The Third Figure (14 page)

“The Prescott Motel.”

“Okay. Thanks for the snack. If you don’t get both legs broken, why don’t you come out to the house for dinner tonight?”

“Thanks, Dick. But to be honest, I’d as soon get this business finished and get back to San Francisco. The longer I’m here, the jumpier I get.”

“I see what you mean. All right, I’ll be in touch.”

“Thanks again.” I stood for a moment watching him stride away. I was turning toward my car when I caught a brief glimpse of a familiar profile in the driver’s seat of a white sedan parked halfway down the block. It was Carrigan. The large nose and protuberant eyes were unmistakable.

I
LEFT DICK GROSS
about 4:30, got into my car and for the next fifteen minutes aimlessly drove, watching Carrigan’s white sedan in the rear view mirror. He made no particular effort at concealment; he drove directly behind me rather than allow the usual one or two cars between. As I watched him, I became increasingly annoyed. He must know that his presence endangered me. Yet he obviously didn’t care.

I noticed that the traffic was becoming much heavier as the rush hour approached. On an impulse I turned onto a convenient freeway, with no idea where it led. Quickly I accelerated, watching Carrigan follow, but now with a car between. I was in the right-hand lane; ahead was a turnoff. I waited until the last safe moment, then took the turnoff. As I swung into the cloverleaf, I could still see the white sedan in my mirror, two cars behind. I stayed on the cloverleaf, then cut in front of a furniture van. With the van shielding me, I turned back onto the freeway, going in the opposite direction. It worked. Smiling, I lit a cigarette and then settled back, switching on the radio. As I did, I noticed a Malibu sign. In all the years I’d lived in California, I’d never been to Malibu, just a few miles down the road. Now, I decided, was the time for a good seafood dinner, preceded by a martini, accompanied by a good bottle of wine and followed by cognac.

All during my excellent dinner the puzzle of Dominic Vennezio’s murder ceaselessly revolved in my thoughts. Who would have murdered him, then called the police? Certainly no one in organized crime. Certainly no one hoping to gain directly by the murder. And how should I interpret my last night’s vision? Who was the woman? What was her actual role in the ghostly tableau? Had she been a grim, silent witness—or a conspirator, directing the assassin?

Who was the woman? Charlene? Her mother? Mrs. Hanson? And what of the theory that the murderer had actually aimed the crime at Mrs. Hanson? According to that theory, Mrs. Hanson could have been the cloaked figure on the beach, but she might have been an unwilling spectator, tortured and tormented, responding to the murderer’s diabolical whim.

Who, then, would have desired both the death of Dominic and the anguish of his mistress? Aidia Vennezio, my employer, was an obvious suspect. But there were others—Charlene, perhaps, aided by Larry Sabella, with his own compelling reasons. Russo could have done it—for love or for a different motive, secret still. But then came the matter of the phone call. If the murderer had indeed phoned, Sabella and Russo were eliminated. Because the murderer, according to Dick Gross’s theory, was willing to gamble his life against Mrs. Hanson’s—hoping to incriminate her. Who would have conceived such a gamble? The husband, John Hanson—a loser with nothing more to lose? Someone fanatically devoted to Aidia—Reggie Fay, perhaps? Angelo Vennezio might have done it, both to avenge his mother and to inherit a hundred thousand dollars.

Yet none of it seemed logical. The more I considered, the more I was inclined to doubt that the murderer had actually intended to incriminate Mrs. Hanson—or, at least, it seemed improbable that incriminating her was his primary purpose. Rather, the phone call might indicate the murderer’s actual willingness to be captured—a death wish.

Who, then, could have been completely indifferent to his own fate, yet had hated Dominic Vennezio enough to kill him? Who could have known precisely when and where to strike—expertly, perhaps even professionally?

The more I thought about it, the more confusing the puzzle seemed. Logic had never been a specialty of mine. I could easily conceive the questions. But sorting them out and then arranging them into a coherent pattern had always been difficult for me.

So, over dessert, I turned my attention to the view out over the ocean—and to a statuesque blonde three tables away, dining with a repulsively fat little man wearing a nubby silk sports jacket, sunglasses and two large diamond rings.

