You’re Lonely When You’re Dead

I

Olaf’s gymnasium was in the basement of a block of offices on Princes Street, the East Side district of Orchid City. To get to it you went down a flight of well-worn stone steps, along a narrow, dimly lit passage, at the far end of which was a large wooden sign that read: Boxing Academy. Prop: Olaf Kruger.

The smell of perspiration and resin, the rhythmic sound of leather-covered fists thudding on punch-bags, the shuffling of feet on the canvas floor, and the peculiar snorting boxers make when exercising greeted me as I pushed open the double swing doors.

Beyond the doors was a vast room equipped with every conceivable athletic apparatus, dozens of light and heavy punch-bags, two full-sized rings, lit by powerful overhead lights, and all the other paraphernalia needed by professional fighters.

A thick fog of tobacco-smoke hung in the hot, sweaty atmosphere, and a big crowd of men stood around one of the rings watching a negro pounding the regular sparring partner who had been with Olaf as long as I could remember. A number of other boxers were dotted around the outer edges of the room, either slamming away at a punch-bag or skipping or shadow boxing; getting themselves into shape for the end-of-the-week fights Olaf staged at the Athletic Club.

I made my way across the room towards Olaf’s office.

‘Hello there, Vic.’

Hughson, the Herald sports writer, pushed his way out of the crowd around the ring and caught hold of my arm.

‘Hello there, yourself,’ I said.

Hughson was a tall, lean, cynical-looking bird, going bald, with liverish bags under his eyes and tobacco ash spread over his coat front. His sweat-stained hat rested on the back of his head, and a damp, dead cigar grew out of his big mouth.

‘You want to get a load of this, Vic,’ he said, waving towards the ring. ‘This nigger’s going to de-gut Hunter. You’d better get on to him before the odds shorten.’ His sharp little eyes dwelt on the bruise on my neck and he was sufficiently interested to remove his cigar and point with it.

‘Say, who’s been kicking you in the crop?’

‘Look, pal, go back to your nigger and leave me alone,’ I said. ‘Is Olaf around?’

‘In his office.’ He continued to eye the bruise wistfully. ‘Any new dope on the killing, Vic?’ he went on: ‘It’s my bet that crum Leadbetter did the job. He’s always crawling around those dunes like a goddamn snake, spying on couples.’ His yellowish face lengthened. ‘He once spied on me. Jay-sus! What a scare he gave me! I thought he was her husband.’

‘It could be anyone,’ I said, moving off. ‘Brandon’s handling it. You’d better ask him.’

‘Hey! Don’t run away,’ he said, catching hold of my arm again. ‘Talking about criminal assault reminds me: there’s a doll over there you want to take a look at. She has a chassis that’s got a lot of authority. I’ve been trying to find out who she is, but no one knows, or else they ain’t talking.’

I followed the jerk of his thumb. On the far side of the ring where there were several rows of wooden forms sat a girl. The first thing you noticed about her was her shock of flaming red hair, then her thin face with its high cheekbones and her large, heavily lashed eyes that slanted upwards and gave her an oriental look that made you think of intrigue and secret papers and the night train to Budapest. She wore a bottle green suede windbreaker with a zipper down the front, black, high-waisted slacks and Bata shoes. She was watching the negro with critical intentness as he slid about the ring, and every time he landed a rib bender her mouth tightened, and she edged a little closer as if she were scared of missing anything.

‘Yeah, some doll,’ I said, and she was. ‘Why not ask her?’

‘It’d be safer to open an artery,’ Hughson said. ‘Hank tried to make her, but she laid him among the sweet peas. That baby’s tough. I guess she must have plenty of protection to be alone in this joint.’

Someone shouted for Hughson, and winking at me he went back into the crowd. I took one more lingering look at the redhead, then continued on my way to Olaf’s quarters.

The office was a small, shabby room, the walls papered with the glossy prints of prizefighters and old billposters advertising the hundreds of fights Olaf had promoted since coming to Ocean City. Olaf Kruger sat behind a big desk that was covered with papers and a dozen telephones that never rang singly. At another smaller desk a chemical blonde hammered a typewriter and chewed gum and filled the room with a perfume that would have come expensive at a dime a gallon.

‘Got a minute, or are you busy?’ I asked, kicking the door shut.

Olaf waved me to a chair. He was not much bigger than a jockey, bald as an egg and as smart as they come. He was in shirtsleeves, his thin gold watch-chain held his open vest together and his tie hung loose below his open collar.

‘How are you, Vic? I’m not busy. Nothing ever happens in this lousy joint. I’ve got all the time in the world.’

To prove him a liar three telephones started jangling and the door burst open and two guys came in and began yelling about dressing-gowns they wanted for their next fight — two guys as big and as ugly and as tough as a couple of bull rhinos, but Olaf brushed them off as if they’d been midgets.

He shouted, ‘Get the hell out of here, you bums!’

And they went.

Then he grabbed up two of the telephones, shouted into them he was busy, hung up, took the third, listened for a moment, said, ‘Tear up his contract and give him the gate!’ and hung that one up too.

‘Have a cigar, Vic?’ he went on, pushing the box across the desk. ‘What’s biting you? Heard about the murder. I don’t know the girl, but if you’re sorry I am too.’

‘She was a good kid, Olaf,’ I said, pushing the cigar-box back. ‘But never mind that. Know a guy named Mills?’

He ran a hand that lacked a thumb over his baldhead, looked at the chemical blonde and grimaced.

‘That’s a common name in our racket. What’s his other name?’

