From my chair, I said, “Why fool around, Callendar? You’re not doing anybody any good, myself most of all.”

  Vincent Callendar said aggrievedly, “I’m only trying to do my best!”

  “Then do better.” I got to my feet. “I’ll save time. Huntsman got the idea Troy was working on him through Danny Hester.”

  “Ah,” said Belasco. “Now we get down to names.” He added shrewdly, “Knowing your record, Kent, I guess it isn’t often you put the finger on a guy, even a racketeer like Hester. Right?”

  “You know about him?”

  Belasco nodded. “In my job I get to know plenty things before they hit the broadsheets. Hester’s been operating a long time undercover. I guess it’s only lately he’s been coming out and showing his strength. All right, Kent, so you’ve put the finger squarely on this guy, what you got to back it up with?”

  Callendar started to say something but I rode over him, “Huntsman’s idea was that Hester was the link. I was to try and get close to him through one of his hatchet men whom I knew back East, years ago.”

  “His name?”

  I shrugged. It had to come out sooner or later, so why not now? “Al Lardner.”

  “No-Face,” said Belasco instantly. I saw a gleam in his eyes.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Quite a character. You got anything on him?”

  “We have,” he replied. “I guess we can pick him up anytime, but right now he doesn’t matter. Let’s have it, Kent.”

  I said, “Huntsman was wrong about Hester operating from Troy’s headquarters. It’s my hunch he was working independently—out to get Huntsman’s territory, including the gambling layout at the Santa Rosa. Get it right, Belasco. Huntsman is operating legitimately.”

  “You don’t have to cover up for him,” said Belasco placidly. “I know all about Huntsman. He’s an all-right guy. Maybe he bit off more than he could chew when he took on the Santa Rosa and left the door open for the racketeers to move in. Maybe he wasn’t so smart at that. Danny Hester, on the other hand, could be too smart.” He added, “What makes you think Hester is operating independently of Troy?”

  Before I could answer, he went on, “That is assuming that Troy had any interest in Huntsman’s affairs?”

  Callendar laughed. “Believe you me, Troy was so interested in Huntsman’s real estate deals he was really trying.”

  “To break him?”

  “You can put it any way you like. That’s what it adds up to.”

  “Well,” said Belasco. It was more a statement than a question. He was looking at me.

  I shrugged. “I was interested only in Danny Hester and his activities concerning Huntsman. That’s why I was being retained, to get close to the racketeers. Well, tonight I got too close.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Huntsman had a twister in the camp—one of his close guys double-crossed him and I was set for the long drop. Hester’s boys shook me down out there at the Santa Rosa and pushed me around a little. Maybe the scars still show.”

  “Yeah,” said Belasco, “I was wondering about the marks.”

  Callendar exclaimed, “Larry, just what happened?”

  “Another time,” I told him. “You want it on the line, Belasco, here it is. I was framed for that killing. Danny Hester had me on the spot and left me there with a pile of evidence a mile high. The idea was to kill me right there on the spot, but I guess I was lucky.”

  There was silence for a moment and then Belasco said quietly, “You’ll have to make this stick, Kent.”

  “Sure.”

  “Was Lardner in it?”

  “He was the triggerman.”

  “Got any idea why Hester would want to rub old Troy out?”

  “Maybe he’s got ideas of taking over his territory, too.”

  He snapped, “Troy was not a racketeer, whatever else.”

  I shrugged. “You can call him what you like, it makes no difference. I guess he was the closest we’ll ever get to having a robber baron in the U.S. He started off legitimately and the more power he got the more he wanted—newspaper owner—backer of movie productions—realty king—he made his twenty million and wouldn’t call it quits. The methods he used to get that high could qualify him for the title of racketeer. However, we won’t argue over it.”

  “I’m not arguing with anybody,” replied Belasco pleasantly. “It seems to me you have the score very thoroughly, Kent, but—” He crossed his arms and nursed his elbows. “Maybe you can give me proof that Hester rubbed old Troy out, using Lardner as the triggerman. Maybe you can prove that you were put on the spot—guys will go to great lengths to prove their innocence when they’re just one jump off the electric chair. You with me, Kent?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Okay. Make it stick.”

