Masters of Noir: Volume 4

Take Care of Yourself by William Campbell Gault

I finally caught up to her around eleven o’clock in a bar just off Windward Avenue. Windward Avenue is in Venice and Venice is not what you would call the high-rent district in the Los Angeles area.

A juke box was doling out the nasal complaints of a hillbilly songstress and most of the men at the bar looked like they worked with their hands. At the far end of the bar from the doorway, Angela Ladugo was sitting in front of what appeared to be a double martini.

The Ladugo name is a big one in this county, going way back to the Spanish land grants. Angela seemed to have inherited her looks from mama’s side of the family, which was mostly English.

I paused for a moment in the doorway and she looked up and her gaze met mine and I thought for a moment she smiled. But I could have been wrong; her face was stiff and her eyes were glazed.

The bartender, a big and ugly man, looked at me appraisingly and then his gaze shifted to Miss Ladugo and he frowned. A couple of the workingmen looked over at me and back at their glasses of beer.

There was an empty stool next to Angela; I headed toward it. The bartender watched me every step of the way and when I finally parked, he was standing at our end, studying me carefully.

I met his gaze blandly. “Bourbon and water.”

“Sure thing,” he said.

“New around here, are you?”

“Where’s here — Venice?”

“Right.”

Before I could answer, Angela said, “Don’t hit him yet, Bugsy. Maybe he’s a customer.”

I looked over at her, but she was looking straight ahead. I looked back at the bartender. “I’m not following the plot. Is this a private bar?”

He shook his head. “Are you a private cop?”

I nodded.

He nodded, too, toward the door. “Beat it.”

“Easy now,” I said. “I’m not just any private cop. You could phone Sergeant Nystrom over at the Venice Station. Do you know him?”

“I know him.”

“Ask him about me, about Joe Puma. He’ll give you a good word on me.”

“Beat it,” he said again.

Angela Ladugo sighed heavily. “Relax, Bugsy. Papa would only send another one. At least this one looks — washed.”

The big man looked between us and went over to get my whiskey. I brought out a package of cigarettes and offered her one.

“No, thank you,” she said in the deliberate, carefully enunciated speech of the civilized drunk on the brink of the pit.

“Do you come here for color, Miss Ladugo?” I asked quietly, casually.

She frowned and said distinctly, “No. For sanctuary.”

The bartender brought my bourbon and water. “That’ll be two bucks.”

He was beginning to annoy me. I said, “Kind of steep here, aren’t you?”

“I guess. Two bucks, cash.”

“Drink it yourself,” I told him. “Ready to go, Miss Ladugo?”

“No.” she said. “Bugsy, you’re being difficult. The man’s only doing his job.”

“What kind of men do that kind of job?” he asked contemptuously.

A silence. Briefly, I considered my professional decorum. And then I gave Bugsy my blankest stare and said evenly, “Maybe you’ve got some kind of local reputation as a tough guy, mister, but frankly I never heard of you. And I don’t like your insolence.”

The men along the bar were giving us their attention now. A bleached blonde in one of the booths started to giggle nervously. The juke box gave us Sixteen Tons.

Angela sighed again and said quietly, “I’m ready to go. I’ll see you later, Bugsy. I’ll be back.”

“Don’t go if you don’t want to,” he said.

She put a hand carefully on the bar and even more carefully slid off the stool. “Let’s go, Mr.—”

“Puma,” I supplied. “My arm, Miss Ladugo?”

“Thank you, no. I can manage.”

She was close enough for me to smell her perfume, for me to see that her transparently fair skin and fine hair were flawless. She couldn’t have been on the booze for long.

Outside, the night air was chilly and damp.

“Now, I’ll take your arm,” she said. “Where’s your car?”

“This way. About a block. Are you all right?”

A wino came lurching across the street, narrowly missed being hit by a passing car. From the bar behind us, came the shrill lament of another ridge-running canary.

“I’m all right,” Miss Ladugo said. “I’m — navigable.”

“You’re not going to be sick, are you?”

“Not if you don’t talk about it, I’m not. Where did Papa find you?”

“I was recommended by a mutual acquaintance. Would you like some coffee?”

“If we can go to a place that isn’t too clattery. Isn’t Bugsy wonderful? He’s so loyal.”

“Most merchants are loyal to good accounts, Miss Ladugo. Just another half block, now.”

She stopped walking. “Don’t patronize me. I’m not an alcoholic, Mr. — Panther, or whatever it is.”