‘I don’t know. He’s handsome; around twenty-three or four. Useful with his fists. Moves like lightning and handles himself like a pro; but he’s not marked up any.’

Olaf sat up.

‘Sure, I know him. Caesar Mills. Yeah, that’s the guy. If he could have left women alone he’d have been the cruiserweight champ of the world. There wasn’t a fighter who could lay a glove on him at one time. He started here. I thought I’d picked a real winner, but the punk wouldn’t train. He won three fights in a row, then when I started matching him with boys who knew their business he couldn’t stay the course. He quit about six months ago.’

‘He and I had a little argument,’ I said, and turned so he could see the bruise on my neck. ‘He’s taken to using his feet.’

Olaf’seyes opened.

‘The louse!’ he said. ‘But leave him alone, Vic. He’s poison. If you think you can flatten him you’ve another think coming. Even now I guess he’d be hard to stop. I wouldn’t put anyone against him except a damn good heavy, and even then I wouldn’t be sure of my money. How did you run into him?’

‘He’s acting as a guard to the Santa Rosa Estate. I went up there on business and we got into an argument.’

‘A guard?’ Olaf said, staring. ‘Why, he’s got bags of dough. It doesn’t sound like the same guy.’

‘Must be. What makes you think he has money?’

‘Well, hell! By his style. He looks in here from time to time. Dresses like a million dollars, runs a blue-and-cream Rolls, has a house out at Fairview that makes my mouth water.’

I remembered the gold combined cigarette case and lighter Mills had produced from his pocket, but I didn’t mention it.

‘No one knows how he got his dough,’ Olaf went on. ‘When he first came to me he was out-at-elbows and glad to have a free meal. A guard, eh? Maybe he’s hit bad times again. I haven’t seen him for a month or so.’

‘He’s smooth with women, you said?’

Olaf threw up his hands.

‘Smooth? You’ve never seen anything like it. He has only to tip his hat for them to fall over backwards.’

I thought for a moment, then pushed back my chair.

‘Well, thanks, Olaf.’ I touched my neck tenderly. ‘That punch the Battler taught me was as useless on Mills as if I’d hit him with a handful of birdseed.’

‘It would be,’ Olaf said seriously. ‘That guy’s fast. But if you can land one on him he’ll turn yellow. Just one good solid punch and he’d flip his lid. The trouble is to hang it on him.’

‘And Olaf,’ I said, pausing at the door, ‘who’s the redhead outside? The one with the chinky eyes and fancy pants?’

Olaf’s face creased into a grin.

‘Gail? Gail Bolus? Is she out there? Now, that’s the damnedest thing. Haven’t seen Gail for weeks. She’ll tell you about Caesar. Used to be his girl. She’s crazy about fighting, but when Caesar wouldn’t train she threw him up. She used to come here night after night about six months ago. Then she suddenly quit. I heard she left town. A tough baby, Vic. They don’t come tougher than she is.’

‘Come on out and break the ice for me,’ I said. ‘I want to meet her.’

II

Lunch time at Finnegan’s was always a noisy, crowded free-for-all, with the centre part of the room packed with extra tables to cope with the rush. But on the outer ring of the room alcove tables offered sanctuary from the crush and were jealously reserved for Finnegan’s special customers.

From my secluded table near the bar, I spotted Kerman and Benny as they came in and waved to them. They waved back and moved towards me, threading their way through the packed-in crowd; Kerman pausing to apologize with old-world courtesy when he happened to jog an elbow or brush against a girl’s hat, while Benny followed on behind, readjusting the girls’ hats by tipping them over their noses and smiling blandly when they turned to remonstrate. Both seemed a little drunk, but that was a good sign. They did their best work after a bout with the bottle.

As they neared the alcove where I was sitting they spotted Miss Bolus. Both of them came to an abrupt halt and clutched at each other, then surged forward madly, struggling to get to the table before the other.

‘All right, all right,’ I said, pushing them back. ‘You don’t have to get so excited. Sit down and try to behave like you were house trained. There’s nothing in this for you.’

‘Isn’t this rat cute?’ Benny said, appealing to Kerman. ‘He sends us out all day walking our feet to the bone while all he does is to leech around with women. Then he has the crust to say there’s nothing in it for us.’

Kerman adjusted his necktie with a finicky little movement and eyed Miss Bolus with unconcealed admiration.

‘Madam,’ he said, with a formal bow, ‘I would be shirking my duty if I did not warn you against this man. His reputation is notorious. Ever since he gained access to Ebbing he’s been a menace to young and unprotected girls. All over the country hundreds of revengeful fathers are hunting for him with shotguns. Every time he passes the local orphanage toddlers stretch out their little arms and lisp “Daddy!” The beautiful girls you see lying in the gutters of this fair city have been thrown there by this fiend. Women are his playthings; here today, the gutter tomorrow. May I take you home to your mother?’

‘And if she’s anything like you, baby,’ Benny said with a leer, ‘I’ll come along too.’

Miss Bolus looked at me inquiringly.

‘Are they always as drunk as this?’ she asked without a great show of interest.

‘It’s about their usual form,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I’d better introduce you. You’ll be seeing a lot of them I’m afraid. The dapper drunk is Jack Kerman. The other one who looks as if he’s slept in his clothes is Ed Benny. They’re harmless enough in straitjackets. Boys, meet Miss Bolus.’

Kerman and Benny sat down. They folded their arms on the table and studied Miss Bolus with an admiration that would have been embarrassing if she was the type to be embarrassed, but she wasn’t.

