Authors: Wade Miller
“Anything more on that?”
“No. Atlanta has been checking every unidentified body on the East coast but no tall blondes. No nothing.”
“What makes you so sure that this town is involved?” Clapp passed his hand wearily over his tanned face.
“I wasn’t — up until the show tonight. Three days after Hal was killed, I got a tip-off by phone. It was a man’s voice. It said that if I told the Filipino at the Grand Theater in San Diego that I was Dr. Boone, I might get some place.”
“Dr. Boone? Who’s he?”
“Nobody in the Atlanta directory or the San Diego directory,” said Walter James. “Nobody at all — yet. I scouted the Grand Theater Friday and again Saturday afternoon. The Filipino always sat in on that strip number toward the last. I figured I wouldn’t have to sit through that damn show again — that I’d be safe in coming late and I could nab him after the show. Well, that’s the story. I never got the chance to pass myself off as Dr. Boone.” He drummed on the empty beer can with his fingernails. “Oh. There’s one other item. That gun — the .25 — that’s one of a set I gave Hal on his last birthday. They’re out of my collection and I think I can give you the number tomorrow on the other one. Except that it’s a lady’s pistol — concealed hammer and a little smaller — it’s the same design.”
“Did your partner have a silencer?”
“He may have. I don’t know.”
“Did he have the guns on him the night he was killed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were there any witnesses to that telephone tip-off you got?”
“No. How many witnesses do you have to your phone calls?”
“Not a hell of a lot.” Clapp rubbed his tongue over his teeth and squinted his eyes wearily. Walter James pushed his two beer cans into the wastebasket.
“May I go home now?”
“Okay,” said Clapp. “You can go home.” Walter James stood up first, then Laura Gilbert rose a little uncertainly, with a glance at the big man. He nodded. “Sure, you, too.” Walter James pushed open the door for her. Clapp waggled a finger at him.
“Here’s something else to think about, James. That box — the one we found in the Filipino’s sport coat — ”
“Yes,” said Walter James agreeably. “I recognized it. Marijuana, wasn’t it?”
Clapp sighed. “Yes,” he said. “Marijuana.”
A
WHITE STUCCO CARTON
stood on the corner of El Cajon Boulevard and 45th Street. Above it a half-story rudder of tin proclaimed in blue and white: J. A. GILBERT REALTOR.
“That’s it,” announced the girl. Walter James wheeled the Buick in a U turn and pulled it up in front of the office. A flagged walk ran past the corner building to the back of the lot where another white stucco building huddled ineffectively behind two skeletal palms. “My home,” said Laura Gilbert flatly.
Walter James snapped off the lights. “What’s that big job across the street?”
“Hoover High. I used to go there. The college is about five miles on out.” She wiggled her fingers east toward the Laguna mountains and El Centro and Yuma.
“Studying to be anything?”
“No. What is there to be?”
“You’re bitter — even for three A.M.”
“I mean it,” the girl said, looking straight ahead. “I want to be something but I don’t know what. Liberal Arts isn’t any great adventure, but there isn’t anything I’d rather take. Oh, I don’t know what I want.”
“It’s not uncommon,” he agreed. “How about getting married?”
“Most of the girls are looking high and low for husbands. I’ve never seen a husband I wanted.” She blew smoke viciously at the windshield. “I’d hate to cook steak and potatoes seven nights a week.”
“Who is so fond of steak and potatoes?”
“Bob,” she said, and stopped short to regard him curiously. “You know your business, don’t you?”
Walter James laughed. “Really, I didn’t mean it as business. I’m interested.”
“Why?” Two freight vans roared by in quick succession, filling the silent boulevard with savage sound. After it had melted away, she said, “Never mind. As you say, that’s a poor question. Bob Newcomb is editor of
The Aztec
— that’s the college paper — and I work on
The Aztec
quite a bit. He’s a very sweet boy with what is known as a fine mind. He has an odd taste for taking me to dances. Why, I don’t know because frankly I don’t dance very well. But I guess he really is pretty smart.”
After a pause she added, “Brains aren’t everything. Sometimes you like brains
and
speed. Or just speed. You said that, didn’t you?”
A light came on in the house, an orange rectangle that silhouetted one slim palm tree. “It is pretty late,” said the girl. “You better take me in.”
“I want you to remember something about the man who sat on the other side of the Filipino.”
“But I can’t. Am I in trouble if I can’t?”
