Black Money Read online

  “What stories did he tell?”

  “He was full of stories,” she said. “When I asked him if he was a Mex, he said he wasn’t. I’ve lived in California all my life, and I can tell a Mex when I see one. He even had an accent, which he claimed was a Spanish accent. He said he was a pure-blooded Spaniard, from Spain.

  “So I said, show me your passport. He didn’t have one. He said he was a fugitive from his country, that General Franco was after him for fighting the government. He didn’t take me in, though. I know a Mex when I see one. If you ask me he was probably a wetback, and that’s why he lied. He didn’t want the Immigration to put him on a bus and send him home.”

  “Did he tell any other lies?”

  “You bet he did, right up to the day he left. He said when he left he was on his way to Paris, that he was going to the University there. He said the Spanish government had released some of his family money, and he could afford to go to a better school than ours. Good riddance of bad rubbish is what I said.”

  “You didn’t like Cervantes, did you?”

  “He was all right, in his place. But he was too uppity. Besides, here he was leaving me on the first of October, leaving me stuck with an empty room for the rest of the semester. It made me sorry I took him in in the first place.”

  “How was he uppity, Mrs. Grantham?”

  “Lots of ways. Do you have a cigarette by any chance?” I gave her one and lit it for her. She blew smoke in my face. “Why are you so interested in him? Is he back in town?”

  “He has been.”

  “What do you know. He told me he was going to come back. Come back in a Rolls Royce with a million dollars and marry a girl from Montevista. That was uppity. I told him he should stick to his own kind. But he said she was the only girl for him.”

  “Did he name her?”

  “Virginia Fablon. I knew who she was. My own daughter went to high school with her. She was a beautiful girl, I imagine she still is.”

  “Cervantes thinks so. He just married her.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I were. He came back a couple of months ago. In a Bentley, not a Rolls, with a hundred and twenty thousand instead of a million. But he married her.”

  “Well, I’ll be.” Mrs. Grantham drew deep on her cigarette as if she was sucking the juice from the situation. “Wait until I tell my daughter.”

  “I wouldn’t tell anyone for a day or two. Cervantes and Virginia have dropped out of sight. She may be in danger.”

  “From him?” she said with avidity.

  “Could be.” I didn’t know what he wanted from Virginia: it was probably something that didn’t exist: and I didn’t know what he’d do when he found out that it didn’t exist.

  Mrs. Grantham put out her cigarette in a Breakwater Hotel ashtray and dropped the butt into a handleless teacup which contained other butts. She leaned toward me confidentially, heartily:

  “Anything else you want to know?”

  “Yes. Did Cervantes give you any explanation about the people who took him away?”

  “This pair?” She laid a finger on the picture in her lap. “I forget what he said exactly. I think he said they were friends of his, coming to pick him up.”

  “He didn’t say who they were?”

  “No, but they looked like they were loaded. I think he said that they were Hollywood people, and they were going to put him on the plane.”

  “What plane?”

  “The plane to France. I thought at the time it was a lot of malarkey. But now I don’t know. Did he ever make it to France?”

  “I think he did.”

  “Where did he get the money? You think his family really has money in Spain?”

  “Castles in Spain, anyway.”

  I thought as I drove away that Martel was one of those dangerous dreamers who acted out his dreams, a liar who forced his lies to become true. His world was highly colored and man-made, like the pictures on the Tappingers’ walls which might have been his first vision of France.

  chapter 21

  THE CASHIER OF Mercy Hospital had eyes like calculators. She peered at me through the bars of her cage as if she was estimating my income, subtracting my expenses, and coming up with a balance in the red.

  “How much am I worth?” I said cheerfully.

  “Dead or alive?”

  That stopped me. “I want to pay for Mr. Harry Hendricks for another day.”

  “It isn’t necessary,” she said. “His wife took care of it.”

  “The redhead? Was she here?”

  “She came in and visited him for a few minutes this morning.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “You’ll have to ask the head nurse on the third floor.”

