End of a Call Girl

I WENT out to the runway again and said gently, “We’ll use your phone. We don’t want to disturb anything in here.”

The thin woman put one hand on the wrought-iron railing. “Is he — Is Mr. Talsman — ”

This was Santa Monica. Hollywood is Los Angeles and so is Venice and Westwood, but Santa Monica is a municipality of its own, smug and snug and suspicious of outsiders who infringe on its apparent decorum. It is a town run completely from within and I didn’t have a friend on the force. It is a tight town, rough on outsiders.

I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t. A man was dead. I phoned the police and went out to the curb to wait for them. A patrol car came first. One uniformed man stayed with me; the other went up to Talsman’s apartment.

“No.” I showed him the photostat. “I came to see the man.” I told him about the lady and the dog and my going down to get the key. I said, “I’m sure this is tied up with the murder of George Ryerson. I wish you would phone Captain Jeswald at the Hollywood Station and tell him about this.”

“A private investigator? Man, what won’t they think of next in that town?”

“It’s a big town,” I explained. “They can’t afford the coverage you boys can get in a little hamlet like this.”

He looked at me resentfully. “Eighty thousand people? That’s no hamlet.” He nodded toward the apartment. “We’ll wait up there.”

Five minutes later, I was repeating my story to a detective-sergeant named Faust, a tall thin man with gray hair and tobacco-yellowed teeth. He didn’t look like he was believing much of it.

When I had finished, he asked, “You say you’re working with the Los Angeles Police Department? But for a client, no doubt?”

“Yes, Sergeant. A Mr. Jack Ross of Palm Springs.” “And what’s his interest in Ryerson’s murder?” “I’m not sure.” He looked at me skeptically.

I protested, “The Los Angeles Department didn’t think there was anything unusual about that.”

He nodded contemptuously. “Puma, you’re not in Los Angeles, now. You know that, don’t you?”

He beckoned to one of the uniformed men. When the officer came over, Faust said, “Take this man down to Headquarters and hold him there until I come back.”

“Wait — ,” I suggested. “Why don’t you phone Captain Jeswald from here?”

At Headquarters, I sat with the uniformed man in a small room on the sunny side of the building. He didn’t have any conversation to offer and there was nothing to look at in the room. I smoked and thought about Tom Talsman.

In a little less than half an hour, Sergeant Faust came into the room. “All right,” he said, “I phoned your Captain Jeswald.”

“And he’s sending a man out for you. Something about an assault charge in Venice.” He turned to the uniformed man. “Keep an eye on him.”

My old fraternity brother, Captain Horace Jeswald, was fuming. He glared at me from behind his desk. “Who do you think you are? That man has internal hemorrhages. Who do you think you are — God?”

“I work for Him,” I answered calmly. “What man are you talking about, Captain?”

“You know what man I’m talking about. Eriksen. Don’t try to con me, Puma; he told us who assaulted him.”

“I wouldn’t ever call you a liar, Captain,” I said, “but I will bet you ten dollars to ten cents that Arno Eriksen didn’t tell any police officer that I assaulted him.”

He said ominously, “Are you denying it?” I nodded. “Take me to him. Let him make identification. I’m ready to go, right now.”

I reminded him quietly, “I give you Colt and Eriksen and Talsman. I don’t turn around without informing you. And you’re dying to throw me into the can on an assault charge. I’ve had it, Captain. I’m withdrawing from the case right now.”

He took a deep breath. “You son-of-a-bitch — You and your fraudulent humility and your phoney sensitivity. As if I didn’t know you. If you didn’t bounce Eriksen around, who did?”

“I don’t know, but I could guess. His partner.” “No kidding? And while you’re guessing, could you guess why?”

I took out the twenty thousand dollar check and put it on his desk. I said, “I was ready to offer that to Eriksen and his buddy for the name of the man who hired them. I figured them for hired help. Eriksen told me there wasn’t any reason to split; his partner was out of town. The way it turned out, I guess his partner didn’t stay out of town.”

I took out the note that had been taped to my steering wheel and put it on his desk next to the check. “I found this in my car and went out to Venice. The door was open and Eriksen tied up in the house. He told me to get to Talsman in a hurry, and that’s exactly what I did.”

