"Salzer's a good friend to the police. Sure, I know he runs a racket up at that sanatorium. But there's nothing illegal in it." He lowered his voice, went on, "Where the hell do you think Brandon got his Cadillac from? A Captain of Police's money doesn't run to a job like that. And another thing: Maureen Crosby put Brandon's kid through college, and she takes care of Mrs. Brandon's doctor's bills. You picked on two of Brandon's best patrons."
"I guessed there must be something like that to throw Brandon into such an uproar," I said. "Look, Tim, did Salzer really report his car stolen?"
"Yeah, I took the call myself."
"What are you going to do about this killer? Anything or nothing?"
"Why, sure. We're going to find him. I know what you're thinking, Vic, but you're wrong. Salzer's too smooth to get mixed up in a killing. You can count him out."
"Well, okay."
"And watch out. That stuff about a beating wasn't fiction. You won't be the first or the last guy who's had his ears smacked down because Brandon doesn't like him. I'm telling you. Watch out."
"Thanks, Tim. I'll watch out, but I can take care of myself."
Mifflin rubbed his shapeless nose with the back of his hand.
"It's not that simple. You start fighting back and you get caught with a police-assault rap.
They'll fake a charge against you and take you in, and then the crew boys will really go to town on you."
I patted his arm.
"Don't let it worry you. It's not going to worry me. Anything else?"
Mifflin shook his head.
"Just watch out," he said, opened his office door, peeped up and down the passage to make sure the coast was clear and then waved us out.
We went down the stone stairs into the lobby. Two big plain-clothes men lounged by the double doors. One of them had fiery red hair and a white flabby face. The other was thin and as hard looking as a lump of rusty pig iron. They both eyed us over slowly and thoughtfully, and the red-headed one spat accurately at the brass spitoon six yards from him.
We went past them, down the steps into the street.
II
At the back of Orchid Buildings there is a narrow alley, used primarily as a parking lot for cars belonging to the executives and their staffs working in the building, and at the far end of the alley you will find Finnegan's bar.
Mike Finnegan was an old friend of mine: a useful man to know as he had contacts with most of the hoods and con men who arrived in Orchid City, and any shady activity that happened to be cooking he knew about. Some years ago I had taken a hand in a little argument between Finnegan and three toughs whose ambition at that time was to poke Finnegan's eyes out with a broken whisky bottle. Finnegan seemed to think if it hadn't been for me he would have lost his sight, and he was embarrassingly grateful.
Besides a source of useful information, Finnegan's bar was also a convenient after-officehours meeting-place, and, guessing Kerman would be there, I parked the Buick outside and went in with Paula.
It was a little after eleven o'clock, and only a few stragglers remained up at the counter. Jack Kerman lolled at a corner table, a newspaper spread out before him, a bottle of Scotch
within easy reach. He looked up and waved.
As we crossed the room, I flapped a hand at Finnegan, who gave me a broad smile. Finnegan would never win beauty prize. Built like a gorilla, his battered, scarred face as ugly as it was humorous, he looked a cross between King Kong and a ten-ton truck.
Kerman rose to his feet and gave Paula an elaborate bow.
"Imagine you coming to a joint like this," he said. "Don't tell me you've left your vinegar and repressions locked up in the office safe."
"Skip it, Jack," I said, sitting down. "Things are popping. Before I tell the tale, have you anything for me?"
Before he could answer Finnegan arrived.
"Evening, Mr. Malloy. Evening, Lady."
Paula smiled at him.
"Another glass, Mike," I said. "I'll help Kerman finish the Scotch." I looked at Paula. "Coffee?"
She nodded.
"And coffee for Miss Bensinger."
When Finnegan had brought the glass and the coffee and had gone back to the bar, I said, "Let's have it."
"I saw Joan Parrnetta," Kerman said, and rolled his eyes. "Very nice; very lush." He made curves in the air with his hands. "If it hadn't been for the butler who kept popping in and out, a beautiful friendship might have developed." He sighed. "I wonder what it is about me women find so attractive?"
"Your lack of intelligence," Paula said promptly. "It's a change for women to talk down to men."
"All right, break it up!" I said sharply, as Kerman began to rise slowly from his chair, his hand reaching for the whisky bottle. "Never mind what she looks like. What did she say about Janet?"
