AHMM, May 2009, page 11
But Polly wasn't there.
I didn't smell gunpowder or spot any bloodstains. Although in her small bedroom a bedside lamp had fallen to the floor.
At first I thought I should telephone Detective Ferguson.
But then I decided, No, damn it, I'll find her myself. It was right about that time that I came to realize that my growing affection for Polly Renfrew was causing me to act somewhat like my hardboiled comic strip detective.
NNN
On the newscast coming out of my car radio President Truman was being quoted as saying that things were looking up in Korea. Or maybe he was saying that things were looking down. I wasn't paying much attention.
Daniel Castlemon, the man who built ventriloquist dummies, had his little shop on a narrow side street off Cherokee Boulevard in Hollywood. It was just around the corner from a small movie house that was showing Gene Kelly's newest, An American In Paris. I hadn't seen that yet and I thought maybe I'd ask Polly to ... “You've got to find her first,” I reminded myself.
I parked next to an ailing pepper tree. Two blonde hookers, or maybe they were starlets, went walking by in tight white slacks and high heels.
Castlemon apparently also built puppets. There was a cluster of them, including a well-built ballerina, dangling by their strings in the narrow, dusty front window. Sitting there in a toy rocker was a dummy in the Charlie McCarthy mode, complete with top hat, monocle, and tails.
A bell tingled loudly as I pushed open the glass door. The long, narrow room smelled of wood shavings, strong glue, and several years of smoked cigars. Its shelves were thick with dummies, puppets, a few nutcrackers, and several carved cats.
"Say, I know you,” said the bearded man sitting behind the glass-topped counter as he pointed at me with his half-smoked cigar. “Sure, I saw an article about you in Time about a month or so ago. You're famous, but I forget for what."
"I am, yeah,” I admitted. “Are you Castlemon?"
"None other. Famous in my own way,” he said, “though not on such a grand scale, alas. What exactly are you famous for?” He rested his smoldering cigar on the lip of a green glass ashtray. He was a man of about fifty-five and quite a bit overweight.
"I draw a comic strip.” I fished out my drawing of the dummy. “Did you—"
"Yeah, that's right. You draw Dick Tracy."
"Slam Duncan.” I unfolded the drawing.
"Say, that's damned good. I could use something like that on a flyer, somewhat reduced of course."
"Is this one of your dummies?"
"Sure, his name is Willie Wiseacre,” he replied, “although the fellow who bought him didn't seem to take to that name. He'll probably rechristen him and—"
"Who bought him?
"Oh, now, I don't know if I ought to give out such—"
"I'll pay you twenty bucks for his name and address."
"Forty would be more suitable. Why do—"
"Who?” I pulled my wallet out of my hip pocket and handed him two twenties.
"I'll look it up for you.” Creaking some, he rose up and turned toward a dented filing cabinet. “Funny thing, you know, I finished Willie, oh, two, three years ago and he's just been sitting on a shelf for—"
"What did your customer look like?"
Castlemon stopped going through a file drawer to think about that. “Let's see ... About thirty-five, plump, bald, partial upper plate,” he told me finally. “Really difficult to be a ventriloquist with false teeth, but this guy was willing to give it a try."
"The name and address?” I reminded.
"Here it is. Larry McNaughton, lives down in Venice.” He wrote the information down on a small file card. “Venice is that rundown town that tried to look like Venice, Italy. Smelly canals, ramshackle houses."
"I know, yeah.” I took the card and left.
* * * *
Venice, considerably rundown from its brief days of splendor in the 1920s, was a beach town down the coast from L.A. It had canals, like those in the other Venice, that brought water in from the sea. Each was about ten feet deep, around fourteen wide and had small concrete bridges arching over them.
You didn't see gondolas plying the murky waters of these canals. Instead there were discarded beer bottles, floating garbage that the town's bedraggled seagulls hadn't yet gotten around to dining on, and an occasional dead cat.
