Come Die with Me (6 page)

I sat down and she sat on a dining bench nearby. She looked at me candidly. “I suppose you’re investigating the death of Tip Malone?”

I nodded.

Her voice was low and melodious. “He—fascinated me. I’m sure it wasn’t related to love in any way, if there is such a thing, but he was a magnet for me. My—friends were appalled at my behavior, but I simply had to be around that—little monster.”

I leaned back and smiled at her. “You loved him—is that what you’re trying to avoid saying, Miss Stone? Would that seem too old-fashioned?”

She didn’t take offense. She said thoughtfully, “It’s possible that you’re correct. Emotions can get very complex, can’t they, so complex we don’t even recognize them?”

“To complex people. I don’t think you’re that, except professionally, Miss Stone. It’s a calculated effect, isn’t it?”

She frowned. “What is?”

“This thoughtful, candid appraisal of your relationship with Tip Malone, this apparently honest, unemotional approach.”

Her face showed nothing, her eyes were steady on mine.

“Were you with him when he died?” I asked.

Almost imperceptibly she flinched. Her stare didn’t waver. She shook her head.

“Your car was there last night.”

This time her flinch was apparent. “How do you know that?”

I hadn’t, until now. It had been a shot in the dark. I said, “Did you kill him?”

Her voice was hoarse. “Of course not! And you don’t think so, either, or you’d have brought the police. Why are you here, Mr. Callahan?”

“To investigate the death of Tip Malone. Would you prefer to talk with the police about it?”

“Won’t I have to, anyway? Talking with you won’t obviate that, will it?”

“It might. I’m not in the scandal business. Didn’t your agent tell you about my shining reputation?”

She nodded slowly. “He told me he trusted you. He suggested I—cooperate.”

“It’s good advice. I can’t promise you immunity but I can guarantee discretion. That’s about all any honest operative has to offer.”

She was breathing heavily, staring out the big window at the view. She turned to face me again and said quietly, “I was to meet him there, at that new house of his, at nine o’clock. When I got there, the front door was open and I walked in. I found him there, in the living room, on the floor, dead. I went to the kitchen to phone the police and saw all the blood in there. He must have been stabbed in the kitchen. I decided not to phone the police. I turned on all the lights in the house to attract attention and left the front door open. I came back here.”

Silence. She stared at me and I stared at her. Then, like Gina Ronico had, she began to cry.

I said quietly, “I can’t keep this information from the police indefinitely, of course. But I can withhold it for a while and hope that something develops which will make it unimportant.”

She whispered, “Why would you do that? What would you gain by doing that?”

“I would maintain my reputation for discretion and maintain the illusion of my conscience by not hurting an innocent needlessly.”

“Words,” she said. “Words, words, words …”

I said nothing.

She looked up fearfully. “And what about the person who saw my car there? What’s going to keep him, or her, silent?”

“I was the one who saw your car,” I answered,
And I only saw it in my mind’s eyes,
I added to myself. “Tell me, was there anything else you noticed, anything that might help me?”

“Nothing,” she said. “How did you happen to be there?”

“I was investigating Tip, for his wife,” I lied.

“Well, then, you’ll have to tell her, won’t you? She paid you for a full report, didn’t she?”

“Before he died,” I said. “She’ll get no report from me on his indiscretions, now. She probably doesn’t want one, now. You weren’t Tip’s only extracurricular romantic interest, you know.”

She stared at the floor.

“What did he have?” I asked her. “I’m twice as handsome and just as available and I don’t do nearly as well.”

She said rigidly, “Do you think this is a time for humor, Mr. Callahan?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t seem to mourn him. I don’t think anybody honestly will, except his wife. There are a lot of tears in this phony area but very damned little compassion.”

She said nothing.

“Women are always attracted to evil,” I said. “Maybe that was his magnet.”

“He’s dead,” she said. “Dead, dead, dead! Can’t you stop whipping his body?”

I stood up and looked down at her. It was hard to tell how much of her emotion was theatrics and how much genuine. In the City and County of Los Angeles, it is quite often hard to tell. The necessary Thespian fraudulent permeates the area, affecting even the aircraft workers. Phoney, phoney, phoney town. Though I love it and its people. They weren’t much, but they were my people and we must always take care of our own. The army had taught me that.

