. Hopes of catching the show at Ciro's went out the window. 'Singapore Sam's,' I said.

  Singapore Sam's was a nightspot on Sherman Street in Venice. I mean Venice, Los Angeles County. I'd lived there myself five or six years back, managing a boarding house called the Casablanca. Venice was a fun place although it was going rapidly downhill in 1944. The sea air had peeled the paint off most of the buildings long ago and was starting to rot the wood and break down the stucco. All but a few of the canals had been filled in, but Sam's joint was close enough to one that still existed to give it an 'on the water' flavour as long as the wind was in the right direction. If it wasn't, the place had a 'by the trashcan' flavour. There was certainly no problem about taking a Chinese whore to Sam's. The colour bar didn't operate as strongly in Venice as in other places. A mixed-race couple could shack up there without too much trouble, as long as they behaved themselves. As I climbed into McVey's car I reflected that things weren't turning out too badly. You could have a good enough time at Sam's and, unless things had changed in the past few years, Pete and I and Hart Sallust, if he was there, would be the toughest guys around. White guys, that is.

  4

  The décor at Sam's was red and gold and if the smoke and fumes had got to it over the years that was just part of the atmosphere. The tables tended to be sticky, likewise the carpet and the glasses. You didn't go to Sam's to stay clean and well pressed. But the place had never attracted the rough element—no stuntmen or truck drivers or boxers. As I say, coloured people were tolerated there, even encouraged. Normally this would have led to problems—fights over the women and over insults real and imagined. But Sam had Big Sung to keep things in order.

  All you need to know about Sung is that he was a Manchurian who ducked his head and turned sideways to get through the door. He kept order all right. I was worried about Pete's cannon and asked him to leave it in the car. He was disinclined until I told him what Sung had done with a gun once. He had extracted the bullets and made the owner hold them all in his mouth for a minute or so while Sung bent the barrel out of shape. Then he'd given the guy back his gun.

  'Tough?' Pete said.

  'You bet. Here, we tread very quietly. We ask to see Sam and we tell him politely what we're doing. Chances are he'll let us sit and wait for Hart. We'll have to have a few drinks.'

  'You'll hate that.'

  I ignored the crack and we went up the steps and in through heavy, ornately carved wooden doors. The room was fairly full and fairly noisy. As usual, it was a very mixed crowd racially and in every other way. There were men present who owned whole blocks of Venice real estate and guys who barely had the price of a room. I forgot to mention there was gambling out back and girls a floor or two above, but that's because it wasn't something to mention. You knew or you didn't. You didn't talk about it, especially not after you'd taken a close look at Sung. He came towards us now, looming up out of the smoke fog like a truck.

  'Mr Browning,' he said. 'Good evening.'

  'Hello, Sung,' I said. 'My friend and I are here on business.'

  I could hear a growl in McVey's throat. That kind of an introduction probably violated every trade rule he loved, but I knew what I was doing. Sung stood in front of us, assessing any threat of possible disturbance and summing us up down to the last dollar. I went on breaking the rules.

  'We're hoping Mr Hart Sallust will turn up. We think he might.'

  'Sallust.' Sung put some expression into the word—for him this made it an exclamation of astonishment. His hand shot out faster than Ray Robinson's7 jab. He took hold of my right shoulder and bent it slightly out of shape. 'I think you better have a talk with Mr Sam.'

  'Sure, sure,' I said. 'Easy on the shoulder. I keep it for girls to cry on.'

  Sung slackened his grip and showed a set of teeth that looked slightly pointed. The word was he filed them, but that was only said jokingly and when he was a safe mile or so out of earshot. He manoeuvred me between tables like a slalom skier. Pete followed, pissed-off, I could sense, but respectful of Sung's size and competence. Briefly I regretted that I'd made him park the gun, but I've learned that regrets are useless and get in the way of saving your ass at the critical moment.

  We went through a padded door, down a short, dimly-lit passage.

  'You will wait here, please,' Sung said.

  I was glad about the 'please'. Pete looked as if he didn't want to kick his heels in a passageway. I tried to look as if it was exactly what I wanted to do.

  'Sure,' I said. 'Take your time.'

