"It's hard to believe," I agreed. "And it's almost as hard to believe that Andropolus would suggest a truce. I can't read him as that sensible a man. But, as I told Toledo, Ricardo would be dumber than I think he is to come up with a story that strange unless it was the truth."

  He sighed. "Again, I hate to say it, but Ricardo is not very bright. And I have reason to know that he's belligerent."

  "So have I. Are you quitting, Fran?"

  He shook his head stubbornly. "Not yet. Are you?"

  "Not yet," I said.

  He left and I phoned the station and Bernie was there. I told him about my talk with Culver and said, "I thought I'd better alert you."

  "I'm no longer on the case," he said. "You'd better call Chief Harris."

  "Bernie—!"

  "Okay, I'll tell him. Are you and Fran still on that wild goose chase?"

  "Yes. Shouldn't we be?"

  There was a silence before he said, "You should. Pardon my cynical remark. It's been a tiring day. I tend to agree with you—Cortez couldn't have come up with a story that kooky unless it was true. Good luck, buddy."

  Juan came home with the good news that he had not missed any fly balls today and had hit two doubles in five times at bat. Jan came home with the good news that she would be honored in July as Decorator of the Year at the San Yaldesto County Decorator's Convention.

  I congratulated both of them and regretted that I had no good news of my own to report.

  I was still thinking of Bernie's and Fran's agreement about the absurdity of Ricardo's story when the obvious, which must have been stirring in my usually dependable unconscious, finally came to the surface.

  Captain Walsh was running the night watch at the station and we were only lukewarm friends. But I phoned him after dinner and asked if I could come down and talk with Ricardo.

  "Ouch!" he said. "With you and the chief feuding as you are? That's asking a lot, Brock."

  "It is," I agreed. "Would he have to know about it?"

  "I guess not. Would it be a long talk?"

  "Three questions at the most."

  "Okay," he said.

  * * * * *

  Ricardo looked thinner. He was sitting on his cot, staring at the floor, when the turnkey let me in.

  He looked up and managed a small smile.

  I asked him, "Ricardo, are you sure it was Andropolus who phoned you last Thursday night?"

  He frowned. "He said it was."

  "Have you ever talked with him before?"

  He shook his head. "Never. Do you think it was somebody else?"

  "I do. Think back, Ricardo. Did it sound like any voice you might have heard before?"

  He shook his head. "None. Why?"

  "Because I think you were framed. Fran Sanchez agrees with me. We're working together. Keep the faith, Ricardo."

  He nodded. "That's all I have left." He smiled again. "Except for you and Francesco."

  City cops and county cops and your humble narrator had plodded around asking questions. And not one of us had asked the obvious question—"Are you sure it was Andropolus who phoned you?"

  That should have been Nowicki's first question. I called him when I got home, told him what I had learned, and asked him why he hadn't asked the big question.

  "God only knows," he said. "I guess I'm dumb. I'll sure as hell bring it up in court. It gives that story of his some substance."

  Finding the real killer would give it more substance, I thought, but didn't voice it. All I had was a hunch. It would take more than that to build a case.

  Private investigator Wendell Packard, my notes reminded me, had sat out in front of the Ridge Motel until two o'clock in the morning. That meant the lovers had most probably spent the night there. They were not afternoon adulterers. That would indicate, if the woman was married, that her husband was out of town. Had Shirley Andropolus also been out of town?

  I was still making the connections, trying to establish the pattern, when Jan came to tell me our bedtime cocoa was ready.

  We drank it in the kitchen. "You don't look as gloomy as you did when I came home," she said. "Good news?"

  "A small ray of light, that's all."

  "Do you want to tell me about it?"

  I shook my head.

  "I'm glad," she said. "Because I don't want to hear about it."

  It took me a long time to get to sleep that night, charting my itinerary for tomorrow. I decided my first stop would be the Ridge Motel.

