The Marble Orchard, page 13
part #2 of Black Mask Boys Series
Or maybe they'd kill me.
The tall one buried his right fist in my stomach and I doubled over, gasping for air. Gagging, I fell back against the Duesenberg's front fender-only to have my head snapped back by a stunning blow to the chin.
Dimly, I heard Enright's voice. "Al, you step back. Use the sap on him, Arnie."
Through pain-blurred eyes I saw the shorter man (Arnie) pull a nasty-looking blackjack from his coat pocket. But before he could use it the sound of a roaring engine filled the air and a long black limousine skidded to a stop between my car and the Ford truck.
Hammett leaned from the rear passenger window, a double-cocked 12-gauge sawed-off leveled across the door.
His face was twisted with anger, his tone as sharp as a woodsman's ax. "Back off, you frigging bastards, or I'll blow your guts all over the lot!"
His colorful warning caught their attention, but it was the shotgun that did the trick; no one argues with a loaded sawed-off. Enright's muscle boys edged back, eyes bugging, hands in the air. Merv, ghost white, also had both hands raised. "Easy does it, pal," he said softly.
I could see Buddy smiling behind the wheel, amused by Hammett's sudden effect on the trio. I had no doubt that Buddy would have waded into them on my behalf, but no such action was needed. Dash had the situation well under control.
"Climb in that damn truck of yours," he snapped, "and get lost. Now!"
They did that, piling awkwardly into the Ford's cab. Enright gunned the engine, accelerating rapidly out of the lot.
Hammett stepped from the limo and walked over to me. "You okay?"
"A little punchy, but I'll live," I said. "Where'd you get the shotgun?"
"I keep it stowed under the backseat," Hammett told me. "For emergencies." He grinned. "I figured this was a good time to bring it out."
I eased a slow hand along my jaw; the area was quite tender, but at least the bone hadn't been broken. And I still had all my teeth.
By now Buddy was standing next to me, asking if I'd been badly hurt. I told him no. "They were just getting started," I said. "If you guys hadn't come along when you did…"
Buddy smiled, a twinkle in his dark eyes. "You're wondering how we arrived like the Two Musketeers, n'est pas?"
"I never question Providence," I said, "but, in this case, I'll make an exception. Tell me!"
"I wanted to find out what happened with Jack Snowden," declared Hammett. (I'd informed him I was going to see Carmilla's ex-husband.) "When I phoned your house, Cissy said you hadn't returned yet, so I decided to have Buddy drive me over. We were almost to M-G-M when I saw you plow through that red light on Venice. Obviously, you were in some kind of trouble."
"That's when we spotted the truck," added Buddy. "We saw you turn fast onto Motor Avenue, and so we went after you."
Hammett nodded. "We passed the theater in our first run-by, but when we went back Buddy spotted your tire tracks leading into the lot, and there you were, getting the crap knocked out of you." He frowned. "Who are those guys?"
"The one in the leather jacket is Merv Enright."
"You found him!"
"No. He found me." I sighed. "That ex-girlfriend of yours in Rialto put him on my tail. She had been involved with him, after all. It appears that your Bobbie is a liar."
Hammett shrugged. "It figures. She's an actress, so she put on an act for us."
"The trouble is," I said, "I'm right back where I began. I don't know Enright's address, or if Elina is still with him."
"The girl might have his address," said Buddy.
"Doubt it," I said. "He gave her an emergency phone number, but that's likely all she's got. Besides, even if she does know where Enright is, she's not about to tell us. And we can't very well beat it out of her."
"We won't need to," said Hammett. His lean face wore a cunning half smile.
"You've got something!" I glared at him. "Don't play around with me, Dash. What have you got?"
"His license number," said Hammett.
"My God! I never thought to-"
"Here," he said, jotting down the number and handing it to me. "Put your Homicide pal McQuillan on it. He should be able to dig up an address."
"Will do," I said. Then I hesitated, looking intently at Hammett. "There's one thing I have to know."
"What's that?"
"The threat you made… about blowing their guts out. Would you have done it? Would you have actually killed them?"
"I don't make a habit of killing people," said Hammett. "For all I knew, those three guys could have been cops." He grinned. "I mean, you did run a red light."
"That's a relief to hear," I told him. "I thought you meant it."
"Which was exactly the impression I wanted to convey," he said. "But even if I'd pulled the triggers, those mugs would still be alive."
"I don't-"
"The sawed-off isn't loaded," Hammett declared. "I keep it for effect. I've never carried shells for it. We just managed to pull off what's known as an empty bluff."
"Which worked beautifully," I said.
"Yeah," Dash nodded. "If it hadn't, we'd all be going to the hospital."
***
Cissy and Margaret hovered over me that evening like a pair of Florence Nightingales. Was I feeling dizzy? Nauseous? Did my head ache? Shouldn't I see a doctor? No, no, no. And no. I finally convinced them that I was fine. Just a sore jaw… and a few purple bruises which Margaret insisted on treating with her "Great-granny's no-fail old-timey remedy": a poultice of grated uncooked turnip. It actually did seem to help.
"Those dreadful men belong behind bars!" Cissy declared.
"You should report this to the police and press assault charges," said Margaret.
"I just need to find Merv Enright-and Elina," I said.
"You could be attacked again!" Cissy declared. "That Enright is a public menace!"
"Remember how all this started?" I said. "You asked me to find out why and how Julian died. I'm still trying to do that. Elina had a relationship with him. Once I find her, she may be able to tell me things. And I think she's still with Merv Enright. I'm gambling on that."