I arrived in town a few minutes shy of one in the afternoon. Crossing one of the rutted bridges, I turned on to the street where Larry McNaughton was supposed to reside. His rundown stucco cottage was on the second block I drove along.
In the weedy driveway, parked behind a dented 1939 Ford, was Polly's Plymouth coupe, the one I'd escorted her to when we'd left the scene of the crime the night before. The houses on either side of Larry's hideout looked to be deserted. The one on the right was missing part of its roof. Between it and Larry's cottage rose a thick overgrown hedge that was about six feet high.
Driving on by, I parked on the next block in front of a defunct mom and pop grocery store. There was a faded poster in the front window advertising a ballroom appearance in Avalon on Catalina Island of Benny Goodman and his orchestra. That had taken place in 1939.
As I sat in my car, a newspaper boy bicycled by on the empty street. His gray canvas paper bag held about a half dozen copies of the L.A. Times. Somewhere off in the unseen distance a couple of cats were having some sort of noisy assignation.
Carefully, I eased out of the driver's seat. I cut across the street, aimed at the ramshackle cottage next to Larry's place. The cottage had no door. I slipped quickly inside and crossed the garbage-strewn parlor floor to the glassless window.
Although it was bright afternoon outside, I saw electric light shining out of the side window of the house opposite. There was no curtain and the dusty white shade was pulled down to about two inches from the sill. I could see the window through a gap in the hedge.
If I could, unobserved, sneak over there, I should be able to take a look in that lighted window. I left the room, careful not to make any noise by stepping hard on the debris underfoot. I almost cried out when I accidentally stepped on what felt like a dead rat, but I got control of myself.
I made it across the patch of weed-rich lawn, although I narrowly avoided tripping over the rusted skeleton of a tricycle. Maneuvering quietly through the hedge, I crouched down just below the window. I realized that the window was open a few inches and that I could hear what was being said inside.
"C'mon now, Polly,” a man with a thin, reedy voice was saying, “we don't mean you any real harm."
"Oh, so? You shoot at me in the afternoon, then break into my house by night, conk me on the head, kidnap me, swipe my car, and—"
"Wait. It's not really kidnapping.” The thin, reedy voice must belong to Larry. “It's more, you know, protective custody. You'll just remain here another day while we ... go elsewhere. Out of the country, but that's all I better say."
"What are you planning to do? Tie me up with clothesline again and leave me in this rathole?"
"You're lucky I'm your pal. Most gangs of robbers would—"
"My pal? You idiots, all three of you, have been screwing up my life for the past two days, Larry,” Polly told him. “You spoiled my chance to perform at Mona Tardy's party and make some valuable show business contacts. You—"
"Listen, it couldn't be helped,” he explained to her. “Once I found out that you were going to entertain there, I realized that it was a perfect way for us to get in,” he said. “Despite what you may think, Polly, we really are pretty good robbers. We've been darn successful, though we never had a haul like this before."
"Hooey."
"Look at this from our point of view,” Larry continued. “I used to do kids’ parties. I still had a clown suit. As you know, I'm a pretty darn good ventriloquist myself. Once we got a dummy, we were all set. Getting into Mona Tardy's was a cinch."
"You're a lousy ventriloquist, Larry. All the kids at the birthday party complained that they could see your lips move."
"Just relax. We're going to be pulling out in a few hours. We leave you here, and then I phone the cops while we're en route to—to, um, someplace in Central America to convert our loot into cash—and they'll hop over here to come and untie you."
"Caught in the act, old chap,” said someone just behind me.
Slowly I turned, raising my hands. “Oops,” I muttered.
A tall, thin man in a dark suit was pointing a .32 revolver at me. “Hard cheese, old boy,” he said in a terrible British accent. “Let's trot on inside, shall we?"
"That really is a lousy accent,” I informed him.
"It is indeed, old thing,” he agreed, “which is why I make my living as a crook rather than by playing crooks on the tube."
