The Way Some People Die Page 7

  Yours sincerely,

  Jane

  Jane’s full name was written above the station call-letters that were printed on the envelope. It was Jane Starr Hammond. The envelope had been postmarked early in March.

  I found her name again in the small red leather address-book that was the last of the items from Dalling’s breast pocket. There were a great many names in the book, nine out of ten of them female, and a great many telephone numbers. The only addresses and telephone numbers that interested me deeply were the ones on the last page: Mrs. Samuel Lawrence’s and my own. I tore out that last page, and put the book and the bills and the letters back where I had got them.

  Dalling had no more use for Malibu telephone numbers or hundred-dollar loans. He’d keep no more whisky vigils in the Murphy bed, with desperation and a dying bottle for bedmates. No one would ever send him another book of poems with love written small and neat on the flyleaf.

  There were two men starting their cars in the parking lot, but they didn’t pay any special attention to me. I got into my car and switched on the engine. The yellow Buick stood there waiting to be repossessed.

  CHAPTER 12: I called Jane Starr Hammond’s number from a short-order restaurant on the boulevard. If I reached her before the body was discovered and the police visited her, I might learn something that I otherwise wouldn’t. A maid with a Negro lilt in her voice answered the phone immediately. Miss Hammond had already left for the studio; she would be in her office there the rest of the morning. I went back to my seat at the counter and contemplated the ham and eggs I had ordered. The yolk of one of the eggs had leaked out onto the plate like a miniature pool of yellow blood. I had black coffee for breakfast.

  Parking spaces in downtown Hollywood were as scarce as the cardinal virtues. I found a place on Cahuenga and walked back to the studio, which occupied the third and fourth floors of a stone-faced building on Sunset. When I asked for Miss Hammond’s office, the blue-uniformed elevator attendant let me off on the third floor and pointed down the corridor. Her name was on the translucent glass pane of a door, with PRIVATE printed underneath. I knocked lightly and waited, undergoing a rare attack of embarrassment. It passed.

  “Come in,” a cool voice answered, “it isn’t locked.”

  I stepped into a light and airy office and closed the door behind me. Its opposite wall was a giant studio window. A young woman sat with her back to the light, working at a bleached mahogany desk. She was as crisp and exact as the daffodils in the square white bowl at her elbow. She was shiny and trim in a navy blue faille suit and a flat blue sailor hat, too trim and shiny. She looked as if she was made of rustless alloys, synthetic rubber and dyes, powered by a chrome-plated engine clicking away inside her porcelain chest. She wore a fresh gardenia on her lapel.

  She looked up from the typescript she was penciling, and caught me regarding the hat. “Pay no attention to the flying saucer.” She showed her small even teeth in a practiced smile. “I have to interview a ladybird this morning. As a matter of fact, I thought you might be she.”

  “I’m usually compared to insects like the cockroach.”

  “I mean when you knocked. Don’t you know what a ladybird is? A ladybird is a bird who thinks she’s a lady. The hat helps me to dominate, you know? This particular ladybird has slain wild elephants with a wild elephant gun, so she’ll take some dominating. Now tell me you’re her husband.” She smiled expertly again. If her nose had been a trifle less sharp, her eyes a few degrees warmer, she would have been a very pretty woman. I couldn’t imagine her writing the inscription in the Sonnets from the Portuguese.

  I said: “My name is Archer. You are Miss Hammond?”

  “You surprise and distress me, Mr. Archer. My fair pan was on the cover of Radio Mirror last month.” I wondered if she worked this hard selling herself all day every day.

  “What can I do for you?” she said. “I only have a minute.”

  “I’m looking for a woman named Galley Lawrence. Mrs. Joseph Tarantine. Do you know her?”

  A shadow crossed her face. Her hardening blue gaze reminded me that I hadn’t shaved or changed my shirt for over twenty-four hours. “I think I’ve heard the name. Are you a detective?”

  I admitted that I was.

  “You should shave more often; it puts people off. What has this Mrs. Tarantine been up to?”

  “I’m trying to find out. What did she used to be up to?”