  I leaned against the wall, lit a cigarette and tried to act casual. Pete chewed on a kitchen match and acted agitated. Sung was back in about five minutes. He gave us another one of his smiles and ushered us out of the passage and into another world. It was a sitting room-cum-office, with a desk, easy chairs, coffee table and well-filled bookshelves. Here the lighting was bright enough to see by and the walls were freshly painted. The pictures hanging on three of them looked expensive. There was a polished wood floor with a big, thick oriental rug and a light smell of incense in the air. Singapore Sam was behind the desk, playing with a paperknife. In one of the chairs, sitting with her legs drawn up, was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen in my life. Maybe Sung was still holding on to me, I didn't know. Maybe he was still hurting me, I didn't care. I couldn't take my eyes off her.

  'Richard, my friend,' Sam drawled. 'So nice to see you and your friend. Sung, why are you treating Mr Browning like a plucked chicken?'

  Sung said something in a language I took to be Chinese. The woman's head jerked up and she stared at me. Sam stared, too. A slight tilt of Sam's head and Sung let me go. Another tilt and he went out of the room—two hundred and twenty pounds of bone and muscle moving like an oiled rifle bolt.

  'Sit down, gentlemen, and have some coffee. It seems we have a mystery on our hands.'

  I moved towards the coffee table—the only way I wanted to move because it brought me closer to the woman. Pete came over as well. We sat down and I lifted the heavy silver pot and poured into two bone china cups. There was no cream or sugar. The woman had a cup in front of her. I looked at her enquiringly. She shook her head. The tint of her skin, the slant of her eyes, the curve of her lips almost made me drop the pot.

  'This is May Lin,' Sam said, 'my brother's daughter and therefore my niece. Her mother was a countrywoman of yours, Richard. May, this is Richard Browning and . . .'

  'Peter McVey,' Pete rumbled. It was the only time I ever heard him call himself Peter; there was something about Sam's formality—the immaculate cream silk suit, smooth hair and precise language—that forced it out of him. Or maybe it was the woman—I'd have called myself Lord Browning, Earl of Newcastle on Hunter if I'd thought it would please her.

  May Lin gave us a slight nod. She opened a beaded bag in her lap, took out a packet of Tareltons and lit one with a gold lighter. Did I say she was wearing a high-necked green silk dress, slit to mid-thigh? Well, she was. She blew smoke past me, seemed about to speak and then deferred to her uncle with her version of Sam's family head tilt.

  'My niece has just had a most unpleasant experience,' Sam said.

  Who is he? I thought. I'll pound his head to jelly.

  'She has been working for Mr Hart Sallust as a secretary and script assistant. She hopes for a career in the movie business.'

  Pete blurted, 'She should be in movies. She's beautiful enough.'

  Sam's smile was quick and nervous. 'No, no. She aspires to be a writer and producer. There are problems.'

  I knew what he meant. The old colour bar. Jimmie Wong Howe was a big noise cameraman, but I couldn't think of any other Chinese doing anything in Hollywood except bit parts. Look where they went when they wanted a Charlie Chan8. I lit a cigarette and May Lin pushed the ashtray slightly towards me. I smoked, drank coffee, tried to stop staring at every curve and fold of that green silk and listened to what Sam and May Lin had to say.

  According to them, May Lin had been helping Sall
ust with his script and with his life. Sallust's most recent wife had left him a few months before and he needed taking care of.

  'I knew him slightly,' May Lin said. 'We met again at a party and talked about writing and the business. I agreed to help him with the script. He agreed to share his credit with me if things worked out. It was a wonderful opportunity for me.'

  'On the face of it, yes,' Sam said. 'But Mr Sallust is not a steady character. The work did not go well and he began to declare his love for my niece and to attempt to seduce her.'

  That rang true. The helpless drunk, in need of a loving nurse, was one of Sallust's ploys. Watching May Lin as she smoked and put in a word here and there, I wondered at how Sallust could have had the nerve. Her skin was the colour of new ivory; her lips and fingernails were painted dark red and her hair was straight and glossy. But it was dark brown, not black and her eyes were green. The combination of characteristics made her devastating. I fought to control my breathing. I could hear McVey moving restlessly on his chair and I hoped that he wasn't going to pull out his notebook.