  The head nurse was a starched, thin-mouthed woman who kept me waiting while she brought her records up to date. Eventually she let me tell her that I was a detective working with the police. She got quite friendly then.

  “I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t ask him some questions. But don’t tire him, and don’t say anything to upset him.”

  Harry was in a private room with windows which overlooked the city. With the bandages on his head and face he looked like an unfinished mummy.

  I was carrying the pearl-gray hat, and his eyes focused on it. “Is that my hat?”

  “It’s the one you were wearing yesterday. The name inside is Spillman, though. Who’s he?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “You were wearing his hat.”

  “Was I?” He lay and thought about it. “I got it at a rummage sale.”

  I didn’t believe him, but there was no point in saying so. I tossed the hat onto the chest of drawers. “Who clobbered you, Harry?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I didn’t see him. It was dark, and he knocked me out from behind. Then he stomped on my face, the doctor says.”

  “Nice guy. Was it Martel?”

  “Yeah. It happened up at his place. I was poking around the back of his house. The wind was making so much noise I didn’t hear him come up behind me.” His fingers crawled over the sheet which covered his body. “He must of given me quite a going over. I’m sore all over.”

  “You were in an auto accident.”

  “I was?”

  “Martel put you in the trunk of your car and parked it on the waterfront. Some winoes stole it and wrecked it.”

  He groaned. “It isn’t mine. My own clunk died on me, and I borrowed the Caddie off the lot. No insurance, no nothing. Is she a total goner?”

  “It wouldn’t be worth the price of the body work.”

  “Wouldn’t you know it. There goes another job.” He lay silent for a minute, looking out at the sky. “I’ve been thinking about myself this aft. I bet—no, I won’t bet, I’ll just say it: I’m the biggest failure west of the Mississippi. I don’t even deserve to live.”

  “Everybody deserves that.”

  “It’s nice of you to say so. Incidentally, they told me a Mr. Archer made the down payment on this pad. Was that you?”

  “I chipped in twenty.”

  “Thanks muchly. You’re a real pal.”

  “Forget it. I’m on an expense account.”

  But he was touched. “I guess I’m lucky—lucky to be alive, for one thing. Then my wife came to see me, which makes it old home week.”

  “Is Kitty still in town?”

  “I doubt it. She said she was leaving.” His head lay inert on the pillow for a moment. “I didn’t know you knew her.”

  “We had a talk last night. She’s a beautiful woman.”

  “Don’t I know it. When I lost her it was like losing the moon and stars, boy.”

  “Did Ketchel take her away from you?”

  Another silence. “You know him, too?”

  “I know something about him. What I know I don’t like.”

  “The more you learn the less you’ll like it,” he said. “The one great foolish mistake of my life was getting caught in his me
athooks. It lost me Kitty.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m a gambler,” he said. “I don’t know why. I just am. I love to gamble. It makes me feel alive. I must be nuts.” His eyes seemed to be looking down a hole. “So one hot morning about dawn I walked out of the Scorpion Club onto Fremont Street with nothing, no wife, nothing. How do you like that? I lost my wife in a crap game. She was so disgusted with me she went with him and stayed.”

  “With Ketchel?”

  Harry lay looking at the hat on the bureau. “His real name is Leo Spillman. Ketchel is just a name he uses. It’s an old-time boxing name. Kayo Ketchel, he called himself. He was a pretty good light-heavy before he went into the rackets full-time.”

  “What rackets is he in, Harry?”

  “Name it and he has a piece of it, or used to have. He started in slot machines in the Middle West and got fat off of army bases. You might say that he’s still in slot machines. He’s majority owner of the Scorpion Club in Vegas.”

  “Funny I never heard his name.”

  “He’s a concealed owner, I think they call it. He learned to keep his name quiet, like traveling under the name of Ketchel. Leo Spillman is a name with a bad smell. Of course he’s semi-retired now. I haven’t seen him for years.”