* * * *
Polly was wearing jeans and a faded UCLA sweatshirt. She was sitting in a lopsided kitchen chair at a small wobbly table that held three empty Lucky Lager beer bottles, an unopened can of Campbell's Cream of Tomato Soup, and a frying pan that had earlier been used to fry eggs.
Sitting opposite her was a chunky man of about thirty five who must be Larry. “Who's this?"
The unsuccessful actor urged me into the lighted kitchen my nudging me in the kidneys with the barrel of the gun. “It's Jack Ortega. Caught the bloke snooping, don't you know?"
"You sure, Kerry?"
"Saw his blooming photo in Time a few weeks since,” Kerry answered. “The funny-paper man."
Polly gave me a small smile. “I was hoping you'd come to rescue me from these louts, Jack."
"Exactly what I have done,Polly."
"That's rich,” remarked Larry, producing a chuckling sound. “We've got you, Ortega."
"Not at all,” I said, sitting down in the third chair at the rickety table. “How do you think I found you gents?"
"Polly gave you my name and you dug up my address from someplace,” he answered. “I have to admit, I've been a bit careless about giving it out."
I said to Polly, “Remember what I told you about Detective Ferguson using the latest scientific equipment?"
After a few seconds, she nodded. “Yes, he was going to utilize that on this case."
"I couldn't tell you about this last night because I'd given him my word,” I continued. “But once you'd disappeared, I insisted that he share what he'd found out with me."
"What in the bloody hell are you two nattering about?” asked the actor.
I stood to face him. “Despite my trying to convince him otherwise, Detective Ferguson believed that Polly was in cahoots with the robbers,” I told him. “So he planted a tracking bug in her Plymouth yesterday afternoon. It was his notion that eventually she'd come to see you fellows. The gadget provided the police with your exact address."
Larry's chair fell over when he shot to his feet. “That can't be true, can it?"
"Ferguson gave me your address, told me to meet him here,” I said. “I thought he'd be here by now, followed by a squad car full of uniformed cops.” I took a hopeful glance at the window, listening. “Unless he ran into traffic on the free—"
From out in the yard a gruff male voice shouted, “Men, we'll try tear gas first. If that doesn't work, rush them."
That distracted the faux Englishman and he looked toward the window.
I grabbed up the greasy skillet and whapped him on his gun wrist.
"Oof,” he cried, letting the .32 fall from his grasp.
I caught the gun before it hit the floor, then turned and slugged the failed actor twice on the chin.
As he fell, out cold, down on the streaked linoleum, a third man, the one who must've been the other clown, appeared in the doorway. “What's all the damn noise about?"
I shot him in the thigh, and he dropped back into the shadowy hall and commenced howling in pain.
Larry, forlornly, sat back down. “There wasn't any tracking bug and there weren't any cops, were there?” he realized
Polly smiled a broader smile. “Now that, old chap, was ventriloquism."
Copyright © 2009 Ron Goulart
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Fiction: THE FABRICATOR by Jack Ritchie
Last night he had been drunk. This morning he was sober, but still adamant. “I want him dead."
"Yes, sir,” I said.
Mr. Winters is quite rich, spoiled rotten, and occasionally mad.
The “him” Winters referred to was Leander McCullum. The previous night at their club, McCullum had had the temerity to catch Winters cheating at gin rummy. Strong words and then blows had been exchanged.
Winters glared at me. “When I said I want McCullum dead, Clarence, I mean I want him dead. Take care of the matter immediately."
"Sir,” I said patiently, “I think there must be some limits as to what you may expect of me."
He became more specific. “I didn't mean that I want you personally to kill McCullum. I mean that I want you to find me someone who will do the job. In other words, a professional killer."
"Yes, sir,” I said automatically, and then put the matter out of my mind.
I am Winters's personal secretary. I am also his valet, his travel agent, his chauffeur, his whatever-the-occasion-demands.
The job pays well. I travel a good deal, always with the best in accommodations, and I enjoy the finest of meals. The job is not physically demanding, but it is galling to be at someone's beck and call twenty-four hours a day.