‘I like her eyes, Jack,’ Benny said, bunching his fingers to his lips and blowing a kiss to the ceiling, ‘and the delicate curve of her ears, and the line of her neck — particularly the line of her neck.’

Kerman declaimed with exaggerated gestures:

Benny and I stared at him goggle-eyed.

‘Where did you get that?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t know you could read.’

Benny hurriedly found a pencil and wrote down the quotation on his shirt cuff.

‘Would you mind if I used that, Jack?’ he asked anxiously. ‘It’s a very beautiful compliment, and I haven’t said anything nice to my girl for weeks.’

Kerman waved a deprecatory hand.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘That’s nothing. I got culture. That’s what a girl likes — culture.’

‘There are other things,’ Miss Bolus said suavely.

The waiter arrived at this moment with the special lunch, and for a few minutes while he set the plates and dishes before us there was a lull.

‘And bring a bottle of Irish,’ Kerman ordered. He leaned forward to ask Miss Bolus, ‘Can I press you to a little wine, madam?’

She laughed.

‘He’s crazy,’ she said to me. ‘Do they always act like this?’

‘Most of the time,’ I told her. ‘So long as you don’t take them seriously they’re all right. But if they want to guess your weight and ask you to let them run their hands over you, then’s the time to holla “Fire!” ‘

Kerman spotted my bruise.

‘Look!’ he said excitedly to Benny. ‘Someone hates him worse than we do.’

Benny gaped at my neck, got up, came around the table and peered at the bruise closely.

“Did she do that?’ he asked, his voice hushed in awe.

‘No, you big dope,’ I said. ‘Sit down and I’ll tell you.’

While we were eating I told them about Mills.

‘And you mean to tell me you let some punk kick you in the neck and he’s still alive to tell the tale?’ Benny asked, shocked. ‘I don’t believe it!’

‘If you think you can do better I’ll fix it so you can meet him,’ I said a little heatedly. ‘You ask her. She knows him He’s way out of our class.’

Miss Bolus shrugged her elegant shoulders.

‘Oh, I don’t know. He’s good, but not all that good,’ she said indifferently. ‘He’s wide open to a left counter to the jaw. When he hits you with his right you want to move in with a left jab.’

‘Theories,’ I said and sneered. ‘When he hits you with his right you stay hit. The next time I talk to him I’ll take a gun along.’ I turned to the others. ‘Miss Bolus is going to help us solve the case. She’s interested in criminology.’

‘She must be if she’s chummed up with you,’ Benny said bitterly. He said to Miss Bolus with an ingratiating smile, ‘You and me can work the night shift. I’ll read your bumps.’

‘Mister Benny!’ Kerman exclaimed shocked.

‘I mean the bumps on her head, you dope!’ Benny said, annoyed. ‘Phrenology is an exact science.’

‘Can we cut out this frolicate and get down to business?’ I asked the waiter to put a bottle of Irish whisky on the table. I offered Miss Bolus a drink, but she said she didn’t touch hard liquor until seven o’clock.

Kerman said he didn’t either, that is if she meant seven in the morning.

‘Now, Jack, how about Leadbetter?’ I asked, pouring myself a drink and passing the bottle to Benny.

‘Well, I’ve seen him,’ Kerman said, wrinkling up his eyes and frowning. ‘I didn’t get much out of him. He’s an odd customer. He has a little shack on the edge of the dunes, and there’s a big telescope on the roof. He spends a lot of his time up there peeping at anything that happens along, and by the way he smacked his lips when he told me I guess it wouldn’t be a bad way of spending an afternoon at that.’

‘Never mind the asides,’ I said. ‘Did you get anything out of him?’

‘It struck me he did know more than he says. His story is he was out looking for a fish hawk’s nest — why he had to look for it at that time of night he didn’t say — and he came upon Dana’s handbag, saw the bloodstains and went straight off to the police. He said he didn’t see anyone out there, but when I hinted I’d pay for information he said he wasn’t sure he hadn’t seen anyone, and his memory was bad, and he’d like a little time to think about it.’

‘I bet he didn’t say that to Mifflin,’ I said.

Kerman shook his head.

‘He’s scared of the police. I have a feeling he knows something, but he’s hoping to collect on his information.’

‘Maybe he’s thinking of tapping the killer,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘If he knows who he is he might try blackmail.’

‘Yeah, I thought of that. He’s the type.’

‘I think I’ll call on him, Jack. He might react to a little tough persuasion. I’d make him more scared of me than of the police.’

‘Well, you try, but watch out. You know what Brandon’s like. If he thinks you’re interfering with his witness...’

‘I’ll watch out. Anything else, Jack?’

‘I went along to that big service station near Santa Rosa Estate. I thought there might be a chance Anita had looked in there for gas before she skipped, but she hadn’t. While I was talking to one of the mechanics, Cerf’s Filipino chauffeur drove in. He had a loose tappet he was too lazy to fix himself, and while the mechanic was adjusting it I got talking to him. He’s one of those guys who likes to hear his own voice, and after I’d oiled him with a five-spot I got him on to Mrs. Cerf. I told him I was from the Herald and wanted to see Mrs. Cerf. He said she had gone away. This bit’s interesting. He said she ordered the Packard to be left at the side entrance of the house at ten o’clock last night. He waited up for her, but at two o’clock when she hadn’t shown up he decided she was staying out for the night and went to bed. She didn’t come back, and the car’s still missing.’