By seven o’clock I’d finished my dinner and drinks. A little after seven thirty I was turning into Mrs. Hanson’s block, parking across the street from the house and three doors down. Her house was darkened. I switched off the engine, rolled up the window and prepared to wait. I’d decided on a double martini before dinner and a double cognac later—and I’d had a split of white wine with the dinner, instead of just a glass. I was feeling drowsy and was surrendering to the luxury of allowing my eyes to close when a car turned the corner and came toward me. As I watched, the car pulled to the curb in front of the Hanson house. I turned in my seat for a better view. I could see two figures inside the car: a woman on the passenger’s side and a man driving. They seemed to be talking together. Then the passenger’s door opened. The woman got out, nodded to the driver and began walking slowly to the front door, fumbling in her handbag, head bent. The car began pulling away. As it gathered speed, I realized that the car was a Buick—a new Buick sedan.

Mr. Russo gets two new Buicks a year
, Montez had said.

Quickly I looked again, trying to make out the license number. But at that moment the car turned a nearby corner.

How many Buick sedans were registered in Los Angeles County? Two thousand? More?

I got out of the car, locked it and breathed deeply as I walked toward Mrs. Hanson’s door. The air in La Palada was better than that in Los Angeles. I wondered whether the Outfit had considered the smog situation in selecting its own private town.

I rang the bell, and as I waited I belatedly realized that I had no clear plan. But more and more it seemed Mrs. Hanson had been involved, either as a focus for revenge or because of her relationship to either Vennezio or Russo, possibly both. She …

The door came open. She was wearing a tailored suit and house slippers. As she recognized me her eyebrows arched in surprise. Involuntarily, she stepped back a single quick pace, her hand moving to the door as if to close it.

“I know I should’ve phoned,” I said. “But I just got back in town. If you could spare a few minutes …” I let the sentence go unfinished. For the second time that day I realized how an unwelcome salesman must feel, standing hat in hand, smiling with stiff lips.

She looked at me, unsmiling. Then, without speaking, she turned back into the house, walking directly into the living room. I closed the door and followed her.

How should I begin? Should I ask her about the Buick? I decided against it. Better to find some neutral ground.

She switched on a lamp and sat on the sofa, motioning for me to sit opposite her, as we’d sat the day before.

“I hope you’ve eaten,” I began. “As I drove up, I saw that you were just coming in. I wouldn’t want to—”

“I ate after work,” she answered, staring at me with her calm gray eyes.

“Oh. Good.” I nodded, smiled and cleared my throat. “Since I saw you yesterday,” I said, “I’ve learned a couple of things that I don’t think you know, concerning Dominic Vennezio’s murder. For instance, I looked into the actual time element of the murder. I discovered that the murder probably occurred not more than a half hour before you arrived at the beachhouse.”

“I told you that yesterday,” she said tonelessly.

“I know. But what you didn’t tell me—or at least what we didn’t discuss—is that the police were notified sometime during that half hour.”

She didn’t reply.

“Do you have any idea who might’ve phoned the police, Mrs. Hanson?”

“N—no. How could I?”

“Do you know who the police think phoned them?”

She didn’t reply, simply staring. She sighed once, deeply.

“They think it was the murderer.”

“The—the murderer? But—”

“But what, Mrs. Hanson?”

“But that doesn’t seem—I mean …” She made a small, helpless gesture, resigned.

“It doesn’t seem logical. Is that what you were going to say?”

“Yes, I—I suppose it was.”

“I thought the same thing myself. But then it occurred to me that the murderer might’ve known you were on your way to the beachhouse. He might’ve wanted the police to arrive just after you.”

“But why should—I mean—”

“The murderer might’ve wanted to see you blamed for the murder, Mrs. Hanson.”

Suddenly she twisted in a swift movement of protest, her body now tensed “No—no. It couldn’t’ve been that.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, I …” She seemed puzzled, then her body again went slack. “I don’t know,” she said dully. “But I—I just—”

“The last time we talked, we discussed what might’ve happened if the murderer had arrived a little later—or you’d arrived a little earlier. The idea that you could’ve been on the scene—perhaps even murdered—didn’t seem to disturb you. Yet, now, you can’t believe that the murderer might’ve wanted to see you framed. You seemed disturbed at the thought. Why?”