  Juan told us at breakfast that there was no practice session or game today. So Mrs. Casey was going to take him to the Museum of Natural History and the Botanic Garden. They would have their lunch downtown.

  "And I'll be having my lunch in Solvang," Jan said, and smiled at me. "Don't go overboard at MacDonald's, lover."

  I didn't dignify her comment with a reply.

  They both left the house before I did. I had some planning to do, having more important things than lunch on my mind.

  There was a line waiting to be registered when I arrived at the Ridge Motel—a convention group, complete with identifying badges. It was half an hour later before the clerk had time for me.

  "My fellow addict!" he said. "It's refreshing to see a familiar face. What is it this time?"

  I told him what I wanted, the registration records of Mr. and Mrs. Christian Greco previous to the seventeenth of June.

  He went to the small room behind the manager's office and came back with four registration cards, the earliest a Friday in early May. I copied all the dates.

  "Is it the lady who is in trouble," he asked me, "or the gentleman?"

  "The gentleman is dead," I told him. "I don't know about the lady, not yet."

  He sighed. "I hope she's not in trouble."

  I phoned the Andropolus house from there and Shirley answered. I asked her if it would be possible for me to talk with her this morning.

  "Why not?" she said. "But no breakfast this time. I have an appointment to have my hair done in an hour."

  She was waiting out in front when I got there twenty minutes later. "I hope this won't take long," she said.

  "Just a few simple questions. I know that you were out of town last week but I wondered how many times you've been out of town since early May and if you remembered the dates?"

  She stared at me suspiciously. "What's this all about?"

  "About the death of your husband. If I take time to explain it all, you'll be late for your appointment."

  "Last week," she told me, "was the first time I was out of town since Easter week. Chris is the one who took the trips. He said they were business trips."

  "You don't think they were?"

  "Not any more," she said. "And I'm sure you know why. Is that what you're thinking—that Chris was killed by a jealous husband?"

  "It's possible."

  "I don't suppose you'd want to tell me his name?"

  "I don't have a name yet," I explained, "because I don't know the name of the woman. That detective you hired never learned it. She was a tall, slim woman with a page boy haircut, a brunette. That's all the description he had. But the desk clerk at the Ridge Motel told me he could identify her—if I find her."

  "He saw her once and he thinks he can still remember her?"

  "He saw her more than once," I said. "She was there with Chris five times since early in May."

  "That bastard!" she said. "That homy bastard! Uncle Karl was right about him. I have to go now."

  Uncle Karl was right . . . It takes one to know one.

  It hadn't been the deceived wife who had been out of town; it had been the adulterous husband. And how about the woman known as Mrs. Christian Greco? Was she married to a traveling salesman? Maybe she wasn't married. If she wasn't married the jealous husband theory would go right down the drain.

  It hit me then, what should have hit me before. It was probably Shirley's trip to the beauty parlor that triggered it. I headed for the office of Abbot and Clarke.

  Dapper Tony Toledo was alone in his office. He smiled as I came in. "I hope you're here to tell me you've left Charles Schwab."

  "Nope." I laid the slip of dates on his desk. "I wondered if you had been out of town on those nights."

  He glanced at the slips and stared at me. "Are you playing cop again? What's this all about?"

  "Those are the nights Chris Andropolus was sleeping with the woman at the Ridge Motel."

  "So what's that got to do with me being out of town?"

  "I have this theory that Chris Andropolus might have sent you out of town on business the same nights he told Shirley he was going out of town on business."

  "Damn you!'* he said. "Are you suggesting that my wife—" He took a deep breath. "You told me yesterday that the woman had dark hair."

  "I know. But it occurred to me about fifteen minutes ago that she might have been wearing a wig."

  He was trembling now, but his voice was low and even. "I don't know why you're on this vendetta, Callahan, but I'm not telling you a goddamned thing. I'm going to phone my attorney now and I would like to do it in private. If you think you have a case, I suggest you take it to the police."

  "That's where I'm going," I told him.

