Death Spins the Platter

11

Layton was driving past an elaborate edifice set back from a corner, all glass and swooping roof — Beverly Hills drive-ins were conceived in the spirit of the Taj Mahal — when the realized that he was hungry. He turned his jalopy into the side street and approached the temple of eats oh the bias. Then he killed his engine and tooted.

The goddess of a carhop who came out with a menu and an attachable tray could hardly conceal her contempt for the underprivileged vehicle. Layton ordered two super hamburgers and a frosted chocolate and settled back to think. The goddess took her time returning to the temple, exhibiting an awesome wiggle in her retreat. Layton did not even notice it.

After thirty seconds he got out of the car and made for the telephone booth inside. He consulted his notebook and dialed Hubert Stander’s number.

A heavy female voice said, “This is Helga, yah? Stander residence.”

“Is Mr Stander in?”

“Mr. Stander is from town out. Who calls him?”

“When do you expect him back?”

“By the airplane he comes back. Tomorrow morning, eleven o’clock. Who calls him?” Helga insisted.

Layton hung up. This was interesting. Trimble had warned Stander, with the others, not to leave town except by permission. Had Stander checked out with the sergeant, or had he violated the order?

Layton left the booth and consulted the Los Angeles directory. Several dozen Trimbles were listed, but no Harry Trimble. He searched for Trimble’s partner, but there was no Ed-something Winterman listed, either. Apparently the local passion for unlisted home telephone numbers extended to the gendarmes.

Layton went back into the booth, called the Police Building, and asked for Homicide.

“Homicide Lieutenant Jackson, yes?”

“Sergeant Trimble around, Lieutenant?”

“Who is this calling?”

“Jim Layton of the Bulletin.”

The weary voice became guarded. “Trimble’s on the day trick.”

“I know,” Layton said. “But he’s a working fool so I thought— How about Ed Winterman?”

“Same deal, Layton. Catch them tomorrow morning. They both pull Sunday duty.”

“Hold it! Don’t hang up on me. You the same Jackson who used to be a sergeant in Robbery?”

The lieutenant’s voice warmed noticeably. “It must be a long time since you hung around the squad room.”

“Maybe too long,” Layton said. “Say, Lieutenant, I can’t find either Trimble or Winterman in the phone book. Unlisted numbers?”

“Yeah. Is this important?”

“It’s about a case they’re working on.”

The lieutenant hesitated. “They’re at a stag party for one of the Homicide boys who’s taking the leap. If it’s something that can’t wait, I’ll ring the party and have one of them call you.”

“No, it’ll keep. What time does Trimble go on duty tomorrow?”

“The day watch begins at eight-thirty. Trimble’s usually early. Try him around eight-fifteen.”

“Thanks,” Layton said, and hung up.

The goddess was waiting for him with the check. He paid her and picked up one of the super hamburgers. “Hey, lovely!” he said in an injured tone. “This superham is super-cold.”

“It was hot when I brought it,” she said disdainfully. “You’re lucky we didn’t charge you rent.” And she wiggled away. This time Layton noticed. He watched while he chewed on the cold food.

Afterward, driving along in the thickening Saturday-evening traffic, Layton felt the onset of his usual weekend blues. It was too late to arrange a date; there was nothing more he could do tonight on the King case; and the prospect of curling up in his apartment with a good book, or even a bad one — he had stashed away a paperback edition of Tropic of Cancer for just such an emergency — was suddenly without appeal. A movie?

Layton passed a bank clock. Twenty of seven. Automatically he veered off in the direction of Ventura Boulevard.

He was halfway to Chapter Drive in the Valley before he permitted himself to dip deeply into himself.

He had left Nancy King’s ranch house twenty-four hours before with everything settled. He remembered his exact thought on driving away: That’s that, and on going to bed: To hell with her. Last night my mind was made up not to see that loving-husband mourner again, Layton thought, except as the developments of the case professionally demanded. And here I am, like a kid with his first case of she-itis, heading back the next night. What is this?

And what reason could he give for driving all the way out there?

With a shock Layton realized that the compulsion to see Nancy King again had been lurking behind his entire day.

As he swung his car into her driveway, his tires sizzling on the gravel, Nancy backed out of her house and tried her front door. Then she turned around and saw him. She was wearing a dark blue suit and a saucy little matching blue hat with a wisp of half-veil and longish dark-blue gloves.

“Oh!” she said. “Hello, Jim.”

Layton’s stomach felt hollow. “You were expecting somebody else to be driving up,” he said lightly.

“I thought it was the taxi I ordered. How are you, Jim?”

“Didn’t they deliver your car from KZZX?”

“Oh, yes. But I’m still not up to driving, I’m afraid I... didn’t have a very good night.”

Through the veil Layton could see the fatigue smudges under her eyes. “I’d be glad to take you wherever you want to go, Nancy. Cancel your cab.”

“I’m going ’way downtown.”

