All Grass Isn't Green

12

We stopped at a service station where there was a hose with running water. Hale washed the most noticeable; bloodstains off his shirt and washed his face.

Nanncie tooted the horn of Hale’s car and waved as she passed us on her way to the hotel.

Hale was doing some thinking en route.

When we stopped he said abruptly, “You’re working for Milton Calhoun?”

“I’m working for him.”

“I’m not,” Hale said. “To be perfectly frank, I don’t like the bastard.”

“I’m working for him,” I repeated.

“And,” Hale said, “I’m not going to go out of my way to give him any help. He’s got money, he can hire lawyers and...”

“He’s already hired a lawyer. I want you to talk with him.”

“I don’t know whether I’ll talk or not,” Hale said.

“Suit yourself,” I told him, “only don’t forget one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m working for Calhoun.”

“Okay by me,” he said. “You can work for anybody, you damn please.”

We entered the hotel. I escorted Hale to the desk.

The clerk smiled and shook his head, put his hands on; the counter palms up. “I am so sorry, señors, but there are no vacancies. We are full and...”

“He is a friend of mine,” I explained. “He has been in an automobile accident.”

The clerk became all smiles. “Oh, in that case, seguro, yes, but certainly, we will take care of him.”

He pushed a pen and a card in front of Hale and Hale registered. I noticed that he gave his address as 817 Billinger Street.

I saw that he was fixed comfortably in his room, got the bellboy to bring in his big bag and suitcase from his car and said, “You don’t want these ropes that you were tied up with any more, do you?”

“I never want to see them again,” he said.

“I’ll get rid of them for you,” I told him.

I took the ropes and put them in the trunk of the agency heap, drove across to Calexico, telephoned the office of Anton Newberry and asked the secretary if Newberry was in.

“He’s just leaving for the day,” she said.

“This is Donald Lam,” I said. “Tell him to wait until I get there. I’ve got news for him.”

“What kind of news?”

“It may be good news.”

I could hear the mumble of off-the-telephone conversation; then the secretary said, “He’ll wait. Try to get here as soon as possible.”

“It won’t be long,” I told her. “I’m already across the line.”

I made time to El Centro, was fortunate to find a parking place, and climbed the stairs to Newberry’s office.

The secretary ushered me to the inner office where Newberry was waiting for me.

He twisted his thin lips in a smile which lacked cordiality.

“I hope it’s good news, Lam,” he said, “and it must be important.”

“It is.”

“Just what is it?”

“Sit down and get your notebook,” I said. “You’ll want to take notes.”

“I have a tape recorder and I can put you on tape.”

“I’d prefer to tell you the story and have you make notes.”

“Why?”

“For various reasons.”

“All right,” he said, “tell me why you think it’s good news.”

I said, “It’s about the gun that did the fatal shooting.”

“Tut, tut, we don’t know what gun did the fatal shooting.”

“But the police have found it — a thirty-eight-caliber revolver that’s registered to Milton Carling Calhoun.”

“How do you know it is the murder weapon?”

“I’ll bet ten to one.”

“I never bet against a client. They haven’t done the ballistics work yet, and... I believe they have traced the registration. The gun was purchased some time ago by Mr. Calhoun, but that isn’t necessarily conclusive.”

I said, “I can account for the gun.”

“Without involving Calhoun?”

“Without involving Calhoun.”

His face lit up. This time the smile was cordial. “Well, well, well,” he said, “tell me how it happened.”

I said, “Calhoun gave the gun to a girl.”

He shook his head and said, “We can’t have any of this, Lam. We can’t have any women brought into the case. Not at all, do you understand that?”

“I understand it. You are the one who decides what’s going to be brought into the case. I’m the one who gives you the facts so that you know what to keep out of the case.”

He nodded his head emphatically. “Very smart of you Lam, very smart. Now, tell me about the gun.”