“I told you yesterday that the thought of being dead no longer terrifies me, Mr. Drake. Maybe that’s your answer.”

I slowly nodded, watching her as she sat with head slightly bowed, staring down at the floor.

“I learned something else, Mrs. Hanson,” I said. “Something that also concerns you directly.”

With an obvious effort she raised her head, meeting my eyes. “I’m very tired tonight, Mr. Drake,” she said. “Whatever it is, I—I wish you’d tell me quickly.”

“Yes, certainly,” I answered almost solicitously—then immediately felt irked at the sympathy I felt. For a moment I looked away from her drawn face. Then, doggedly, I got on with it: “You told me last night,” I began, “that you had no idea why your husband left you. Is that right?”

She nodded, silently.

I took a deep breath, then said, “I discovered today, Mrs. Hanson, that Dominic Vennezio forced your husband to go away.”

To my surprise, she only smiled: a brief, bitter twisting of the mouth.

“I’ve heard that before. I even asked Dominic about it.”

“Did he deny it?”

She nodded.

“Did he also deny that he offered your husband ten thousand dollars to go away, provided he’d never come back?”

“Ten thou—”

“And as far as I know,” I continued, “your husband agreed. Of course,” I added, “I also understand that your husband really had no choice. He probably would’ve been forced to leave, with or without the money. But the fact remains that—”

“He—he was paid to go? He took money, and left?” She seemed unable to grasp it.

“That’s what I understand, Mrs. Hanson. I’ve no proof, of course, but …”

I realized that she was crying, soundlessly. Slowly her head dropped down, and her shoulders began to shake. She raised her hands to her face, palms pressed flat against her cheeks. Her fingers, I saw, were wet with her tears.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hanson. Really. I—I hope you don’t think that …” I got to my feet and fumbled in my jacket for a clean handkerchief. “Here.” I dropped the handkerchief in her lap. “Here. Take this.”

“Th—thank you.” She blew her nose and wiped at her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

“It …” She swallowed, sniffed and once more pressed the handkerchief to her nose. “It’s all right. You—you’re really a very kind man, Mr. Drake. I—I don’t understand how you …” She let the thought go unfinished. I knew what she meant to say. She didn’t understand how I could be working for the Outfit.

“I’ll be going now, Mrs. Hanson. I’d just like to ask you one more—”

“He always did everything wrong,” she said, her voice thick and muffled. “Always. If he’d just told me. Or if he’d just—just stayed, and faced it. He—I—” She shook her head.

“Have you ever had two or three men pound you in the face with their fists, Mrs. Hanson—and then prop you against the side of a building when you start to fall, so they can make sure your nose is broken—and then finally let you fall, so they can start kicking you?”

She raised her head, looking at me mutely.

“It happened to me once,” I said. “I didn’t know it was coming. I hadn’t been warned, as they probably warned your husband. But I’ll tell you this: I’d’ve done anything to get out of that beating. It was the worst experience of my life. I’ll never forget it.” As I spoke, I was thinking of Larry Sabella’s threat. For the first time, vividly, I imagined the pain, having both legs broken.

She rose and for a moment stood before me, her head bowed.

“It was all my fault,” she said finally. “Everything that happened to John, it was my fault. I’m—I’m just like my mother. Exactly.”

She turned and walked past me, toward the front door. “I’m sorry, Mr. Drake,” she said indistinctly. “I don’t know why I should be shocked that John would leave me for ten thousand dollars. I guess it’s just that it—it makes the whole mess complete. Everyone’s for sale. For a few thousand dollars, you can find someone who’ll do anything—anything at all. So now it—it’s complete. Everything. Everything’s gone. Completely gone.” She stood in the small entryway, leaning against the paneled wall, head bowed. Waiting for me to leave.

“You’ve got your son, though,” I said.

“No, Mr. Drake. I
had
my son. Years ago. A long, long time ago.”

I reached for the doorknob, turned it and slowly opened the door. The night air felt very fresh. La Palada air. Private property.

On the porch I turned, ready to try the question I’d come to ask her.

“Do you know,” I began slowly, “whether Dominic Vennezio thought he had any reason to be—jealous of you? Or rather, jealous of …” I cleared my throat. “Jealous of another man?”

Slowly she raised her head. Her voice was tight with a kind of despairing fury as she whispered: