Death in Donegal Bay (7 page)

“I saw no reason to.”

He shook his head. “A doll like that? You? I sure expected better from her. She was one classy girl.”

“She still is. Keep running me down, shorty, and earn yourself a fat lip.”

He picked up a brass letter opener from his desk and glare at me again. “Take your best shot, King Kong, and then I’d open your jugular.”

I started to laugh. When he came around the desk, the needle pointed opener still in his hand, I stopped laughing. “Duane, I said quietly, “put it down. You know you’re not going to us it. I’m almost sure we’re on the same side in this mess. Believe me!”

There was some doubt in his glare now.

“All right,” he said finally, “but lay off that shorty crap.”

“I apologize. Remember, though, you took some shots at me. Is there any place besides Mike’s where we can have lunch I don’t want him to see us together.”

“Mike’s is the only place in town,” he told me. “But he won be there. He’s out fishing today. My nephew’s girl friend working the kitchen. She’s great with fish. We can have that.

The Rusty Anchor was busier that day than at my first visit. About two-thirds of the tables in the room were occupied, an two more diners were eating at the bar.

“Don’t order the clam chowder,” Duane said. “Mike makes that. In clam country, he uses canned clams.”

“I know,” I said. “I’ve had it.”

We sat at a small, round table in a corner of the room. How much, I wondered, could I confide in Duane Detterwald?

A thin, middle-aged waitress in jeans and a flowered blouse took our order. We ordered a pitcher of Einlicher and the broiled red snapper and rye rolls.

As I poured our beer, I asked, “Do you know Felicia Baker?”

He nodded. “She stayed at our house a few nights ago. I introduced her to Mike. The title to this place is in her name.”

“Mike told me it was his place. He told me he bought it from his cousin.”

“He did. He bought it from his cousin with money he got from Felicia. She wanted to give it to him. I nixed that. Mike would have sold the place and taken off. It’s his, rent-free, as long as he runs it. All the profits are his.”

“You nixed it? I thought Mike was your buddy.”

“He is. But that’s emotional, right? Who should understand that better than you? Mike is a bum. If it wasn’t for his fists, he would have been a vagrant. Felicia and I know that.”

“Are Mike and Felicia still friends?”

He shook his head. “With Mike, women are lays, not people. Felicia steers clear of him now that she’s married.”

New patterns were forming, a new scenario was building in my mind.
Slow down,
I told myself.

Duane ran a forefinger slowly around the rim of his beaker. He didn’t look at me as he said, “I’m getting a picture.”

I said nothing.

He looked up at me. “This young peeper friend of yours, he was checking out Felicia for her husband, wasn’t he? Her husband thinks she’s still hot for Mike. You can tell him to forget it.”

I continued to say nothing.

“I owe Mike,” he said. “Since high school, I owe Mike. He protected me from the kind of guys who use words like ‘midget.’”

“Or ‘weasel,’” I said.

He smiled. “Jan told you that, didn’t she?”

I nodded. “I’m sorry I called you ‘shorty.’”

“And I’m sorry,” he told me, “that I said you weren’t good enough for Jan. You almost are.”

Our red snapper came then, along with the rye rolls—plus cole slaw, compliments of the house for Uncle Duane.

“Your nephew,” I told Duane, “is even dumber than Mike is if he doesn’t marry this girl. This is tops!”

“Marry? Today’s kids?” He snorted. “They’re all Mikes today—rootless, careless drifters.”

Duane Detterwald was my kind of man, if my instincts were sound. Unfortunately, my instincts are not always sound.

W
HEN WE PARTED, I
told Duane to drop in any time he was down our way. He and Jan could reminisce about their high-school days.

“My high-school memories aren’t that pleasant,” he said, “but looking at Jan again would make the trip worthwhile. You treat her right, Callahan, or you’ll answer to me.”

“I will. And you keep an eye on Mike. If Cyrus Reed Allingham is out to get him, Mike could be in more trouble than he can handle.”

“Mike has always been in more trouble than he can handle. At least outside of the ring. If you learn anything—”

“I’ll phone you. Give my love to Marilyn.”