Kerman resumed his seat, glaring at Paula.
"She said she was the most surprised person on earth to hear Janet had died of heart failure. Two days before she died, she played tennis with the Parmetta girl, and wiped the floor with her. Does that sound like heart trouble?"
"Anything else?"
"I asked her about this guy Sherrill. He's out of town, by the way. I didn't see him. Joan Parmetta said Janet was madly in love with Sherrill. They saw a lot of each other. Then a week before Macdonald Crosby's death Sherrill stopped going to the house, and the engagement was broken off. There was no reason given, and even Joan, who was intimate with Janet, didn't get the lowdown, although she fished for it. Janet said they had a disagreement, and she didn't want to talk about it."
"Did she say what kind of a guy this Sherrill was?" Kerman shrugged.
"She only met him a few times. She said he was handsome, has no idea what his job is, whether he has money or not. He has a house on Rossmore Avenue. Small, but nice. A Chinese girl looks after the place." He blew a kiss to the ceiling. "She's nice, too. I didn't get much out of her, though. She had no idea when Sherrill would be back. The guy lives well and must be making money. There was a Cadillac the size of a battleship in the garage, and the garden looked as if plenty of dough had been spent on it. There was a swimming-pool, too, and the usual lush trappings; all on the small side, but very, very nice."
"That the lot?" Kerman nodded.
Briefly I told him of my call on Eudora Drew, how Big Boy had arrived, of the murder and my interview with Brandon. He sat listening, his eyes growing rounder and rounder, his drink forgotten.
"For the love of Pete!" he exploded when I had finished. "Some evening! So what happens? Do we quit?"
"I don't know," I said, pouring myself another drink. "We'll have to return the money. To do that we'll have to find out who takes care of the estate. It's a certain bet Maureen doesn't. She must have lawyers or some representative who takes care of her affairs. Maybe we can find that out from Crosby's will. I want to have a look at Janet's will, too. I want to find out if she left Eudora any money. If she didn't, where was Eudora's money coming from? I'm not saying we're not going on with this; I'm not saying we are. We'll get a few more facts, and then decide. We'll have to be very careful how we step. Brandon could make things difficult."
"If we return the money the case should be closed," Paula said. "There's no point in working for nothing."
"I know," I said. "All the same this set-up interests me. And, besides, I don't like taking orders from Brandon.'' I finished my drink and pushed back my chair. "Well, I guess we'd better break this up. I could do with some sleep."
Kerman stretched, yawned and stood up.
"I've just remembered I have to take the Hofflin kids to Hollywood to-morrow morning," he said, grimacing. "A personally-conducted tour of Paramount Studios. If it wasn't for the chance of seeing Dot Lamour I'd be fit to climb a tree. Those three brats terrify me."
"Okay," he said. "You'll be back the day after tomorrow?"
"Yeah. If I'm still in one piece."
"I'll have made up my mind by then what we're going to do. If we do go ahead, we'll have to put in some fast, smooth work. Hang on a moment. I want a word with Mike."
I went over to the bar where Finnegan was lazily polishing glasses. An old roué and his blonde were just leaving. The blonde looked at me from under spiked eyelashes and winked. I winked back.
When they were out of ear-shot, I said, "There's a guy who's been tailing me, Mike. Big, built like a boxer; squashed ear and nose, wears a fawn-coloured hat with a cord around it. Smokes a cheroot and looks tough enough to eat rusty nails. Ever seen him?"
Mike rubbed the tumbler he was holding, raised it to the light and squinted at it. Then he placed it carefully on the shelf.
"Sounds like Benny Dwan. It's a cinch it's Benny if his breath smells of garlic."
"I never got that close. Who's Benny Dwan?"
Mike picked up another glass, rinsed it under the tap and began to polish it. He could be annoyingly deliberate when answering questions. He didn't mean anything by it; it was just his way.
"He's a tough torpedo," he said, squinted at the glass and polished some more. "Got a job up at Salzer's sanatorium. He was a small-time gambler before he joined up with Salzer. Served a five-year stretch for robbery with violence back in 1938. He's supposed to have settled down now, but I doubt that."
"What's he doing at Salzer's sanatorium?" Mike shrugged.
"Odd jobs: cleans cars, does a bit of gardening, stuff like that."