“Puma,” I said. “I didn’t mean to sound condescending, but you must admit you’re very drunk.”

“Puma,” she said. “That’s a strange name. What kind of name is that?”

“Italian,” I told her. “Just a little bit, now, just a few steps.”

“You’re simpering, Mr. Puma. Don’t simper.”

I opened the door of my car on the curb side and helped her in. The flivver started with a cough and I swung in a U turn, heading for Santa Monica.

Nothing from her. In a few minutes I smelled tobacco and looked over to see her smoking. I asked, “Zuky’s joint all right?”

“I suppose.” A pause. “No. Take me home. I’ll send someone for my car.”

“Your car—” I said. “I didn’t think about that. I should have left mine and driven yours. I guess I live closer to Venice than you do.”

“In that case, why don’t we go to your house for a cup of coffee?”

“It isn’t a house; it’s an apartment, Miss Ladugo. And my landlord frowns on my bringing beautiful women there.”

“Am I beautiful?”

I thought she moved closer. “You know you are,” I said. “All beautiful women know it.”

Now, I felt her move closer. I said, “And you’re drunk and you don’t want to hate yourself in the morning. So why don’t you open that window on your side and get some cold, fresh air?”

A chuckle and her voice was husky. “You mustn’t give me a rejection complex.” Another pause. “You—”

“Quit it,” I shot back at her.

Her breathing was suddenly harsh. “You bastard. I’m Spanish, understand. Spanish and English. And the Spanish goes back to before this was even a state.”

“I know,” I said. “I just don’t like to be sworn at. Are you sure you don’t want to go to Zuky’s?”

Her voice was soft again. “I’ll go to Zuky’s. I–I didn’t mean what I said. I–In bars like Bugsy’s, a lady can pick up some — some unladylike attitudes.”

“Sure,” I said. “What’s the attraction there? Bugsy?”

“It’s a friendly place,” she said slowly. “It’s warm and plain and nobody tries to be anything they aren’t.” She opened the window on her side and threw her cigarette out.

I said, “You try to be something you aren’t when you go there. Those aren’t your kind of people.”

“How do you know? What do you know about me?”

“I know you’re rich and those people weren’t. I can guess you’re educated and I’m sure they aren’t. Have any of them invited you to their homes?”

“Just the single ones,” she said. “Are you lecturing me, Mr. Puma?”

“I’ll quit it. It’s only that I hate to see — oh, I’m sorry.” I stopped for the light at Olympic, and looked over at her.

She was facing my way. “Go on. You hate to see what?”

“I hate to see quality degenerate.”

The chuckle again. “How naive. Are you confusing quality with wealth, Mr. Puma?”

“Maybe.” The light changed and I drove on toward Wilshire.

Two block this side of it, she asked, “Who recommended you to Dad?”

“Anthony Ellers, the attorney. I’ve done some work for him.”

She was silent until I pulled the car into the lot behind Zuky’s. Then she asked, “Don’t you ever drink, Mr. Puma?”

“Frequently. But I don’t have to.”

She sighed. “Oh God, a moralist! Tony Ellers certainly picks them.”

I smiled at her. “My credit rating’s good, too. How about a sandwich with your coffee? It all goes on the expense account.”

She studied me in the dimness of the car and then she smiled, too. “All right, all right. Get around here now and open the door for me like a gentleman.”

Zuky’s was filled with the wonderful smells of fine kosher food. From a booth on the mezzanine, Jean Hartley waved and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. I ignored him.

We took a booth near the counter. Almost all the seats at the counter were taken, as were most of the booths. I said, “This is a warm and plain and friendly place and the food is good. Why not here instead of Bugsy’s?”

Her gaze was candid. “You tell me.”

I shook my head. “Unless you have some compulsion to degrade yourself. Cheap bars are for people who can’t afford good bars. And all bars are for people who haven’t any really interesting places to go. With your kind of money, there must be a million places more fun that Bugsy’s.”

Her smile was cool. “Like?”

“Oh, Switzerland or Sun Valley or Bermuda or the Los Angeles Country Club.”

“I’ve been to all those places,” she said. “They’re no better.”

The waitress came and we ordered corned beef sandwiches and coffee.

Jean Hartley materialized and said, “Joe, Joe old boy, gee it’s great to see you.”

“It’s been nice seeing you, Jean,” I said. “So long.”

My welcome didn’t dim his smile. “Joe boy, you’re being difficult.”

“Go, Jean,” I said. “This isn’t the Palladium.”

