Come Die with Me (14 page)

I walked over to where they stood. A man lay there, his eyes open, staring at me with the blank stare of the sightless. He was sightless. He was dead. It was Harry Adler.

C
APTAIN APOYAN SAID, “SHE’S
on her way down. If Jessup is the man who pushed you, she’ll say so and we’ll have a case.”

We were in his office and he was speaking of Lily Chen. I smiled and made no comment.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” he said.

“I saw their lawyer come in a little while ago,” I said. “About the best in town, isn’t he?”

“I suppose you meant the most successful. I wouldn’t say he was the best. I have too much regard for the law to say that.”

“Sure.”

He looked at me thoughtfully. “It’s one of your cynical days again. You have a lot of them, don’t you?”

“Too many. I find a couple of hoodlums looking down at a man they probably just killed and now we’re hoping that a kept woman can identify one of them as the man who pushed me off a cliff. What’s wrong with a murder charge?”

“If they killed Adler,” Apoyan said patiently, “they didn’t
just
kill him. He’s been dead since sometime yesterday. And if they killed him yesterday, it isn’t likely they would come back to look at him today. Brock, be reasonable.”

“I’m trying,” I said. “I’m remembering the Mafia, and trying.”

He frowned. “The Mafia …”

“Giovanni’s one of ’em, isn’t he?”

“Not to my knowledge. Maybe you have information I haven’t.”

“Maybe. Couldn’t Calavo and Jessup have killed Adler some place else and then brought him to that place of Malone’s to dump him?”

He shook his head. “Not according to the reports I’ve had so far. He was killed right where they found him.”

“And what were they doing there?”

“They wanted to wait for their attorney before they answered that question.”

Sergeant Pascal came in then and Apoyan asked hopefully, “Anything at all?”

Pascal nodded. “This. Though it doesn’t make much sense to me.” He threw a notebook on the desk. “It looks like he was playing detective, but if there are any leads there, I can’t find ’em.”

Apoyan picked up the notebook. “Maybe our friend Callahan can use it. Maybe he knows some things we don’t.”

I didn’t rise to the bait. I smiled and looked adjusted.

Pascal said, “He was shot with a .32. Shot twice. We’ve got one of the slugs so far.”

“And you’ve got Jessup and Calavo,” I added. “What more do you need?”

Nobody answered me. Pascal left the room and Apoyan leafed through the notebook. Then he tossed it over to me.

There were ten or a dozen pages filled with phone numbers and addresses. There was one page labeled
MALONE
. Under the heading was a number I recognized as Giovanni’s, another as Duster’s. There was another name followed by an address on the west side of town.

Apoyan asked, “Recognize any of the phone numbers?”

“Giovanni’s is here,” I answered. “And Big Bill Duster’s.”

“How about that other name?”

I shook my head. “But I’d like to copy it. In case your men don’t get anywhere with him.” I smiled. “No offense.”

Then a uniformed man announced from the doorway, “Miss Chen is here now, Captain.”

Apoyan looked at me. “Want to come along and hear her make identification?”

“No,” I said firmly. “And five will get you nine that she won’t identify either of the bastards.”

“I’m sure you’re wrong,” he said, “but I’m not a betting man.”

He left, and I checked through the notebook. The Department had men enough to check every entry in it, if they thought it would prove worthwhile. I gave my attention to the page headed with Malone’s name.

I didn’t need Giovanni’s phone number or Big Bill Duster’s; I copied the third name and west side address and the other two phone numbers on that page.

I was at the window, watching the spotter in a dry-cleaning plant next door, when Captain Apoyan returned. His face was sour.

“Aren’t you glad,” I asked him, “that you’re not a betting man?”

He said nothing.

“What was her story?” I asked him.

He took a breath. “She said the red-headed one she saw was taller and the bald one she saw was fatter.” He expelled the breath. “Damn it, she looks so innocent and sweet!”

“Yes, Captain,” I said. “Well, I caught them for you. The rest is on your conscience. Did you check out that Buick convertible they were using?”

“Right. It’s a rental car.”

“So now they go free?”

He looked at me belligerently. “How can I hold them?”

“I’ve no idea. But before you release them, give them a message from me. Tell them, if they see me coming, to get out of the way.”