  “I really don’t know Mrs. Tarantine. She lives in the same apartment building as a friend of mine. I’ve seen her once or twice, I think, that’s all.”

  “Under what conditions?”

  “Normal conditions. She dropped into my friend’s apartment for a cocktail one afternoon when I was there. I didn’t like her, if that’s what you mean. Her appeal is to the opposite sex. Frank sexuality is her forte. If I wanted to be catty I’d call it blatant.” Her forte was the cutting word.

  “Do you know her husband?”

  “He was there, too, I didn’t like him either. He was sleek and crawling with charm, like a tomcat, you know? They made a well-suited couple. Keith—my friend implied that Tarantine was some sort of gangster, if that’s the sort of thing you’re looking for.” She took a cigarette from a silver box on the desk and broke it clean in half between her carmine-tipped fingers. “What are you looking for, anyway?”

  I didn’t know myself. “Just information. Is this friend of yours Keith Dalling?”

  “Yes. Have you talked to Keith—Mr. Dalling?” She managed to get the second cigarette between her lips.

  I leaned across the desk and held my lighter to it. “I’d like to. He doesn’t answer his phone.”

  She puffed hungrily on the cigarette. “What did she do? I’ve always considered her capable of anything. I named her Ignoble Savage.”

  “Her husband seems to have committed a theft.”

  “From whom?”

  “I daren’t say.”

  “And you want to question Keith?”

  “Yes.”

  “He isn’t involved in it, is he?” Now she was really worried. And that was just as well, if she loved Dalling or ever had.

  “He may be. If he’s mixed up with Mrs. Tarantine.”

  “Oh no.” She’d come close to the edge of candor but I had pushed her too fast. She drew away from it, her personality almost visibly receding. “They’re just the merest acquaintances, apartment-house neighbors.”

  “You said they were friends.”

  “I certainly did not, because they aren’t.” The clicking machine was back in place, everything under control. “I’m afraid we’ve run out of time, Mr. Archer. Good morning and good luck.” She crushed out her cigarette in a silver ashtray, and the last smoke puffed from her nostrils like a tiny exhaust.

  “Somethng I almost forgot,” I said. “There’s a radio producer, a friend of Dalling’s, who does a crime show based on police work. He wouldn’t work for this station?”

  “You are checking up on Mr. Dalling, then. Is he in some kind of trouble?” Her voice was tense, though she had regained her composure.

  “I hope not.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t tell me if he was. You probably mean Joshua Severn. Mr. Dalling used to work for him. He doesn’t work for the studio, he owns his own show, but he has an office down the hall. Sometimes he’s even in it.”

  “Thank you, Miss Hammond.”

  “Don’t mention it, Mr. Archer.”

  There was a telephone booth in the first-floor lobby of the building next door. The man behind the news counter wore the frosted glasses of the blind. I called police headquarters from the booth, and told the sergeant on duty that I was worried about a friend of mine. His name was Keith Dalling and he lived in the Casa Loma, Apartment 8. He didn’t answer when I phoned or when I knocked on the door—

  “And what is your name, sir?” he cut in sharply.

  I deliberately misunderstood the question: “Keith Dalling. He lives at the Casa Loma.”


  “Just one minute, sir.” His voice was soothing.

  There was a buzzing silence on the line, terminated by a double click. It probably meant that the body had been found and they were tracing my call.

  I hung up. I went back to the studio building and up in the elevator again to the third floor. I found the name Joshua Severn on a door at the rear of the building. It was standing slightly ajar; a continuous low murmur came from the other side. I knocked and was told to come in.

  It was a working room, containing two desks piled with papers, a pair of metal filing-cabinets, a blackboard on one wall. At the moment the blackboard showed the odds on a half-dozen Derby candidates quoted from the winter book. A heavy middle-aged man switched off the dictating machine on the table beside him and straightened up in his chair.

  “Mr. Severn?”

  “That’s what it says on the door.” He said it cheerfully. He had a broad cheerful face surmounted by a brush of erect gray hair, like iron filings tempted by a magnet.

  “My name is Archer.”