‘She didn’t come back?’ I repeated, staring at him.

‘That’s right. He says he reported to Cerf the car hadn’t been returned to the garage, and Cerf said it was all right and that he knew about it.’

‘Well, that is something,’ I said. ‘It looks as if she came out to see me and then went off somewhere and spent the night there. She couldn’t have been home when Cerf told Paula he was going to ship her out of town, although he made out to Paula she was home. It almost looks as if she knew about the murder and skipped quick.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I think,’ Kerman said. ‘Well, I nosed around the rest of the morning, but I didn’t get anywhere. I have the Packard’s registration number and I’ll keep at it. But up to the moment no one has seen the car or her for that matter. Still a car that size is difficult to hide up for long.’

‘Go after the car, Jack. That’s your best bet. You should check every garage, hotel and road house within ten miles radius.’

Miss Bolus, who had been listening to all this with the same rapt interest as she had watched the negro boxer, said, ‘And don’t forget the night clubs.’

‘She’s right. Try L’Etoile, Jack.’ I looked over at Benny. ‘Did you get out there this morning?’

Benny nodded.

‘Sure did, but there was no one around: no one I could talk to, that is. I saw Bannister, but he didn’t see me. The night staff don’t come on until six in the evening.’

‘Right.’ I turned to Kerman. ‘You look after L’Etoile. I want to find out if Dana went there. Sniff around and see if you can spot the Packard. It wouldn’t surprise me much if Anita was hiding there.’

‘I’ve got something,’ Benny said, pushing his plate away and pouring himself another slug of whisky. ‘I’ve got something really hot.’

‘Yeah, I know. Anita was out at Dana’s place last night; right?’ I said and grinned.

Benny threw up his hands in disgust.

‘Ain’t that something?’ he said. ‘I sweat my guts out all morning, dodge a frock of buttons, make myself amiable to an old whisky soak who lives opposite Dana’s apartment, and this punk, who hasn’t been near the place, spoils my entrance!’

‘Sorry, Ed,’ I said, patting him on the arm. ‘Brandon told me.’

‘Brandon?’

‘Yeah, Brandon. He thinks we’re protecting a client and he’s promised to turn his wrecking crew on me the next time we meet,’ and I told them the details of my talk with Brandon.

‘If he publishes a description of Anita someone’s bound to give her away,’ Kerman said, worried.

‘I know,’ I said and shrugged. ‘That’s something we’ll have to take care of when it happens. What else did you find out, Ed?’

‘Well, not much,’ he returned. ‘I thought I was going to create a sensation. The old dame — her name’s Mrs. Selby — who lives across the passage, facing Dana’s front door, spends most of her time watching her neighbours. She said she heard footsteps on the stairs about eleven-fifteen last night and peeped through her letterbox. I guess she was expecting to see Dana take a man into her rooms, and was ready to phone down to the janitor. She’s that kind of crab. She said Dana and a woman in a flame-coloured evening dress went into the apartment. She only had a glimpse of the woman and she couldn’t give me a description of her, except the dress and the diamond necklace she was wearing. They stayed in the apartment for about half an hour. Mrs. Selby wasn’t particularly interested, but when she heard the front door open she had a quick peep and was in time to see the woman in the evening dress going down the passage alone.

‘She decided there was nothing more to see and went to bed. The telephone, ringing in Dana’s apartment, woke her about one o’clock. About five minutes later she heard Dana’s front door open and shut. She reckons the killer rang Dana and got her to come out to the dunes on some pretext and killed her. That’s what she told the police.’

‘That’s odd,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘If Dana left her apartment at one o’clock, she couldn’t get to the dunes before one forty-five, and the police say she was murdered around twelve-thirty.’

‘That’s what Brandon told you,’ Benny said. ‘He’s such a liar he probably told you the wrong time to keep himself in practice.’

‘I doubt it,’ I said, ‘but I’ll check with Mifflin. He’ll tell me.’

‘Well, at least we’re breaking new ground,’ Kerman said.

‘Yes, but I don’t know if it’s getting us anywhere,’ I said, frowning. ‘One thing does seem almost certain now. Anita succeeded in bribing Dana to tell her why she was watching her.’

Benny sat forward.

‘Now wait a minute!’ he exclaimed heatedly. ‘That’s a pretty lousy thing to say, isn’t it?’

‘I know, but we must face facts, Ed. Anita offered me a thousand dollars to give her the information. I wouldn’t play. Half an hour later she and Dana are seen together at Dana’s apartment, and the next morning a necklace worth twenty thousand is found under Dana’s mattress. Maybe I have a suspicious mind, but to me that points to a bribe.’

‘It looks like it,’ Kerman said reluctantly. ‘She’d have to be pretty strong-minded if Anita offered her a necklace like that.’

To hell with that for an idea,’ Benny broke in. ‘Not so long ago you said Natalie Cerf might have planted the necklace on Dana. Don’t you ever stick to a theory?’

‘But I didn’t know then that Anita had been to Dana’s apartment. This Mrs. Selby didn’t see or hear anyone visit Dana after Anita had gone, did she?’

‘No, but she was asleep, remember. She mightn’t have heard if someone sneaked up there.’

‘I know how you feel about this, Ed. We were all fond of Dana, but after all she was only a kid. That necklace would be a big temptation.’

Benny grimaced.

‘Well, maybe, but I don’t like to think...’

