The Galton Case

Chapter 12

I PHONED the Santa Teresa courthouse. After some palaver, I got Sheriff Trask himself on the other end of the line. He sounded harried:

“What is it?”

“Gordon Sable just told me you traced the murder car in the Culligan case.”

“A fat lot of good it did us. It was stolen in San Francisco night before last. The thief changed the license plates.”

“Who owns it?”

“San Francisco man. I’m thinking of sending somebody up to talk to him. Far as I can make out, he didn’t report the theft.”

“That doesn’t sound so good. I’m near San Francisco now, in Luna Bay. Do you want me to look him up?”

“I’d be obliged. I can’t really spare anybody. His name is Roy Lemberg. He lives at a hotel called the Sussex Arms.”

An hour later, I drove into the garage under Union Square. Bolling said good-by to me at the entrance:

“Good luck with your case.”

“Good luck with your poem. And thanks.”

The Sussex Arms was anodier side-street hotel like the one I had spent the night in. It was several blocks closer to Market Street, and several degrees more dilapidated. The desk clerk had large sorrowful eyes and a very flexible manner, as if he had been run through all the wringers of circumstance.

He said Mr. Lemberg was probably at work.

“Where does he work?”

“He’s supposed to be a car salesman.”

“Supposed to be?”

“I don’t think he’s doing so good. He’s just on commission with a secondhand dealer. The reason I know, he tried to sell me a car.” He snickered, as if he possessed the secret of a more advanced type of transportation.

“Has Lemberg lived here long?”

“A few weeks, more or less. This wouldn’t happen to be a police matter?”

“I want to see him on personal business.”

“Maybe Mrs. Lemberg is up in the room. She usually is.”

“Try her, will you? My name is Archer. I’m interested in buying their car.”

He went to the switchboard and relayed the message. “Mrs. Lemberg says come right on up. It’s three-eleven. You can take the elevator.”

The elevator jerked me up to the third floor. At the end of the dust-colored hallway, a blonde in a pink robe gleamed like a mirage. Closer up, her luster was dimmer. She had darkness at the roots of her hair, and a slightly desperate smile.

She waited until I was practically standing on her feet; then she yawned and stretched elastically. She had wine and sleep on her breath. But her figure was very good, lush-breasted and narrow-waisted. I wondered if it was for sale or simply on exhibition by the owner.

“Mrs. Lemberg?”

“Yeah. What’s all this about the Jag? Somebody phones this morning and he tells them it was stole. And now you want to buy it.”

“Was the car stolen?”

“That was just some of Roy’s malarkey. He’s full of it. You serious about buying?”

“Only if he has clear title,” I said fussily.

My show of reluctance made her eager, as it was intended to. “Come in, we’ll talk about it. The Jag is in his name, but I’m the one that makes the money decisions.”

I followed her into the little room. At the chinks in the drawn blinds, daylight peered like a spy. She turned on a lamp and waved her hand vaguely toward a chair. A man’s shirt hung on the back of it. A half-empty half-gallon jug of muscatel stood on the floor beside it.

“Siddown, excuse the mess. With all the outside work I do, I don’t get time to houseclean.”

“What do you do?”

“I model. Go ahead, siddown. That shirt is ready for the laundry, anyway.”

I sat down against the shirt. She flung herself on the bed, her body falling automatically into a cheesecake pose:

“Were you thinking of paying cash?”

“If I buy.”

“We sure could use a chunk of ready cash. What price did you have in mind? I’m warning you, I won’t let it go too cheap. That’s my chief recreation in life, driving out in the country. The trees and everything.” Her own words seemed to bewilder her. “Not that he takes me out in it. I hardly ever see the car any more. That brother of his monopolizes it. Roy’s so soft, he don’t stick up for his rights the way he should. Like the other night.”

“What happened the other night?”