“Just where I’m headed.”

“Liar.” Nancy smiled. “All right, let me try to catch the taxi.” She unlocked her door and went back in. Layton waited outside in a juvenile glow. She was still smiling when she came out. “He sounded grateful. They hate to send cabs out here.”

He helped her into the heap. Her flesh under the sleeve felt warm and yielding, and he quickly let go and closed the door and went around the car and got in and said over-brightly, “Where to?”

“The Everglade Funeral Home. It’s on Wilshire, near Lafayette Park”

He nodded. “That’s only a short walk from where I live.” He started the car and drove off. The glow was gone. She glanced at him once, with the tiniest frown, then looked straight ahead.

Layton drove rigidly. What had he expected? That she was setting out for an evening of bridge the night after she became a widow? This has got to stop. I’m acting like a love-sick kid...

He had turned into Ventura Boulevard before Nancy spoke. “I promised Mr. Everglade I’d be there between eight and eight-thirty.”

She knows something’s wrong, Layton thought. “There’s plenty of time.”

“The funeral is planned for Tuesday afternoon. That is, if the coroner...”

“I know,” Layton said.

“Mr. Everglade said he expected to know definitely by tonight.” She was still staring ahead. “Was there any special reason for your dropping by, Jim?”

“I guess I thought you might be lonely.”

That made her look at him again. She said softly, “That was kind of you, Jim.”

“I’m the kind kind,” he said. “How did the rest of the press treat you today. Were they the kind kind, too?”

“You know how they were. They were horrible.”

Neither spoke again until Layton drove into the funeral-home parking lot.

He helped her out, and she said quietly, “I’m sorry, Jim, but I always seem to offend you somehow. I wish I knew what I do or say that rubs you the wrong way.”

“It’s not you,” Layton said, and he was appalled at the stiffness in his voice, “believe me, Nancy. I have... certain personal problems. It’s not your fault at all. I’m sorry if I made you think it was.”

“Oh,” Nancy said. “Well. Thanks a lot, Jim, for driving me in.” She extended a slim, gloved hand formally. “I don’t want to waste any more of your evening. Good-by.”

This time he managed to say, “Good-by nothing! I haven’t a thing on for tonight. I’ll drive you back.”

“I wouldn’t dream of letting you do that. I’ll take a taxi.”

“You won’t do anything of the sort. I’ll wait for you out here.”

“Are you sure—?”

“I’m sure, Nancy.”

She looked at him searchingly. Then she touched his arm and turned and walked toward the side entrance of the funeral home.

Layton stood watching her. For some reason a picture of the Beverly Hills carhop’s wiggle flashed into his mind. That had been frank sexual insolence. Nancy’s walk was without guile or challenge — the merest natural sway of the hips, just noticeable enough to make him turn abruptly away. It’s like her perfume, he thought: it doesn’t exist except for somebody very close...

That made him think of Tutter King.

She was even paler than usual when she came out. He held the car door open, not touching her this time, and shut it carefully and went around to slide under the wheel. As he turned on the ignition Layton said, “Bad?”

“I hated it!”

He was surprised by the passion in her voice. “Hated what, Nancy?”

“Picking out the casket, discussing prices, materials, arrangements... People shouldn’t have to buy funerals like a case of beans in a supermarket?”

“I know what you mean.” He released his brake and began to back out of the parking space, deliberately not looking at her. He had seen the tears starting in her eyes.

For Tutter King.

For a two-timing heel on whom she’d thrown away the best years of her life.

Layton drove out of the lot trying to shut his ears against the helpless sounds of her weeping. His gas gauge was hovering around the E and he was short of cash; I’d better stick around the neighborhood, he thought, until she stops crying and I can head into Joe’s. He had a charge account at Joe’s.

He drove slowly, making right turns. When out of the corner of his eye he saw her put a handkerchief to her nose, and then begin looking herself over in her compact mirror, he sighed with relief and made for the gas station.

“All I seem to do when you’re around,” Nancy said in a sniffly voice, “is imitate a waterfall. I’m sorry, Jim. I know men dislike weepy women.”

“Not me,” Layton said. “Nine out of every ten women in this town have forgotten how to cry. Uh-uh,” he said, as if he had just noticed, “I’d better stop for gas.”

She looked down at her lap as he pulled into the station. She kept looking down.

“Fill her up, Joe,” Layton said.

“Hi, Mr. Layton.” Joe stuck the nozzle of the gas hose into the old car’s tank and left it on automatic. He got his squirt bottle and a length of paper toweling and came around to clean the windshield. Joe was a paunchy old-timer with skin like grilled toast. “Say, Mr. Layton, I meant to talk to you about your windshield. The glass is scraped almost clean through. Could be dangerous.”

“It’s because of the sap dripping from the trees in front of my apartment house,” Layton said gloomily. “Hardens the wipers so they cut like steel. How much would a new windshield set me back, Joe?”