‘Nor do I, but there it is. It’s an idea worth thinking about. We’ve got to find Anita. The two most likely places where she may be hiding are L’Etoile or Barclay’s house. Unless, of course, she’s left town. I’ll go out and see Barclay this afternoon. You, Ed, go back to Dana’s apartment and try and find out from Mrs. Selby if she noticed whether Anita was wearing the necklace when she left. Then from there go to the spot where Dana was found and check every yard of the way. Someone may have seen her. It’s a slight hope as not many people would be around at that time, but that cuts both ways. If anyone did see her they’ll remember her.’

‘Okay,’ Benny said.

‘And, Jack, you hunt for the Packard, and when you’ve got that going, have a crack at L’Etoile.’

Miss Bolus said, ‘I could do that. I’m a member.’

‘Do you want to?’ I asked, surprised.

‘Well, I’m going out there anyway for a swim. It won’t hurt me to look around.’

‘I bet you look cute in a swimsuit,’ Benny said admiringly.

‘I looked cuter without one,’ she said, giving him a calculating stare that made him gulp. She pushed back her chair. ‘Give me a description of the car and I’ll see what can be done.’

Kerman wrote down the registration number and description of the Packard on the back of his card.

‘If you are ever lonely,’ he said, ‘you’ll find my telephone number on the reverse side.’

‘Do I look as if I’m ever lonely?’ she asked, turned her chinky eyes on me and said, ‘Where do I get in touch with you?’

I told her where I lived.

She gave me an indifferent little nod, looked the other two over without apparently seeing them, and went away, moving with a long flowing stride that took her along as effortlessly as if she were being drawn forward on wheels. She went through the swing doors as remote and un-touchable as the Everest Peak.

‘My! My!’ Benny said, rubbing his hands enthusiastically. ‘My dreams will be in Technicolor tonight. Where did you find her, Vic?’

‘And what’s the big idea?’ Kerman asked.

‘I don’t know yet,’ I said. ‘It was her idea, not mine. She used to go round with Caesar Mills. Kruger introduced us. I wanted to find out how Mills got the money to buy himself a house at Fairview. She didn’t know, but thought she could find out. You know how it is: one thing led to another. She has a way with her. She could get information out of a deaf mute. The point is she wants to get even with Mills. That makes two of us. I have a feeling she’ll be useful.’

Benny and Kerman exchanged glances.

‘The one outstanding point you have made in that little speech,’ Benny said, ‘is the gag line that one thing leads to another, and boy going around with a Popsie like that you can bet your sweet life one thing will lead to another!’

III

As I walked over to the parking lot to collect my car it occurred to me that I was thinking far too much about Caesar Mills and far too little about Dana’s killer. I reminded myself that my outraged feelings towards Mills were personal and private, and I had no business even to think of him until I had found Dana’s killer. But I couldn’t help thinking how nice it would be if in some way I could involve Mills in the murder so I could concentrate on him with an easy conscience.

Although I was aware that my immediate job was to go out to Wiltshire Avenue and take a look at George Barclay, there was another little job concerning Caesar Mills that also needed my care and attention, and after wrestling with my conscience I decided it mightn’t be such a waste of time if I looked into the Mills affair first.

I got into my car, drove over to the nearest drug store, parked, went inside, and consulted a telephone book. A little wave of satisfaction flowed over me when my finger, running down a column, stopped at a line that read:

I put the telephone book back on the rack, lit a cigarette and gently massaged the back of my neck. I stood like that for a moment or so, then hurried out, climbed into the car and drove over to the County Buildings at the corner of Feldman and Centre Avenue.

The Land Record Office was on the second floor, and in charge of a sad-looking old clerk in a black alpaca coat and a querulous frame of mind. After a little persuasion he got me the record I wanted. 235 Beechwood Avenue had been bought by Natalie Cerf a year ago. There was no mention of Comrade Mills having any part in the transaction.

I pushed the record book across the counter, passed a remark about the weather to show the clerk what nice manners I had, and went slowly down the stone steps into the afternoon sunshine.

I sat in my car for a while exercising my brain. The more I thought about my discovery the happier I became. It looked as if the drag-hook I had thrown out into the unknown depths had caught something big. The cream-and-blue Rolls belonged to the Cerfs. 235 Beechwood Avenue belonged to Natalie Cerf, and both were being used by a guard, employed by Cerf to lounge at the main entrance and kick callers in the neck. And in his spare time this guard went around looking like a million dollars, and kept his cigarettes in a gold combined case and lighter that must have set him back at least a couple of months’ salary.

Maybe all this hadn’t anything to do with Dana’s killing, but the setup interested me. Kruger had told me that Mills had been broke when he first came to Orchid City. Well, since those days he had certainly got on. Blackmail is one of the short cuts to wealth and seemed to offer the most satisfactory explanation of his sudden opulence. Maybe he was blackmailing the whole Cerf Family. He had every opportunity of finding out if Anita was a kleptomaniac. Why was he using Natalie’s house unless he had something on her?

Keep at it, Malloy, I said to myself, you’re doing fine. Take it one step farther. You’ve made up your mind to drag Mills into this mess, so go ahead and drag him in.

So I began to reason like this: if Mills is a blackmailer, couldn’t he be the guy who shot Dana? It was guesswork, but the kind of guesswork that suited my present mood. Nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to watch that bright boy take a walk to the gas chamber.

I then decided I had spent enough time on Comrade Mills, anyway for the immediate present, and conscious that my visit to George Barclay’s place would now be something of an anti-climax, I drove over to Wiltshire Avenue, a nice, quiet, snobby road, screened on either side by high box hedges that concealed the houses lurking behind them. Barclay’s house stood at the far end of the circular cul-de-sac, facing me as I drove down the long, shady avenue.