The next morning Winters was at me again. “Well, Clarence, what have you been doing about it?"
"Doing about what, sir?"
"Finding me a professional killer."
"Oh, that, sir. Well, it's rather difficult to find a professional killer. They don't advertise, you know."
He regarded me stonily. “Clarence, I pay you a good salary and I expect results. Or don't you like your job?"
"I do, sir. I do."
"Then get me that professional killer. You have until Friday.” He drew a finger across his throat. “Friday, Clarence."
* * * *
During the course of the years, I have had to perform some rather bizarre errands for my employer, but none of them included solicitation for murder. I did not intend to begin now.
However, something had to be done. I was confident that even Winters would, after a bit more time, realize the madness of what he proposed and back down. In the meantime, however, he had to be appeased.
Obviously the thing to do now was to pretend that I had established contact with a murderer. And that the negotiations with that killer would be rather prolonged. Yes, I would stall and stall.
The next day, Winters tapped a foot. “Well?"
I smiled. “Sir, I have finally managed to track down a professional killer."
Winters seemed surprised. “You have, Clarence? How the devil did you manage to do that?"
"Sir, if one is searching for a killer, one looks for a person who has killed before. One can find such names in the newspapers. We constantly read of murderers who have served the required twelve years and eight months of their life sentences and have been paroled. While you appeared before your club's Expulsion Committee yesterday afternoon, I took the liberty of going to our city's chief newspaper and utilizing its morgue. I consulted newspapers which were several years old and then selected the names of men who had been paroled and have since had time enough to settle down and get their names into the telephone book. I then made some discreet phone calls. By the way, sir, what action did the Expulsion Committee take?"
His face darkened. “No decision has been reached yet. What is the name of this professional killer?"
I directed a mental apology toward my departed Italian grandmother. “Marchetti."
Winters went off, but returned immediately with a phone book. “There are six Marchettis in the book. Which one?"
"The first."
"A. Marchetti? What's the A stand for?"
"Angelo."
He tasted that. “I suppose he's with the Mafia?"
"Body and soul."
Winters lit a cigar. “I want McCullum killed this Friday night. Between eight and midnight."
"This Friday night, sir? That would be rather pushing it. Angelo usually likes to take his time. Two or three weeks to case the contract, so to speak."
"This Friday, Clarence. I'm paying the bill and I call the shots. I'll be spending the evening at Thompson's. It's his wedding anniversary and he's having a party. There'll be half a hundred people there who will swear I didn't leave the house all evening. How much does Angelo want for the job?"
I grasped at this possible out. If the price were too high, Winters might call it off. “One hundred thousand dollars, sir."
Winters was clearly shocked. “One hundred thousand dollars? Can't you get anybody cheaper?"
"Not at this stage of the game, sir. I don't think Angelo would take kindly to being underbid. You know how touchy these professional killers are."
Winters chewed on his cigar. “Oh, well, I suppose in this inflationary spiral we've got to expect everything to go up. It's a deal, Clarence."
He departed, only to return later in the day with a briefcase. He opened it to show me the currency. “One hundred thousand dollars. In small bills."
I took the briefcase up to my room and emptied it upon my bedspread. One hundred thousand dollars.
Why didn't I just take the money and run?
No. While one hundred thousand dollars is quite a bit of money, was it really enough to make it worthwhile to sever one's ties with friends, relatives, and familiar geography to lead the life of a fugitive? One might enjoy the money for a year or two, but then what?
I sighed. No, I would have to return the money to Winters and inform him that Angelo Marchetti was not a professional killer. I would undoubtedly be fired. Losing my job did not exactly fill me with terror, but it would be an economic inconvenience.
I stared at the money again. Would I kill anyone for one hundred thousand dollars?
Certainly not. Not for one hundred thousand dollars. What was my price? Did I have one?
An idea which had been nipping at my mind now took hold.
Suppose that Angelo Marchetti really did murder McCullum? And then suppose that he decided to blackmail Winters? Could he parlay that one hundred thousand dollars into a million?