  “How did you get hold of his hat?”

  “Kitty gave it to me when she came to see me last week. Leo’s a much bigger man than I am but we have the same size head, seven-and-a-quarter. And I needed a hat to go up against the people in Montevista.”

  “Where can I find Leo?”

  “I guess you could try the Scorpion Club. He used to have a suite there next to his office. I know him and Kitty have a hideout someplace in Southern Cal, but she never gave me a hint of where it is.”

  “What about his cattle ranch?”

  “He sold that long ago. Kitty didn’t like to see them branding the calves.”

  “You’ve kept in pretty close touch with her.”

  “Not really. But I’ve seen her over the years. When she gets in a real jam, or has a real need, she comes to old Harry.” He raised his head a few inches from the pillow and looked at me. “I’m leveling with you, Archer, and you know why? I need a cohort, a partner.”

  “So you said yesterday.”

  “I need one worse today.” With a slow sweep of his chin he called attention to his helplessness, and let his head fall back on the pillow. “And you’ve been a real pal. I’m going to offer you an equal share of a really big deal.”

  “Like a concussion?”

  “I’m serious. There may be more than a hundred grand up for grabs. Is that laughable?”

  “You mean the money Martel-Cervantes stole?”

  “Martel-who-did-you-say?”

  “Cervantes. That’s another name Martel used.”

  “Then he’s the man!” Harry sat up in his excitement. “We’ve got him!”

  “Unfortunately we haven’t got him. He’s on the run, with a hundred grand in cash. Even if we do get hold of it, won’t Leo Spillman want it back?”

  “Naw.” His hand slid up in steep gesture. “A hundred grand or two hundred is just peanuts to Leo. He’ll let us keep it, Kitty said he would. The money they’re really after, Kitty and him, is up in the millions.” His hand went up to the full length of his arm and stayed there for a second in a kind of salute. He fell back onto the pillow.

  “Martel stole millions from him?”

  “So Kitty said.”

  “She must be stringing you. There’s no way to steal a million dollars, unless you rob a Brink’s truck.”

  “Yes, there is. And she isn’t lying, she never has to me. You got to understand that this is the chance of a lifetime.”

  “The chance of a deathtime, Harry.”

  The thought sobered him. “Yeah. That, too.”

  “Why would Leo Spillman put it in your hands?”

  “Kitty did. I’m the only one she trusts.” He must have noticed my dubious look because he added: “That may sound funny to you, but it’s a fact. I love Kitty, and she knows it. She says if I can pull this out she might even come back to me.” His voice rose, trying to make it truer.

  I could hear soft rapid nurse-footsteps approaching in the hall.

  “Kitty told me she used to live here in town.”

  “That’s right, Kitty was a local girl. Matter of fact, we had our first honeymoon in the Breakwater Hotel.” His eyes rolled under his bandages.

  “What was her maiden name?”

  “Sekjar,” he said. “Her old man was some kind of Polack. So’s her mother. She hated my guts for robbing the cradle, she called it.”

  The head nurse opened the door and stuck her head in. “That’s enough now. You said you’d keep it quiet.”

  “Harry got a little excited.”

  “We can’t have that.” She opened the door wide. “Out now.”

  “Are you with me, Archer?” Harry said from the bed. “You know what I mean.”

  I wasn’t with him and I wasn’t against him. I made a circle with my thumb and forefinger and showed it to him in a gesture of encouragement.

  chapter 22

  IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD of Mercy Hospital there were several satellite treatment centers and clinics, and Dr. Sylvester’s clinic was one of them. It was smaller and less prosperous-looking than most of its neighbors. A visibly threadbare path crossed the rug in the lobby from the front door to the reception desk. Several doctors and their specialties, headed by George Sylvester, Internal Medicine, were listed on a board beside the door.

  The girl behind the desk told me that Dr. Sylvester was still out to lunch. He had a free half-hour scheduled, if I cared to wait.