I asked, “Are you sure you didn’t notice something that might help me?”

She shook her head helplessly. “I can’t think of anything now. It was all such a—shock. If I remember anything later, I’ll be sure to phone you.”

I said good-bye to her and went out, wondering if perhaps the killer had seen her car last night, wondering how much of her story I could believe. I stood in the parking area, looking at the green quiet hills and thought of Tip Malone.

Miss Selina Stone had been theatrically trained to show a stylized personality to the world. She seemed too civilized to be capable of putting twelve inches of steel into a man’s stomach, but what seemed to be could be only a veneer. She had admitted his attraction for her, though she had claimed to be shamed by it.

Well, I would see her again, undoubtedly. And learn more about her as the various threads unravelled, as the various insights came. Who in this world was what he (or she) seemed to be?

The flivver coughed into life with a sneer for the Aston-Martin and went complainingly down the hill to the highway under my deft guidance. A phrase came to me, signifying nothing but the Church I had left, “… and upon this rock I will build my Church …”

Now, what had prompted that? My leaving Big Rock Mesa, quite possibly, my going down the hill from the rock as I had gone down the hill from the Church.

It had taken a lot of arguing to get the name and address of the girl I had just left and to what avail? What had I learned from her that would point a finger?

It all adds up, when the big picture is complete, Callahan,
I told myself.
Carry on, idiot guard.

Along the Coast Highway the flivver chuckled, laughing at my incompetence. It is only on the level that she maintains her humor. Uphill, her engine complains and downhill, her brakes. I gunned the motor and she stopped chuckling.

The figure of Frank Giovanni was big in my mind; the shadow of Frank Giovanni hung over his death. And I had not seen him yet. Nor Big Bill Duster, though I had Jan’s letter of introduction in my jacket pocket.

My next stop was on impulse, because I happened to be going by—a beach house across from the Santa Monica Cliffs. It had formerly belonged to Lloyd (Crusher) Dietrich, a great Ram full-back, and many a mild poker game had graced it in the old days. It was now owned by the Petroff brothers, I knew.

I pulled the flivver up next to a Cad De Ville that was parked on the narrow strip of asphalt. I climbed out, started for the doorway next to the garage—and a voice from the Cad said, “It’s a bad time to go in there. You’d better come back later.”

I turned around and looked at the man sitting behind the wheel. I couldn’t guess his height, but his hair was red, his face pugnacious and one ear resembled a badly scrambled egg.

I smiled and said, “Just a social call. I know the owners.”

He stepped out of the Cad. “Run along, boy.” He frowned. “Don’t I know you?”

He was tall enough. And broad enough. I studied him a second and said, “You might know the face. It’s a rather famous face. Who are you?”

“Lippy, huh?” he said.

I smiled once more, a pose, and turned my back and started for the door again.

He must have moved awfully fast. For I hadn’t taken two steps before his hand was on my shoulder. His grip was strong. “Whoa, boy! Let’s not go off half cocked.”

I turned to face him, the bile rising in me. I said as calmly as I could, “Unless you want your face to match that repulsive ear, you have exactly three seconds to take your hand off my shoulder.”

“Easy, now laddie, I’m a pro,” he said softly. “Calm down.”

“One,” I counted, and the tremble was in my voice. “Two …”

He tightened his grip and my shoulder ached. “Three,” I said and brought my left hand up from my hip.

It missed the button but caught him flush in the mouth and blood dribbled down his chin as he staggered back.

He looked surprised but he didn’t look unhappy. The true warrior’s grin came to his mis-shapen face and he brought both hands to shoulder level as he circled, moving toward me.

A pro, he had called himself, and I had believed him. But I was glad to see he had meant a pro wrestler, not boxer. Wrestlers I usually fight in platoons. It wouldn’t be fair otherwise.

He rushed—and the top of my head caught him in his bleeding mouth. He roared and stumbled—and my knee caught him where it hurts the most. He doubled up, and the same knee caught him right across the bridge of the nose. He went to the asphalt, crawling and whimpering.

