Читать книгу Some Die Young - James Duff - Страница 8

I OPENED THE DOOR TO MY OFFICE, stooped down to pick up the morning mail. The first three envelopes held bills. The fourth envelope interested me. It was small and my name and address were scrawled across it in a childish hand. The writing belonged to Jocko Quinn. I opened the envelope and a key fell out on the desk. There was nothing else. The key was the kind used for rental boxes in bus and train stations. The number on it was 3752. I started to dial the Hollywood bus terminal.

“Good morning.”

I looked up. Dianne Cochran stood in the doorway. She looked fresh and animated—curiously better than she had last night, in that house. Her blue suit was expensive and in good taste.

I searched through my wallet for the check, found it. I put it on the desk.

“Is this what you came for?”

She shook her head. “No. May I sit down?”

I shrugged. She moved into the chair opposite me.

“You’re a hard man, Mr. Phelan.”

“Just an act, for my customers’ benefit.”

“I guessed as much.”

“Okay,” I said, “let’s have it.”

“Have what?”

“Whatever it’s going to be. The pitch. I’ve heard them all in this business.”

“There’s no pitch, Mr. Phelan,” she said. “We need your help. It’s that simple.”

“We?”

“Yes. Mother and I.”

That stunned me. I looked at her. There was a resemblance—I had noticed it the night before, but had not added it up.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Mr. Phelan. I’m not.”

“Why should I be embarrassed?”

“Most people are, when they find out. You see, I was born out of wedlock. There’s a name for people like me, but I don’t like to use it.”

“I don’t blame you.”

She seemed to think that over.

“People make mistakes,” I said.

She nodded. “Mother was only 17. She didn’t know any better.”

That was one way to put it. I said, “I understand.”

But I didn’t. Just why she should be telling me this, I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to know, either.

The telephone rang. I was thankful for that.

It was my answering service. A Mr. Carter had called. He would be a little late in paying his bill. I had tailed his wife for a week. She hadn’t done anything wrong—apparently Mr. Carter wasn’t happy about it. I hung up the phone.

“We’re willing to raise the fee, Mr. Phelan—to twenty-five hundred.

Twenty-five hundred wouldn’t take me to the Riviera, but it could mean Mexico City for a few weeks. I took out a scratch pad and a pencil and began doodling. I made a large circle, then a smaller one; I put a nose on the smaller one, then ears on the outer one. She smiled.

“That’s a bad habit,” she said.

“All habits are bad,” I said.

She held out a cigarette. I didn’t move. She frowned at me, lighting it herself.

I pulled out a pipe, filled it, lit it. My clouds were bigger than hers. That didn’t give me any satisfaction.

“Miss Cochran,” I said.

“It was Dianne last night. That’ll do this morning, too.”

I said, “A jinx seems to go with this job. Jocko Quinn worked for Miss Harding, for you. They found him dead in my car. I knew this other man slightly, this Harry Dexter. As you said, he was a nice little man; he never harmed anyone. Maybe he was killed in an auto accident, maybe he wasn’t. I remember reading about it in the papers. I even sent flowers to his funeral. But I’m no hero, not at all. I did enough of that kind of fighting in the war, enough to last me a lifetime.”

“Maybe the other two weren’t smart enough.”

“Maybe they weren’t. Maybe I’m no smarter.”

“I doubt that.”

“Doubt it if you want. It’s my life.”

She stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray, then rearranged herself in the chair. She played with the red leather purse in her lap and her eyes moved across my face.

“I told Claire you wouldn’t do it.”

“You were right.”

“No harm in asking.”

“None.”

“Five thousand?”

The thought of the Riviera returned. Nice young things in next-to-nothing bathing suits; pleasant Mediterranean breezes; long, cool nights to do nothing; Monte Carlo.

“On two conditions,” I said suddenly. “I want the money in advance. And you don’t play games with me. I want facts, all of them you can give me. I’ve got two strikes on me at the start. I don’t want to strike out.”

She put a lot into her smile, opened her purse, handed me an envelope. I opened it. It held a check payable to John J. Phelan. The amount was $5,000. I looked at her and we both laughed.

We drove out Sunset in her MG. She was an excellent driver. I had the idea that she would be good at anything she tried. Claire Harding was to meet us at a cabin at Malibu.

