JEAN stayed with Mary in the bedroom while Jack and I broiled the steaks and mashed the potatoes and made the coffee and heated the rolls. It was a quiet, gloomy meal and Jean scarcely touched her food. Nobody seemed to have anything to talk about. I was almost sorry I had come. After dinner, Jean and Jack left to make arrangements with a mortician and I helped Mary with the dishes. She was in a blue funk.
I told her, “When a man decides to get into the rackets, he knows there’s a strong possibility he will die a violent death. With anyone as belligerent as Tom Talsman it could happen early.”
“I’m not thinking of him. I’m thinking of Jean.” “They weren’t so close, were they?”
“As kids, they were very close. It was a great disappointment to Jean when she learned Tom was involved with hoodlums.”
“So she made up for it by leading a blameless life?”
Mary said tightly, “Easy, Puma. You’re on thin ice.”
“I’m asking you to be reasonable. If that puts me on thin ice, so be it. Your morals are a little confused, though, sister.”
“Go,” she said. “Leave.”
“Relax,” I told her.
She looked up and her eyes were agates. “I asked you to leave. Do I have to call the police to get you to leave?”
I put down the dish towel and reached out for her. She backed away, water from her wet hands dripping on the kitchen floor.
“Damn you, Joe, don’t touch me! I’ve had enough of you this evening. I want you to go right now.”
It wasn’t a time to argue. Nor, I felt, was it a time to leave her alone. I went out and sat in the Plymouth in front of her apartment. When Jack and Jean returned from the mortician, I left. There were a few places I could have gone and perhaps should have gone but I was tired and spiritless. I went home.
I stayed in the shower a long time, letting the stiff, warm spray massage the back of my neck and my taut shoulder muscles. Then I came out with a robe on and sat down with a can of beer to wait for the eleven o’clock news report on Channel Four. The commentator gave a little more than a minute of his time to the death of Tom Talsman and made no mention of the shouted lewdness. I finished the beer and went to bed.
The morning Times had a front page story on the Senate Interim Committee currently probing the private investigation racketeers in this area. The piece about Tom Talsman flanked this story and my name was prominently mentioned.
I had been damned by make-up proximity. A certain amount of unfavorable publicity is good for a private investigator’s business; we don’t get clients who would be better served by the police department. But connecting an investigator with any kind of Congressional committee was the road to bankruptcy in these frightened ‘fifties.
Perhaps Mary was right. Perhaps I should butter up my rich friend, Jack Ross, in the hope that he would make a place for me in his operations.
Motive, motive, automotive … I was trying to digest this with my Wheaties when the phone rang.
Mary said, “I’m sorry, Joe. I haven’t time to talk, but I had to take the time to tell you I was sorry.”
“Thanks for calling. You’re a sweet, warm, loyal girl and it would be a wonderful world if everybody was like you.”
“If everybody was like me,” she protested, “there wouldn’t be any men. And that would be a horrible, world.”
“Not for me. Take care of yourself. I’ll phone you later.”
Motive, motive, automotive … People always phoned me right after I had put the milk on my breakfast cereal and I always came back to a limp dish. Motive, motive, automotive … To hell with that. I read that Arno Eriksen was still in the hospital, though his condition was hearteningly improved. No success had been achieved in the search for his assailant.
What search? The newspapers hadn’t even been informed that Arno was one of the boys who had clobbered me. The only search, if any, being made for his assailant would be made by his partner. I hoped that Arno’s sidekick was still out of town and that they were not really close friends. Hoodlums aren’t likely to be out-foxed twice and there would be no financial complications limiting their next visit. They would be out for something simple, like revenge.
My headache was gone but my ribs were still sore. I washed my few dishes and shaved and went to the office. The mail consisted of one bill, no checks. A throwaway shoppers’ newspaper and two car dealers’ ads claiming to have many models priced below the “so-called low-priced three.”
It was another overcast day and I was at a dead end. A brighter man might have glimpsed the pattern by now; I sensed that the solution was about to bite me on the nose. Frustration and a feeling of insufficiency gnawed at me. The day’s dullness didn’t help. Well, the Department wasn’t being any more successful and they had thousands of men and acres of equipment. I had helped them more than they had helped me. Carry on, Puma, win, lose or draw.
I phoned the office of George Ryerson and Eileen Rafferty answered. I asked her, “Would it be possible for you to have lunch with me today?”
“Why should I? I’ve already been interrogated by the police.”
“About what?”
“About my — supposed relations with Mr. Ryerson. His widow has a nasty mind.”
“George might have given her reason to have a nasty mind. He wasn’t exactly a saint, you know.”
“And I’m not exactly an adulteress, Mr. Puma. I see no point in having lunch with you.”