He glared. “Don’t you go heavy on me, now. You’re getting more cooperation from the Department than any private man in town.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. I reached out and got my crutch. “And look at me!” I stood there, staring at him.

He said nothing.

I said, “Harry Adler has a wife who’s been in a mental institution for two years and two sons he was trying to put through Columbia University.”

“Has he, now?” His voice was cynical. “We checked him out a few days ago. He divorced that wife five years ago and the state is paying her way. And the sons are
working
their way through school.”

“In that case,” I said, “he died rich. He had the reputation for being a slow man around a tab.”

“He’s just as dead,” Apoyan said, “rich or poor. Now, you take it easy, Brock.”

I nodded.

“Don’t do anything foolish, anything violent,” he warned me.

I smiled and winked and hobbled out.

Harry Adler, another enigma. Lily Chen hadn’t surprised me; she had looked around her cozy love nest, listened to a reasonable explanation from dear Frank and believed what she had to believe. He had probably convinced her that I was an evil man and Jessup was only trying to protect her from me. It is difficult for anyone to believe something that might cost money. In her case, it was impossible.

It didn’t seem logical that I could fight the big money and the Mafia, too, but mine isn’t a trade that attracts reasonable people. I got into the flivver and headed for the address I had copied from Harry Adler’s notebook. It was a Venice address.

It wasn’t a house. It was a used-car lot, and there was a little shack at one end of it, its rear to an alley, the front door facing the lot. A streamer stretched across the front of the lot identified this as
CREWE’S CUSTOM USED CARS
—QUALITY TRANSPORTATION YOU CAN AFFORD.

He seemed to be specializing in the big iron, Cads and Lincolns, Imperials and Roadmasters. They weren’t all of them recent models, but they were all gleaming and every one sported white-wall tires. A thin, tall man in a wine-colored gabardine suit came out from the shack as I worked my way out of the car and approached the lot.

He was closer now, and I could see he was older than his clothes would suggest, with a taut, tanned face, and bags under his soft brown eyes.

“Lawrence Crewe?” I asked him.

“Right. At your service.” His smile was a con man’s smile.

“Harry Adler sent me,” I said.

The brown eyes hardened and he was quiet for a moment. Then, “What’s this Adler bit? The gendarmes were here five minutes ago asking about him. I never heard of him in my life.”

“He was killed,” I said, “and your name was in his pocket.”

“How the hell would he get that?”

I shrugged. “We think he was investigating the death of Tip Malone. Did you know him?”

“Not personally. Lousy jock, though. Until this spring.”

I nodded.

He said, “Who did you mean by ‘we’? You a police officer?”

“State,” I said.

He frowned. “State? In plain clothes? State what?”

“State-licensed,” I said “Did you ever hear of Lily Chen?”

He shook his head. “State-licensed …? Hey, you’re a private eye!”

“Did you ever hear of a girl named Selina Stone?” I asked.

His mouth opened and he stared at me. Then he looked at the crutch meaningly and said, “You, too …? They roughed you too, eh?”

“They pushed me over a cliff,” I said. “What reason did they have to hate you?”

“You tell me,” he said. “So she’s singing at this little dump out in Santa Monica and I buy her a couple of drinks and squeeze her knee a couple of times under the table, and—whammo!”

“Whammo—how?” I asked.

“Right outside my apartment. She promised to come over after her last show, so I headed right home. And they got to me just as I was stepping out of my car.”

“A big redhead and a bald, stocky little guy?”

He shrugged. “I couldn’t see ’em. It was dark. Boy, they got me down and put the foot to me good.”

“Did you report it to the police?”

He shook his head. “I had a wife, separate maintenance deal, and I was trying to talk her into coming back. What could I tell the law? They’d want to know why, wouldn’t they?”

“I guess. How long ago was this?”

“Hell, more than a year. Let’s see … Fourteen months. A year ago last February.”

“You never checked into it or asked her about it?”

“I’m crazy? I never even drove by the place again. I can take a hint, mister. How about you?”

“I’m stubborn,” I said. “That’s all? That’s it?”

“Yup.” He squinted into the sun. “But you know, it’s been eating me, ever since. When you get both feet again, and you get a lead to the bastards, do you want to call me? I’ll go with you.”