He looked from me to Miss Ladugo and back to me. He shook his head. “I don’t blame you,” he said, and went away.

“Handsome man,” Angela said.

I shrugged.

“Tell me,” she asked, “are you really as square as you sound?”

I shrugged again.

“That man wanted to meet me, didn’t he? And he didn’t know I’m rich, either, did he?”

“He probably does,” I said. “He’s worked his way into better fields since he milked the lonely hearts club racket dry.”

“Oh? Is he what’s called a confidence man?”

“No. They work on different principles. Jean trades on people’s loneliness, on widows and spinsters, all the drab and gullible people who want to be told they’re interesting.”

Angela Ladugo smiled. “He seemed very charming. I suppose that’s one of his weapons.”

“I suppose. I never found him very charming.”

“You’re stuffy,” she said. “You’re—”

The waitress came with our orders and Angela stopped. The waitress went away, and I said, “I’m a private investigator. Decorum is part of what I sell.”

She looked around and back at me. “Are you sexless, too?”

“I’ve never been accused of it before. I’ve never taken advantage of a drunken woman, if that’s what you mean.”

“I’m not drunk. I was, but I’m not now.”

“Eat,” I said. “Drink your coffee.”

There was no further dialogue of any importance. She ate all of her sandwich and drank two cups of coffee. And then I drove her back to Beverly Hills and up the long, winding driveway that kept the Ladugo mansion out of view from the lower class drivers on Sunset Boulevard.

A day’s work at my usual rates and it never occurred to me to be suspicious of the Buick four-door hardtop that seemed to have followed us from Santa Monica.

I billed Mr. Ladugo for mileage and the sandwiches and coffee and fifty dollars for my labor and got a check almost immediately. I had done what I was trained to do; the girl needed a psychiatrist more than a bodyguard.

I worked half a week on some hotel skips and a day on a character check on a rich girl’s suitor. Friday afternoon, Mr. Ladugo called me.

What kind of man, he wanted to know, was Jean Hartley?

“He’s never been convicted,” I said. “Is it facts you want, sir, or my opinion of the man?”

“Your opinion might be interesting, considering that you introduced him to my daughter.”

“I didn’t introduce him to your daughter, Mr. Ladugo. Whoever told you that, lied.”

“My daughter told me that. Could I have your version of how they happened to meet?”

I told him about Zuky’s and the short conversation I’d had with Jean Hartley. And I asked, “Do you happen to know what kind of car Mr. Hartley drives?”

“It’s red, I know that. Fairly big car. Why?”

I told him about the Buick that had followed us from Santa Monica. That had been a red car.

“I see,” he said, and there was a long silence. Finally, “Are you busy now?”

“I’ll be through with my present assignment at four o’clock. I’ll be free after that.” I was through right then, but I didn’t want the carriage trade to think I might possibly be hungry.

“I’d like you to keep an eye on her,” he said. “Have you enough help to do that around the clock?”

“I can arrange for it. Why don’t I just go to this Jean Hartley and lean on him a little?”

“Are you — qualified to do that?”

“Not legally,” I answered. “But physically, I am.”

“No,” he said, “nothing like that. I can’t — afford anything like that. Angela’s shopping now, but she should be home by five.”

I phoned Barney Allison and he wasn’t busy. I told him it would be the sleep watch for him; I could probably handle the rest of the day.

“It’s your client,” he said. “I figured to get the dirty end of the stick.”

“If you don’t need the business, Barney—”

“I do, I do.” he said. “Command me.”

Then I looked for Jean Hartley in the phone book, but he wasn’t in it. He undoubtedly had an unlisted number. I phoned Sam Heller of the bunko squad, but Sam had no recent address of Jean’s.

At four-thirty, I was parked on Sunset, about a block from the Ladugo driveway. At four-fifty, a Lincoln Continental turned in and it looked like Angela was behind the wheel.

I’d brought a couple sandwiches and a vacuum bottle of coffee; at six, I ate. At six-thirty, I was enjoying a cigarette and a disk jockey when a Beverly Hills prowl car pulled up behind my flivver.

The one who came around to my side of the car was young and healthy and looked pugnacious. He asked cheerfully if I was having car trouble.

I told him I wasn’t.

“Noticed you first almost two hours ago,” he went on. “You live in the neighborhood, do you?”

“About seven miles from here.” I pulled out the photostat of my license to show him.

He frowned and looked at the other cop, who was standing on the curb. “Private man.”

The other man said nothing nor did his expression change. It was a bored expression.

