All Grass Isn't Green

8

I found that Anton Newberry, with offices in El Centro, the county seat of Imperial County, had the reputation of being the best criminal lawyer in the county.

I didn’t have any difficulty getting in to see him.

He took one of my business cards and said, “Cool and Lam, Private Investigators, eh?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re Donald Lam?”

“Right.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Lam?”

“I have a client in jail in Calexico. He’ll probably be transferred to El Centro.”

“What’s he charged with?”

“Murder.”

Newberry was wiry, raw-hided individual in his late forties or early fifties, with high cheekbones, eyes spaced wide apart, a high forehead and a quick, nervous manner.

“When was he arrested?”

“About an hour ago.”

“Who made the arrest?”

“A local officer accompanied by Sergeant Frank Sellers of the Los Angeles Police Department.”

“What does Sellers have to do with it?”

“He was investigating the dope-running angle of the case. I think he’s been working on it for a while.

“The victim is a dope runner named Eddie Sutton. He was killed last night or early this morning. The body was found in a houseboat on a trailer parked in Calexico.”

“What’s the name of our client?”

“Milton Carling Calhoun.”

“Money?” he asked.

I took two hundred-dollar bills from my pocket. “This,” I said, “is in the nature of a retainer. You’re to see Calhoun and make arrangements for compensation with him, and you’d better be sure he gives you the true story. I think he’ll try not to.”

Newberry’s long, thin fingers wrapped themselves around the money. “What’s the story that he gave to you?” he asked.

I said, “The guy’s evidently well fixed. He’s married. It’s been one of those cat-and-dog propositions. They’re splitting up. Each one has an attorney. They’re fighting over property.”

“How much property?”

“Apparently a good deal.”

Newberry folded and pocketed the two hundred dollars, then thoughtfully explored the angle of his jaw with thumb and forefinger. His face showed keen interest.

“Calhoun,” I said, “is worried about publicity, particularly on a certain angle of the case.”

Newberry twisted his lips in a wide grin.

“Funny?” I asked.

“Funny as hell,” he said. “Los Angeles millionaire’ comes down to Calexico, gets himself arrested for murder. Los Angeles police are cooperating with the local authorities,’ and the guy would like to cut down on publicity.

“One thing I can guarantee,” Newberry went on, “there’ll be headlines all over the front page of the local paper tonight, and the story will be good enough to make the wire services. In all probability a feature writer for the Los Angeles papers will be down here by this time tomorrow looking for an interview.”

Newberry picked up the telephone and said to his secretary, “Get me the chief of police at Calexico on the line — I’ll hold on.”

He sat there with the phone at his ear. I could hear the numbers click as his secretary worked the dial in the outer office.

Then Newberry said, “Hello, Chief, this is Anton Newberry, El Centro... How’s with you?... Good, eh?... You’ve got a client of mine down by the name of Calhoun... How’s that?... Oh, I see... Well, thanks a lot. I’ll catch him up here.”

He held on for a minute, then shook his head. “No comment,” he said, “but thanks a lot for the information.”

He hung up the telephone, turned to me and said, “The guy was brought up here an hour ago. He’ll be in the jail here by this time. I’d better go over.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” I said.

“You’re a professional licensed private detective?”

“Right.”

“How much assistance from you can I count on?”

I said, “I’m going to investigate the case, but I’m going to do it my way.”

“I’d like to have you work under me.”

“Probably you would, but I’ve had experience in this game. I want to use it.”

“I’ve had quite a bit of experience myself.”

“Doubtless you have. Perhaps you’ll have more before we get this case buttoned up.”

“You’ve done some work so far?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“Calhoun can tell you about it.”

“But you’ll keep in touch with me?”

“I’ll keep in touch with you.”

“And give me information as you get it?”

“I’ll pass on the things I think you should know.”

He thought that one over, then asked, “What evidence do they have against Calhoun?”

“I think Calhoun owned the murder weapon, a thirty-eight Smith and Wesson revolver.

“The dead guy came across the border last night, driving a Ford pickup with a pontoon houseboat on a trailer behind. The pontoons were cleverly made so that a cap could come off the ends and they could be stuffed with dried marijuana. They took quite a load.

“He got across the border all right, then parked the car by the side of the road. How’s your coroner here?”

“Pretty good.”

“You’ll need a really good medical examiner; one who’s a real expert in forensic medicine.”

“Why?”

“I have an idea the time of death may be one of the most important bits of evidence in the whole case.”

“How come?”