“I’m single,” I argued, “and you could pick an expensive place to eat. What can you lose?”
A pause. And then her voice became warmer. “All right. I’ll meet you at Stormoff’s at one o’clock.
I replaced the phone and turned around in my chair to stare out at the sullen day. I thought of all the people I had questioned and had heard from and about, looking for relationships.
Finally, I took a piece of typing paper and printed each name in a separate box on it. Then, with lines, I connected the names that had obvious connections, such as Jean and Mary and Ross. I connected Greene with the hoodlums tentatively and the hoodlums with Talsman definitely. I put a tentative line between Eileen Rafferty and George Ryerson. I made the tentative lines light and the obvious relationships darker.
I was getting nowhere, but having fun, when Sergeant Lehner walked in. He seemed unhappy.
“Welcome,” I said. “I was about to make some coffee. Would you like a cup?” I went over to put the water on my hot plate.
He slumped down in my customer’s chair. “I thought it was about time we had an honest meeting of minds, Puma.” He paused. “And exchange of information.”
“You thought? Or your superior thought?”
He said evenly, “I’d like to talk without any of your sarcastic humor. Will that be possible?”
I nodded, and turned the plate to high. I came back to sit behind my desk. “What did you boys learn when you questioned Eileen Rafferty?”
“Not much. Except that it seems Mrs. Ryerson was pathologically jealous.”
“Even though she was back-dooring Ryerson?”
He nodded. “Those are the kind, I heard, who are the most jealous. The psychologists have a name for it.”
“Projection,” I supplied. “It’s a word Mrs. Ryerson gave me when she was explaining about George. He was jealous, too. How clear is she for the time her husband was killed?”
“Solid. The maid supports her and the maid isn’t exactly in her fan club. I suppose that’s where you got the lead to Colt, from the maid?”
“I suppose. How about this homo angle on Talsman?”
“If we picked up all the homos in this area, we’d have to fence off Griffith Park to hold them. It could tie Dennis Greene in, though. Did he threaten you yesterday?”
“No. He accused me of insolence. Otherwise, it was a friendly visit.”
Lehner rubbed his temples. “I thought you saved your insolence for us. Isn’t that water boiling yet?”
“Not yet, Sergeant. You know, if that other hoodlum thinks there’s a dollar in this business, he’ll be back to see me. And Eriksen, too, once he’s out of the hospital.”
He smiled dryly. “Even if there isn’t a dollar in this mess, either or both could be back because of the job you did on Eriksen. That’s what you’re really thinking.”
I looked at him innocently. “Didn’t Captain Jeswald explain that to you? I wasn’t the one who beat up Eriksen. Don’t you read the papers, Sergeant?”
He yawned. “Stop the bull, Puma. I’m glad I’m not you right now.”
“The Department will protect me,” I said. “I have a lot of faith in the Department. That water’s hot enough now.”
I took out two cups from a drawer of my desk and put some instant coffee into them. I poured the hot water and said, “No cream or sugar. Sorry.”
He leaned back and sipped the coffee. “Cozy, aren’t you? What do you charge the suckers, Puma?”
“A hundred a day.”
“Man, that’s thirty-six thousand a year, if you work every day.”
“It’s about nine thousand a year, net,” I said. “My best year was fourteen thousand. And that was because of bonuses for exceptional service. On my daily rate, I wouldn’t come near it.”
“It’s a lot more than I make,” he said.
“You could get a license and try it, Sergeant.”
He said nothing. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked gloomily past me, out the window.
“You’re nowhere in this case, aren’t you?” I asked. “Just like I am.”
His glance came back to meet mine. He didn’t speak. I returned the favor.
Finally, he said, “That Jean Talsman is a call girl, isn’t she?”
I hesitated between loyalty to Jean and the necessity of my staying in business. Thoughtfully, I said, “I’m beginning to think she was. Not any more, though. She’s marrying money.”
“Ross?”
I nodded.
“He’s clear enough, on Talsman. One of the men he played poker with is in the D.A.’s office.”
“He’s respectable,” I said. “He was never one of the mob.”
“He was never married, either, and he’s no kid.”
“I — mentioned that to him last night, Sergeant. And he pointed out that I was single, too.”
“You accused your client of being a homo? A hundred dollar a day client?”
“Not exactly. But when he first hired me, he insisted I investigate him as thoroughly as any suspect and I took him at his word.”
Lehner frowned. “Puma, that sounds like you’re almost honest. Wouldn’t that be suicide in this business?”
“Sergeant,” I said pompously, “complete honesty is suicide in any business, any marriage, any art or any relationship. I’m as honest as any in my profession and much more honest than the majority of them.”