"This is important, Mike. If it is Dwan, he's up against a murder rap."
Mike pursed his thick lips in a soundless whistle.
"Well, it sounds like him. I've seen him in that hat."
I went over the description again, in detail and carefully.
"Yeah," Mike said. "That sounds like him all right. He's never without a cheroot and his nose and right ear are flattened. Must be the guy."
I felt vaguely excited.
"Well, thanks, Mike."
I went back to the other two who had been watching me from across the room.
"Mike's identified Big Boy," I told them. "He's a guy named Benny Dwan, and guess what: he works for Salzer."
"Isn't it marvellous how you find things out?" Kerman said, grinning. "So what are you going to do?"
"Tip Mifflin," I said. "Wait a second, will you? I'll call him now."
They told me at Police Headquarters that Mifflin had gone home. I turned up his home telephone number in the book and put the call through. After a delay, Mifflin's voice came over the line. He sounded sleepy and exasperated.
"This is Malloy," I told him. "Sorry to wake you up, Tim, but I'm pretty sure I can identify the guy who rubbed out Eudora Drew."
"You can?" Mifflin's voice brightened. "Say, that's fine. Who is he?"
"Benny Dwan. And get this, Tim. He works for Salzer. If you go out to the sanatorium right now you might lay your hooks into him."
There was a long, heavy silence. I waited, grinning, imagining Mifflin's expression.
"Salzer?" he said at last. His voice sounded as if he had a mouth full of hot potatoes.
"That's right. Brandon's little pal."
"Are you sure about this?"
"Yeah. Anyway, I'll identify him for you, and so will Paula. We'd be glad to."
"You will?" Indecision and agony crept into his voice.
"Sure. Of course, Salzer may be annoyed, but apart from Brandon, who cares about Salzer?"
"Aw, hell!" Mifflin said in disgust. "I'll have to have a word with Brandon. I'm not stirring up that kind of trouble."
"Go ahead and have a word with him. Be sure to tell him I'm phoning the night editor of the Herald with this story. I wouldn't like Dwan to slip through your fingers because Brandon doesn't want to upset his little pal."
"Don't do that!" Mifflin yelled. "Listen, Vic, for God's sake, don't go monkeying with the press. That's something Brandon won't stand for."
"Pity, because that's what I'm going to do. Tell him, and get after Dwan unless you want the press to get after you. So long, Tim," and while he was still yelling I hung up.
Paula and Kerman had come over to the phone booth and were listening.
"Got him in an uproar?" Kerman asked, rubbing his hands.
"Just a little hysterical. They don't seem anxious to annoy Salzer." I dialled, waited, then, when a man's voice announced, "Herald Offices", I asked to be put through to the night editor.
It took me about two minutes to give him the story. He accepted it the way a starving man accepts a five-course lunch.
"Salzer sort of pampers Brandon," I explained. "I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't try to hush this up."
"It won't be my fault if he succeeds," the night editor said with a ghoulish laugh. "Thanks, Malloy. I've been looking for a club to beat that rat with. Leave it to me. I'll fix him."
I hung up and moved out of the booth.
"Something tells me I've started a little trouble," I said. "If my bet's right, Brandon won't have pleasant dreams to-night."
"What a shame," Kerman said.
III
Drive North along Orchid Boulevard, past the Santa Rosa Estate, and eventually you will come to a narrow road which leads to the sand dunes and my cabin.
As a place to live in, it's nothing to get excited about, but at least it's out of ear-shot of anyone's radio, and if I want to yodel in my bath no one cares. It is a four-room bungalow made of Canadian knotty pine with a garden the size of a pocket handkerchief, kept reasonably tidy by Toni, my Filipino boy. A hundred yards from my front door is the blue Pacific Ocean, and at the back and to the right and left are scrub bushes, sand and a halfcircle of blue palmetto trees. It is as lonely and as quiet as a pauper's grave, but I like it. I have lived and slept there for more than five years, and I wouldn't care to live or sleep anywhere else.
After I had left Finnegan's bar, I drove along the sandy road, heading for home. The time was twenty minutes to midnight. There was a big water-melon moon in the sky, and its fierce white rays lit up the scrub and sand like a searchlight. The sea looked like a black mirror. The air was hot and still. If there had been a blonde within reach it would have been a romantic night.