I pulled up outside the iron-studded oak tree gate, got out of the car and looked to right and left to see if anyone was watching me. No one was. The road was as quiet and as lonely as a pauper’s grave, but a lot more decorative.

The latch of the oak gate yielded to pressure and the gate swung open. I peered around into a large, well-kept garden. About fifty yards ahead of me, facing a lawn that looked like a billiard table to end all billiard tables, was the house. It was a two-storey, chalet-style, brick-and-wood building, nice if you like phoney imitations of Swiss architecture. A flight of wooden steps ran up the side of the house to a verandah, and on the roof four fat, white doves balanced on the overhang and regarded me with their heads on one side as if they were hoping to hear me yodel.

The afternoon sun was hot, and no breeze penetrated the thicket of Tung blossom trees that surrounded the garden. I sweated a little. Nothing moved: even the doves looked as if they were holding their breath.

Mounting the steps to the front door, I dug my thumb into the bellpush and waited. Nothing happened, and I rang again. But, this afternoon, no one was at home.

The house wasn’t particularly difficult to break into, and I wondered how much time I had before Barclay returned. I decided a quick look around might pay dividends, but not with my car at the gate to advertise that Prowler Malloy was inside and up to no good.

Reluctantly I went down the steps, along the garden path and out through the gateway to my car. I drove rapidly to the end of the Avenue, parked under a beech tree, removed the registration card from the steering post, and walked back to Barclay’s house.

The doves were still there to watch me mount the steps to the front door. I rang the bell again, but there was still no one at home, and I found a window that wasn’t bolted. It took me half a minute to lever it open with the blade of my knife, take one more look around, wink at the doves who didn’t wink back, and slide over the sill into a nice quiet atmosphere of green sunblinds and shadows.

There appeared to be only the one room downstairs. At the far end of this room was a broad stairway leading to a balcony and the upper rooms.

I moved around, using my eyes, making no noise and listening intently. No one screamed, no bodies fell out of the cupboards, no one shot me in the back. After a moment or so I became a lot less tense and much more interested in my surroundings.

The room was overpoweringly masculine. Old swords, battleaxes and other ancient weapons cluttered up the walls. A pair of fencing foils and mask decorated the overmantel. There were at least half a dozen pipe racks full of well-used pipes, a barrel for tobacco stood on an occasional table alongside a bottle of Black and White whisky, White Rock soda and glasses.

To judge by the weapons, the golf clubs, the pipes, the stuffed birds, the sporting prints and the other undergraduate atmospheric novelties that littered the place, I didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that Barclay belonged to the rugged, hairy-chested, outdoor school of manly men.

I didn’t think I would find anything of interest in this room. It was too open and above board; nothing-in-my-hand, nothing-up-my-sleeve kind of room, so I went up the stairs on tiptoe and paused on the balcony to listen.

It crossed my mind there was a possibility that Barclay might be sleeping off his lunch in one of the upstairs rooms: a thought that disturbed me. My nerves hadn’t entirely recovered from my encounter with Mills, and I had no wish to walk into a guy who collected battle-axes as a hobby and who might take a pot shot at me with a crossbow or pat me on the dome with an iron-studded mace. So I listened, but no sounds of heavy breathing reached me, and I plucked up enough courage to open the door nearest to me and glance in.

A very male bathroom greeted my eyes; a bath, a shower, a mechanical rowing machine and a Turkish bath cabinet, but no bath salts, no powder, no perfume bottles, and the towels hanging on the hot rail as if they were made from sharp wire thread.

I went to the next room, peeped around the door and decided this was where Barclay spent his nights.

There was a big double bed, a dressing-table and mirror, a fitted wardrobe, a trousers press, and over the bed hung a sporting print of an old guy with whiskers, holding an ancient fowling piece and looking as if he had a cold in his nose.

I left the door ajar, sneaked over to the dressing-table and opened one of the drawers. A large glossy photograph in a morocco-leather frame lay face up to greet me. It was an intimate photograph that struck a false note in this atmosphere of wide open spaces and clean manly fun. It was a picture of Anita Cerf, a full-length shot, with a spotlight full on her and the background blacked out. She had nothing on but a pair of dark, fur-backed gloves, which she used the way a fan dancer uses her fans but with much more effect. It was a novelty picture and would have sold in gross lots to the members of the Athletic Club at five dollars a throw. Across the foot of the picture was scrawled in white ink:

I should have liked very much to have taken the picture along with me, but it was too big to go into my pocket. I lifted it from the drawer, slid it out of the frame and turned it over. On the back was a rubber-stamped address:

I studied the photograph. It could have been taken some years ago. She looked younger than when I had last seen her, and the don’t-give-a-damn expression was not in evidence. I thought regretfully of my lost opportunity. There were times, I told myself, when being too honest with women was a mug’s game. If I’d seen this photograph before she had called on me I wouldn’t have needed a second invitation to neck with her on my casting couch.

I slipped the photograph into its frame and returned it to the drawer. The other drawers yielded nothing of interest, and I turned my attention to the wardrobe.

Dana had said that Barclay dressed like a movie star. To judge by the contents of the wardrobe the description was about right. I stared at the rows and rows of suits, the long shelf of hats and the dozens of pairs of shoes at the bottom of the cupboard. I decided that was nothing in there for me, but just to make sure I pushed some of the suits to one side so I could see the back of the wardrobe.