“Waiting for someone?” the younger one asked me.

I nodded. “If you’re worried about me, boys, you could go up to the house and talk to Mr. Ladugo. But don’t let his daughter see you. She’s the one I’m waiting for and Mr. Ladugo is paying me to wait.”

“Ladugo,” the young man said. “Oh, yes. Ladugo. Well, good luck, Mr. Puma.”

They went away.

Even in Beverly Hills, that name meant something. Puma, now, there was a name you had to look up, but not Ladugo. Why was that? I gave it some thought while I waited and decided it was because he was older, and therefore richer. But he wasn’t as old as my dad, and my dad had just finished paying the mortgage on a seven thousand dollar home. He’d been paying on it for twenty years. I must learn to save my money, cut down on cigarettes, or something. Or get into another line of work, like Jean Hartley.

At seven-thirty, the Continental came gliding out of the Ladugo driveway, making all the Cadillacs on Sunset look like 1927 Flints. I gave her a couple of blocks and followed in the Continental’s little sister.

There was a guilty knowledge gnawing at me. If we hadn’t gone to Zuky’s, she wouldn’t have met Jean Hartley. And I wouldn’t have been hired to follow her.

At a road leading off to the right, just beyond the UCLA campus, the Continental turned and began climbing into the hills. It was a private road, serving a quartette of estates, and I didn’t follow immediately. If it dead-ended up above, Angela and I would eventually come nose to nose.

I waited on Sunset for five minutes and then turned in the road. The houses were above the road and four mailboxes were set into a field-stone pillar at the first driveway. Atop the pillar were four names cut out of wrought iron and one of the names was Ladugo. Her trip seemed innocent enough; I drove out again to wait on Sunset.

It was dark, now, and the headlights of the heavy traffic heading toward town came barreling around the curve in a steady stream of light. My radio gave me the day’s news and some comments on the news and then a succession of platters.

A little before ten o’clock, the Continental came out on Sunset again and headed west. I gave it a three block lead.

It went through Santa Monica at a speed that invited arrest, but she was lucky, tonight. On Lincoln Avenue, she swung toward Venice.

Not back to Bugsy’s, I thought. Not back to that rendezvous of the literate and the witty, that charming salon of the sophisticated. A block from Windward, she parked. I was parking a half block behind that when she went through the doorway.

I got out and walked across the street before going down that way. When I came abreast of the bar, I could see her sitting next to a man whose back was to me. I walked down another half block and saw the red Buick four-door Riviera. The registration slip on the steering column informed me that this was the car of Jean Hartley. His address was there, too, and I copied it.

Then I went back to wait.

I didn’t have long. In about ten minutes, both of them came out of Bugsy’s. For a few moments, they talked and then separated and headed for their cars.

I followed Angela’s, though the Buick seemed to be going to the same place. Both of them turned right on Wilshire and headed back toward Westwood.

Westwood was the address on Jean Hartley’s steering column. And that’s where they finally stopped, in front of a sixteen unit apartment building of fieldstone and cerise stucco, built around a sixty foot swimming pool.

I waited until they had walked out of sight and then came back to the flood-lighted patio next to the pool. A list of the tenants was on a board here and one of the tenants was Hartley Associates.

Some associates he’d have. With numbers under their pictures. But who could guess that by looking at him? I went sniffing around until I found his door.

There was an el in the hallway at this point, undoubtedly formed by the fireplace in the apartment. It afforded me enough cover.

Hartley Associates. What could that mean? Phoney stock? I heard music and I heard laughter. The music was Chopin’s and the laughter was Angela’s. Even in the better California apartment houses, the walls are thin.

Some boys certainly do make out.

I heard a thud that sounded like a refrigerator door closing.

I wanted to smoke, but smoke would reveal me to others who might pass along the hall. Chopin changed to Debussy and I thought I heard the tinkle of ice in glasses. Light music, cool drinks and a dark night — while I stood in the hall, hating them both.

Time dragged along on its belly.

And then, right after eleven o’clock, I though I heard a whimper. There had been silence for minutes and this whimper was of the complaining type. I was moving toward the door, where I could hear better, when I heard the scream.

I tried the knob and the door was locked. I stepped back and put a foot into the panel next to the knob and the door came open on the second kick.

Light from the hall poured into the dark apartment and I could see Angela Ladugo, up against a wall, the palms of her hands pressed against the wall, her staring eyes frightened.

She was wearing nothing but that almost translucent skin and her fair hair. I took one step into the room and found a light switch next to the door.