“You didn’t tell the police this?” I asked. “Today, I mean.”

He shook his head. “They didn’t ask about Selina Stone.” He smiled. “I’ll bet you’re not going to tell the police about it, either. Some broad, huh?”

I shrugged.

He laughed and said, “Look, Mac, like I said, I’m mad. For fourteen months it’s been eating me. You get a line to those mugs and you want a partner, call me, huh?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Once you get back on two feet, I mean, natch,” he said. “You look pretty rough, and I’m rougher than I look.”

“I may call you,” I said. “Nothing else that will help?”

“Nothing. The spot she was singing at has changed hands since, so there’s probably nothing you can learn there, either. The guy that ran it retired to Santa Barbara.”

I thanked him and left. I wormed into the flivver again and went back to the office to check my calls and the mail. The mail was third-class; there had been one call, from Gloria Duster Malone.

I phoned her and she asked, “Well, Mr. Callahan …?”

“I’m with it,” I said. “I kind of liked Harry Adler.”

“Good,” she said. “You’re all man, Brock Callahan.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly. “Incidentally, what little success I’ve had so far has been mostly due to your father’s help.” I paused. “Though I wouldn’t repeat that. If Giovanni heard about it, your father would be in great danger.”

“My father,” she said, “is a
friend
of Frank Giovanni’s. Both of them hated Tip.”

“He helped,” I said. “Read it any way you want. Life’s too short for long grudges, Mrs. Malone.”

“Don’t tell me about my father,” she said. “He fools everybody. Big, open, honest Bill Duster … Huh!”

“Okay,” I said. “Okay. I’ll keep you informed.”

I phoned the West Side Station and Apoyan was there. I asked if the two phone numbers had been checked out.

“Nothing,” he said. “And that name and address was a used-car dealer over in Venice. He looks clean, so far. How about you?”

Now
was the time to mention Selina Stone. Now was the time to turn honest about that. But I said, “Nothing, nothing, nothing. And my ankle is acting up.”

“If it gets better,” he said, “run over and talk to that used-car dealer. Quite often, you—uh—private men are more successful in that type of interrogation.”

“The private
honest
men, too, Captain?” I asked humbly.

“I didn’t know there were any,” he said. “Take care of yourself.

I wasn’t equipped for that at the moment. But the .38 and my flivver would take care of me. I was alive and functioning and that put me up on millions of people. I took the little portable radio with me down to the car.

S
ELINA STONE AND FRANK
Giovanni, they were the axles around which twin wheels of intrigue seemed to revolve. Were they connected? Somewhere on the periphery there had to be a connection. So far they were connected only through Tip Malone; he had been Selina’s lover and a friend (?) of Frank’s niece.

Why was I covering for Miss Stone? I had promised Gina Ronico I wouldn’t reveal her to the police, but Miss Ronico’s uncle had long ago invalidated the need to keep that promise.
He
had given me her name. But his stooges hadn’t bothered her. Now, why?

There had been an hour of full, hot sunshine while I’d been sitting around the West Side Station, and the damp spots in the road were steaming and mist was rising from the wet hills.

That used-car confidence man, that Lawrence (Larry?) Crewe had fallen under the spell of Selina Stone. It wasn’t hard to do. Because of it he had taken some lumps. My lumps had come from a visit to Lily Chen, but that probably wasn’t the whole reason I’d been pushed over the cliff.

After fourteen months Larry was still conscious of his lumps and ready to go hunting with me. I was still conscious of my own lumps but the men who had given them to me had just been released by my allies, the L.A.P.D. This cooperation should be a two-way street.

The flivver began to groan; we were climbing again. This much I would gain from the case, I would learn to know the typography of Malibu and the Gollago Lake section. The way things were going, it could easily be all I would ever learn from an investigation of Tip Malone’s scantily lamented demise.

And who would mourn Harry Adler? His sister Bertha, for sure. His ex-wife, in some rational moment? His sons, working their way through Columbia? Brother, we die alone.

The Aston-Martin was in the carport and there was no other car in sight. Miss Stone must be alone.

She came to the door and said, “My God, the unconquerable! And just in time for dinner, as usual.”