He laughed. “We finally got an offer on that house, two hundred and thirty-two thousand. That’s what three-bedroom, two-bath fixer-uppers are going for in Donegal Valley. She asked me half a dozen times when you were coming back to make an offer. I told her you were waiting for an offer on your Brentwood home before you made a decision on hers.”

Realtors—they’re almost as tricky as private eyes. …

Up the steep and winding road the Mustang moved, past the houses on the bluff and down into the valley. Felicia’s lie was still a lie; she knew what Mike was doing now, even if she didn’t see him. Why would she lie about it?

Possibly because her husband had been in the room when I asked her. He must have known her history, traveling in the circles he did. And she must know he knew. So why the secrecy, so long as she was innocent (to use the word loosely)?

There was a slight breeze from the ocean, and the sun’s glare was softened by stationary cumulus clouds. It was a day for golf, but here I was, back on the prowl. When would I join the leisure class Uncle Homer had made possible for me? Not until I ran out of more interesting things to do.

I had shaken the hand of Cyrus Reed Allingham. I had pretended to share his views. I had avoided the final ignominy; I had not asked for his autograph.

Faith was what Cyrus was selling, faith in the time-honored American values and traditions. Time had not exactly honored many of our traditions. Among them are slavery, killing Indians, civil war, denying women the right to vote, child labor, depletion of our natural resources, and a still-virulent bigotry.

Faith may be wonderful, as some cynical sage has pointed out, but it is doubt that will get you an education. I would have to stay committed to the immoral minority. To camouflage that, I was forced to remain devious.

When I came home, Mrs. Casey informed me that Lieutenant Vogel had phoned and asked that I call him back. I got him at the station.

“When you were working down in L.A.,” he asked me, “did you ever run into a private investigator named Max Kronen?”

“Occasionally. As a matter of fact, I talked with him only a couple of hours ago. Why do you ask?”

“You mean he came up here to see
you?”

“Answer my question first.”

“I was hoping that you might give me a line on his reputation. He could be working for Joe Farini.”

“Are you still watching Joe?”

‘“Yes. Your turn.”

“I was leaving Cyrus Allingham’s wigwam up in Veronica Village this morning when Max drove in. My hunch is that he’s working for Allingham.”

“What reason did you have to visit Cyrus Allingham?”

“I was obeying the instructions you gave me in your office yesterday afternoon.”

“I never gave you any such instructions!”

“Your memory is weak. You told me to keep you informed. You wished me good hunting.”

“All right, all right! What did you learn up there?”

“I learned that a French engineer named Vauban was the acknowledged master of fortification and siegecraft. I’ve forgotten his first names. He had a lot of ’em.”

“Damn you! Talk sense.”

“Bernie,” I said soothingly, “it is almost the cocktail hour. Why don’t you stop in here before you go home, and we’ll have a quiet talk and a strong drink?”

“All right,” he said for the third time, this time less heatedly.

On a piece of graph paper I put down the names of all the people I had talked with since Baker had phoned me. I drew lines between the obvious connections and tried to find a pattern in them. The only pattern I could find was what Allingham called it—fighting fire with fire. It shaped up as a blackmail standoff.

But what could Allingham know about the Bakers that was not common knowledge? She had been a hooker, he a conman; Allingham could have learned that from the public press. He obviously had needed more than that. So he had hired Max Kronen to get it for him. Max must have come up with something, or at least convinced Cyrus that he had.

Alan had been privy to more knowledge of the Allingham family than the press was likely to learn—or to print. Cyrus had friends in high places. He had zealous, vindictive supporters in high, medium, and low places. Anyone who dared to defame him would need to be armed with more than hearsay evidence.

When Jan came home, I told her Bernie would be stopping in for a drink.

“And a yack fest about skulduggery,” she added. “I’ll take my shower while you two get that over with, and join you later for more civilized conversation.”

“For your sadly thin information, madame,” I informed her, “Bernie and I are the citizen types who help to keep the world civilized.”

“Orderly, maybe,” she said. “I will not accept civilized.” She patted my cheek. Each to his own, Lochinvar. Charge!”

“Smartass,” I said, and kissed her.

Bernie’s car pulled into our driveway about five minutes later. I knew what he wanted—Scotch over rocks. I had it waiting for him when he reached our front door.

He studied me suspiciously.