When the lights went on, I could see Hartley sitting on a davenport near the fireplace and I headed his way. I never got there.

As unconsciousness poured into my reverberating skull, I remembered that the sign downstairs had warned me he had associates.

I came to on the floor. Hartley sat on the davenport, smoking. There was no sign of Angela Ladugo or anyone else.

I asked, “Where is she?”

“Miss Ladugo? She’s gone home. Why?”

“Why? She screamed, didn’t she? What the hell were you doing to her?”

He frowned. “I didn’t hear any scream. Are you sure it was in this apartment?”

“You know it was. Who hit me?”

Hartley pointed at an ottoman. “Nobody hit you. You stumbled over that.”

I put a hand on the floor and got slowly to my feet. The pain in my skull seemed to pulse with my heartbeat.

Hartley said, “I haven’t called the police — yet. I thought perhaps you had a reason for breaking into my apartment.”

“Call ’em,” I said. “Or I will.”

He pointed toward a hallway. “There’s the phone. You’re free to use it.”

I came over to stand in front of him. “Maybe I ought to work you over first. They might be easier on you than I’d be.”

He looked at me without fear. “Suit yourself. That would add assault to the rap.”

I had nothing and he knew it. I wasn’t about to throw the important name of Angela Ladugo to a scandal-hungry press. I was being paid to protect her, not publicize her. I studied him for seconds, while reason fought the rage in me.

Finally, I asked, “What’s the racket this time, Jean?”

He smiled. “Don’t be that way, Joe. So the girl likes me. That’s a crime? She was a little high and noisy, but you can bet she’s been that way before. Did she hang around? If she’d been in trouble, wouldn’t she have stayed around to see that you were all right?”

“How do I know what happened to her?” I asked.

He looked at his watch. “She should be phoning any minute, from home. I’ll let you talk to her if you want.”

I sat down on the davenport. “I’ll wait.”

He leaned back and studied the end of his cigarette. “What were you doing out there, Joe? Are you working for her father?”

“No. I felt responsible for her meeting you. I’m working for myself.”

He smiled. “I’ll bet. I can just see Joe Puma making this big noble gesture. Don’t kid me.”

I said slowly, “This isn’t the right town to buck anyone named Ladugo, Jean. He could really railroad you.”

“Maybe. I can’t help it if the girl likes me.”

“That girl’s sick,” I said. “She has some compulsion to debase herself. Is that the soft spot you’re working?”

“She likes me,” he said for the third time. “Does there have to be a dollar in it? She’s a beautiful girl.”

“For you,” I said, “there has to be a dollar in it. And I intend to see you don’t ever latch onto it. I’ve got friends in the Department, Jean.”

He sighed. “And all I’ve got is the love of this poor woman.”

The phone rang, and he went over to it. I came right along.

He said, “Hello,” and handed me the phone.

I heard Angela say, “Jean? Is everything all right? There won’t be any trouble, will there?”

“None,” I said. “Are you home?”

“I’m home. Jean — is that you—?”

I gave him the phone and went into the kitchen to get a drink of water. The lump on the back of my head was sore, but the rattles were diminishing in my brain.

If she was home, she was now under the eye of Barney Allison. I could use some rest.

I went out without saying any more to Jean, but I didn’t go right home. I drove back to Venice.

The big man behind the bar greeted me with a frown when I came in. I said, “I’d like to talk to you.”

“It’s not mutual.”

“I’d like to talk about Angela Ladugo. I’m being paid to see that she doesn’t get into trouble.”

He looked down at the bar to where a man was nursing a beer. He looked back at me. “Keep your voice low. I don’t want any of these slobs to know her name.”

I nodded. “The man who met her here tonight can do her more harm than any of your customers are likely to. His name is Jean Hartley. Have you ever heard of him?”

“I’ve heard of him.” His eyes were bleak.

I said, “I’ll have a beer if it’s less than two dollars.”

He drew one from the tap. “On the house. What’s Hartley’s pitch?”

“I don’t know. What’s your attraction, Bugsy?”

He looked at me suspiciously. “I knew her mother. Way, way back, when we were both punks. I was just a preliminary boy and her mother danced at the Blue Garter. I guess you’re too young to remember the Blue Garter.”

“Burlesque?”

“Something like that. A cafe. But Angela Walker was no tramp — don’t get that idea. Her folks back in England were solid middle-class people.”

“I see. And that’s where Ladugo met her, at the Blue Garter?