  I gave her my name and sat down among the waiting patients. After a while I began to feel like one of them. The pink champagne, or the lady I had drunk it with, had left me with a dull headache. Other parts of my anatomy began to nag. By the time Dr. Sylvester appeared, I was just about ready to break down and tell him my symptoms.

  He looked as though he had symptoms of his own, probably hangover symptoms. He was clearly not glad to see me. But he gave me his hand and a professional smile, and escorted me past his formidable-looking secretary into his consulting room.

  He changed into a white coat. I glanced at the diplomas and certificates on the paneled walls. Sylvester had trained in good schools and hospitals, and passed his Boards. He had at least the background of a responsible doctor. It was the foreground that worried me.

  “What can I do for you, Archer? You look tired, by the way.”

  “That’s because I am tired.”

  “Then take the weight off your feet.” He indicated a chair at the end of his desk, and sat down himself. “I only have a few minutes, so let’s get with it, boy.” The sudden camaraderie was forced. Behind it he was watching me like a poker player.

  “I found out who your patient Ketchel is.”

  He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  “He’s a Vegas casino owner,” I said, “with a very extensive background in the rackets. His actual name is Leo Spillman.”

  Sylvester was not surprised. He said smoothly: “It fits in with our records. I checked them this morning. He gave his address as the Scorpion Club in Las Vegas.”

  “It’s too bad you couldn’t remember that last night when I could have used it.”

  “I can’t remember everything.”

  “Try your memory on this one. Did you introduce Leo Spillman to Roy Fablon?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You know whether you did or not, doctor.”

  “You can’t talk to me like that.”

  “Answer my question,” I said. “If you won’t, I’ll find somebody who will.”

  His face slanted forward in thought. It looked both precarious and threatening, like a piece of rock poised on the edge of a cliff.

  “Why would Marietta Fablon apply to you for money?” I said.

  “I’m an old friend. Who else sho
uld she go to?”

  “Are you sure she wasn’t trying to blackmail you, old friend?”

  He looked around his office as though it was a kind of public cage. The lines bracketing his mouth were deep and cruel, like self-inflicted scars.

  “What are you trying to cover up, doctor?”

  After a thinking pause, he said: “The fact that I’m a goddam fool.” He glanced sharply into my eyes. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Not if it involves a crime.”

  “What crime?” He spread out his large hands palms up on the desk. “There hasn’t been any crime.”

  “Then why are you so worried?”

  “This town is a hotbed of rumors, as I told you last night. If the word gets out about Leo Spillman and me, I’m dead.” His hands curled up very slowly, like two starfish. “I’m moribund now, if you want the truth. There are too damn many doctors in this town. And I’ve had financial losses.”

  “Gambling losses?”

  He was startled. “Where did you dig that up?” He pounded the desk with his curled hands, not threateningly, more like someone trying to get out. He wasn’t a subtle man, and his anxiety had blunted him even more. “What are you trying to do to me?”

  “You know what I’m trying to do—get at the facts about this man Martel, and incidentally clear up any doubts about what happened to Fablon. The two things are connected by way of Spillman, possibly in other ways. When Spillman left town, two days after Fablon’s death, he took Martel with him. Did you know that?”

  He looked at me in a confused way. “Are we talking about seven years ago?”

  “That’s right. You’re involved in all this because you brought Spillman here.”

  “I didn’t bring him. He invited himself. As a matter of fact it was his woman’s—his wife’s idea. Her idea of heaven was two weeks at the Tennis Club.” His mouth lifted on one side, showing the edges of his teeth.

  “Did you owe Spillman money?”

  “Did I not.” His eyes were bleak, looking past me at his life. “If I give you straight answers to some of these questions, what use do you intend to make of them?”

  “I’ll keep the facts to myself, so far as I can. A client once told me he could drop a secret into me and never hear it hit bottom. You’re not my client, but I’ll do what I can to protect your bella figura.”