Death in Donegal Bay (8 page)

“Great! And some of those tasty pork sausages you bought in Solvang. How come you didn’t go to college?”

“I couldn’t play football,” she explained, “and I didn’t want to blunt my education.”

Orange juice, waffles with pork sausage, coffee with the
Las Angeles Times.
The morning was overcast; it would clear before noon along the coast, which is where we lived.

I was reading the stock quotations to find out how much money I had lost yesterday when Mrs. Casey came in to tell me Lieutenant Vogel was on the phone.

“Don’t come rushing down here,” he warned me, “but I thought I should inform you.”

“Down where?”

“To the Travis Hotel. Luther Barnum has been murdered.”

“W
HY SHOULDN’T I COME
down? I won’t get in your way.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t. But there are other officers here, and I would prefer to not let them know you have more cooperation from the department than some of
their
investigator friends.”

“I get it. Any suspects?”

“We’ll talk about that in my office. I should be back there by eleven o’clock, at the latest.”

When I came back to the breakfast room, Jan asked, “What now?”

“A man has been murdered—Luther Barnum, a police stoolie.” I sat down and picked up the
Times.

“Is he involved in this—this business with Alan Baker?”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t act so bored, Sherlock. You are itching to get down there. Admit it.”

“I’m going down later to talk with Bernie about it in his office. I’m not bored; I’m depressed. A gutsy little old man has just been murdered.”

“I’m sorry I was flippant. Did you know him?”

“Briefly. Let’s talk about something else.”

She went to work half an hour later. I sat. Could it have been Max Kronen? He had beaten up a stoolie. Or Mr. Five-by-five? He had threatened Luther. Had he been stabbed, throttled, shot, bludgeoned? That was the least Bernie could have told me.

At ten o’clock, I figured the law would have deserted the premises by now. I drove down to the Travis Hotel.

The same clerk was behind the counter, wearing the same shiny blue serge trousers. He had replaced the clean white shirt with a clean blue work shirt.

“I was in here a couple of days ago to see Luther Barnum,” I said, “and I just learned about—about what happened.”

He nodded. “I remember your visit, Mr. Callahan.”

“You know me?”

He smiled. “Of course. I watched you play many times when I lived in Los Angeles. Was Luther a friend of yours?”

“Not really. But I was wondering—is anybody going to pay for the funeral? Does he have relatives?”

“A cousin,” he told me. “She lives up in Veronica Village. Our manager has already notified her.”

“When did it happen?”

“Sometime last night. I wasn’t on duty. The night clerk is down at the station being questioned by the police right now.”

“How was he killed?”

“Poisoned liquor. Somebody must have brought it to his room. He never left the hotel yesterday.”

“Oh God!” I said. “I brought him a bottle when I came.”

“I know. I saw the bottle. That was whiskey. This was cognac. The bottle was still in his room.”

It was still short of eleven o’clock when I got to the station, but Bernie was in his office. So were Captain Dahl and a uniformed officer. I waited in the hall until they left.

Bernie looked up from behind his desk as I came in. “We’re waiting for a lab report,” he told me. “The paramedics who answered the call believe he was poisoned, but they’re not doctors.”

“Any solid suspects?”

He shook his head. “The night clerk said that if anybody went to Luther’s room, he didn’t stop at the desk first. That figures. It isn’t likely that the killer would announce himself.”

“I hope he isn’t going to be buried in a pauper’s grave.”

“He isn’t. The manager of the hotel said Luther’s cousin up there in Veronica Village enrolled Luther in that nonprofit memorial society in town here almost a year ago. There’ll be no funeral, so she won’t be coming down. He’ll be cremated.” He stood up and arched his back and rubbed his neck. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking—that Farini’s fine hand is involved in this?”

“No. Not in murder. Even the Bar Association wouldn’t stand still for murder. Joe couldn’t take the chance of hiring somebody who might be linked to him later.”

Bernie said wearily, “You’re probably right. Just the same, we’re going to interrogate Kronen and that Rafferty freak.”

“Who is the Rafferty freak?”

“That Farini stooge you decked. He threatened Luther, didn’t he, while you were in the room?”

“Not quite. All he said to Luther was ‘Who you squeaking to now’? The rest of his remarks were directed at me.”