“I don’t know. She was dancing there when she met him.”

“And you kept up the acquaintanceship through the years?”

He colored slightly. “No. Not that she was a snob. But Venice is a hell of a long ways from Beverly Hills.”

“She’s dead now?”

“Almost three years.”

“And Angela has renewed the friendship. Her mother must have talked about you.”

“I guess she did. What’s it to you, Mac?”

“Nothing, I guess. I’m just looking for a pattern.”

“We don’t sell ’em, here. I thought you were watching the girl.”

“She’s home,” I said. “Another man will watch her until I go back to work in the morning. This is pretty good beer.”

“For twenty cents, you can have another one.”

I put two dimes on the counter, and said, “Hartley scares me. He’s tricky and handsome and completely unscrupulous.”

He put a fresh glass of beer in front of me. “I wouldn’t call him handsome.”

“Angela did. She went up to his apartment tonight. I broke in and somebody clobbered me. When I came to, she was gone. But she phoned him from home while I was still there.”

Bugsy looked at me evenly. “Maybe the old man should have hired somebody who knew his business.”

“You might have a point there. I’ll go when I finish the beer.”

He went down to serve the man at the other end of the bar. He came back to say, “I always mixed Angela’s drinks real, real weak. She’s got no tolerance for alcohol.”

I said nothing, nursing the beer.

Bugsy said, “Can’t you muscle this Hartley a little? He didn’t look like much to me.”

“He’s a citizen,” I said, “just like you. And the Department is full of boys who hate private operatives, just like you do.”

“Maybe I resented the old man sending you down here to drag her home. Some of the joints she’s been in, this could be a church.”

“He didn’t send me down here. I wound up here because she did. I don’t think he knows where she goes.”

Bugsy drew himself a small beer. He looked at it as he said, “And maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he just hired you to keep the Ladugo name out of the papers.”

“That could be,” I said, and finished my beer. “Good night, Bugsy.”

He nodded.

At home, I took a warm shower and set the alarm for seven o’clock. I wanted to write my reports of the two days before going over to relieve Barney.

I’d finished them by eight, and a little before nine, I drove up in front of the Ladugo driveway. There was no sign of Barney Allison.

He wouldn’t desert a post; I figured Angela must have already left the house. I drove to the office. If Barney had a chance to leave a message, he would have left it with my phone-answering service.

Barney’s Chev was parked about four doors from the entrance to my office. Angela wasn’t in sight; I went over to the Chev.

Barney said, “She went through that doorway about fifteen minutes ago. Maybe she’s waiting for you.”

“Maybe. Okay, Barney, I’ll take it from here.”

He yawned and nodded and drove away.

Angela Ladugo was waiting in the first floor lobby, sitting on a rattan love seat. Her gaze didn’t quite meet mine as I walked over.

When I was standing in front of her, she looked at the floor. Her voice was very low, “What — happened last night?”

“You tell me. Do you want to go up to the office?”

She shook her head. “It’s quiet enough here.” She looked up. “I — can’t drink very well. You might think that’s absurd, but it’s — I mean, I really don’t know what happened last night. I wasn’t really — conscious.”

“Didn’t you drive home?”

She shook her head. “I’m almost sure I didn’t. I think someone drove me home in my car. Was it Jean?”

“You don’t need to lie to me, Miss Ladugo,” I said gently. “I’m on your side.”

“I’m not lying.”

I said, “You phoned Hartley when you got home. You didn’t sound drunk to me then. You just sounded scared.”

Her eyes were blank. “You were there?”

“That’s right. You’re not going to see Hartley again, are you?”

She shook her head. “Of course not. Are you — still going to follow me?”

“Shouldn’t I?”

She took a deep breath that sounded like relief. “I don’t know. Are you going to tell my dad about — last night?”

“Most of it is in the report I wrote. Most of it. I’m not sure where the line of ethics would be. It isn’t my intention to shock your father or — hurt you.”

She looked at the floor again. “Thank you.”

The downcast eyes bit was right out of the Brontes; I hoped she didn’t think I was falling for her delicate lady routine.

She looked up with a smile. “As long as you’re going to be following me, why don’t we go together?” Charm she had, even though I knew it was premeditated.

“Fine,” I said. “It’ll save gas.”

We went to some shops I had never seen before — on the inside, that is. Like her poorer sisters, she shopped without buying. We went to Roland’s for lunch.

There, under the impulse of a martini, I asked her, “Were you and your mother closer than you are with your father?”