“No — you’re not in trouble. But so far there aren’t so many leads in this case that I can afford to pass any up. Keep trying — please.”
“I bet you don’t say please very often.”
Walter James laughed again. “You know your business, don’t you?”
“I hope I didn’t sound rude. I just happened to think of it.” She smiled demurely. “I got a busy little mind, too.” Her face sobered. She half-turned on the seat to face him. “I shouldn’t be laughing. That poor little guy — ”
Walter James said, “Death’s never pleasant to see.”
“But to go that way — in the dark and — and — ”
“Don’t think about it,” Walter James told her gently. “There’s nothing you can do. Brooding’s not going to help.”
She looked up at him and tried a pale smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. James. But I wish that I could do something to help. What do you think about tonight?”
Walter James smiled. “That’s a big question. Clapp seems to be handling the routine work as well as anyone can.”
“You sound as if you’re holding something back.”
“Well,” Walter James said, his blue eyes thoughtful, “The thing that interests me most in this mess so far is that card they found in the Filipino’s coat.”
“Oh,” she breathed her disappointment. He raised an eyebrow quizzically.
“And you, Sherlock, what do you make of it all?”
Laura Gilbert made a negative gesture with one hand. “I don’t know anything. I’m not smart at this sort of thing. But I thought from what you said about Shasta Lynn — ”
“You don’t like her, do you?” Walter James interjected softly. “Why?”
Silence crept in. “I don’t even know her,” the girl said stiffly. “Why should I dislike her?”
“Answering a question with a question isn’t polite,” he said smiling. “But let it pass.” He put his finger on the door handle and paused. “May I pick you up for dinner tomorrow night? Six o’clock?” He got out and walked around to the curbside door. Laura Gilbert was looking at him with a little frown on her forehead.
“You must be way ahead of me. I don’t think I understand,” she said.
“There’s no problem to it. I’m not being devious. I just think we’ll get along.”
“Oh, I’m sure we would,” she said and put her head to one side. “I don’t know just how to put this and I don’t want to make you feel funny, but — aren’t I a little adolescent for you?”
“I’m thirty-eight,” said Walter James, “and even my adept mind can’t see quite what that has to do with it.” He opened the door; she collected her belongings and slipped gracefully to the ground.
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you know later.” There was the hint of a saucy smile on her red lips. “Let me pretend to think it over, anyway, and I’ll let you know at the police station tomorrow — today.”
“I’ll see you at six then,” he said. “It’s not necessary for you to come down to headquarters. Get some sleep.”
“But Mr. Clapp said — ” she whispered.
“You need the sleep and I think I can keep Clapp occupied. I have the upper hand temporarily.”
She grinned outright. “You’re power mad.”
“Not at the moment. Not with your father to face.”
They walked up the flags together, two street-lighted figures of the same height. As they set foot on the small cement porch, the door opened, letting out a trickle of radio music. A tall spare man in a dressing gown stood in the light. “Laura?” he said.
“Good morning, Dad,” she answered. “Your daughter got in a little trouble tonight.”
The tall man held the screen door open. He had heavy gray hair and gray eyebrows accenting a tan, lined face. Walter James couldn’t see that the lines indicated any character, one way or another.
“Dad, this is Mr. James. Mr. James, my father.”
“Your daughter wasn’t personally involved in any trouble, Mr. Gilbert,” explained Walter James. “She just happened to be the only witness to an odd happening.”
“And Mr. James was kind enough to bring me home from the police station.”
“It’s pretty late, Laura,” said Mr. Gilbert. He said the words disinterestedly, almost perfunctorily. Walter James looked at him sharply.
“Dad, the police work all night,” the girl explained with elaborate patience. “A man was killed, and they didn’t feel like waiting for me to get my sleep so I’d look pretty for their questions.” She added, “Mr. James is a detective.”
The old man regarded Walter James more closely. “I’d ask you in, Mr. James, but you can understand — at this hour — ”
“Naturally,” said Walter James. “I’ll see you again.”
Mr. Gilbert closed the door on his daughter’s “Good night.” Walter James stared for thoughtful seconds at the closed door before turning back to his car.
Walter James drove slowly down the deserted boulevard. Occasionally, off-duty traffic signals threw lonely flashes of yellow light across his face. Once, as he turned through the ghostly brilliance of the Park Avenue intersection, he glanced in the rear-view mirror critically. His face was smooth and bland, if a little sallow. Only small spiderwebs of wrinkles edged his eyes. “Thirty-eight,” he said aloud. Then the scream and rattle of the Number 11 streetcar snapped off his reverie; the rest of the way he drove quickly and deftly.
