Noir(ish) (9781101610053) (5 page)

I didn't know that Los Angeles as well as I knew its darknesses, and I was more comfortable in them. Sometimes my life felt like a five o'clock shadow. It crept up on me and darkened my thinking like my late-afternoon beard darkened my jaws. But that was part of the job. Not a part I liked all that much. I grew up in Indiana. The sunshine there breeds optimism. I hadn't been a cynical kid. I wondered when that had happened. Maybe during the war. Maybe after I got out of the military hospital and watched the rest of it in the newsreels. And, maybe, it was the day I investigated my first case.

Or maybe it wasn't till a year ago, next Thursday.

I'd lived most of my adult life in Southern California. I was
used
to it, and I was particularly used to the heat and all the grimy shirt collars and clinging pants that came with it, but I'd never understood how anyone could
like
its swelter.
She
had, though. I
hmph
-ed.
I'll bet you don't get this kind of heat in Chicago
, I thought.
At least, not in winter
. I bet she hated it.

“I'll be back shortly, Mr. Grahame,” Gloria said, interrupting my thoughts.

“Okay. Oh—Gloria?”

She stopped, one hand on the doorknob. “Yes, Mr. Grahame?”

“Do you know anything about the Morning Star?”

She looked perplexed, then crestfallen. “Gee, Mr. Grahame, I don't,” she apologized. “I usually buy the
Daily News
.”

I resisted spreading the smile I felt crawling into my eyes. “I see.”

“I'll look for one while I'm out, if you want.”

“No. Thanks.” I turned away. I could resist only so long.

“Okeydokey.” Gloria opened the door. “Bye-bye.”

“Uh-huh. Bye.” The door closed behind her.

* * *

I picked up the Duryea file, glanced through my notes, and jotted a few new ones, including the contact list I'd made in my head that morning and the call I'd received last night. I had no idea what to make of it. I figured somebody had followed Miss Duryea to and from my office, but nothing she'd said suggested who that someone might have been. Except a friend of Dan Scott, which didn't make much sense, but a lot of things in this business don't seem to make sense—not at first, anyway.

I'd start by making a few inquiries around L.A., see what my contacts among Scott's peers in the insurance industry knew. Wally Dietrichson knew nearly everybody. I'd check a few of the nightspots since Miss Duryea suggested Dan Scott was fond of them until it was time to call Widmark: There were four hours till “thirteen thirty.” Gloria's use of military time amused me, particularly since she used it only for off-the-hour designations: thirteen thirty or fourteen forty-five, never thirteen or fourteen hundred; three or four o'clock, not fifteen or sixteen hundred. Yeah, she had some curious traits. She skipped lunch hours in favor of putting in the extra time at her desk; carried the largest purse I'd ever seen, even larger than Lizabeth Duryea's—and there was her musicianship. But I could live with her quirks. I had a few myself, and she was as dependable as Ted Williams with men on base and, besides, she was
just
my secretary. No matter what her aspirations might be.
That
was a mistake I didn't plan to repeat.

Gloria had barely had time to catch the elevator when the outside door opened and I saw two figures step through. One was small woman,
maybe
five feet, who would have been attractive if she weren't taking pains not to be. The word “doll” came to mind: the porcelain voodoo variety. She looked like she might be old enough to dress herself, but just barely. The other was a tall, wide, hard-looking man with no expression on his face. Both of them were dressed in dark men's suits and wore gloves—tight black leather gloves—and hats. Hers was a black derby; he had a little gray porkpie that looked like a rusty thimble perched on the head of Frankenstein's monster.

“Be with you in a minute,” I called.

“You Grahame?” the woman said.

“Be right there.”

“My name's Wilmah.” She strode into my office, the man a step behind her.

She had a heavy East Coast accent. Boston or thereabouts, probably. Walter Dietrichson was from there. I'd met Wally while I was getting some more work done on my stomach; we were hospital roommates. He was, and is, a class guy who had had about as much chance of walking again as a quarter horse had of winning the Kentucky Derby: He'd fallen off a moving train en route from L.A. to a class reunion in Palo Alto. But he'd survived, nothing but a limp and a cane, and I had laughed with him and his wife over a drink to celebrate his ten-thousand-dollar insurance check from Pacific All-Risk. Wally'd been an oil engineer. Now, like Dan Scott, he was selling insurance, somewhere in the Valley, for a firm called Dietrichson, Keyes and Neff. We went fishing together whenever we could.