“Just more of the same. Tommy comes up full of the usual. He’s got another one of these big job opportunities that never pan out. All he needs is a car, see, and he’ll be making a fortune in no time. So Roy lends him the car, just like that. Tommy could talk the fillings right out of his teeth.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Night before last, I think. I lose count of the nights and days.”

“I didn’t know Roy had a brother,” I prompted her.

“Yeah, he’s got a brother.” Her voice was flat. “Roy’s all fixed up with a brother, till death doth us part. We’d still be in Nevada, living the life of O’Reilly, if it wasn’t for that punk.”

“How so?”

“I’m talking too much.” But bad luck had dulled her brains, bad wine had loosened her tongue: “The Adult Authority said they’d give him a parole if he had somebody willing to be responsible. So back we move to California, to make a home for Tommy.”

I thought: This is a home?

She caught my look:

“We didn’t always live here. We made a down payment on a real nice little place in Daly City. But Roy started drinking again, we couldn’t hold onto it.” She turned over onto her stomach, supporting her chin on her hand. Her china-blue eyes looked fractured in the light. “Not that I blame him,” she added more softly. “That brother of his would drive a saint to drink. Roy never hurt nobody in his life. Except me, and you expect that from any man.”

I was touched by her asphalt innocence. The long curve of her hip and thigh, the rich flesh of her bosom, were like the disguise of a frightened adolescent.

“What was Tommy in for?”

“He beat up a guy and took his wallet. The wallet had three bucks in it, and Tommy was in for six months.”

“That works out to fifty cents a month. Tommy must be quite a mastermind.”

“Yeah, to hear him tell it. It was supposed to be longer, but I guess he’s good when he’s in, with somebody watching him. It’s just when he gets out.” She cocked her head sideways, and her bright hair fell across her hand. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. In my experience, the guys do most of the talking. I guess you have a talkable-attable face.”

“You’re welcome to the use of it.”

“Sanctuary mucho. But you came here to buy a car. I was almost forgetting. I worry so much, I forget things.” Her gaze slid down from my face to the muscatel jug. “I had a few drinkies, too, if the truth be knownst.” She drew a lock of hair across her eyes and looked at me through it.

Her kittenish mood was depressing. I said: “When can I have a look at the Jaguar?”

“Any time, I guess. Maybe you better talk to Roy.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Don’t ask me. Tell you the truth, I don’t even know if Tommy brought it back yet.”

“Why did Roy say the car was stolen?”

“I dunno. I was half asleep when he left. I didn’t ask him.”

The thought of sleep made her yawn. She dropped her head and lay still. Traffic went by in the street like a hostile army. Then footsteps came down the corridor and paused outside the door. A man spoke softly through it:

“You busy, Fran?”

She raised herself on her arms like a fighter hearing a far-off count. “Is that you, hon?”

“Yeah. You busy?”

“Not so’s you’d notice. Come ahead in.”

He flung the door open, saw me, and hung back like an interloper. “Excuse me.”

His dark eyes were quick and uncertain. He was still in his early thirties, but he had a look about him, intangible and definite as an odor. The look of a man who has lost his grip and is sliding. His suit was sharply pressed, but it hadn’t been cleaned for too long. The very plumpness of his face gave it a lardlike inertness, as if it had stopped reacting to everything but crises.

His face interested me. Unless I was getting hipped on family resemblances, he was an older softer version of the boy who’d stolen my car. This one’s dark curls were thinner and limper. And the violence of the younger man was petulance in him. He said to his wife:

“You told me you weren’t busy.”

“I’m not. I’m only resting.” She rolled over and sat up. “This gentleman wants to buy the Jaguar.”

“It’s not for sale.” Lemberg closed the door behind him. “Who told you it was?”

“Grapevine.”

“What else did you hear?”

He was quick on the uptake. I couldn’t hope to con him for long, so I struck at his vulnerable spot:

“Your brother’s in trouble.”