Once in his apartment, he turned the lock and hung his coat carefully in the closet. Then he sat down at the desk and took off his tie. His fountain pen scratched out three names on a piece of paper.
Laura Gilbert
Shasta Lynn
Ethel Lantz
Suddenly, he crossed bold lines through the outside names and sat looking at the remaining two words. He lit a cigarette and puffed a cloud of smoke over the one last name. The cloud swirled a moment and melted away into the shadows of the room.
Shasta Lynn.
A
T PRECISELY ELEVEN O’CLOCK
, Walter James pushed his slim hand against AUSTIN CLAPP HOMICIDE and sauntered into the small office. Clapp was snuggling a telephone receiver against his head.
“ — guilty as all hell. But it’ll take time. Bye.” He cradled the receiver and grinned broadly. “Just talking about you, James. Have part of a chair.”
Walter James sat on the corner of the desk with one foot on the floor and lit a cigarette.
“Get a good night’s rest?”
“What there was of it. Where’s the girl? Didn’t she come with you?”
“No. She didn’t come with me. I told her to get some sleep and you’d call her if you needed her.”
“That’s okay, too,” Clapp agreed. “A killing that doesn’t break in twelve hours generally takes a week at least. Funny how that time lag always works out — must be mathematics.”
“Did you get all your wires off to Atlanta and Denver?’ the slender man asked. His blue eyes were intent on a hibiscus blossom nodding through the window.
Clapp squinted curiously. “Yes. What makes you so sure I wired Denver?”
“You’re no fool, Clapp,” Walter James announced indulgently, “You figure that if my partner was following a lead to San Diego while on a trip to Denver, he might very well have had some ideas about Denver, too.”
“Is that the way you figure?”
“That’s the way we both figure.”
“How long did you stop over in Denver on your way out here?”
“I didn’t. I took Highway
66.”
“Weren’t you interested in Denver?”
“My lead was in San Diego. Also, I have a saving nature. I’ll let you send all the long and involved telegrams to the Denver authorities and charge it to the San Diego taxpayers.”
“The taxpayers are getting their money’s worth. The wires were long and involved all right.” Clapp reared back in his chair and stretched. “Jesus! How I’d like a day off!”
Walter James smiled gently,. “Why? This is your life work. What would you rather be doing?”
“Deep-sea fishing. Like albacore?”
“I can’t remember ever having any.”
“Fine stuff.” After a moment the big man brought his thoughts back to Walter James. “Well, you’re anxious to know what happened this morning.”
“I’m interested.”
Clapp leaned forward and thrummed his big fingers on the green blotter. “I checked with Jim Crane. You know, he inventoried the audience last night. He says there were quite a few drunks but no one was reefed up. Course, if they’d been smoking the stuff and drinking, too, it’d be a little hard to tell. And he wasn’t looking for that angle particularly.”
“Were there any known characters in the house last night?”
“Only one that Jim found, and Jim’s a pretty sharp boy. It was a jig that got mixed up in a straight-edge brawl up at Front and Market a few months ago. But he was buried in the center section. Jim checked the customers all around him. Naturally, there were the usual number of drunk tank patrons.”
“Any ex-Atlanta citizens drifted in here lately?”
“No. Not with guns on them at any rate.” Clapp snorted. “You don’t know our town very well. We got a tourist trade to keep up and they’re not the kind that go for that sort of thing.”
“Any of your local boys play with 45’s?”
“No. And for the same reason. We don’t have much of any gang trouble down here, James.”
Walter James ground his cigarette out against the inside of the wastebasket and watched the sparks die out against the crumpled papers. “I’m just feeling around,” he said.
“Well, glad to give you any background you feel you need,” said Clapp. “Always glad to help a visiting kibitzer.”
The two men looked at each other sardonically. Walter James spoke first.
“Clapp, you wouldn’t tell me a thing if you didn’t think I know more than I’m giving out. It’s going to pay me to look guilty just so I’ll have the key to your little lips. You’re just trying to give me enough rope.”
“I got plenty of rope,” said Clapp agreeably. “Been saving it for years.”
“Hell, you wouldn’t know you had a case if I hadn’t come along.”