  'So tonight we went out for a drive before beginning a long session on the script,' May said. 'Mr Sallust said the deadline was close and we might have to work straight through for a couple of days. He said he had some pills that would allow him to stay awake.'

  'That'd be right,' I said.

  'He was not going to drink. But it was no use. We went up to the Hollywood Lake. He had a bottle in the car and got very drunk. I had to drive and I don't like to drive such big cars. Then he wanted to go to the Trocadero. We went there but. . .'

  'We know,' Pete growled. 'We were there tonight.'

  'That is perhaps enough from us at this point,' Sam said. 'You mentioned Mr Sallust's name when you came in. Perhaps you would be good enough to state what business you have with him.'

  Well, at that point, a matter of professional ethics entered the situation. I'd been happy enough to come straight to the point with Sung and I'd have told Sam everything he wanted to know if it'd been up to me. But this was different. It was McVey's case and I was just the hired hand. He had the say. I tore my eyes away from May Lin to look at Pete. He was chewing on a match, deep in thought. He reached into one of those cavernous pockets and took out his card. He slid it across to me. What else could I do? I got up and took it across to Sam's desk, thus demonstrating who was calling the plays on the McVey-Browning team.

  'I can't see any harm in a little exchange of information, Mr Sam,' Pete rumbled. 'I've been hired to locate Mr Sallust, who's dropped out of sight. His . . . employer is worried. Mr Browning has been helping me.'

  Sam's eyes rested on me briefly. 'Yes?' he said.

  Pete spread his big farmboy hands. 'That's it. Now, perhaps you'd like to tell us where we can find Mr Sallust. I can see he behaved very badly towards Miss Lin. I'm here to tell you I'm going to dig him out and if he doesn't like it that's tough. He's in for a rough few days, so. . .'

  'I don't believe you,' May Lin said.

  I was so far gone I didn't believe him either momentarily, although I knew what Pete said was true.

  'Now wait a minute. I've levelled with you.'

  'That cannot be all,' May Lin said. 'He was not just drinking in the way some men drink. Weak men. He was frightened of something.'

  'Yeah,' Pete said. 'He was later than the Second Coming with a piece of work he'd been contracted to do. I should guess he was scared.'

  'Writers get something called a block,' I said. 'I'm not sure what it is, but I know they go on the sauce in a big way when it happens. I've seen it with Bill Faulkner and a few more.' I glanced at May Lin. 'They're often weak men as Miss Lin says. Maybe that's what was eating Hart.'

  May Lin shook her head. She reached into her bag, took out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. Then she undid the the collar of her dress and a couple of the fasteners below it. She pulled the green silk aside to show a sticking plaster at the base of her throat. The white plaster had some gauze under it and I could see a faint brown stain on the gauze. 'We were driving north from Malibu. Hart . . . Mr Sallust had the use of a house there and that's where we'd been working. I was driving slowly because I found the car difficult. We were stopped by a car cutting across us. Two men. One of them had a knife and he held it at my throat. The other one had a gun. They took Mr Sallust away with them.'

  5

  Well, you might say the story had more holes in it than a flyscreen and you'd be right. But at the time I bought it completely. She was such a wonderful looking woman I found it impossible to imagine that she wouldn't tell the absolute truth. And there were the tears and the blood on the bandage and Singapore Sam's obvious deep concern.

  McVey shook his head. 'I dunno. Can you show us the house in Malibu? Can you show us where this happened? I suppose you reported it to the cops. Where are they? I don't see any buttons around.'

  Sam's eyes glittered and he half rose from his chair. 'I am not used to having my word questioned,' he said softly. He looked at the card in his hand and then at me. 'You should tell Mr McVey that'

  'He didn't mean anything,' I stammered. 'It's just. . .'

  'I repeat,' Sam said, lowering himself back slowly and dropping the card on the desk, face down, 'that it is you who may be doubted. Can' this be coincidence? A private detective is set on the trail of a man who is taken away at gunpoint. I hardly think so.'

  I was confused now and nodded in agreement. 'That's right.'

  'What's right?' McVey said.