His gaze went to my shoulder, my hands, my mouth, and then my eyes. I think in his extremity he would have liked to hit me. But I could have broken him in half, and he must have known it. Still, anger or frustration made him foolish:

“Did Schwartz send you to tell me this?”

“Who?”

“You needn’t play dumb. Otto Schwartz.” He gargled the words. “If he sent you, you can take a message back for me. Tell him to take a running jump in the Truckee River and do us all a favor.”

I got up. Instinctively, one of Lemberg’s arms rose to guard his face. The gesture told a lot about him and his background.

“Your brother’s in very bad trouble. So are you. He drove down south to do a murder yesterday. You provided the car.”

“I didn’t know whah–” His jaw hung open, and then clicked shut. “Who are you?”

“A friend of the family. Show me where Tommy is.”

“But I don’t know. He isn’t in his room. He never came back.”

The woman said: “Are you from the Adult Authority?”

“No.”

“Who are you?” Lemberg repeated. “What do you want?”

“Your brother, Tommy.”

“I don’t know where Tommy is. I swear.”

“What’s Otto Schwartz got to do with you and Tommy?”

“I don’t know.”

“You brought up his name. Did Schwartz give Tommy a contract to murder Culligan?”

“Who?” the woman said. “Who did you say got murdered?”

“Peter Culligan. Know him?”

“No,” Lemberg answered for her. “We don’t know him.”

I advanced on him: “You’re lying, Lemberg. You better let down your back hair, tell me all about it. Tommy isn’t the only one in trouble. You’re accessory to any crime he did.”

He backed away until the backs of his legs were touching the bed. He looked down at his wife as if she was his only source of comfort. She was looking at me:

“What did you say Tommy did?”

“He committed a murder.”

“For gosh sake.” She swung her legs down and stood up facing her husband. “And you lent him the car?”

“I had to. It was his car. It was only in my name.”

“Because he was on parole?” I said.

He didn’t answer me.

The woman took hold of his arm and shook it. “Tell the man where he is.”

“I don’t know where he is.” Lemberg turned to me: “And that’s the honest truth.”

“What about Schwartz?”

“Tommy used to work for him, when we lived in Reno. They were always asking him to come back to work.”

“Doing what?”

“Any dirty thing they could dream up.”

“Including murder?”

“Tommy never did a murder.”

“Before this one, you mean.”

“I’ll believe it when I hear it from him.”

The woman groaned. “Don’t be an idiot all your life. What did he ever do for you, Roy?”

“He’s my brother.”

“Do you expect to hear from him?” I said.

“I hope so.”

“If you do, will you let me know?”

“Sure I will,” he said.

I went down in the elevator and laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter in front of the room clerk. He raised a languid eyebrow:

“What’s this for? You want to check in?”

“Not today, thanks. It’s your certificate of membership in the junior G-men society. Tomorrow you get your intermediate certificate.”

“Another ten?”

“You catch on fast.”

“What do I have to do for it?”

“Keep track of Lemberg’s visitors, if he has any. And any telephone calls, especially long-distance calls.”

“Can do.” His hand moved quickly, flicking the bill out of sight. “What about her visitors?”

“Does she have many?”

“They come and go.”

“She pay you to let them come and go?”

“That’s between me and her. Are you a cop?”

“Not me,” I said, as if his question was an insult. “Just keep the best track you can. If it works out, I may give you a bonus.”

“If what works out?”

“Developments. Also I’ll mention you in my memoirs.”

“That will be just ducky.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jerry Farnsworth.”

“Will you be on duty in the morning?”

“What time in the morning?”

“Any time.”

“For a bonus I can be.”

“An extra five,” I said, and went outside.

There was a magazine shop on the opposite corner. I crossed to it, bought a Saturday Review, and punched a hole in the cover. For an hour or more, I watched the front of the Sussex Arms, trusting that Lemberg wouldn’t penetrate my literate disguise.

But Lemberg didn’t come out.