“You could have untied him in the time it took to make that phoney call to the Venice Station and the call to me.”

“I didn’t think untying him was as important to his health as getting medical help there in a hurry.”

He puffed on his pipe and read the note. He looked up and said, “I hope you don’t think I believe a damned word of all this nonsense?”

“Take me to Eriksen,” I said calmly. “Let him make identification and then you can book me. I’ve told you my story.”

He said nothing, staring uncomfortably at the note and the check. Finally, he handed them both back to me. “You were correct about Eriksen; he didn’t name you. But he’ll be out of the hospital one of these days and his partner is still around. Perhaps they’ll do the job on you we can’t.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “No, no, of course not. It’s been a bad day. Get out of here.”

I stood up. “Eriksen is scum, remember that. You’re confusing him with a citizen.”

He looked at me unwaveringly. “At the moment, I’m running down a rumor that this Jean Talsman was a call girl. She and her roommate are going to be thoroughly investigated. I don’t believe the roommate ever hired you.”

“Think what you must,” I said, “and then balance it against the knowledge that I gave you Colt and Eriksen and led you to the body of Talsman. Judge me completely, when you start, Captain.”

He looked at his pipe and he looked at his desk and he finally looked at me. “Okay, okay, you could be right. Now will you beat it?”

I left him with his pipe and his conscience and went out into the rush-hour traffic of Hollywood. Carbon monoxide from a million belching tail-pipes poured smog into the Los Angeles Basin. My eyes smarted as I looked out at the yellow pall highlighted by the setting sun. The corn-belt refugees who complained about it the most were the people who were actually responsible for it. This area was growing too fast.

I went back to my office, which was in another separate municipality, the millionaire’s haven called Beverly Hills. There, I tore up the bogus check and filed Eriksen’s note. Then I typed the story of my adventure since last I sat at this desk. The bit about Eriksen at the house in Venice I fictionalized, as a copy of this report would be going to Captain Jeswald.

I took two aspirin and sat by the window, watching the sun go down and the traffic dwindle. I was ashamed of my part in that Venice violence; I tried to rationalize it away by telling myself I hadn’t been mentally sound since leaving the hospital. But though I could lie to others with fair success, I had never properly learned to lie to myself with conviction.

Below my window now, an Imperial was pulling to the curb in front of the building entrance. A man of about sixty got out on the curb side; a heavier, younger man got out from behind the wheel on the street side. I thought I recognized the older man; I went back to my desk.

I heard their footsteps on the stairs and coming down the hall. I pretended to be absorbed in my reports, though my.38 was in a handy desk drawer and the drawer was open.

It says “Enter” on the frosted glass of my office door and that’s what they did. I looked up and stared at the older man.

The other man lifted his eyebrows. Greene’s face showed nothing. He asked mildly, “How did you know?”

He winced wryly. “Ouch! Absurd farce, wasn’t it?” The other man smiled. I said nothing.

The younger man stiffened; Greene remained calm. Greene asked, “Would you answer some questions for us?” “Ask them, and I’ll decide.”

The younger man growled something and Greene turned to him. “Wait in the car.”

He came over to sit in my customer’s chair. He settled himself comfortably and said, “Arno Eriksen has worked for me from time to time. I haven’t had any need for his rather narrow talents recently, but I retain a sentimental interest in his welfare and try to find him work when I can. I thought perhaps his trouble with you might concern me.”

“It might,” I said. “He and his partner offered me twelve hundred dollars to stop investigating the Ryerson murder. When I refused, they put me into the hospital. When I came out, Eriksen approached me again and I offered to buy some information from him.” I leaned back. “And he fell for it.”

He shook his head, looking at me thoughtfully. “Not exactly, and certainly not on this bit of violence. Mr. Puma, believe me, I had nothing to do with your misfortune or the Ryerson murder.”

“You know I can’t do that. I want you to know they were free lancing and that murder is never any part of my operations.”

“Unless it’s necessary,” I added. “Are you going to keep that pair from bothering me again?”

“I can assure you they’ll not trouble you again.” I smiled. “In writing, Mr. Greene?”

“Only one question and I know most private investigators resent it — but would you want to tell me the name of your client?”

“Ah, yes … I know Jack very well. Give him my best, won’t you, when you see him?”