“You might be, at that. For some reason, I could never get to like you.”
“I’m big and arrogant,” I explained. “And free from a time clock. It’s possible you envy me.”
Silence. He finished his coffee and stood up. “Everything you know is in these daily reports you send in?”
I nodded.
“Keep sending them in.”
I nodded. “Sergeant, I have no way of getting information from the Santa Monica Department. Would you pass on to me what you get from them?”
He nodded. Both of us had now lied to each other with nods, the mark of honest men.
He said, “Thanks for the coffee,” and went out looking no happier than he had at his entrance.
They had a line on Jean Talsman now and that could lead to Mary. Under police questioning, she might admit she had never hired me. My current semi-cooperation from the Department would cease if they learned anything about that.
I studied my primitive art work with the tentative and obvious relationship lines. I crumpled it and threw it in the wastebasket. To all of them, an investigator was a resented alien and they showed him only the surface of their personalities. The truth was deeper; the truth of murder would be buried deepest of all.
Around twelve-thirty, I headed for Stormoff’s, stopping at the bank on the way. I didn’t think the twelve dollars I had in my wallet was enough insurance against the hazard of a hungry girl at Stormoff’s.
The redhead was on time, arriving only a few minutes after I had. She wore a light green suit and her beautiful hair was piled high on her head. Not a masculine eye in the restaurant missed her. She ordered a double Martini and so did I. She relaxed in her chair and smiled at me as though we were friends.
“How’s business?” I asked.
“It will go on. George was the genius, but the new boss is bright enough.” She sipped some water. “By the way, one of our clients was asking about you this morning.”
“Which one?”
“Dennis Greene. Do you know him?”
“I met him once. What did he want to know about me?”
“He never told me. He asked if I knew anything about you and I said I knew nothing and that ended that.”
“Tell me, do you know much about him? I mean, is he — ”
She smiled and nodded. “I’m certain he is. A waste, isn’t it, such a rich and distinguished man without a woman to help spend his money.”
“I asked,” I explained, “because it was one of Greene’s men who beat me up. And then, yesterday, we uncovered a homo angle in Tom Talsman’s death.”
“Tom Talsman?”
“Don’t you know him?”
She shook her head. “Was that the man who was killed in Santa Monica yesterday?”
“That’s right. He came to see you the night before last, but you weren’t home.”
Her eyes widened. I couldn’t be sure if it was fright or amazement, but I was sure it wasn’t deception.
I asked quietly, “Are you sure you don’t know him?”
“I’m sure. Wait — isn’t that the man you asked me about Sunday morning?”
“It could be. I’ve forgotten.”
Silence. She sipped her drink and I sipped mine. Her face was more guarded now, her position in the chair more erect.
Finally, she asked, “How do you know this Talsman person came to see me when I wasn’t home?”
“The police were following him,” I lied. “I’m working closely with the Department on this business.”
She finished her Martini and looked at me. I ordered two more. We talked about a number of things after that and according to her knowledge of the Ryerson client list, none of the doubtful citizens George had serviced were unduly dissatisfied with the relationship.
“There were chances,” she said, “for George to engage in gouging and polite blackmail, but he resisted every one. I don’t know if it was his honesty or the reputations of his clients that kept him on the side of the angels, though.”
“You can’t think of any client with whom he had an unsatisfactory relationship?”
She paused, thinking. “Well, perhaps Dennis Greene could be the exception. I don’t know what it was, because George never talked about it, but there seemed to be an animosity between them.”
“Why did Greene stay with him, then?”
“Because George was familiar with Greene’s entire financial structure and that was important at tax time.”
“You don’t think it was Greene’s — oddness that bothered Ryerson?”
“No. Dennis Greene wasn’t our only unusual client. You must remember we have a lot of studio people.” She sniffed. “I could get rich, writing for those exposé magazines.”
“Maybe George did supply some of the magazines without your knowing it. Could that be possible?”
“It’s possible, but I doubt it. At any rate, I haven’t seen our clients mentioned in the magazines yet. And I doubt if the magazines would pay enough to George to make the possible loss of the client’s account a sensible risk.”
It was a good if expensive meal. Eileen Rafferty could be pleasant enough when she wanted to be and though I had learned very little for my money, it was good for my ego to sit in a fine restaurant with a girl as attractive as this one. The talk stayed trivial.
I drove her back to her office and she thanked me for the lunch and on impulse I asked her if it would be all right for me to phone her some evening.
“Why not?” she answered. “I haven’t anything wealthier breaking down my door at the moment.”
There was no reason for me to feel guilty as I drove back to the office. One weekend in Palm Springs didn’t make me a married man, or even, as Mary had pointed out, an engaged one.
I had a right to line up future potentials.