  “Wait a minute. Not Lew Archer?” He stood up and offered me a stubby hand. “I’m glad to meet you, Archer. Have a seat.”

  I said that I was glad to meet him, too, and sat in the chair he pushed up beside his desk. I added I hadn’t been aware that my name was a byword in the upper echelons of the radio industry.

  He grinned. Most of his features, nose and ears and chin, were a little larger than life-size and slightly squashed-looking, as if they’d outgrown their mold. “It’s a darn funny thing, Archer. It happens to me all the time. The extra-sensory boys, the parapsychologists, have got me half convinced. I start thinking about somebody I haven’t seen or heard of for maybe two years. Within twenty-four hours after I get the flash, I meet the guy on the street or he marches into my office, just like you.” He glanced at the yachtsman’s chronometer on his wrist. “It took you thirty-six.”

  “I’m always a little slow. I take it you were thinking about me around nine thirty Sunday night. Why?”

  “A fellow I know called in from Palm Springs. He wanted the name of a good private detective, one who works alone. I gave him yours. I have a beach house in Santa Teresa, and Miranda Sampson was singing your praises last year. Okay?”

  “Miranda’s a nice girl,” I said. “Who was the fellow that called you Sunday night?”

  “Keith Dalling. Did he get in touch with you?”

  I made a quick adjustment. “Yes, he did. I talked to him on the phone, but I haven’t seen him yet.”

  “Funny, he sounded in a hurry. What sort of job does he want you for, anyway?”

  “He asked me to keep it confidential. I have my doubts about it. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Hell, there goes my extra-sensory perception. Dalling mentioned me to you, eh?” He took a long black Havana out of a box on the desk and bit its end off. “Have a cigar.”

  “Not in the morning, thanks. Yes, Dalling mentioned you. He said you told him a little story about a man called Dowser.”

  “The mobster?” Unconsciously he began to eat the unlit cigar. “Dowser’s name never came up between us.”

  “You didn’t give him any information about Dowser?”

  “I don’t know anything about Dowser. I’ve heard he was in the dope racket but they’re saying that about them all these days. You were the only name I mentioned. What kind of a line has Keith been feeding you?”

  “Grade B movie stuff,” I said. “Is he a pathological liar?”

  “Not when he’s sober. You’ve got to watch him when he’s drunk, and it’s hard to tell when he is. He’s a terrible alcoholic.” Severn removed the cigar from his mouth and looked at the wet mashed end without seeing it. “I hope our Keith hasn’t got himself mixed up with a crew of thugs. I warned him about the girl he was running with.”

  “Galley Tarantine?”

  His eyebrows moved. “She comes into the picture, too, eh? Did Dalling tell you who her husband is? I don’t know Tarantine, but he has a bad name with the police. I told Keith he better lay off her or he’d end up with a knife stuck under his ribs. Is he in trouble with Tarantine?”

  “He may be. He didn’t say very much. If you can fill me in on his background, it might help.” I tried to sound as diffident as possible. Severn looked sharp.

  Very sharp. The blue eyes under his heavy black brows were hard and bright as diamonds. “Are you working for Keith or against him? You’re not very communicative yourself.”

  “I’m for him a hundred per cent.” Which was true. I was a sucker for underdogs, and dead men were at the bottom of the heap.

  “Good enough. I’ll take Miranda’s word for your honesty. I like the boy, you see, I’ve known him since he was a kid. He used to crew for me before the war when I had my Star boat, and we won the cup at Santa Monica one year. I didn’t fire him until I was forced to; the sponsor was raising Cain.”

  “He worked for you?”

  “He worked on a lot of shows, he’s a good actor. Trouble was, he couldn’t lay off the liquor and they canned him one by one and finally blacklisted him. I was the last one that kept him on; he played my detective-lieutenant for over two years. It got pretty rough. He fluffed so many lines I was scissoring the tape every bloody week. One day he passed out in the middle of a show and I had to go out on the streets for an actor. I cut him off, though it broke my heart to do it. It played hell with his life, I guess. He was going to get married, and he was building himself a house. I guess he lost the house. I know he lost the girl.”