“We’ll grill him anyway. And Kronen has beat up a stoolie before. We’ll sweat him, too.”

The lab report came in a few minutes later. The cognac had been laced with strychnine. Death by poisoning was the verdict. A man with Max’s connections might be able to buy strychnine at some pest-control store that didn’t require certification of its use. But he wouldn’t have added it to cognac. He had the reputation of keeping a sharp eye on expenses. And he had the experience to know that the Luther Barnum type would prefer fortified wine or blended corn.

I said, “We still can’t be sure who Max is working for, can we? We assumed he’s working for Farini because he
might
be on retainer to Farini’s brother-in-law. Up in Veronica Village I had to assume he was working for Allingham, because he had an appointment with him.”

“We’ll find out when we sweat him.”

“I doubt it. That is privileged information, and I’m sure Max knows it. But think of this—Max has no loyalty, except to the dollar, and Farini is famous as a double-cross artist.”

“Do you think Max could be playing double agent?”

“Farini is clever enough to have an agent in the enemy camp. And Max would sell out to the highest bidder. That makes him a logical choice for a double agent.”

Bernie yawned. “Tricky, isn’t it? It would take a trickier mind than mine to decipher it.”

“That is certainly true,” I agreed. “Well, I’ve got a date for golf this afternoon and I haven’t had lunch yet. See you around, Bernie.”

“Buddy!” he said.

“Don’t ‘buddy’ me,” I told him. “You never make it official. You and your damned hints, which you can deny making later to protect your own skin. Well, I have skin, too.”

“I’ve noticed,” he said. “And it’s so
thin!
How can it keep all that muscle from bursting through it?”

“Luck,” I said, and walked out, waiting for him to call me back.

He didn’t. That sly fox knew me. Or thought he did. I could change. I’d show him.

It was chance that brought me back to my former attitude. I was tooling along the freeway, heading for home, when I happened to notice this gray Volvo in front of me. There are a lot of those. This one bore the insignia of a San Fernando Valley car dealer on the frame around the license plate. There are more than a few of those, too.

But, two cars ahead, another gray car—an old Plymouth—was also cruising in the righthand lane. It looked like Corey’s car. I passed the Volvo and cut sharply back in front of it. The driver tooted his horn. I slowed down. When he tried to go around me, I moved over to block him. He leaned on his horn. I waved at him. It was Max.

Ahead, the gray Plymouth was taking the Lobero exit. I followed it, and the Volvo followed me. It was Corey’s car ahead; I could see the broken lens in the right taillight.

No traffic had followed us onto the ramp. Halfway up it, I cut over to the middle, as Corey’s car turned north on Lobero and headed for the hills.

I hit the brakes and heard the screech of the Volvo’s tires

Tom behind. I waved for Max to pull over on the flat stretch of grass to the right of the ramp. When he did, I pulled over in front of him and got out of my car.

His jowls were quivering, his small eyes blazing. “What in hell do you think you’re doing, Callahan?” he asked me.

“I’m protecting my young friend,” I said. “You were following Corey Raleigh.”

“So what? What makes it your business?”

“Max,” I said, “this is kind of an insular little town that Corey and I live in, and the police don’t like private investigators from L.A. who come up and bring trouble with them. I wanted to warn you.”

“No kidding? I imagine the police aren’t too crazy about you, either.”

“You’re wrong on that. Both Corey and I have connections with the department. And his uncle, a veteran in the department, was very annoyed when he learned you had threatened Corey’s father.”

“That’s a lot of crap. I talked with him. I never threatened him. If there were any threats, they were his. And I’ll ask you again, what makes it your business?”

“Well, you see, Corey and I often work together. I trained the lad. But he doesn’t have the beef you and I have, so I’m kind of his muscle man. And I remembered how you beat up hat poor little stoolie three years ago.”

“That stoolie,” he said, “pulled a knife on me.”

He put his left arm outside his car window. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. He showed me the long, jagged, livid scar that ran from his inner wrist all the way up to his inner elbow. He said, “He tried to kill me. Does your young friend carry a knife?”

“Not yet. Tell me, Max, are you working for Allingham or Joe Farini?”

“That’s none of your damned business and you know it.”

