The Far Side of the Dollar

Chapter 22

I PHONED DR Weintraub long-distance. He confirmed the fact that he had arranged for Thomas Hillman’s adoption, but he refused to discuss it over the phone. I made an appointment to see him in his office that afternoon.

Before I drove back to Los Angeles I checked in with Lieutenant Bastian. He’d been working on the case for nearly three days, and the experience hadn’t improved his disposition. The scarlike lines in his face seemed to have deepened. His voice was hoarse and harsh, made harsher by irony: “It’s nice of you to drop by every few days.”

“I’m working for Ralph Hillman now.”

“I know that, and it gives you certain advantages. Which you seize. But you and I are working on the same case, and we’re supposed to be cooperating. That means periodic exchanges of information.”

“Why do you think I’m here?”

His eyes flared down. “Fine. What have you found out about the Hillman boy?”

I told Bastian nearly all of it, enough to satisfy both him and my conscience. I left out the adoption and Dr. Weintraub, and the possibility that Tom might turn up at the Santa Monica bus station at nine that night. About his other movements, and the fact that he had probably been a voluntary captive in the Barcelona Hotel, I was quite frank.

“It’s too bad Otto Sipe had to die,” Bastian grumbled. “He could have cleared up a lot of things.”

I agreed.

“Exactly what happened to Sipe? You were a witness.”

“He attacked Ben Daly with a spade. Daly was holding my gun while I examined Harley’s body. The gun went off.”

Bastian made a disgusted noise with his lips. “What do you know about Daly?”

“Not much. He has a service station across from the Barcelona. He struck me as dependable. He’s a war veteran–”

“So was Hitler. LA says Daly had previous dealings with Sipe. Sipe bought secondhand cars through him, for instance.”

“That would be natural enough. Daly ran the nearest service station to where Sipe worked.”

“So you don’t think Daly killed him to shut him up?”

“No, but I’ll bear it in mind. I’m more interested in the other killing. Have you seen the knife that Harley was stabbed with?”

“Not yet. I have a description.”

Bastian moved some papers around on top of his desk. “It’s what they call a hunting knife, made by the Oregon firm of Forstmann, with their name on it. It has a broad blade about six inches long, is very sharp and pointed, has a striped rubber handle, black and white, with finger moldings on it. Practically brand new. Is that an accurate description?”

“I only saw the striped rubber handle. The fact that the blade is quite broad, sharp, and pointed suggests that it’s the same knife that stabbed Carol.”

“So I told LA they’re going to send me the knife for identification work.”

“That’s what I was going to suggest.”

Bastian leaned forward, bringing his arms down heavily among the papers on his desktop. “You think somebody in town here stabbed him?”

“It’s an idea worth considering.”

“Why? For his share of the money?”

“It couldn’t have been that. Harley had nothing left by the time he left Las Vegas. I talked to the high-roller who cleaned him out.”

“I’m surprised Harley didn’t shoot him.”

“I gather there were professional guns around. Harley was never more than a semi-pro.”

“Why then?” Bastian said, his eyebrows arched. “Why was Harley killed if it wasn’t for money?”

“I don’t think we’ll know until we put our finger on the killer.”

“Do you have any nominations?” he said.

“No. Do you?”

“I have some thoughts on the subject, but I’d better not think them out loud.”

“Because I’m working for Hillman?”

“I didn’t say that.”

His dark eyes veiled themselves, and he changed the subject. “A man named Robert Brown, the victim’s father, was here asking for you. He’s at the City Hotel.”

“I’ll look him up tomorrow. Treat him gently, eh?”

“I treat ’em all gently. Harold Harley called me a few minutes ago. He’s taking his brother’s death hard.”

“He would. When did you let him go?”

“Yesterday. We had no good reason to hold him in custody. There’s no law that says you have to inform on your own brother.”

“Is he back home in Long Beach?”

“Yes. He’ll be available for the trial, if there’s anybody left to prosecute.”

He was needling me about the death of Otto Sipe. On that note I left.