  21

  Bernie was in his office elbow deep in paper work. "I can give you ten minutes," he said curtly.

  I told him the story of my morning from the Ridge Motel clerk to Toledo's dismissal.

  "Now what do you want from me?" he asked. "A critique?"

  "Something a little more substantial than that. I was thinking you could have a talk with Mrs. Toledo. She lives in the city."

  "The Ridge Motel is also in the city," he pointed out. "You didn't need me there."

  "We could go to lunch and talk it over," I suggested. "The lunch would be on me."

  "I brought my lunch," he said. "Brock, the chief told me I was off the case. If you want me to, I'll phone Mrs. Toledo and tell her you're working with us. Do you have her phone number?"

  "I don't have it with me. It's an unlisted number. Stan Nowicki knows it."

  He pointed to the phone. "Call him."

  I phoned him. The volunteer secretary in his office told me he was in court. Could she be of any help?

  I told her who I was and what I wanted. She gave it to me. I wrote it down for my own information and read it to Bernie.

  He sighed and dialed the number. "Mrs. Toledo?" he asked.

  A minute or so later he put the phone back in its cradle and said, "Mrs. Toledo is not home. That was the maid. She said Mrs. Toledo should be home before one o'clock. She's having guests for lunch."

  "Thanks, Bernie," I said.

  "Don't you want me to call later?"

  I shook my head. "I don't need you any more right now. Give my best to the chief."

  Back to the Ridge Motel. The manager was behind the desk. The clerk, he told me, was in his office, eating his lunch. Another brown bagger.

  "A stakeout?" the clerk said. "I'd like that. When?"

  "Now. Bring your lunch. We want to get there before she gets home."

  He put his half-eaten sandwich on top of the others in the bag and picked up his vacuum bottle of coffee. He told the manager he might be a few minutes late, but this was official business.

  As he climbed into my Mustang he said, "I had a hunch you'd be driving a classic. A sixty-five or a sixty-six?"

  "A sixty-six."

  It was only a three minute ride to the Toledo house. I drove past, made a U-turn, and parked across the street.

  "Could you eat a sandwich?" he asked. "My wife always packs too many. I guess she wants me to get as fat as she is."

  "Thanks. I could use one."

  "Corned beef or salami?"

  "Whatever you don't like."

  "You're the guest."

  "Corned beef," I decided.

  Five minutes later a sleek Camaro came down the street and turned into the Toledo driveway. The tall, slim, blonde Mavis Toledo got out of it and stared across the street at us.

  "That's her," the clerk said. "I know that face. Gad, she's even prettier as a blonde. Who does she remind you of?"

  "Veronica Lake. But Veronica was shorter."

  "And not as skinny," he added. "She died in nineteen-seventy-three."

  "I know. If you have to, would you testify in court that she is the woman who spent her nights with Christian Greco?"

  "If I have to, I suppose I would. But I wouldn't like it."

  "Just between us," I told him, "the man you had registered as Christian Greco was Chris Andropolus."

  "Jesus!" he said. "That hoodlum who was murdered?"

  "One and the same."

  He chuckled. "You know, I used to think he might be Telly Savalas and he was wearing the wig. I'm goofy, huh?"

  "We both are," I consoled him. "I'll do my damnedest to keep you out of court."

  I dropped him off at the motel and went back to see Vogel. He was eating his lunch. I told him what I had learned and suggested that he could pass it on to the chief. "Tell him it would take the heat off of Kranski."

  "The heat is already off Kranski, according to Harris. What you have is proof of adultery on her, but not on Andropolus—yet."

  "Plus grounds for a suspicion of murder."

  "Only if you can prove the man was Andropolus and Toledo learned what was going on. You want a sandwich?"

  "I had one. I helped the desk clerk eat his lunch. So, okay, do what you want. I know you're overworked."

  "Don't sulk," he said. "I'll stop in and talk with the Toledos on my way home tonight."

