A Gambling Man

Chapter 64

Archer rode the storm all the way back. It looked like the entire coast of southern California was getting the same treatment. On reaching the town limits he drove straight to his office building. There were no prowlers out front, nor did he see Pickett’s big Chrysler. They must have come and gone, thought Archer.

Dawn was still over an hour away as the storm continued to rage overhead. He hadn’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours, but he had never felt less tired in his life. Killing a person, particularly a beautiful woman with whom you’d previously slept, just did that to you, he supposed. It didn’t make him feel good or bad. He didn’t feel anything, really, and he couldn’t really handle that so he stopped thinking about it.

He entered the office building through a back entrance and crept along the first-floor corridor until he neared the elevator. He got a sight line that showed Earl’s body was no longer where it had been before. He moved forward and saw that the car was empty. He passed by it and drew closer to O’Donnell’s office. He waited, crouching in the darkened hallway, listening and watching. Satisfied that an army of cops wasn’t lurking to bash him in the head, he eased the office door open and peered inside.

Empty and dark.

He hurried through the reception area and thought to pull his gun, just in case. He had five shots left in the barrel. He hoped he didn’t need any of them. He didn’t like the exposed position he was in, but he had to find Dash, and fast.

He nearly jumped out of his shoes when he heard the voice.

“Archer, is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

Dash appeared in the doorway leading into the interior hall of the office space.

Archer put the gun away.

“Where did you go?” asked Dash.

In sixty seconds, Archer told him what had happened and why.

“Okay, Wilma Darling bit the dust. She was in on it. And she was selling drugs on top of it. What a piece of work. Nice catch on the flask. But you got some exposure there when they find the body.”

“I know.”

“We’ll have to focus on that later.”

“What did you find?”

“Come on. I’ll show you.”

He led Archer into another room that was filled with metal file cabinets.

Dash turned on the light and took a file off the table in there.

“What’s that?”

“My medical file, Archer. O’Donnell wasn’t just a friend, he was my doctor, too.”

“Okay,” said Archer, looking confused. “How does that help us?”

“Lots of good stuff in here. My age, height, weight. Medical history. Blood type. Blood pressure.” He blanched. “Not a number I want to really dwell on. But before you go under the knife, they have to know this stuff.”

“What’d you have done?”

“Ulcer surgery.”

“Yeah, Connie mentioned that.”

“O’Donnell cut out some of my gut, so most nights I eat Cream of Wheat and buttermilk.”

“Should you be drinking, then?”

“Hell, Archer, I can only get the goddamn Cream of Wheat down if I do drink.”

“So did you find anything helpful?”

“It’s what I didn’t find that was helpful.”

“Come again?”

“What I didn’t find were the medical files for Sawyer and Eleanor Armstrong, and Beth Kemper. They’re missing.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I’m sure they provided the same sort of information as mine does. So I sat here going over my file to see what sort of information someone wouldn’t want someone else to know. And then I had to take it a step further and see what sort of information someone wouldn’t want someone to know, when they put all three of those files together. See, it’s important to note that they didn’t take one or two of the files. They took all three and they took them for a reason. You see that, right?”

“Yeah, when you lay it out like that, it makes sense. So what did you conclude?”

“I think they took all three because the files had their individual blood types. Sawyer’s, Eleanor’s, and Beth’s. You know about blood types?”

“Sure. They have to know that when they need to give transfusions. Otherwise, it can kill you if they get the blood types mixed up.”

“That’s right. But blood types are important for something besides making transfusions safe.”

“Like what?”

“They can prove whether someone isn’t the parent of a child.”

Archer stiffened but remained quiet and looked at Dash expectantly.

“There was the Charlie Chaplin case back in the early forties. It happened right here in California. Chaplin slept around and one woman said she had a child by him. They did a blood test on the kid and Chaplin and the woman to see if he could be the father. Turns out he wasn’t the dad, though the jury held him liable for other reasons. But the point is if the kid has AB blood and the mother has A blood, the father has to have B or AB blood. If not, he’s out. Now, it can’t say for sure you’re the parent if you have one of the right blood types, you see, but it can rule you out for certain depending on the blood types of the interested parties. Nice thing about science. It is what it is.”

“Who exactly are we talking about here, Willie?” Archer said this although he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

“All three of them — Beth, Eleanor, and Sawyer — were treated by O’Donnell. All three involved surgery, potential blood loss. So all three would have had to have their blood types checked in case they needed a transfusion. Now, Eleanor’s and Sawyer’s operations were a long time ago.”