  At the time I was being grilled in the detectives’ room at police headquarters and having my session with the District Attorney—at the same time the City Coroner’s assistants were working on the body of Jacob Troy as it lay on the slab at the police morgue—a conference was being held in the home of Mrs. Mildred Delamore.

  As Vince Callendar had told me earlier, Mrs. Mildred Delamore was Jacob Troy’s widowed sister—her old man had taken a long jump off the cliff at Lucinda Beach after being put through the mincing machine by Jacob Troy.

  Which maybe made Mildred a little bitter toward her brother. At all events it had produced in her an even stronger desire to protect the interests of her alcoholic son, Rod (the lush I’d tangled with in the bar where I’d met his girlfriend, the Mouse), and for her beauteous daughter, Angel.

  Mildred got the news of Jacob Troy’s killing from that same crime reporter on the Chronicle who had put Vince Callendar wise. This reporter, hot on a story, called up Mildred at her home at Bel-Air and later went out there and interviewed her for his paper. After he left she wasted no time in putting through a call to the Beverly Hills apartment which Angel shared with her brother, Rod. It was a kind of screwy arrangement but I guess that’s how the whole family was—nuts.

  Angel had been having an early night—maybe she wanted to catch up on her beauty sleep—whatever it was she was right there on tap and she dressed and took a cab round to her mother’s house, after calling at several night spots to try and track down her brother, Rod. By chance, one of these messages reached the drink-soused guy at the Palomino, where he was still insisting to the Mouse that this was definitely his last drink. When he got the message, Rod, by all accounts, sobered a little—enough to pass on the news of his uncle’s sudden death to the Mouse, who promptly called a cab and bundled him into it and got him round to the mother’s place.

  In the meantime, Mildred had been busy making further calls, and her brother Willard was already on his way. Willard, as I discovered later, was a big, drooping guy with a permanent stoop both in his shoulders and in his mind. He was one of those guys who never quite make it; success had always just been out of reach. What is more, he had never been able to prise even a half buck out of his celebrated millionaire brother.

  So this conference was held whilst I was downtown in Los Angeles trying to lever myself off the hot squat.

  You ever seen a bunch of buzzards gathered around a corpse of a once useful but now dead mule?

  To find anyone looking less like a vulture than Angel Delamore would be hard to imagine. She was one of those dames who look as luscious as a ripe pear at the age of about fourteen and from there on out they either become world-famous beauties, pin-ups, film stars, models—or they marry some fabulously rich guy at the age of twenty and proceed to settle down for a year or so, and then have the first profitable divorce of a string of five.

  Her mother looked more the part: tall, craggy-faced, with a beaked nose, skimpy hair, drawn back in an old fashioned chignon. The only concession to beauty that she made was to wear a couple of rocks on her left hand, a legacy from her dead husband—A. K. Delamore had salted away some of his hard won cash in a few diamonds at a time of temporary prosperity. Mildred Delamore had a habit of waving the rock-laden hand around any time she wanted to impress anybody, which was mostly always.

  She figured she was head of the family, so she took the chair at the top of the dining table, which was part of the imported suite she had hung on to through bad times and good. On one side of her sat Rod, already dozing in his chair, and on the other side sat Angel, primly upright on hers, looking as fresh as a daisy and in no need of beauty sleep whatever.

  The other end of the table sat brother Willard, stooped, mumbling, not at all happy, because he had a hatred of publicity, and next to him as a concession grudgingly made by Mrs. Delamore, sat Dodo King, the Mouse.

  You can imagine for yourself how that conference went. First of all the bald announcement from the head of the table that Jacob Troy had been murdered, nothing surer. Next, the veiled insinuation that cops were falling all over their feet getting no place as to who had killed poor Uncle Jacob. After that came the sixty-four thousand dollar question—who was going to get the dough?