She nodded, her eyes searching my face.

“You don’t — resent your father?”

“I love him. Can’t we talk about something else?”

We tried. We discussed some movies we’d both seen and one book we’d both read. Her thoughts were banal; her opinions adolescent. We ran out of words, with the arrival of the coffee.

Then, as we finished, she said, “Why don’t we go home and talk to my father? I’m sure I don’t need to be watched anymore.”

“Might look bad for me,” I said. “So far as he knows, you’re not aware I’m following you.”

Some of her geniality was gone. “I’ll phone him.”

Which she did, right there at the table. And after a few moments of sweet talk, she handed the phone to me.

Her father said, “Pretend I’m taking you off the job. But keep an eye on her.”

“All right, sir,” I said, and handed the phone back to her.

When she’d finished talking, she smiled at me. “You can put the check on the expense account, I’m sure. Good luck, Mr. Puma.”

“Thank you,” I said.

We both rose and then she paused, to suddenly stare at me. “I haven’t annoyed you, have I? I mean, that report about last night — this doesn’t mean you’ll — make it more complete?”

I shook my head. “And I hope you won’t betray your father’s trust.”

The smile came back. “Of course I won’t.”

I asked, “How do I get back to my car?”

“You can get a cab, I’m sure,” she said. “I’d drop you, but I have so much more shopping to do.”

She had me. I couldn’t follow her in a cab and I couldn’t admit I was going to follow her. I nodded good-bye to her and signaled for the check.

I got a cab in five minutes and was back to my car in ten more. And, on a hunch, I drove right over to Westwood.

I came up Hartley’s street just as the Continental disappeared around the corner. A truck came backing out of a driveway, and, by the time I got started again, she must have made another turn. Because the big black car was nowhere in sight.

I drove back to Hartley’s apartment building. There was an off chance he was home and she had arranged to meet him somewhere. I parked in front.

Ten minutes of waiting, and I went up to his door. I could hear a record player giving out with Brahms. I rang the bell. No answer. I knocked. No answer.

The music stopped and in a few seconds started over again. Hartley could be asleep or out, or maybe he liked the record. I tried the door; it was locked.

Was there another door? Not in the hallway, but perhaps there was one opening on the balconies overlooking the pool.

I found that there was a small sun-deck right off Hartley’s door. The door was locked but I could see into his living room through a window opening onto the sun-deck. I could see Hartley.

He was on the floor, his face and forehead covered with dark blood. I didn’t know if he was dead, but he wasn’t moving.

I went along the balcony to the first neighbor’s door and rang the bell. A Negro woman in a maid’s uniform opened it and I told her, “The tenant in Apartment 22 has been seriously hurt. Would you phone the police and tell them to bring a doctor along? It’s Mr. Hartley and he’s on the floor in his living room. They’ll have to break in, unless the manager’s around.”

“I’ll phone the manager, too,” she said.

I went to the nearest pay phone and called Mr. Ladugo. He wasn’t home. I phoned Barney Allison and told him what had happened.

“And you didn’t wait for the police to arrive? You’re in trouble, Joe.”

“Maybe. What I want you to do is keep phoning Mr. Ladugo. When you get him, tell him what happened. And tell him his daughter was just leaving the place as I drove up.”

“Man, we could both lose our licenses.”

“You couldn’t. Do as I say now.”

“All right. But I’m not identifying myself. And when the law nabs you, you’d better not tell them you told me about this.”

“I won’t. Get going, man!”

From there, I drove to Santa Monica, to one of the modest sections of that snug, smug suburb where one of my older lady friends lived. She was well past seventy, and retired. But for forty years, she had handled the society page for Los Angeles’ biggest newspaper.

She was out in front, pruning her roses. She smiled at me. “Hello, stranger. If it’s money you want, I’m broke. If it’s a drink, you know where the liquor is.”

“Just information, Frances,” I said. “I want to know all you know about the Ladugos.”

“A fascinating story,” she said. “Come on in; I’ll have a drink with you.”

She told me what she knew plus the gossip.

Then I said, “Because Ladugo’s wife was messing around with this other man, it doesn’t necessarily follow that Ladugo wasn’t the child’s father. She and the other man could have been enjoying a perfectly platonic friendship.”

“They might have been. But I don’t think so. And neither did any of their friends at that time. I mean her good friends, not the catty ones. They were frankly scandalized by her behavior.”

“All right,” I said. “Your gossip has usually proven more accurate than some supposedly factual stories. May I use your phone?”