“I’ll have to look it up. But it don’t have to set you back nothing.” Joe grinned through the glass he was cleaning. “You carry comprehensive, don’t you?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t cover things like this.”

“It covers glass breakage, don’t it? So just before you bring it into the shop, wham it. The insurance companies never question broken glass.”

“Thanks, Joe.” Layton grinned back. “But no, thank you. You know me. The original square.”

Joe shook his head and went around to remove the hose, which had shut itself off. He hung it back on the pump, screwed the cap on the tank, returned to investigate the oil and water situation, and finally made out the charge slip. All the while he kept shaking his head. Layton watched him with amusement.

He handed Layton the pad and said grumpily, “Do I put a new windshield in or don’t I?”

“Well... all right,” Layton said. “When do you want the car, Joe?” He signed the slip and handed the pad back.

“Better make it Monday,” Joe said, giving Layton the carbon. “I got a big week next week. I’ll have Billy get the new shield early Monday morning. Monday okay?”

“I’ll drop it off first thing.”

As Layton started the car Joe, visibly struggling with his better judgment, turned back. “Look, Mr. Layton. I hate to see you have to shell out for a new shield when all you have to do is wham this one with a small sledge — I’ll lend you one—”

“Joe, it isn’t honest.”

The garage man stared at him. “What do you mean it ain’t honest? What are you, a millionaire or something? These insurance companies expect it. Everybody does it.”

Not everybody, Joe.” Layton smiled. “Thanks just the same.”

“Beats me!” Joe said. “Well, I’ll try to hold the cost down, Mr. Layton. Okay if I phone a few auto graveyards to see if I can locate a good used one?”

“Okay? I’ll kiss you!” Layton waved and drove out.

He became uncomfortably aware as he drove north that Nancy was giving him quizzical sidelong glances. “I don’t know whether you’re an oddball, Jim, or just too good to be true. You meant that back there, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” Layton said shortly.

“I’ve been trying to think of a single person I know who wouldn’t have taken Joe’s advice, and I can’t. Tutter would have tipped Joe five dollars and borrowed the hammer.”

“Maybe that’s why Tutter wound up taking payola,” Layton retorted. Then he mumbled, “I’m sorry, Nancy. I shouldn’t have said that.”

She was silent. “Have you ever been offered a substantial — well, gift not to print something?” she asked suddenly.

Layton said, “Yes,” and let it go at that.

“And didn’t take it?”

“No.”

“That was a bad example,” Nancy murmured. “You wouldn’t be working for a newspaper reporter’s salary if you didn’t have respect for your job. But if you were offered a million dollars?”

“That’s an even worse example,” Layton said with a grin. “It’s purely academic.”

“But if you were? Would you turn it down, Jim?” There was a curious urgency in her tone that stirred him. She apparently felt a need to cut him down to her dead husband’s size.

Layton thought a long time. “I don’t suppose you’ll believe me. Yes, I think I’d turn it down.”

“A million dollars?” She didn’t believe him. Or maybe, Layton thought, she didn’t want to believe him.

“Look, Nancy,” he said, “honesty is almost entirely a matter of training and precept. I’m the kind of shmo who was unlucky enough to have been brought up by parents who not only preached honesty, but lived it. The day I was twelve years old my father and mother took me to the movies for my birthday. Pop not only paid full fare for me on the bus, but when the cashier at the movies asked him how many, he promptly said, ‘Three adult.’ And I was a scrawny, undersized kid who could have passed for ten... To this day I can’t even pocket a public phone jackpot — you know, when instead of getting your dime back a whole handful of silver comes pouring out. I send it back to the phone company. You don’t believe me, do you?” He glanced at her.

“You are unbelievable,” she murmured. “What was your father, a minister?”

“Pop?” Layton chuckled. “He was a mail carrier.”

They were well out into the Valley before Nancy spoke, again. “I realize now why you despised Tutter.”

“Tutter was only a symptom, Nancy. Our whole civilization is on the take. I suppose you could say I despise humanity.”

“Oh, no, Jim!”

“Well” — Layton smiled — “maybe with an exception here and there.”

“You mean your wife and children?” She was looking at the road.

“Wife and children?” He turned to stare at her. “I’m not married. Never could afford it.”

“Oh,” Nancy King said.

When he helped her out of his car at her door, she asked him in for a nightcap. But she looked so exhausted that Layton took her off the hook. “You’d better hit the sack, Nancy, before you fall on your face.”

“I am tired,” she murmured. “I think I’m going to be able to sleep tonight. Somehow, our talk relaxed me. I’m so grateful, Jim. I feel as if I’ve known you for years.”

He muttered, “Good night,” and turned to the car.

“Jim.”

“Yes, Nancy.” He did not quite turn back.

“Will I see you at the funeral?”

“If I’m assigned to cover it.”

“I see.”

She unlocked her door quickly and went inside. Layton jumped into his car and took off in a shower of gravel.