  A lot of talk followed the tossing in of that choice morsel. Even Rod woke up and took a share. Through it all the only silent one was the Mouse, who, whilst keenly alive to the prospects of marrying Rod and having a million dollars poured into her lap, was really more interested in watching the reactions of the Delamore family, whom she considered privately to be just a bunch of nuts.

  No matter how they talked, no matter where they got, it all wound up to the same thing.

  How about Genevieve?

  It was around three in the morning when Mildred Delamore made a decision. She got to her feet. The rest of them fell silent. Looking at the Mouse, she said clearly, “My dear, I don’t like to bother my maid this time of night. Would you be so kind as to make us some coffee?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Delamore.” The Mouse got to her feet, bright and eager, her orange-colored hair flaming in the soft light of the antique fitting above her head. She was the kind of dame who never worried over sleep. She could keep on going all day and all night if need be—just so somebody fed her a hooker of gin occasionally or stimulated her with a little lively conversation.

  “You’ll find everything in the kitchen, my dear,” purred Mildred smoothly. “I’m sure you can make out just fine.”

  “Leave it to me,” said the Mouse brightly, and smiled at Rod who stared back at her blearily, and left the room.

  The minute the door closed behind her Mildred sat down in her chair, hard. Leaning over the table she said, “I think we’re all decided on one thing.”

  They looked at her expectantly.

  “Genevieve must not get Jacob’s money.”

  Belasco reached across the desk and flicked down the switch of the talk-back. “Get me Lieutenant Isles at headquarters.” He snapped back the switch, went round the desk and sat in his chair. Linking his fingers together he looked at me and said, “I’m going to send out an alarm on Danny Hester and on Al Lardner. What did you say the name of the other guy was?”

  “I didn’t say.”

  “Let’s have it, Kent.”

  I shrugged. “Nick Pullen.”

  “That the guy who was at the Santa Rosa?” Callendar exclaimed, “Larry, don’t tell me Pullen double-crossed Huntsman?”

  “Yeah, he’s on Hester’s payroll. What else you got in mind, Belasco?”

  The D.A. stared at me in silence for a moment and then, “I’m still waiting for that proof, Kent.”

  “I told you I couldn’t make anything stick unless I was mobile.”

  “That’s all very well, as far as it goes. Sure I can free you, but—” The phone on his desk started ringing. He reached out, picked up the receiver. “Yes, Isles. I want you to send out a call on Danny Hester. Know him?” He gave a short laugh. “Yeah, I bet you do. Any idea where you can pick him up fast? I want him. I want his henchmen, too, Al Lardner, Nick Pullen.” Isles must have started squawking down the wire about me, because Belasco said, “I’ve got a new line on Kent. I shan’t hold him for further questioning. Not right away. How’s that?” He listened and then, “Leave me to be the judge of that, lieutenant. Just get hold of Hester. Have him down here at the City Hall for a talk, huh?” He hung up and looked at me. “They might pick up Hester right away and then again—”

  I broke in, “Five gets you ten he won’t be brought in tonight.”

  “It’s morning,” said Belasco, pleasantly. He glanced at the window. Pale daylight was already showing. “Where are you staying in town, Kent?”

  “The Sheridan Hotel.”

  “You’ll be on call there if we need you.”

  “Sure.”

  “Once Hester’s brought in we’ll most likely have you down here right away.” He turned to Vince Callendar. “I would suggest you advise your client, Paul Huntsman, to put his house in order. If he’s got any specific charges of racketeering against Hester, he can file them with my office.”

  Callendar nodded mutely.

  “Apart from that,” went on Belasco crisply, “Huntsman better mend the roof on that house of his, else he could be answering awkward questions in this office, too.”

  “Okay,” said Callendar quietly, “I get it.”

  Belasco moved round our side of the desk. He looked at me and said, “You’re free to go.”

  “Thanks.”