She nodded.

I phoned Barney Allison and he told me I could reach Mr. Ladugo at home. I phoned Mr. Ladugo.

He said, “My daughter’s here now, Mr. Puma. She tells me that she never went into Mr. Hartley’s apartment. She stayed there quite awhile, ringing his bell, because she could hear music inside and she thought he must be home.”

“She told me this morning,” I said, “that she was never going to see him again. She could be lying now, too.”

A pause. “I — don’t think she is. She’s very frightened.” Another pause. “How about Hartley? Is he dead?”

“I don’t know. Did Hartley try to blackmail you, Mr. Ladugo?”

“Blackmail me? Why? How?”

“Let me talk to Miss Ladugo, please,” I said.

His voice was harsh. “Is something going on I don’t know about?”

“Could be. But I don’t know about it either. Could I speak with Miss Ladugo?”

Another pause and then, “Just a moment.”

The soft and humble voice of Angela Ladugo, “What is it you want, Mr. Puma?”

“The truth, if it’s in you. Was Hartley blackmailing you? What was it, pictures?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Puma.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m supposed to be working for your father. But I’m not going to lose my license over a job. I’m going to the police now.”

Silence for a few seconds, and then, “That would be stupid. That would be extremely poor business. Wait, here’s Father.”

After an interval Mr. Ladugo got on the wire. His voice was almost a whisper. “Will you come over here, first, Mr. Puma? And would you bring your reports along?”

“I’ll be there in less than an hour,” I said.

As I hung up, Frances said, “Scandal, eh? And do I get let in on it? No, no. I tell you all and you tell me nothing.”

“Honey,” I said, “you’re a reporter. Telling all is your business. But privacy is what I sell.”

“I’m not a reporter any more, Wop. I’m a lonely old woman looking for gossip to warm my heart over. Don’t hurry back, you slob.”

“I love you, Frances,” I said. “I love you all the ways there are. And I’ll be back with the gossip.”

I didn’t stop for the reports. I went over to the office for that purpose, but I saw the Department car in front and kept going. Sergeant Sam Heller would remember that I was asking about Jean Hartley the other day and that’s why the law was waiting in front of my office. This would indicate that Hartley was either dead or unconscious, or the law would be parked somewhere else.

In the Ladugo home, Papa was waiting for me with Angela in his library. He sat in a leather chair behind his desk; Angela stood near the sliding glass doors that led to the pool and patio.

I said, “I couldn’t get the reports. The police were waiting for me at my office, so I keep moving.”

He nodded. “Somebody must have recognized you.”

“I guess.”

He looked at his daughter’s back and again at me. “Why did you mention blackmail?”

“You tell me,” I said. “Has it happened before?”

He colored. Angela turned. Her voice was ice. “What kind of remark was that, Mr. Puma?”

I looked at her coolly. “Blackmail could be a good way to milk your dad. Especially, if you worked with Hartley.”

“And why should I cheat my own father? I’m his only child, Mr. Puma.”

“Maybe,” I suggested, “you get everything you want — except money. I don’t know, of course, but that’s one thought.”

Ladugo said, “Aren’t you being insolent, Mr. Puma?”

“I guess I am,” I said. “Your daughter brings out the worst in me, sir.” I took a deep breath and looked at him quietly.

He was rolling a pencil on this desk with the flat of his hand. “When you finally talk to the police, it wouldn’t be necessary to tell them why you were at Hartley’s apartment, would it.”

“I’m afraid it would. If he’s dead, I’m sure it would.”

He continued to roll the pencil and now he was looking at it, absorbed in the wonder of his moving hand. “You’d have to tell them the truth? I mean, there could be other reasons why you were over there, couldn’t there?”

I smiled. “For how much?”

He looked up hopefully. “For — a thousand dollars?”

I shook my head. “Not even for a million.”

He was beet red and there was hate in his eyes. “Then why did you mention money?”

“Because I wanted you to come right out with a bribe offer. I don’t like pussy-footing.”

I looked over at his daughter and thought I saw a smile on that sly face. I looked back at Mr. Ladugo and was ashamed of myself. He was thoroughly humiliated. His hands were on top of the desk now and he was staring at them.

I said, “I’m sorry. Now that the damage is done, I’m sorry. But there has been such a mess of deception in this business, I was getting sick. Believe me, Mr. Ladugo, if I’m not forced to mention your name, I won’t. Tell me honestly, though, have you been blackmailed before?”

He looked at his daughter and back at the desk. He nodded.