I stood looking at the blue coat and skirt that was hanging neatly on a hanger. I remained without moving for several seconds, then I felt a little chill run up my spine and reached forward and lifted the two garments off the hook and carried them to the window. I had seen them often enough. They belonged to Dana. I remembered that Benny had said the suit was missing from her wardrobe and that he guessed she must have worn it on the night she was killed. Well, here it was, hidden at the back of Barclay’s cupboard, and instead of the finger pointing to Mills it was now pointing to Barclay.

I had no time to think or to make up my mind what I was going to do with my find for suddenly I heard an un-mistakable sound of a footfall in the room below that brought me round on my heels, my nerves jerking and crawling up my spine.

I hurriedly rolled the coat and skirt up into a bundle, and stepped quickly to the door. Someone was moving about in the room below. I heard a board creak, then the sound of a drawer being opened and a rustle of papers. I crept out on to the balcony and looked over the banisters, keeping out of sight.

Caesar Mills stood before the writing desk in the distant corner of the room, a cigarette hanging from his thin lips, a bored, nonchalant expression on his face. He was wearing a blue Kuppenheimer lightweight suit and a wide-brimmed panama hat with a gaudy hatband. As Kruger had said he looked like a million dollars.

I faded quietly back into the bedroom, opened the dressing-table drawer, snapped up the photograph, rolled it hurriedly in the middle of Dana’s coat and skirt, opened the bedroom window and slid out on to the verandah.

I had a hunch that bright boy was looking for Anita’s picture, and I was going to take a great deal of care that he shouldn’t have it.

IV

As I drove along the beach road that runs at right angles to Wiltshire Avenue, I spotted Benny’s orange-and-red Ford convertible in a parking lot opposite a row of stalls that sold everything from soda pop to sea food, and did a roaring trade at night when the playboys and girls stoked up before having a neck on the sands.

I drove into the lot, took a parking ticket off an old ruin whose hands were so palsied I had to tell him to keep the change, and walked over to the stalls where I had a pretty good idea I should find Benny.

I found him all right.

He was having an engrossing conversation with a slim brunette with large, wicked eyes and a laugh like the slamming of a rusty gate. She was on one side of the milk-bar counter and Benny was on the other, but that didn’t make her safe. She had on a white overall that was wrapped around her figure like a second skin, and she leaned over the counter so that Benny could look down the V opening and as he seemed to be enjoying himself I had a look too.

The brunette gave me a long hard stare, straightened up, tossed her head and moved off with her nose in the air, while Benny turned on me with a look of outraged surprise.

‘I might have known it,’ he said bitterly. ‘Always at the wrong moment. Brother, didn’t anyone tell you not to come trampling up to a man and a maid when they’re sighing over each other?’

‘Was that what you were doing?’ I asked. ‘It didn’t look that way to me. I thought you’d dropped a dollar down the front of her dress and were going in after it.’

‘That’s because you’ve had a gross upbringing,’ Benny said warmly. ‘I was telling her what a lovely mind she had.’

‘Well, she keeps it in the funniest places,’ I returned. ‘And may I remind you you’re supposed to be working?’

‘For Pete’s sake!’ he exclaimed, reddening. ‘What else do you think I’m doing? You said check every yard of the way from Dana’s place to the spot where she was killed. That’s what I’m at.’

‘Did Dana walk over that floozie’s chest?’

‘Leave it, will you?’ he begged. ‘Don’t drive it into the ground.’

‘Well, did you get anywhere?’

He looked over his shoulder, winked at the brunette who winked back.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Come over to the car where we can talk.’

As I got ready to move he went on, ‘Just a second, pally, I gotta fix up a date with glamour puss. She wants me to read her bumps. Join you in a second.’

I went over to the car, lit a cigarette and waited for him. He came over, rubbing his hands and climbed in beside me.

‘Some doll!’ he said enthusiastically. ‘One little puff of air will blow her over.’

‘Concentrate, you pocket Casanova,’ I said irritably. ‘What have you got?’

‘I haven’t run across one solitary soul who saw Dana last night,’ he said, and leaned over to tap me on the chest. ‘But I’ve found two guys who saw Anita.’

‘Anita?’

‘Yeah. One is the taxi driver who took her to the edge of the dunes. He’ll swear to the flame-coloured evening dress, lie pulled up under a street light and had a good look at her. She interested him because she obviously didn’t want him to recognize her again. He thought it was queer she wanted to be dropped at such a lonely spot and not for him to wait.’

‘What time was this, Ed?’

‘Just after midnight.’

‘And who was the other guy?’

‘A fisherman. He’d just come back from setting lobster pots and saw a woman on her own walking across the dunes. She was too far away for him to see details, but the moon was up and he did notice she was wearing evening dress.’

I flicked my cigarette through the car window.

‘Looks as if Anita was right there when Dana was shot, doesn’t it?’ I said, running my fingers through my hair. ‘No wonder she’s hidden herself away.’

‘It’s a damn funny thing I haven’t been able to pick up Dana’s trail anywhere, isn’t it?’ Benny said, worried. ‘I’ve tried every taxi rank near her place, but no one’s seen her.’

I leaned over the back seat, hoisted up Dana’s coat and skirt and dropped the garments into Benny’s lap.

‘Get a load of this,’ I said.

His red, rubbery face went the colour of weak tea, and he turned to stare at me, clutching at the garments, his eyes complete circles.