We came out on the Coast Highway, turning north, toward Malibu. The ocean was quiet, disturbed only by a slow-moving tanker; early morning fog still clung to the distant horizon. She parked on the shoulder of the highway and I followed her down a narrow path. The cabin was small and dirty on the outside, battered by years of salt air and ocean winds. We disturbed a flock of sea gulls and they flew off.

The cabin had two rooms—a combination sleeping-and-living room and a kitchen. The furniture was expensive and in good taste. I opened the french doors fronting to the water and took in a lungful of salt air.

Dianne shrugged out of her suit coat, revealing a sleeveless white blouse. Her arms were long and deeply tanned. She looked at her watch.

“Claire won’t be here until one,” she said. “How about some chow?”

I agreed. I heard her busying herself in the kitchen and sat down in a deep leather chair, stretched my legs before me. I filled and lit a pipe, feeling very domestic. It was a pleasant morning. I watched the gentle movement of the ocean; a motorboat skimmed by, turned at a sharp angle, sending white puffs of water in all directions, and then disappeared. A dog barked. I moved out of the chair, going to the telephone. I wasn’t being paid to dream. I dialed the downtown police station, asking for Adam Wheeler.

“Adam?”

“Yes. Johnny?”

“That’s right. Anything new?”

“What would be new?”

“I don’t know. You’re the cop.”

A chuckle drifted across the wire. “I can’t figure a thing, Johnny,” he said. “Not one damned thing. Did you know Quinn had worked for your client?”

“I found it out. Last night.”

“You sure?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Adam.”

“I hope not.”

“Adam, do you remember Harry Dexter?”

“A tiny little guy, about the size of a jockey?”

“That’s right.”

“Uh-huh. I remember him. Killed in an auto accident a couple months ago.”

“Anything fishy about that accident?”

There was silence. Dianne smiled out at me from the kitchen. I felt something flip within me.

“Why, Johnny?”

“No reason. Just thought I’d ask.”

“I’ll check it.”

“Fine. Can I have my car back?”

“Not yet, Johnny. Don’t get impatient.”

“How’s that ape you work with?”

“Rossi?”

“Yeah.”

“He still hates your guts.”

“Give him my love.”

I hung up.

Dianne came out with a tray of hamburgers and two cold beers. I took a sip of the beer, and then ate two hamburgers and then finished the beer. I watched her carry the tray and the two empty glasses back into the kitchen and wondered if she would like the Riviera. A guy gets funny ideas sometimes.

“Tell me about him,” I said.

“Who?”

She held out a cigarette and this time I lit it; she gave me a small, victorious smile.

“Your stepfather.”

“Harrison?” She laughed. “I don’t think of him as my stepfather. As a matter of fact, I hardly think of him at all. I think Claire is making a lot out of nothing.”

“Then why did you come to my office this morning?”

“She asked me to.”

“Do you get along with him?”

“As well as could be expected, I guess. We’re on speaking terms.”

“What kind of trouble could he be in?”

The long, tanned arms rose and fell in the air.

“I told you I wanted facts,” I said. “I don’t want to play games with you. If I’m going to find out about this guy, I’ve got to have a little more cooperation from the home team.”

She rose, walked about the room. She flipped the cigarette out the door and looked at her watch.

“Hiring a private detective wasn’t my idea, John,” she said. “I don’t intend to be grilled by you about either my mother or Harrison Woodward.”

“In other words, you won’t cooperate?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“How simple is it?”

“Cut it out, John.”

Her face hid behind a calm mask. I rose, strode over to her. The smell of the perfume grew stronger. I put my hand out, caught her behind the neck, pulling her close to me. She resisted.

“No more of that,” she said.

She looked at her watch again and this time I looked at mine. The time was 1:40. She went to the telephone, calling the Harding house. She hung up the receiver, turning to me.

“I’m worried, John,” she said. “Claire left the house at eleven forty-five. She should have been here by now.”

She began pacing back and forth. She called the house again; Miss Harding had not returned.

I had smoked three pipes before Claire Harding finally showed up. She opened the door, standing just inside it like a little girl caught stealing something. She tried to smile, but it didn’t come off. There was an ugly bruise below her left eye and the blood had dried into cakes on her lips. She poked at her mussed hair with tender fingers and looked at me.

There was hate in her eyes, hate enough for the whole world.