“Wilma what?” I said.

The girl's stark white face suddenly looked like it had been pulled out of boiling water.

“Wil
mer
,” the big guy said.

He stood there, his hands hanging at his sides, looking like a mannequin that belonged in some store's big-and-tall department. Except mannequins have smiles. This guy looked like whoever'd made him had forgotten what they looked like and decided a grim-lipped deadpan would do instead. He had to be six feet five and two hundred sixty pounds. None of which was fat. If he'd been on Fordham's line, they wouldn't have needed the other six blocks of granite. “Wilmer,” he repeated.

I nodded. “Uh-
huh
.”

The girl jacked a nail-bitten thumb at Stone Giant standing behind her. “And Elisha,” she muttered contentiously, daring me to disagree. Without changing his expression, Elisha nodded once.

I put down my coffee—it was getting cold; I don't like cold coffee—and stood up behind my desk. “My secretary is out right now,” I told Wilma. “She'll be back in a few minutes, and when she
gets
back, she'll be happy to make an appointment for you. I'm kinda busy at the moment, so if you'd like to come back in half an hour or—”

“Elisha,” said Wilma.

The guy walked casually over to me, used one hand to lift me by the collar, stepped behind me, put me in a choke hold, lowered me to the floor, and stood there, calm as the barrel of a .38 just before someone squeezes the trigger, while I struggled—less to get away than to breathe.

“You know,” I squawked, “this isn't a good way to begin an investigator-client relationship.”

Wilma seemed unconcerned at the jeopardy. “Where's da package, Grahame?” she said.

I coughed. “What package?”

“Elisha,” said Wilma.

Elisha released my throat and pulled my arms behind me. Wilma, grinning, walked over and hit me in the stomach. She was tiny, but it hurt like heck and I gasped for breath. “Where's da package, Grahame?” she repeated.

Between gasps, I whispered, “My secretary. Took it to the bank. It's in my. Safety-deposit box. In their vault.”

Wilma grinned again. “No, it ain't.” She punched me in the stomach again.

I turned green, and my gut shriveled. I'm not at all fond of being hit, but my stomach was
the
place I really hated it: Even after five years, I could feel the bullet wounds. I clenched my teeth and managed, “Not bad, for a girl.”

“My faddah wanted a boy,” said Wilma.

I took as deep a breath as I could. “Too bad he got a weasel.”

Wilma punched me in the face. I didn't like that, either, and it hurt like heck, too. Small fist, all bone. I wondered that it didn't break on contact, a situation I'd remedy just as soon as I had the chance. I felt a trickle of blood flow down my cheek.

“Where—is—da package?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I insisted.

“Tough guy, huh.” Wilma raised her fist again. I winced; she lowered it with a laugh, then sighed. “I can tell we're gonna to have ta do it da hard way. Elisha?”

Elisha let go of my arms. I reached up to touch my face, but a hand—Elisha's—stopped me by chopping my neck. I fell down, hard. Wilma kicked me, hard. In my stomach. I groaned, loudly. “Make it quick,” she said to the big guy. “Da girl'll be back any minute. Frisk him, den look in da uddah office. I'll look in here.”

She rifled the desk while he searched me and my pockets. He found a Colt .38 in a shoulder holster, pulled it out, tossed it away, and continued to rummage, withdrawing and discarding my wallet, a few dollars in cash, a tin of aspirin, and a key ring with three keys—one to my apartment, one to the office, one to my desk—and an empty book of matches I kept so I'd have to look for one if I had an irresistible urge to light up. I figured the couple of extra minutes would give me the chance to resist. So far I'd figured right. At that moment, however, I would have happily lit one. If I'd been able to lift my head.

“Nothin',” said Elisha.