“I’m not sure your best would be good enough,” I said, “but I’ll forward it.”

For an unmasked moment, he must have forgotten his advanced age and current respectability. Because he said hoarsely, “Some of your humor, Puma, borders on insolence.”

“All the better humor is based on disrespect,” I explained to him. “You’re a rich man today, Mr. Greene, and probably admired in a number of pseudo-respectable circles. But too many widows have reason to remember what you really are. And now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to work.”

He went out without answering and I did what I should have done two hours ago. I phoned Palm Springs.

Jack Ross wasn’t there; I talked with Leonard. I told him, “I should have phoned earlier, but I’ve been kept busy. Does Jack know Jean’s brother was murdered?”

“I see. Leonard, do you know Dennis Greene?” “I guess everyone knows him, Mr. Puma. Why do you ask?”

“He claimed to be a good friend of Jack’s. It was a pair of Greene’s hoodlums who clobbered me yesterday.”

“Mr. Greene was never a good friend of Mr. Ross’s. You can be sure of that, Mr. Puma. Mr. Greene is a name-dropper.”

I hung up and added Greene’s visit to my report of the day. When he had appeared before the Kefauver Committee, some newspaper wag had labeled Greene “Dennis the Menace” and that had reputedly been a bigger blow to his ego than being summoned by the Committee. He certainly acted like a man who took himself seriously.

I phoned the Hollywood Station and was told Captain Jeswald had gone home. I phoned him at home and told him about Greene’s visit.

“I’ll have him brought in in the morning,” he said wearily. “Tonight, I’m going to rest.”

“Captain, I think we’re finally getting somewhere. The creatures are beginninng to crawl out of the woodwork. Somebody will break.”

“An ice pick. The temple, again. Though I just a few minutes ago got a report from Santa Monica that he’d been fed chloral hydrate, too. In alcohol. Which should mean he had been drinking there in the apartment with somebody.”

“Combined with an ice pick, cream puffs will kill you. He died about eleven o’clock last night. Where were you at eleven o’clock last night, Puma?”

I thought of a nasty crack in answer, but didn’t voice it. He’d had a bad day.

I phoned Mary and told her Jack and Jean were on the way to town and asked her if Jean had phoned.

“Yes. They’re going to stay here. Why don’t you come over for dinner? They’ll be here by eight and we’ll eat then.”

“Maybe Jean wouldn’t want company.” “I think she would. Could you pick up some steaks? I’ll pay you for them when you get here.”

Those had been the kindest words I’d heard today. I hung up gratefully and went down to the washroom to wash my face and brush my teeth.

It had been a hectic day, climaxed by the violence in Santa Monica. That murder was Santa Monica’s and though I was certain it was tied up with Ryerson’s death, it seemed likely I would have trouble getting any information out of the bay city Department.

Trouble, hell; without the intervention of some powerful friend, it would be impossible. Even the Los Angeles Department would have trouble getting information out of Santa Monica.

The steaks I bought were filets and I wouldn’t accept Mary’s money for them. As I explained to her, we had eaten the finest and guzzled the best in Palm Springs. This was a small payment on that.

“Maybe,” Mary mused, “he could give you a good job and you could afford a wife.”

“That isn’t the kind you’d want. Do you know how to make a decent Martini? With some vermouth in it. I don’t mean one of those tinted gin things.”

“Yes’m,” I said. “Tom Talsman was killed with an ice pick. Does Jean know that?”

“I’ve no idea and I’m certainly not going to ask her. The paper said something about his being drugged, too.”

“The Santa Monica Outlook, natch. For local news you have to read a local paper.” She nodded toward the living room. “It’s on the coffee table in there.”

I put the Martini glasses in the freezer section of the refrigerator and went into the living room to read the Santa Monica Outlook.

There was very little there I didn’t know. There was, however, one paragraph that was news to me. I read:

Mrs. Castle, a new tenant in the building, has the apartment next to Talsman’s. She stated that between ten and eleven o’clock she heard some murmuring in the next apartment and then heard one shouted lewd remark and the talking ceased. The police have refused to reveal the shouted words but it might be significant that an immediate roundup of the known deviates who patronize the pier section known, to our local shame, as “Queer’s Alley” got underway immediately after Mrs. Castle’s statement.