“I have to keep an eye on the record, my boy. If you hadn’t come along, I’d only have one dead Filipino on my hands. Now, if your story adds up, I’m liable to have a dope ring raise its ugly head and pretty soon the newspaper, the City Council and the F.B.I. will be galloping single file right down my throat.”
“That’s a nice bit of whimsy,” said Walter James. “But don’t forget one main point. I’m not out here to mess up your neat little town. And I’m not out here to clean it up, either. As far as I’m concerned, San Diego is none of my business. My business is to get within tagging distance of the man who gunned out my partner.”
“Because you were good friends with this Lantz or because his murder was a reflection on you?”
“If I answer that, can we get down to cases?”
“Okay.”
“It’s fifty-fifty. Now what’s the deal on that theater manager?”
Clapp yawned and tapped his front teeth with his knuckle. “Greissinger is always willing to co-operate with the authorities. Consequently, he doesn’t know anything. None of his boys and girls smoke reefers or do anything nasty. According to him, his show can play the grammar schools any week they want. Strictly a high-type show but no publicity, please.”
“Do you clear the whole cast?” Walter James asked.
“I never clear anybody till they die,” remarked Clapp.
“You’re thinking of the Lynn wench, aren’t you?”
She has the strongest connection with the Filipino. The Filipino has the strongest connection with Dr. Boone. And whoever Dr. Boone is, I want to talk with him. What did you think of Shasta Lynn?”
“Little dignified for a strip dancer. Got a fine body, hasn’t she? And she dresses pretty well.” Clapp pursed his thick lips. “Maybe the Filipino had no connection with her outside of bugging his eyes out at that body. You know how the little dark boys go for the big blondes.”
“Ethel Lantz was a big blonde,” remarked Walter James. “And now she isn’t with us anymore.”
Clapp frowned. “You trying to make a connection there?”
“No. Just happened to think of it. What did you think of the alibi of Shasta’s little friend?”
“Madeline? It seemed to be all right, though I wouldn’t trust either one of them as far as I could sling the Coronado ferry. Greissinger says they’re okay, if that means anything. They live together out in La Mesa.”
Walter James broke into a fresh pack of cigarettes, slicing off the top neatly with his fingernail. “Do either of the girls smoke what we hope they smoke?”
Clapp shrugged. “You want to ask them?”
Walter James smiled. “It’s a ticklish question to ask when you haven’t anything to go on and when you’re on the city payrolls.”
“You’re not kidding,” said Clapp. “I almost got my face slapped a couple of times last night.” He stared gloomily at the desk blotter. “That’s a happy little family down there at the Grand.”
“Anything on Danny Host?”
“Nothing in the local files. I’m checking with Washington.” The big man drummed on the desk with a yellow pencil. “I’ll bet Dixie Lake has a black eye at least today. Our comedian didn’t look very amused with her.” He pointed the pencil at Walter James. “And speaking of females, what do you think of Laura Gilbert’s reason for being at a burlesque show last night?”
“You seemed to let it pass,” answered the smaller man. “You gave her a sweet enough lecture about it.”
“I asked what you thought about it.”
“It’ll set with me. After all, she has no connection with this case except that the Filipino happened to die almost in her lap. Right?”
“I always look for two reasons for everything,” said Clapp. “Sometimes three. I wish I knew who the marksman last night was shooting at. Laura Gilbert or Walter James?”
Walter James walked over to the window and looked at the nodding blossom. “This thing’s about the same color as the blood on her ear.”
“That’s a hibiscus. Only flower I recognize — outside of roses and lilies,” commented Clapp. “Well?”
Walter James turned. “Clapp, that’s been my favorite question all morning. Was it the Gilbert girl because somebody thought she saw him knife the Filipino? Or was it me? It would have been easier to bag me in Atlanta. There’s no point in making me drive three thousand miles to be a bobbing target. That phone call I got makes a more logical tip than a trap.”
“You’re right there,” said the big man. He reached under his blotter and pulled out a mimeographed form. “You’re probably interested in the lab check we ran on the .25 that shot at you.”
“Didn’t know you’d have it this early. Did you get enough dirt out of the gun to give you anything to work with?” Walter James scanned the report thoughtfully.
“Plenty. The gun was full of everything but marijuana.”
“It’s a crime to let a gun get that way.” Walter James pointed a finger at the report. “What’s this stuff here with the chalk base?”
“This will floor you, son. Face powder. Cheap face powder.”
The slender detective frowned. “Well, well, well.”