I made a detour up the coast highway on the way to my appointment with Dr. Weintraub, and stopped at Ben Daly’s service station. Ben was there by the pump, with a bandage around his head. When he saw me he went into the office and didn’t come out. A boy who looked like a teenaged version of Ben emerged after a while. He asked in an unfriendly way if there was anything he could do for me.

“I’d like to talk to Mr. Daly for a minute.”

“I’m sorry. Dad doesn’t want to talk to you. He’s very upset, about this morning.”

“So am I. Tell him that. And ask him if he’ll look at a picture for identification purposes.”

The boy went into the office, closing the door behind him. Across the roaring highway, the Barcelona Hotel asserted itself in the sunlight like a monument of a dead civilization. In the driveway I could see a number of county cars, and a man in deputy’s uniform keeping back a crowd of onlookers.

Daly’s boy came back with a grim look on his face. “Dad says he doesn’t want to look at any more of your pictures. He says you and your pictures brought him bad luck.”

“Tell him I’m sorry.”

The boy retreated formally, like an emissary. He didn’t show himself again, and neither did his father. I gave up on Daly for the present.

Dr. Weintraub’s office was in one of the new medical buildings on Wilshire, near Cedars of Lebanon Hospital. I went up in a self-service elevator to a waiting room on the fifth floor. This was handsomely furnished in California Danish and had soothing music piped in, which got on my nerves before I had time to sit down. Two pregnant women on opposite sides of the room caught me, a mere man, in a crossfire of pitying glances.

The highly made-up girl behind the counter in one corner said: “Mr. Archer?”

“Yes.”

“Dr. Weintraub will see you in a few minutes. You’re not a patient, are you? So we needn’t bother taking your history, need we?”

“It would give you the horrors, honey.”

She moved her eyelashes up and down a few times, to indicate shocked surprise. Her eyelashes were long and thick and phony, and they waved clumsily in the air like tarantula legs.

Dr. Weintraub opened a door and beckoned me into his consulting room. He was a man about my age, perhaps a few years older. Like a lot of other doctors, he hadn’t looked after himself. His shoulders were stooped under his white smock, and he was putting on weight. The curly black hair was retreating from his forehead.

But the dark eyes behind his glasses were extraordinarily alive. I could practically feel their impact as we shook hands. I recognized his face, but I couldn’t place it.

“You look as though you could use a rest,” he said. “That’s free advice.”

“Thanks. It will have to come later.”

I didn’t tell him he needed exercise.

He sat down rather heavily at his desk, and I took the patient’s chair facing him. One whole wall of the room was occupied by bookshelves. The books seemed to cover several branches of medicine, with special emphasis on psychiatry and gynecology.

“Are you a psychiatrist, doctor?”

“No, I am not.”

His eyes were melancholy. “I studied for the Boards at one time but then the war came along. Afterwards I chose another specialty, delivering babies.”

He smiled, and his eyes lit up. “It’s so very satisfying, and the incidence of success is so very much higher. I mean, I seldom lose a baby.”

“You delivered Thomas Hillman.”

“Yes. I told you so on the telephone.”

“Have you refreshed your memory about the date?”

“I had my secretary look it up. Thomas was born on December 12, 1945. A week later, on December 20 to be exact, I arranged for the baby’s adoption by Captain and Mrs. Ralph Hillman. He made a wonderful Christmas present for them,” he said warmly.

“How did his real mother feel about it?”

“She didn’t want him,” he said.

“Wasn’t she married?”

“As a matter of fact, she was a young married woman. Neither she nor her husband wanted a child at that time.”

“Are you willing to tell me their name?”

“It wouldn’t be professional, Mr. Archer.”

“Not even to help solve a crime, or find a missing boy?”

“I’d have to know all the facts, and then have time to consider them. I don’t have time. I’m stealing time from my other– from my patients now.”

“You haven’t heard from Thomas Hillman this week?”

“Neither this week nor any other time.”

He got up bulkily and moved past me to the door, where he waited with courteous impatience till I went out past him.