‘Jeepers, Vic!’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Hanging in George Barclay’s cupboard.’ I went on to tell him what I had found out about Mills and the house on Beechwood Avenue and showed him Anita’s photograph. He was so shocked by the discovery of Dana’s clothes in Barclay’s cupboard that he didn’t even crackwise over the photograph.

‘Looks as if Barclay did it,’ he said. ‘Maybe that’s the reason why I haven’t picked up her trail. Do you think he shot her at his place, stripped her and took her over to the dunes in his car? Do you think that’s how it was done?’

‘I don’t know, Ed I’m through with jumping to conclusions. Every time I think I’ve got something, something else turns up and kicks the first something to hell. The only way to solve this murder is to collect every scrap of information we can lay our hands on, keep an open mind, and when there’s nothing else to collect, then, and only then, see what we’ve got. I’m going over now to throw a scare into Leadbetter. You’d better come along.’

As I steered the car through the narrow parking lot exit I said, ‘After we have talked to Leadbetter, we’d better go back to the office. We’re collecting a lot of stuff, and if we’re not careful we won’t know how to use it.’

‘Have you any idea why Mills was nosing around in Barclay’s place?’ Benny asked.

‘Not a clue, but I’m glad I got there first. I bet he wouldn’t have missed that photograph. And Ed, I think I’ll get you to take a trip to San Francisco and check up on Anita’s background. It looks to me she was more a showgirl than a mannequin to judge from that picture. You might dig up something interesting.’

Benny reached over the back of the seat and picked the picture off the floor. He studied it as I drove the car along Orchid Boulevard.

‘Well, a doll doesn’t get herself photographed like this for the fun of it,’ he said. ‘These theatrical photographers don’t have such a dull life, do they? Imagine focusing a camera on a honey like this.’

I grunted.

‘Yeah, I think a trip to Frisco might be an idea at that,’ he went on. He held the photograph at arm’s length and squinted at it. ‘I wish she’d wave at me.’

‘Put it away,’ I said shortly. ‘The trouble with you—’

‘It’s not a trouble, pally, it’s a pleasure. It’d be a nice idea to gum this picture to the end of Leadbetter’s telescope. I bet it’d get his mind off bird’s eggs.’

We had reached the end of the Boulevard and were now bumping over the beach road that led to the sand dunes. I had an idea where Leadbetter’s place was. If it was the place. I was thinking of I had seen it from time to time when I had gone out with a party of friends for a day’s bathing. It was a lonely, two-storey cabin of redwood, bleached white by the sun. It stood on a little ridge of high ground, boxed in by a half-circle of blue palmettoes, but with wide, uninterrupted views of the coast, seashore and dunes.

The road petered out about a quarter of a mile from the cabin, and after locking the photograph and Dana’s clothes in the car boot, we set off across the hot, loose sand at an easy pace.

‘The moon was like a searchlight last night,’ I said as we tramped along. ‘If this guy was at his telescope there’s no knowing what he did see.’

‘Are you going to offer him any dough?’ Benny asked.

‘I don’t know. I think the thing to do is to be very tough. If we can get him going he might spill his guts without it costing anything.’

‘If he wasn’t holding out for dough I think Jack would have got him going.’

‘We’ll see.’

We cut through a thicket of red-and-black mangroves, picked our way over the sprawling, elephant-tusk-shaped roots and came out on to the vast stretch of open sand dunes. Fifty yards ahead of us, almost invisible against the row of palmettoes was Leadbetter’s cabin.

On the flat roof, half-concealed by a solid wooden screen, the six-inch lens of the telescope glittered like a ball of fire in the sunshine There was no sign of life nor movement in or around the cabin. It looked as forsaken and as quiet as a cross-eyed girl at a beauty parade.

We sloshed through the sand up to the cracked and weather beaten door. It was full of old, plush-covered furniture, and on the table was the remains of a meal. A greasy looking newspaper served as a tablecloth, and amongst the debris was an interesting-looking earthenware jar that might contain applejack.

Benny rapped on the door which hung open at his touch. We both peered into the dirty, sordid little room while we waited. Nothing happened; no one came to answer our knock.

‘Probably looking for a quail’s nest or watching some doll take a sunbath,’ Benny said.

‘Maybe he’s up on the roof.’

We stepped back and looked up, but all we could see was the glittering eye of the telescope pointing out to sea. Benny unleashed a whistle that sent a Pock of ibis flapping out of the mangroves, but it didn’t produce Leadbetter.

‘Let’s go up on the roof,’ I said. ‘We might be able to spot him through the telescope.’

‘That’s a hot idea,’ Benny said. ‘We might be able to spot something else besides old Snoopy.’

We entered the cabin, climbed the rickety stairs to the second floor. On the landing was a ladder that led to a trapdoor and the roof.

I mounted the three rungs of the ladder, heaved on the trapdoor and it went up with a crash. Hot sunlight poured down on me as I swung myself up the rest of the ladder to the roof. Benny followed mc.

We stood motionless, looking at the big telescope on its brass-wheeled stand. There was a wooden box for a seat set behind the apparatus, and a crate of bee and a lot of empty bottles close by. It was hot up there, and a great swarm of flies buzzed angrily away from us, swarmed above us and then went back to their gruesome meal.

Leadbetter lay flat on his back. There was a hole in the middle of his forehead like the hole you make in a sheet of asbestos if you hit it hard with a hammer. He had bled a lot, and the blood was only just beginning to clot. One thing was certain, he wouldn’t peep at any more courting couples through his telescope: not ever again.

‘Gawd!’ Benny said and clutched hold of my arm.