“I am trying to play the gracious host,” I explained. “Don’t just stand there. We have important matters to discuss.”

We went out in back, and I gave him the account of my day, from the Allingham fortress to Donegal Bay.

“That’s all out of my jurisdiction,” he said.

“I know. That’s what I’ve been wondering about.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The Bakers don’t live in the city, either. They’re out of your jurisdiction, too. The only one involved in this mess who isn’t outside is Joe Farini. What is this, a police vendetta?”

“Easy, now,” he said quietly.

“Maybe,” I suggested, “some of the boys down there want to pay Luther back by nailing Farini.”

He shook his head. “Your mouth is ahead of your brain, as usual. I’ll admit we want to get something on Farini. We don’t like crooked lawyers. And the state Bar Association hasn’t done a damned thing about him. Tell me, self-ordained knight in tarnished armor, do you like crooked lawyers?”

I stared at him admiringly. “That’s
great—
self-ordained knight in tarnished armor. Is it a quote?”

“Oh, shut up!” he said.

“It has earned you another drink,” I told him, and took his glass.

Jan was there when I brought his drink. I went to get her a gin and tonic, and fortified my own glass.

“Now,” Bernie said, “tell me what you know about Max Kronen.”

I said, “I know that he almost lost his license about three years ago for beating up a stoolie who had double-crossed him. I lever followed his career. The other boys in the trade consider him more brawn than brain.”

“Which is not unusual in your trade.”

“Thank you!”

“I meant, of course,” he explained, “the
other
boys in your trade. Does he have a specialty? Divorce, industrial spying—what?”

“I doubt it. He has four investigators working for him, three men and one woman. They might specialize. My peers have told me he has a real fancy office down there in the San Fernando Valley. And he has worked for some high-priced lawyers. I got the impression they have him on a retainer basis.”

“Criminal lawyers?”

“Not all of them. The only one I can think of is Norman Geler.”

“Norman Geller,” Vogel said, “is married to Farini’s sister. They shared an office up here for a couple of years.”

“There is your connection,” I said. “Now Jan would like to have some civilized conversation.”

They stayed with the literary B’s that day—Barthelme, Borges, and Bellow. I had to wait until they got to Bellow to worm my way into the conversation.

Bernie left, we had dinner, the sun went down. There was nothing but garbage, as usual, on the commercial tube. PBS was offering us a string quartet playing one of the musical B’s, Brahms. Jan listened to that. I phoned the Raleigh house, and Corey was home.

“What’s new?” I asked him.

“Nothing exciting. Do you know a man named Max Kronen?”

“I do. Why?”

“He came to my house this afternoon and tried to question my dad about me. My dad told him to get lost.”

“You watch out for him, Corey. He could be a rough customer.”

“Not as rough as my dad. What is he, a private eye?”

“He is. And it’s possible he’s working for Joe Farini. Lieutenant Vogel was here before dinner, asking about him.”

“How come he asked you? Are you getting into this case?

“Not your end of it. But I have a gut feeling that you’ll be calling on me before long. Did Mrs. Baker leave the house today?”

“Oh, yes! She went to the beauty parlor to have her hair tinted and then to the Biltmore for lunch and then to I. Magnin for some shopping and then home. Dullsville! Who needs a Sam Spade for that kind of surveillance?”

“Corey, you are not Sam Spade. You be careful!”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Of course, sir. Keep in touch, teach.”

He was getting too big for his britches. Kids. I went in and listened to Brahms with Jan.

It was a troubled night of confused dreams dimly remembered. My father was mixed up in it somehow, and the Hearst Castle and the party at Jan’s house in Beverly Glen, the part where Mike Anthony had brought Felicia Rowan. One of these days I would have to hit the couch to see if a shrink could make any sense out of my dreams.

“You were muttering again,” Jan said in the morning. “Bad night?”

“Too many dreams. Who said ‘the stuff that dreams are made of?”

“Sam Spade in
The Maltese Falcon.
Shakespeare said it better in
The Tempest—‘We
are such stuff as dreams are made on and our little life is rounded with a sleep.’”

“I guess Hammett was no Shakespeare, huh?”

She shrugged. “Hammett edged him in plotting. Would you like waffles for breakfast, master?”