Clapp laughed gustily. “Boy, I hope your love life’s in perfect order. Cause that gun has recently been carried around in a woman’s purse.”
“Any way of telling the brand of powder this is?”
“Too cheap. Might be any of a dozen cheap brands.”
Walter James let the report float down onto the green blotter.
“I know what you’re thinking and I’ve done it,” said Clapp. “It isn’t any face powder that Shasta Lynn has in her dressing room — she uses pretty expensive stuff, but it could be her body powder. The tests run pretty close. But then again it could be practically any dime store brand. It’s an interesting discovery but not very damn conclusive.”
“And because a woman carried the gun, it’s no sign that a woman used it last night,” added Walter James. “Incidentally, I’ll want this gun returned when the city is through with it. And I’ll appreciate the city keeping it cleaned for me.”
“The city’s pleasure,” said Clapp. “Anything else?”
“Yes, I’d like my .38 back and a license to carry it around here.”
“Not a chance, James. It’d make me look pretty silly if you do turn out to be a mass murderer and I’ve given you a gun license. No, thanks!”
“That’s all right,” said Walter James. “I got plenty of others. But I don’t want to be picked up for carrying any one of them.”
“You won’t be as long as you don’t make it go bang. And if any self-defense matters pop up, you better have a witness, James. And it better be me.”
“That’s the friendly attitude I expected.” He pulled a snub-barreled .32 from inside his coat and flipped it over in his hand. “Baby, you’d better not speak to anyone or your daddy’ll get the gas chamber.”
“James,” said Clapp pleasantly, “you got more guts than a grandfather clock.”
Walter James slid the gun out of sight. “You’ll call me?”
“Or send a squad after you. All depends on how my dinner sets.”
“See you soon.” Walter James ambled casually out of the office. In the Buick, he lit another cigarette and drove out of the parking lot in front of police headquarters up Market Street, away from the harbor. At Fifth Avenue he turned left and pulled into a parking place. He got out of the car and paced back to Market Street.
The front of the Grand Theater was lifeless under the high noon sun. The blue wooden doors were hasped shut with big padlocks. A sign in the lobby said,
“Matinee Sunday Only — 2 O’Clock.”
Walter James stood for a moment and looked thoughtfully at the full-length picture of Shasta Lynn. The slug in her navel had been dug out, leaving a gaping, splintery hole. The shreds of glass had been swept up carelessly.
“I wonder,” said Walter James very softly. He squinted his eyes, then turned and looked across Market Street to where the shot had been fired. A moving van cut off his vision and halted his train of thought.
He walked over to the box office and looked through the glass. On the floor, leaning against the inside wall, was a sign saying,
“We Rest On Monday.”
Still sauntering, Walter James moved out of the lobby and into the narrow passageway between the buildings that led to the stage door.
Repeated banging on the big iron doors brought the sound of muffled footsteps from inside. One door opened with a clank and a rusty growl. The old janitor looked at him suspiciously.
“What d’ye want?” he wheezed.
Walter James indicated with his head. “Take a look around. Open up.”
“Another one of ‘em, eh?” The old man spat disgustedly. Tobacco juice had dried in the corners of his mouth. “Don’t you fellers ever see enough?”
“Come on, Pop,” said the slender man. “I’m not working by the hour. Open it up.”
The janitor stood aside. Walter James squeezed past him and went up three concrete steps to the stage. Echoes of his footsteps rang against the brick walls. He looked up into the tangle of ropes hanging from the grid.
The old man called after him suspiciously. “You come from the police station?”
“That’s right,” said Walter James truthfully. He held the blue velveteen drapes aside with his arm and stepped out onto the empty stage.
Light from an undiscernible skylight in the distant ceiling threw a dim radiance over the stage. The flats used as settings for the show were piled, apparently haphazardly, against the brick wall in the rear. Walter James looked out at the house. Empty seats stared at him. Music stands and folding chairs were strewn about the orchestra pit. Somebody had eaten an orange and left the peel in a neat little pile on the runway.
Walter James went down the wooden steps and up the aisle slowly, his head turning first to the right and then to the left. He went past the seat where he had watched Shasta Lynn’s number and sat down in the aisle seat of the last row.
The old janitor looked in at him from the lobby. “That’s right where it happened, ain’t it?”
Walter James patted the seat to his right. “Right here, Pop. The murderer sat right where I’m sitting now.”
The old man chuckled. “He was a smart one, that feller. You won’t catch him.”