I opened the door of the Cad, took the keys from the ignition. On the highway behind us, cars were stopping as I hurried toward the door to the house.

I didn’t ring. I pushed it open, went through the kitchen toward the front of the house, which was on the beach side. I had my .38 in my hand by the time I got to the living room.

Dave Petroff was sitting on a davenport in there, his hands tied behind him: One side of his face was beet-red, his nose was bleeding, and his jaw looked awry, though it could have been only a swelling.

A broad, thick, short and bald man was standing directly in front of him, and his open right hand was swinging at Dave’s cheek as I called, “Hold it!”

The stocky man turned to look at me. His eyes went to the gun in my hand, and his own hand started toward his shoulder.

“Stop!” I said. “Don’t make a single damned move or I’ll kill you where you stand.”

He stood motionless as I moved carefully toward the phone.

Dave called hoarsely. “No Brock! Please! No cops. He’s one of Giovanni’s men and our lives won’t be worth a nickel if you call copper now.”

I picked up the phone and the stocky man said, “He’s not lying to you, big boy. We’ll get to you eventually if you call the law.”

I paused, listening to the dial tone.

“Please, Brock,” Dave repeated. “I’m scared, Brock.”

“That’s what makes these slobs,” I told him, “guys like us who are scared. To hell with them. I already took care of his idiot partner. I can’t be in any more trouble with Giovanni than I am already.”

“Yes, you can.” Shorty said.

Dave said, “I won’t back you up, Brock. I swear I won’t. I’ll tell the law we were having a friendly talk when you broke in.”

“And remember this is Santa Monica,” Shorty said. “Money talks, in Santa Monica.”

“Not any more,” I told him. “Those days are over.”

“Please, Brock,” Dave said. “As one hell of a favor for me?”

I hesitated and then I heard the wail of a siren right outside and I put the phone back on its cradle.

“It’s too late, boys,” I said. “Too late for a deal. The law is already here. Don’t anybody move.”

I
T WAS SOME FARCE
.

In the Santa Monica Chief’s office, the new Chief now sat where the old Chief had formerly sat, but the words were the same, patient, patronizing and political.

I was alone with him and he asked me to start at the beginning and give it all to him.

I started from my meeting with the redhead on the drive and gave him the rest from there.

“And what were you doing at the Petroff brothers’ place?” he asked me. “Why did you want to see them?”

“Because I thought they could help me. They knew Tip Malone.”

He frowned. “Help you? How? Are you investigating the death of Tip Malone?”

I nodded.

“For whom?”

“For a resident of a city other than this, Chief,” I said politely.

His frown changed to a glare. My expression remained the same, polite and discreet.

He said quietly, “We are not happy when men like the Petroff brothers move into our peaceful town. We are less happy when they attract their violent contemporaries to our area. I guess you know who those hoodlums are.”

I shook my head.

“The big redhead is Monte Calavo. The little bald one is Tony Jessup.”

“Never heard of either of them,” I said.

“They are muscles for Frank Giovanni. You’ve heard of him, I’m sure.”

I nodded.

“You might even be working for him,” he added.

“No, sir,” I said. “Absolutely not.”

There was a silence.

Finally I said, “Monte Calavo—isn’t he a wrestler?”

“He was.” The Chief tapped the top of his desk with a pencil and looked past me out of the window. Almost casually he said, “Dave Petroff tells a different story, and so do the other two hoodlums. They claim you were an intruder.”

“Dave’s scared. Everybody’s scared of Giovanni.
Everybody
.”

His face stiffened. “I’m not. There are three of them and one of you. Sitting where I am sitting, who would
you
believe?”

“I’d believe in Callahan, just as you do, Chief.”

“Don’t try to read my mind,” he said.

The door opened and a uniformed man stuck his head in to say, “The other Petroff brother is here. With a lawyer. They’d like to see you, sir.”

The Chief nodded. “Send them in.” He looked at me. “A lawyer, he brings. Why?”

I shrugged.

It was some lawyer Pete Petroff had brought with him, one of the town’s big names. Even the Chief spoke to him with respect. Pete was furious.

He came over to me and said, “Dave might be gutless but I’m not. I intend to prosecute those two hoodlums.”