  “There’s one thing you maybe should know before you do go. I took the testimony of the people at Troy’s house before I got back here. That testimony is conflicting. According to Mrs. Genevieve Troy, she saw somebody running away in the darkness, a few moments after she found the body of her husband, with you lying a few feet away, shot, as she thought, dead.” A grim smile came on to his mouth. “Mrs. Troy would hardly be lying about a thing like that, now would she, Kent?”

  I said nothing.

  Belasco nodded. As if satisfied he said, “Mrs. Genevieve Troy is a fine woman. What would you say?”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  He took a step toward me. “Kent, put it on the line. What happened after Hubbard left you alone with her? That is, just when the police were arriving?”

  I said, “She was waving a gun around. I was nervous it might go off. I took it from her. She started clawing at me so I slugged her.”

  “Just like that, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You slugged her but not real hard.”

  I shrugged.

  “She just had one of these itzy-bitzy bruises on the side of her face. You usually slug dames that easy?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “I would,” said Belasco. “Okay, so Mrs. Troy saw somebody running away from the scene of the crime, like the books say. Kind of lets you out.”

  “I was let out all the time, Belasco.”

  “Not by my book. You’re guilty as hell until you prove it otherwise.”

  Callendar burst out, “Why didn’t you tell us you had this testimony of Genevieve Troy’s before you started grilling Kent?”

  Belasco didn’t look at him. He said, “Sometime I’ll come round to your law office, Callendar, and tell you how to run your business, huh?”

  There was silence.

  Belasco moved to the door, opened it. He said to the cop on duty, “Okay, get back to headquarters.” He jerked his head at me. “You’re walking out, Kent, but pull a smooth one on me and I’ll have you back here so fast you won’t know what hit you. Got it?”

  “Sure,” I said. “You taking me up on that bet about arresting Danny Hester?”

  He said, “Maybe I’ll put a patrolman on to tail you around, Kent. Maybe you could lead us to Hester. What do you say?”

  I said nothing.

  Callendar went out.

  I followed him.

  The door closed. We went along to the elevator. The big cop was standing there, waiting for the elevator to come up. He glared at us, said nothing. We rode down in the elevator in complete silence.

  Out on the street the daylight was breaking cold. There was a slight drizzle in the air and no hint of sun coming out of the gray clouds banked in the east.

  I said to Callendar, “Sunny California, huh?”

  He said impatiently, “Look at that cop go. Bet you he heads back to headquarters and has Isles stick a couple of shadows on you.”

  “Why not?” I shrugged and walked down the street and he padded along after.

  There was a drugstore already open. I went in there, bought cigarettes, and as I broke the seal I said, “I’m going back to my hotel. I’ll see you at ten o’clock in the Pacific Grill.”

  “Now, wait a bit—”

  “I’m going to get some sleep.” I went out, flagged down a crawling taxi and headed for the Hotel Sheridan.

  Chapter 5 ... don’t go near the water ...

  The early-duty clerk eyed me thoughtfully.

  “You want to change your room, Mr. Kent?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Well, I guess it can be arranged, but—” He hesitated.

  I took out my billfold and slid out a ten spot, crumpled it and dropped it on the counter in front of him.

  His eyes flicked down to it then back to me. “I’m sure it can be arranged, Mr. Kent.”

  “Make the change-over while I’m having myself a drink.”

  “I’m afraid there’s nobody on duty, Mr. Kent—it’s a little early—”

  “Fix it for me,” I told him.

  “Very well, Mr. Kent.” I saw his hand close over the ten spot. “Have you any particular preference for a room?”

  “Any place as long as it’s got four walls and a window. And—” I added, “I’m not all that fussy about a window. Just quiet.”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry that your original room wasn’t comfortable—”

  “It was okay,” I broke in. “I just want a change, that’s all. Okay by you?”

  “Of course, Mr. Kent.”

  “Also,” I told him. “Anybody comes here asking for me, call me through but not before nine o’clock. I’m going to get myself some sleep.”

  “Sure, Mr. Kent. If you go through into the small lounge back there I’ll see that you have a drink.”

 

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