“The girl,” I said, “gave the gun to a fellow by the name of Colburn Hale. He’s a writer. He was working on a story dealing with dope smuggling and—”

“Yes, yes,” Newberry interrupted. “I’ve talked with my client. I know all about Hale.”

I said, “No, you don’t.”

“What don’t I know?”

“Lots of things. That’s what I’m here to tell you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Hale,” I said, “was given the gun for his protection. He went down to San Felipe and started playing around with this bunch of dope runners. I don’t know when they made him, but probably about as soon as he left San Felipe on the trail of the shipment.

“They let him get as far as the vicinity of La Puerta, then the tail car closed in on him.”

“The tail car?” he asked.

“There were two cars,” I said. “The dope was in the lead car, a Ford pickup. It had Citizen’s Band radio communication. The man who was driving it could communicate with the car behind.”

“Why the tail car?” Newberry asked.

“The muscle car,” I said.

“I see.”

“In the vicinity of La Puerta, they used the Citizen’s Band radio to instruct the muscle car to close in.”

“And what happened?”

“The muscle car closed in. They worked Hale over pretty well and then Hale made the mistake of pulling his gun. He’s very lucky that he isn’t dead today. But down there in Mexico the people who run the drug shipments don’t like to have murders. Drug shipments can be explained as a matter of course, but a corpse is something else again and the Mexican authorities don’t like it.

“The Mexican dope rings want to be as inconspicuous as possible.”

“Go ahead.”

“So the dope shipment came to a stop and the moved in on Hale.

“Hale got beaten up in the process. Then they tied up and left him in his own car.”

“What about the gun?” Newberry asked.

“They took his gun. The point is, it wasn’t his gun. It was Calhoun’s gun, the one that he had given his girl friend for her protection, and the girl friend, thinking Hale was in the greater danger, had passed the gun on to him.

“Now, that’s the story. You can take it or leave it.”

“Where’s Hale now?”

“I’ve got him stashed.”

“You found him when he was tied up?”

“I found him after he had been untied and set loose. A Mexican rancher by the name of Chapalla found the car with Hale in it and untied the ropes.”

“What kind of ropes?”

“A fishing cord — heavy fishing cord.”

“Then there must have been at least three men in the dope ring,” Newberry said thoughtfully.

“Not necessarily. Sutton could have been driving the dope car. A man named Puggy could have been the on driving the muscle car. They left the muscle car south the border and Puggy could have got in with Sutton when they came across. Puggy could have been the man I saw sitting beside Sutton in the pickup.”

“And then there was a man driving a scout car,” Newberry said.

I shook my head. “Puggy was probably the one to drive the scout car. They left the muscle car parked south of the border; then they came across and went to the point where they had a third car stashed, and Puggy was to take that and drive ahead and make sure the coast was all clear. So Puggy came to a roadblock and radioed back to Sutton that he’d better lie low for a while.”

“There was a roadblock near Brawley last night. The Highway Patrol was checking cars from about eight o’clock until midnight,” Newberry said.

“That explains why Eddie Sutton waited in Calexico,” I told him. “He was waiting for the coast to clear, Puggy found the roadblock, radioed the alarm, and then drove back to join Eddie. They had an argument. Eddie got shot.”

“It sounds very nice,” Newberry said, and then added, “the way you tell it. However, there are certain facts which are very significant.”

“Such as what?”

“Such as the fact that you were the one who found the fatal gun. You said it had been thrown in the field. No one saw it thrown in the field. You could have carried the fatal gun across with you and dropped it. You could have been intending to go away and leave it there until someone found it, but a sharp-eyed, ten-year-old kid followed you over and wrecked your plan.

“You’re a private detective. You are pretty smart. You were tailing a dope shipment that was worth many thousands of dollars and a dope ring that was worth a lot more money. You could very easily have decided to cut yourself in for a piece of cake. Sutton wouldn’t go for it.

“I don’t think you’d kill Sutton in cold blood like that, but if you had this gun you might very well have beaten Sutton to the punch.”

“And where would I have got the gun?” I asked.