“I’m making it mine. The way I figure it, Norman Geller, Farini’s brother-in-law, probably recommended you.”

“You figure it any God-damned way you want, Irish. But neither you nor your cop friends have a right to ask me in this town or any other. What the hell is it with you? What’s your beef with me? You weren’t exactly Mr. Clean when you worked down in L.A.”

“My beef is Corey Raleigh, and I’ve warned you. Lay off the kid.”

“Drop dead,” he said, and started his engine. He swung out to pull around my car, and turned north on Lobero, just as Corey had.

I, too, took Lobero, the long route home. Max pulled into a filling station about a block from the ramp. I drove on.

Corey’s car was parked in front of the house when I got there. He got out of it as I drove into the driveway and met me as I got out of my car.

“Was that you,” he asked, “who stopped Kronen on the Lobero exit?”

“It was. Did you know he was tailing you?”

“Of course I knew it! I was going to lead him up into the hills and get him lost. He wouldn’t be able to find his way back for hours with all those crazy roads up there. God knows why he was tailing me. I’m not working today. The Bakers are in Los Angeles.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Were you tailing him?” Corey asked.

I shook my head. “I just happened to notice he was following you.”

“And you thought I didn’t know it? I saw his car down in Donegal Bay. He came to my house and tried to question my father. Why does he drive that Volvo you can spot from a mile away? Brock, I said if I needed you, I would call on you!”

I nodded humbly. “Come into the house. Well have lunch and a beer and a talk.”

T
HE LUNCH MRS. CASEY
served us was a little fancier than she provided when I ate alone—beef stroganoff. Mrs. Casey thinks Corey is the cutest thing that’s come along since Peter Pan.

I told him about the murder of Luther Barnum and added, “It could be involved with your case.” I went on to explain my counterblackmail theory and told him about meeting Kronen in front of the Allingham castle.

“If it’s that clean-cut,” he said, “the Allinghams against the Bakers, why would Mr. Baker pay me to shadow his wife?”

“That’s what’s puzzling Lieutenant Vogel and me. It could be that he’s using you more as a bodyguard than as a snoop. And we can’t figure out which side Kronen is on.”

“I hope he’s on our side,” Corey said. “I don’t have the muscle to be a bodyguard.”

He left right after lunch; he had to take his mother shopping. I phoned Bernie and told him about my encounter with Max Kronen. “Just so you’re prepared,” I said, “if he comes in and makes a complaint about me.”

“I thought you were going to play golf.”

“I am. In five minutes. I’m phoning from the pro shop.”

He laughed. “I’ll bet you are! Kronen won’t have to come in of his own volition. We’ll bring him in. Stay with it, citizen.”

He knows me too well, that man.

Threats and counterthreats, skulduggery, chicanery, lies, and evasions…And now murder. Luther Barnum had said that what he had told me was all he knew. Somebody must have thought he knew more. Or, possibly, Luther had learned more since my visit. Maybe somebody had offered him more money than I had. The killer certainly had brought him fancier booze.

I couldn’t believe he had been a principal in the cast, only a peripheral victim. If it hadn’t been for his relationship to Farini, his death would have occasioned minimal police interest. His only living relative had not traveled the forty miles from Veronica Village to arrange his funeral.

It was still early afternoon. I phoned Bernie again to learn the cousin’s name, but he was not in the office. I didn’t want to ask anyone else; I was not that popular at the station.

I climbed aboard my ancient steed and headed for Veronica Village. It was Friday and the weekend traffic was heavy: Los Angelenos heading for the clean air and open spaces. But we made it without strain in less than an hour.

A feminine voice answered the phone. I identified myself and said, “I’d like to speak with Mr. Allingham again. He knows me.”

“My father is out of town,” the voice said, “but I’ll see you, Mr. Callahan.”

Down with the drawbridge, up with the portcullis, back to the Middle Ages.

She met me at the door, a plain and full-bodied tall woman with eyes of dark blue. She was wearing a white linen skirt and tan blouse.

“Mrs. Baker?” I asked.

She smiled and shook her head. “Not anymore. I took back my maiden name after the divorce. My father told me of your previous visit. I’m sorry he isn’t here today. Come in.”