From the kitchen, Mary asked, “How about that bit regarding our local shame. I don’t think its existence would ever be publicly admitted.

“Some do, not all. Tom didn’t seem like — one of those, did he? You had better hide that paper. I don’t want Jean to see it.”

I brought the paper out to the kitchen and she put it in the wastepaper basket. I suggested, “Maybe Tom did the shouting. Maybe it was his visitor who was queer.”

“It doesn’t state he didn’t. And a new tenant might not know Tom’s voice. You know, this brings me back to Leslie Colt. A lot of those muscle men are double-gaited. And he certainly lived close enough to that house on Gallo where I met Eriksen. This Colt was released too soon.”

“Take it easy,” Mary advised me. “You don’t even know what the remark was. And you don’t know who shouted it, Tom or his visitor.” She smiled and patted my cheek.

“I don’t want you to go off half-cocked. Your Latin temperament gives you a tendency to go charging in without thinking things through first.”

I leaned against the refrigerator and watched her make the salad dressing. Her hand trembled as she poured the oil.

She stared at me. “Ye gods! Jean’s my best friend and she’ll be here in an hour. And her brother was just killed. I simply don’t know what to say or do.”

She continued to stare at me. “Puma you’re not playing Dick Tracy at the moment, are you? Not now?” I shook my head.

“If I really thought you were,” she said, “you’d be wearing this salad dressing.”

“Your Latin temperament is getting the best of you,” I said calmly. “Couldn’t I have a sandwich or something? I can’t wait until eight o’clock to eat. I’ll get sick.”

I made a ham sandwich and warmed the left-over coffee. I ate in the dining area in a chair that faced the kitchen. I liked to watch Mary move. I like to watch any attractive and poised female move. They make an art of it.

If Tom Talsman had been killed by the same person who killed George Ryerson, Tom’s death should help to delineate a path to the killer. The path was no clearer to me. The perversion angle opened new lines of investigation, but they might be confined to Santa Monica. Where I had no influential friends.

I sipped my coffee. Mary stood with her back to me, facing the sink. I saw her shoulders tremble and I got up immediately and went over swiftly to put my arms around her. She began to cry.

She dried her eyes and kissed me. “I’ll be all right.” She put her long, slim fingers to my lips.

She was drying her eyes again when the door chime sounded. Three seconds later, she was crying once more, as Jean and she held each other and sobbed.

Jack Ross looked at me uncomfortably and I returned the gaze with the same discomfort. He went to the kitchen, and I followed.

In the kitchen, he poured a stiff jolt of whisky and drained it in one gulp. He expelled his breath and looked at me. “I’ve a feeling Jean is leary about me.” He poured another drink. “I came to town last night, you see. It was a poker game.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Why not? Jean wasn’t feeling well and she wanted to go to bed early. And this was a gang I love to tangle with.” He sipped his second drink. “A game every three months; is that too much, Joe?”

“It’s unfortunate it was last night. Captain Jeswald asked me a few hours ago where you were last night.”

“Well, I’ll have all the witnesses to that I’ll need. And I’m sure they’re solid enough to impress your Captain Jeswald, whoever he is.”

He smiled wryly. “Dennis the Menace? Everyone knows him, that lavender lovely.” “He’s queer — ?”

Ross shrugged. “Who knows? Who can ever be positive? He never married and the nasty rumors about him have remained constant for a number of years.”

“Greene claimed to be a good friend of yours when he came to see me. He asked me to send you his best.”

“Homosexuality has reared its repulsive head.” I told him about the account in the Outlook and asked him if he knew any police officer in Santa Monica.

“No, but I know a reporter on the paper there.” He went to get the phone book. He found the reporter at home and asked him if he knew what the shouted remark was. He had the man repeat it for my benefit. The remark was: “ — you stinking homo, I know what you’re planning — ”

“Nobody knows. A few of the local fags claim to have known Talsman well, but what does that prove? Some of my best friends are fags. And I’ve got five kids.”

When I hung up, Jack Ross was staring out into the dining area, lost in thought.

I said, “Jean will snap out of it. She really couldn’t have loved him so much, or she would have seen him oftener.”

EIGHT