“That,” Newberry said, “is something my client insists is not to be brought out no matter what the provocation. That’s your ace in the hole. It gives you a chance to beat the rap if anyone moves in on you.”

“And I have a good lawyer, of course.”

“And you have a good lawyer, of course,” he said, smiling.

“You’ve had a talk with your client?” I asked.

“I’ve had a very comprehensive and satisfactory talk with him. I think I know more of the case than you do — unless, of course, you did the killing.

“Now then, my technique is to have a preliminary hearing just as soon as possible. I don’t intend to call witnesses or put on any defense. I want to get that over with fast. I want them to bind my client over for trial the Superior Court. Once we get to the Superior Court, we’ll really tear this case upside down.

“However, I am going to subpoena you as a witness the preliminary because I may want your testimony perpetuated before you change it. I may tip the prosecutor off to you as a witness.”

He grinned.

Newberry opened a drawer and whipped out a subpoena which he handed to me. “The preliminary hearing starts tomorrow morning at ten o’clock,” he said. “This is your subpoena to be there.”

“What about Colburn Hale? Do you want there?”

Newberry said, “I don’t care about Colburn Hale tomorrow. I’m going to use that boy in the Superior Court hearing. Have you seen the El Centro papers?”

“No, why?”

He walked over to a table, picked up a newspaper, an handed it to me. There were screaming headlines across the front page.

LOS ANGELES MILLIONAIRE JAILED FOR MURDER HE — and then in smaller headlines, ATTORNEY NEWBERRY INSTRUCTS CLIENT TO SAY NOTHING.

I read the newspaper account. There wasn’t much in it, but what they had had been stretched way, way out. A sergeant of the Los Angeles Police Force, on the track a big dope ring, had flown to Calexico and joined forces with police there. The shipment had been brought across in the pontoons of a small houseboat on a trailer. The body of Edward Sutton, presumably a dope smuggler, had been found in the houseboat. He had been shot with a .38-caliber revolver.

Police had later found that .38-caliber revolver where the murderer had sought to dispose of it by throwing it into an alfalfa field some little distance from the scene of the crime.

While I was reading the article, Newberry was busy looking at my face, blinking his eyes all the while.

All of a sudden he said, “This Colburn Hale, he’s positive that he had the gun the night of the shooting and they took it away from him?”

“That’s right.”

“And there was another man named Puggy who was in on the deal?”

“Right.”

“And you saw two men in the pickup when it crossed the border?”

“Correct.”

Newberry’s face broke into a slow grin. “On the other hand,” he said, “I think I’ll make a grandstand. I may want this man, Hale, in court so I can get a statement. Can you get him to come to court?”

“Give me a subpoena for him and I’ll try.”

“What’s the name?” he asked.

“Colburn Hale.”

“It won’t do any good to serve this subpoena across the line,” Newberry said.

I grinned at him and said. “Do you suppose Hale knows that?”

Newberry matched my grin. “Not unless somebody tells him,” he said.

“All right,” I told him, “give me the subpoena. If you want him there, I’ll try to have him there. He is not very pretty. He’s got a beautiful shiner, and...”

“Wonderful, wonderful!” Newberry said. “Certainly we want him there. We want his picture in the paper - a mysterious witness who will clear my client in the Superior Court. We can let the newspapers get the story — pictures — black eye — wonderful!”

“There is one thing I’ve got to have,” I said, “if I’m going to get Hale in court.”

“What?”

“The opportunity to see Calhoun — now.”

He shook his head. “It’s too late. Visiting hours are...”

I pointed to the telephone. “You can fix it up,” I said.

“It might be a little difficult.”

I said, “Calhoun is paying you to smooth out difficulties.”

He picked up the telephone, put through a call to the Sheriff’s Office, talked a while in a low voice, hung up the phone, turned to me and nodded.

“It’s all fixed,” he said. “You’ll have to go right away.”

“On my way,” I told him.

He was watching me speculatively as I left the office.