“But Beth’s was recent,” interjected Archer.

“Right, the last piece of the puzzle. I think it occurred to Armstrong how he was exposed on that and he decided to nip it in the bud, even if O’Donnell hadn’t made the connection. But he couldn’t take a chance, which is why the doc had to die and the records had to be taken.”

“So you’re saying...?”

“I’m saying that Armstrong is not Beth’s biological father.”

“That means Eleanor had an affair?”

“Yes.”

“Any idea who it was?”

Dash took out his pipe and chewed on the end without lighting it. “I know that Beth Kemper just turned thirty-one. It was in the papers. Well, thirty-one years ago I wasn’t in this town. But somebody else was.”

“Who?”

“Andrew Smalls.”

Archer looked startled. “Armstrong’s partner who killed himself.”

“Well, maybe he did and maybe he didn’t.”

“Are you saying he was having an affair with Eleanor?”

“More than that, Archer. I think he’s Beth’s father.”

“But... but that would make her and Benjamin Smalls—”

“—half siblings, yeah.”

Archer scratched his head. “Then this is all about what?”

“Revenge. Cruelty. And maybe something else that’s sicker than both those put together. The point is, anyone gets close to Beth Kemper gets taken away, somehow, some way. Andrew Smalls, Benjamin Smalls.”

“And her husband,” said Archer.

“And her mother,” added Dash.

“Her mother. But she died in—”

“Yeah, a plane crash. A Stearman plane crash, which is the name of the company that bought that island out there. And everyone in town knows Beth was supposed to go up with her mother that day, but she went to a luncheon with her husband instead. And Kemper told us it was Armstrong who made that happen.”

“But why kill Eleanor? Because she cheated on him? He sure as hell waited a long time, unless he just found out two years ago.”

“I think it’s more complicated than that, Archer. Beth loved her mother far more than she loved Armstrong. And maybe he just couldn’t take that anymore. And then, in his warped mind, Eleanor had to pay the ultimate price for cheating on him. But everything was just fine until Beth had her surgery. Now O’Donnell had all of their blood types. And I think it was then that he could see for himself that Armstrong couldn’t be the father. I can envision Armstrong sitting up there surrounded by his olive trees brooding about it. And once he figured the man had that leverage over him, the doc was as good as dead.”

“Why would Armstrong think O’Donnell would even put the three together? And why would Armstrong believe that O’Donnell would use it against him?”

“A good question, and here’s my answer. A man like Armstrong believes that everybody else thinks like him. Meaning if Armstrong had that information on someone he would sure as hell use it against them. So he just assumed that O’Donnell would put the screws to him. He sees the world and everyone in it through his own warped perspective. All of his actions are dictated by what is best for him, nobody else.”

“Okay, let’s say that’s all true. How does that tie into this blackmail plot against Douglas Kemper? Armstrong’s backing him for mayor.”

“Is he, Archer? Who really told us that? Douglas Kemper never did, quite the opposite, in fact. And Armstrong hedged his bets talking about it. But look at it this way: If Armstrong wants his son-in-law out of his daughter’s life, here’s what he could do: He sends a blackmail letter to Kemper saying they know he’s sleeping around with Fraser. Then Kemper hires us to look into it because Armstrong’s lawyer recommended me to him. Fraser denied the affair, since it was all a load of baloney, but that still gives Kemper every motive to kill her. Then, she is killed.”

“And the only guy who can give Kemper an alibi for Fraser’s murder is Sheen.”

“So he dies too, and they frame Kemper for that. Then they got the medical records and the doc is dead and that loose end goes away. And Kemper goes to the gas chamber, and Armstrong is left to pick up the pieces with a woman who is not his daughter.”

“Do you think...” began Archer, his face growing pale as a number of sickening thoughts invaded his mind.

Dash looked at him knowingly. “I don’t know, Archer. But I do know that Armstrong is one dangerous man.”

“And what about Benjamin Smalls?”

“Smalls found out Armstrong was planning to build a casino and had a confrontation with him about it. The law may allow gambling out on that rock, but as mayor, Smalls could have made Armstrong’s life miserable and put his scheme in real jeopardy.”

“But we have no proof of any of this.”

Dash stroked his chin. “And Pickett is so far up Armstrong’s ass you can’t even see the man’s wingtips.”

“So what do we do?” asked Archer.

“We go see the dentist.”