  “Jane Hammond?”

  “Yeah. I feel kind of sorry for Jane. She works here, you know. A lot of women have carried the torch for Keith—that’s probably what ruined him—only Jane is different. He was the one big love in her life, but she was too successful for him. When I fired him, he ran out on her. I was afraid for a while she’d go crazy, though she keeps a stiff upper lip.”

  “When was this?”

  “Around the first of the year. I fired him the day after Christmas.” He made a sour face, champing savagely on the cigar. “Nice timing, eh? Soon after that he started with Tarantine’s wife. I see them in night spots now and then. As a matter of fact, I slip him a few lakhs of rupees when I can.” He glanced at the dictating machiner in polite impatience. “Will that do? The things I know about Keith would take all day.”

  I rose and thanked him. He followed me to the door, massive and quick-moving: “I’ve let down the old back hair, Dalling’s anyway. Do you care to tell me what it’s all about?”

  “He’ll have to tell you himself.”

  He shrugged his heavy shoulders, easily, as if his weight of integrity was no burden. “Okay, Archer.”

  “Give my love to Miranda.”

  “I never see her. She moved to Hawaii. See you around.”

  I had to pass Jane Hammond’s door to get to the elevator. The door was standing open. She was still behind her desk, sitting erect and trim with a telephone receiver in her left hand. Her right hand gripped her right breast, its carmine nails digging into the soft flesh. Her eyes were dark and deep in her head. They looked straight at me and failed to recognize me.

  The police had found her name in the red leather address-book.

  CHAPTER 13: I crossed to Pico Boulevard and drove to Mrs. Lawrence’s house in Santa Monica. Tiredness was catching up with me. The glittering late-morning traffic hurt my eyes and feelings. I had a notion at the back of my mind that at worst Mrs. Lawrence could rent me a room to sleep in, out of reach of policemen’s questions for a while. At best she might have heard from her daughter.

  Mrs. Lawrence had done better, and worse, than that. The bronze Packard was parked at the curb in front of her house. The sight of it acted on me like benzedrine. I took the veranda steps in one stride, and leaned my weight on the doorbell. She came to the door immediately:

  “Mr. Archer! I’ve been trying to get you by phone.”

  “Is Galley here?”

  “She was. It’s why
I called you. Where have you been?”

  “Too far. I’d like to come in, if I may.”

  “Excuse me. I’ve been so dreadfully upset I don’t know if I’m coming or going.” She looked distraught. Her gray hair, which had been so carefully done the previous morning, was unkempt, almost as if she’d been tearing at it with her hands. A single day had drawn deeper lines in her face.

  Still she was very courteous as she stood back to let me enter and led me down the hall to her hoard of old furniture. “You look quite worn out, Mr. Archer. May I make you some tea?”

  I said: “No, thanks. Where’s Galley?”

  “I don’t know where she went. A man came to get her about ten o’clock, when I was just giving her her breakfast. I was frying the bacon, crisp, as she’s always liked it, when this man came to the door. She went away with him, without a single word of explanation.” She sat down in a platform rocker just inside the door of the room, her clenched hands resting stiffly on her knees.

  “Could he have been her husband? Did you see him?”

  “Her husband?” Her voice sounded weary and bewildered. She had encountered too much life in too short a time. “Surely she isn’t married.”

  “She seems to be, to a man called Tarantine. Didn’t she tell you?”

  “We barely had a chance to talk. She came home late last night—I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Archer, for what you’ve done—”

  “Galley mentioned me, then.”

  “Oh yes. She came straight home after you found her. It was very late, after dawn in fact, and she was too tired to want to talk very much. This morning I let her sleep in. It was so grand to have my girl back in her own bed. Now she’s gone away again.” She sat gazing at the fact, drearily blinking her eyes.

  “This man,” I nudged her attention. “Did you see the man she went with?”

  “Certainly. I answered the door myself. I didn’t like his looks at all. He was a very thin man, a walking skeleton. I thought when I looked at him he must have tuberculosis. Galley wouldn’t marry a man like that.” But her statement curled at the edges into a question.