  "You are a true public servant," I said.

  "Go!" he said.

  Bernie was right; all I had was proof of adultery on Mavis Toledo, and not even that on Andropolus. If we could prove that the dates both Toledo and Andropolus were out of town matched up, that might help to strengthen the jealous husband theory. But no jury would accept it as convincing evidence of murder.

  I phoned the sheriff's department when I came home. Fran was not there; I told McClune what I had learned from Ricardo the night before and the desk clerk at noon.

  "We really blew it, didn't we?" he said. "That makes Ricardo's story more legitimate. Have you talked with Toledo?"

  "This morning in his office. He told me to get lost. That was before the clerk confirmed my suspicion. Bernie Vogel told me he would drop in and talk with the Toledos on his way home."

  "And Harris agreed?"

  "Bernie probably won't tell him. Harris is only his boss. I'm his friend."

  "I wish to hell he was running that department. I'll phone him and ask him to meet you and Fran at your house after he talks with Toledo."

  Mrs. Casey and Juan were still on their culture trip. I went into her kitchen and made myself a ham and cheese sandwich on sourdough rye bread. I took it and a bottle of Einlicher with me while I went over my notes.

  Though he fit the physical description and almost confirmed it with that dumb pseudonym, Andropolus was now ashes. There was no way the desk clerk could identify him.

  I was playing catch with Juan when Bernie came. Bernie and I went into the house; Juan stayed outside, bouncing a tennis ball against the garage door.

  Over a glass of his favorite Scotch Bernie told me, "I stopped in at the Toledos. It was a short visit. I don't know if Mrs. Toledo was home. She never showed. Toledo's attorney was there. He spoke rather acidly of harassment. I told him we had a positive identification of Mrs. Toledo at the motel and it would be unwise for a so-called officer of the court to be guilty of trying to impede a murder investigation."

  "I hope you didn't mention the clerk."

  "I didn't. We may have to if push comes to shove."

  Fran arrived a few minutes later. He echoed McClune's words: "We sure blew it, didn't we?"

  "And we're still a long way from home," I said.

  "Hell, yes!" He looked at Bernie. "Did you talk with Mrs. Toledo?"

  Bernie shook his head and told him what he had told me. He pointed out that even if Mavis Toledo admitted the man was Andropolus, it didn't automatically prove her husband was guilty.

  "He beat up a Hollywood stunt man when he was living in Los Angeles because he suspected him of messing with Mavis," I said.

  "That could be a plus but certainly not a clincher," Vogel said.

  "My theory," Fran said, "for what it's worth, is that the man who phoned us is the same man who phoned Ricardo. Now, if it had been a nine-eleven emergency call we'd have the caller's phone number. But he called direct."

  "I'm not following you," I said.

  The way he explained it, the sheriff's department had recently installed a new recording system for 911 emergency calls. It not only recorded the calls, it traced the phone number of the caller before the officer accepted the call. That way, if the caller couldn't finish, the police would know where to go.

  "But even if you can't trace the direct calls," Bernie asked, "don't you record them?"

  Fran nodded. "We've been doing that for over a year."

  Bernie sighed. "So, at least we've got a voice. I'm going to have a talk with Toledo's attorney tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow is Saturday," I said. "Are you putting in overtime?"

  He nodded. "You guys need me on this one."

  They left and I went out to play catch with Juan again. "Those two men were cops, weren't they?" he said.

  I nodded. "How could you tell?"

  He shrugged. "Is Mr. Cortez still in trouble?"

  "Those two cops and I are trying to get him out of it."

  "Is that tall cop Italian?"

  "His name is Francesco Sanchez. Is that Italian? What are you trying to tell me, Juan?"

  He shrugged again.

  I said, "The other cop is a Jew and I'm an Irishman. Is it time for another lecture?"

  "Let's play catch," he said.

  "Not until you answer my question."

  "It's not time for another lecture," he said. "I still remember the first one."

 

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