  I shrugged. 'There's something funny going on.'

  'I do not call it funny,' Sam whispered. 'My niece has been assaulted, wounded. I cannot let this pass.'

  It was pretty much of a standoff at that point. Sam didn't believe us and Pete didn't believe them. I could sense it in his movements. As for me, I thought Pete was on the level but I couldn't be sure, and I wanted to believe May Lin. We all sat there for a few minutes. My only worry was that Sam might call Big Sung in to do some persuading. Eventually May Lin said, 'Perhaps Mr McVey could talk to his principal. And his principal in turn might consent to give my uncle certain assurances.'

  Pete took out a kitchen match and chewed the end of it. 'Maybe,' he said. 'That would be a fair-sized concession from our side. What's your contribution?'

  'I could show you the house in Malibu and where the . . . incident happened.'

  That sounded fair enough to me but I couldn't see Sam agreeing to it. He closed his eyes and apparently went off into a meditation for a few minutes. He stayed perfectly still and appeared to stop breathing. When he opened his eyes again his brow was smooth and untroubled. 'Agreed,' he said. 'This can be done tomorrow.'

  'Tomorrow!' Pete almost yelped. 'We've got a guy snatched. We can't wait till tomorrow. I can get . . . my client on the line tonight and we can push it along.'

  Sam held up his hand like a cop stopping traffic. 'My niece has had a severe shock. She cannot possibly do anything tonight. She needs rest. As you have heard, the men offered Mr Sallust no violence. He would not seem to be in immediate danger.'

  May Lin seemed to remember that her dress was unfastened. She did it up slowly. I fancied she gave me a small smile. I know I was watching her like a man mesmerised. Pete examined his frayed match and dropped it into the ashtray which May Lin and I had half filled by this time. He looked at his watch and I did the same. It was a little past ten. Plenty of time to go after bad guys tonight, but Pete seemed to have something else on his mind. He stood up and gave May Lin a half bow, very courtly for Idaho. 'Could we say ten o'clock tomorrow morning?'

  Sam said, 'I will expect you both and a telephone call from your client, Mr McVey, at that hour.'

  'Fine,' Pete said. I stood up and nodded to Sam. I could hardly bear to look at May Lin in case I bumped into the furniture on the way out. I gave her a small wave and we left the room.

  Nothing was said in the passage or in the room where the eating, drinking and music-playing was going on. I didn't see Big Sung. We co
llected our hats and went out to Pete's car. Pete settled himself behind the wheel and got out another match to chew. 'Well, that was a whole heap of cowshit.'

  'What?'

  'All of it,' he said. 'Or most.'

  'I don't know,' I said, 'she'd been wounded. I could see the blood on the bandage.'

  Pete snorted. 'Could've been ketchup. You see any on the dress?'

  'No,' I admitted.

  'Their story stinks. They're buying time to think up some more hokum. I just couldn't think of anything else to do in there, especially with that gorilla waiting in the wings.'

  I was reluctant to accept this. 'It fits the facts. Sallust could've been hiding out in Malibu.'

  'I said most of it was baloney. Why didn't they go to the cops after the girl got cut?'

  'Well, that's easy. She wants to work in the movie business. You know how things are now, with the war on and all. Most people don't know the difference between Chinese and Japanese. Especially cops. A scandal like that would wipe her before she got a chance.'

  Pete looked at me. 'She get to you, Rich? You fancy some of that yellow meat?'

  I wanted to hit him. Love is blind, but not that blind. I said nothing. He pressed the starter and got the engine running. 'Get out,' he said.

  'Why?'

  'We're going to watch the place for an hour or six. You stay out here someplace and I'll watch the back. Anything happens you run around and let me know. Wave your hankie or something.'

  I got out of the car and watched him cruise around to where he could make a turn and come back behind the club. I took up a position behind a hedge on the other side of the street and watched the front door. I knew enough not to smoke when on a stake-out like that, but the absence of tobacco made the minutes drag by like a tortoise with a broken leg. One hour felt like two, two hours felt like four. When the Packard drew up twenty feet away I was so stiff I could hardly move across the sidewalk. I clambered in, lit a Camel and sucked the smoke deep into my lungs.