I said, “The evidence shows that Sutton had crossed the border by ten-fifteen at the latest. I think he picked a good parking place off the highway. He either had a scout car waiting there or one joined him there. The scout car went on ahead and found a roadblock. The driver radioed back for Sutton to wait it out. Sutton was tired. He got out of the pickup, went back to the trailer, climbed up, opened the door of the houseboat, and went in to take a rest.

“It’s a small houseboat but, apparently, equipped with a gas stove for making coffee, a table, chairs, a bed and probably a water tank and some of the conveniences. While it’s small, it looked pretty swank to me.”

“You saw it?”

“I saw it.”

“When?”

“When it came across the border.”

“Did you see this man, Sutton, when he was driving the pickup?”

“I saw him when he was driving across the border and I saw him ten or fifteen minutes before that.”

“Where?”

“In a restaurant in Mexicali.”

Newberry looked at me thoughtfully. “You know,” he said, “you could be involved in this case.”

“Were you thinking of involving me?” I asked.

Newberry chose his words carefully. “I will be representing my client, Calhoun,” he said, “and if it should appear — well, now, mind you, I’m saying that if it should appear from the evidence that there would be any chance of taking the heat off him by directing suspicion toward you, I won’t hesitate for a split second.”

“Thanks for telling me,” I said.

Newberry had a habit of blinking his eyes rapidly when he was thinking, and from the way he was blinking I had an idea he was giving the situation a lot of thought.

“The more I think of it,” he went on slowly, “you are in a rather vulnerable position. Where were you at the time of the murder?”

“Probably in Unit Seven at the Maple Leaf Motel in Calexico.”

“How far from the scene of the murder?”

“Not far.”

“And you saw the driver at a restaurant in Mexicali?”

“Yes.”

“Talk with him?”

“No.”

“Had you seen him before?”

“No.”

“Did you know who he was?”

“No.”

“When did you next see him?”

“When I was walking across the border. The Ford pickup and the trailer with the houseboat on it were waiting in line to get across.”

“So you probably crossed the border just before he did?”

“Probably.”

“Anybody who can back up your story?” he asked.

“I sleep alone,” I told him.

Newberry shook his head. “It may be a most unfortunate habit, Lam.”

He pushed back his chair. “I’m going over and see my client. Where can I reach you if I want you?”

“At the Maple Leaf Motel in Calexico, for the moment.”

“Will you keep in touch with me as you move around?”

I shook my head. “There probably won’t be time.”

He said, “Why do you think the time element of the murder is so important?”

“Because Calhoun was just leaving Los Angeles at about the time Sutton was crossing the border with the houseboat. Sutton ran into some delay. His scout car hit a roadblock, so Sutton went back to the houseboat to wait it out. If that roadblock was on all night, that’s one thing. If it was off before midnight, that’s another thing. It may be important. If Sutton didn’t go on after the roadblock was lifted, it could mean he was dead at that time.”

Newberry asked, “What was the condition of the houseboat when the police discovered the body? Was there a light on or had the battery that furnishes juice for the lights been run down? Had the bed been slept in? Was there a dirty coffee cup? Was there—”

“The police,” I said, “are singularly uncommunicative. They wanted to get Calhoun’s story before they gave out any facts.”

“They didn’t get Calhoun’s story?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I advised him to see a lawyer before he talked,” I said.

“Anything else?” Newberry asked.

I said, “Eddie Sutton had a companion with him when he crossed the border.”

“Male, female?”

“Male.”

“Description?”

“Can’t give it. He was on the far side of the pickup and the light was such that I could only see the figure of a man.”

“Do the police know that?”

“They know it.”

“And they know that you saw this companion?”

“They know that.”

“We would, of course, like to know who that companion was.”

“We would all like to know who he was.”

“Any ideas?”

“Nothing I can talk about.”

Newberry was thoughtful. “You know Lam” he said “I think I can use you.”

“One way or another,” I said.

Again he grinned. “One way or another — no hard feelings if I try to pin this on you?”

“No hard feelings.”

“And you’ll let me know if you uncover anything that will help my client?”

“Probably.”

“But you won’t confer with me and cover the case under my directions?”

“No, I play a lone hand.”

“All right,” he said. “I’m going over to the jail and see my client.”

He shook hands, a strong, sinewy hand that gripped mine hard.

“And you were in Calexico at the time the murder was committed?”

“Apparently.”

“Good luck, Mr. Lam,” he said. “You may need it.”

He went out. I stopped at the desk in the outer office to get his secretary to give me one of his cards with telephone numbers on it; then I got in the agency car and drove back to Calexico.