“Check out dere,” Wilma said, and pointed to the waiting room. Elisha clunked into it. I heard the clatter of overturning furniture and banging metal cabinet doors and the slamming of the drawers in Gloria's desk. Wilma finished with my desk, then overturned the boxes on the metal shelving and began on the file cabinets. It was a good thing I didn't have more cases; she pulled out everything in all of them and dumped it the floor—except the one that was locked. She pulled on its top drawer, then the second, then the first again. “Somethin' wrong wit' dis file?” she said.

Lying on the wood floor was uncomfortable, but I was beginning to feel like I would one day again be able to breathe like everybody else, and I was silently congratulating myself on the wisdom of not having eaten anything that morning. “Nothing, except it's locked,” I told her. “And I don't have the key.” I hadn't figured to need to get into that file this morning, so I'd left it at home—taped underneath Greenstreet's food dish with its partner.

“Locked,” said Wilma. “Oh.” She grinned. Her teeth were small and bucked; I could see her sinking them into a chunk of cheese as the spring released the hammer that snapped down and broke her neck. I'd have been happy to pick up the remains and toss them in the garbage.

She yanked the top drawer again. It barely rattled. “Elisha,” she called. “Come in here.”

“There's nothing in that file,” I told her again.

Wilma chuckled and kicked my hip. “Then open it.”

I groaned again. To heck with picking up the remains. I'd gladly supply the cheese. “Nuts. You open it, you want to see so bad. I don't have the key.”

“Okay. Elisha: Open it.” She tapped the file cabinet.

Elisha put one hand on the handle of the top drawer and pulled. Hard. The cabinet rocked toward him, but the drawer stayed closed. I grinned. He let go, took a breath, put the same hand on the same handle, then braced the cabinet with his free hand and a foot. He pulled again, harder. And grunted. The drawer snapped open. I stopped grinning.

“Hey!” I said. “That lock was expensive.”

Wilma looked at me. “Elisha,” she said. Immediately, Elisha took a step toward my prostrate and pained body.

“Okay, okay,” I said quickly. “I get the message.”

Wilma worked her way through each of the four drawers and found nothing. She turned to me, venom in her squint. “It's empty,” she hissed.

“I told you that.”

She walked toward me slowly and raised a foot. I winced again and rolled away. Yeah, I was beginning to feel better but I was also beginning to respect that foot. She might
look
twelve, but she kicked like a chorus girl who'd been working at it for years. “Last time: Where's da package, Grahame,” she said through her teeth.

I shook my head. “I—don't—know.”

Wilma shook hers. She let her foot drop harmlessly.

“Maybe, maybe he's tellin' the truth,” ventured Elisha. Well, well: Stone Mountain not only had a vocabulary but he could think, too.

The girl whipped around to face him. “
Da trut'?
” she barked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe I'm telling the truth. Some people do that, y' know.”

I braced myself, just in case, but Wilma just stood there. “Da trut',” she repeated. She spat past me, then looked at her watch. “We'll be back, gumshoe.”

“That's good to know, Wilma,” I said. “I'll try to have cheese danish next—”

“
My name is Wilmah!
” she shouted.

“Oh, yeah, it is. Do excuse me. Wilma.”

Her powdery face turned bright red again. “Why, you . . .” she began, pulled a .32 from her waistband, and cocked the hammer.

“Wilmer,” Elisha said sternly.

She looked at him. For a long moment, there was only the sound of the desk fan spinning uselessly. Then Wilma released the hammer and stood, glaring at me.

I had to laugh. “What's the matter, gunsel? Scared of a little gunfire?”

She fired. Amazingly, the bullet missed me and hit the leg of the desk. Splinters flew. I felt the hair on the back of my neck go stiff.

“Wilmer!” Elisha said again, a little more sternly. He did not move.

Wilma lowered her gun slowly, spat, and tucked it into her belt. She buttoned her jacket. Then she swung her leg at me.

I was ready. I grabbed it and she tumbled to the floor; her derby flew off. I climbed to my hands and knees and was pushing myself toward her when Elisha yelled, “Stop.”

I stopped. I looked at him. He was holding a .44 automatic, and I had no doubt his aim was better than Wilma's. I figured there was no use getting on the wrong side of a guy that big, especially when he was holding an automatic that was just as big as he was. Besides, he looked like he only
had
one side, and it was solid concrete. I stayed on my hands and knees. It was an old suit anyway.