"Just don't gamble your life on it," said Margaret.
She had a point.
THIRTEEN
By noon the following day, McQuillan had come through. He supplied an address for Enright.
"You're a peach," I told him. "Thank God for honest cops."
"Keep me in the picture," Art said. "I want to know what happens when you find this guy. If you do manage to uncover anything that ties him to the DuPlaine killing, I need to know about it, pronto."
"Pronto," I said, and expressed my gratitude for his help.
Next I phoned Hammett, telling him that I was headed for the Grandview Apartments in Hollywood, on Wilcox, and did he want to meet me there?
"Damn right I do," he said. "Whoever arrives first waits for the other."
"Okay," I said.
The trip from Culver City took about forty minutes and when I got there I found Hammett's limo parked under a drooping pepper tree on Wilcox. It was hot, with the intense Southern California sun baking the streets, so I left my coat in the Duesenberg. Hammett said something to Buddy, got out, and we walked to the Grandview-which was anything but grand. A sagging, down-at-the-heels wooden structure of indeterminate color-something between dirt brown and soot gray-it perched behind a mass of untrimmed devil grass and yellow wild mustard flowers.
The interior wasn't any grander. We walked across a cracked linoleum floor to a grizzled old party bent over a grimed reception desk. There was a calendar on the wall behind the desk featuring a buxom young miss in a knit swimsuit. She looked fine, but the calendar was a year out of date.
Pop wore a pair of bifocals that rode halfway down his mottled nose; his hairless skull gleamed like a polished egg and he hadn't cleaned his fingernails since Teddy Roosevelt climbed San Juan Hill.
"Whatcha fellas want?" Before we could tell him, he wagged a bony finger at us. "If yer lookin' to rent, we ain't got no rooms. Full up, we are."
"That's a real disappointment," said Hammett. "I was planning to spend my honeymoon here."
"We've been told that a Merv Enright lives at this address," I said. "We'd like to see him."
"Can't."
"Why not?"
"Ain't here."
"You mean, he's out?"
"Gone. Moved."
"Where?"
"I don't have no exact address," said the old geezer. "Had to send somethin' of his over to a trailer park in Venice, but I don't recollect when. Long time ago."
"How long?"
He corkscrewed an index finger into his left ear, then studied the waxy residue at the tip of his finger with the concentration of a pawn broker examining a cheap pocket watch. Finally, he swung up his bald head and answered me: "Year. Maybe longer."
"When he was here, did a woman named Elina Knibbs live in the apartment with him?" asked Hammett.
"Don't recollect."
I pressed the issue. "We're not here to cause trouble for you, but we do need to know. He was living with a woman, wasn't he?"
The old man was hesitant, fearing the possible consequences of allowing illegal cohabitation in his establishment.
"Coulda been. I don't pay no mind to dirty gossip. Long as people keep the rent up is all that matters."
"Do you have Enright's Venice address in your files?" asked Hammett.
The wiry white brows went up. "Files? Don't keep no files. Never have. Never will."
"And you don't recall the address?"
"I said that, didn't I?" The old geezer scowled. "Man can't be expected to remember every damn thing in the whole wide world!"
"Fine," I said. "We appreciate your cooperation."
Dash and I walked back across the cracked linoleum, but just before we exited the old man yelled after us: "Never liked that son of a bitch! Had a real unfriendly kinda character."
I turned to him, rubbing a hand along my bruised jaw. "I know what you mean. Might even call him nasty."
"Yup," nodded the oldster. "That's it exact. Nasty. A nasty one, he was."
Hammett and I walked out the door.
There couldn't be many trailer parks in Venice. Therefore, at this point, I told myself that finding Merv Enright shouldn't be all that difficult.
Unless he'd moved again.
We'd find out soon enough.
***
Caution was the order of the day. If we managed to locate Enright in Venice, we had to make sure we didn't panic him. He must remain unaware that he'd been tracked down. Otherwise, our pigeon would once again be on the wing. Which meant that Enright must be approached by someone he wouldn't recognize. He knew me all too well, and he would never forget the man behind that leveled sawed-off. Hammett and I, therefore, had to stay clear of him.
Yet we needed to move fast. If this man was a killer, as I strongly suspected, then Elina remained in continual danger. Enright could turn on her at any moment; his behavior in attacking me had clearly demonstrated his violent nature. Carmilla was correct in expressing worry about her sister. Then again, perhaps Elina had left him. Until we found Enright, we couldn't be sure of anything.
Hammett sent Buddy home with the limo and accompanied me as I drove to Gardner's place in the Hollywood hills. By now, I hoped, Erle would be back from his desert outing.
He was. We found him in the greenhouse behind his garage, watering some pink Amazonian orchids. I've never liked orchids. They remind me of dead flesh. When I explained the situation, Erle put the watering can aside, told Tomas not to expect him back until much later, and quickly changed clothes. He climbed into the Duesenberg next to Hammett and we were off.
"So I'm your front man," Gardner said.
"He's never seen you," I told him. "If we find Enright's trailer, you do the talking to him. The main thing we need to know right now is whether or not Elina Knibbs is still with him."
Erle regarded the purple bruise on my jaw. "Really socked you, huh?"
"He had his mugs work me over. They might have killed me if Dash hadn't shown up. Enright's a tough customer."
"If Elina Knibbs is there, what do I say to her?"
"Nothing. I'll need to get her alone to question her. That will come later."
The early history of Venice, California, has always intrigued me.
Shortly after the turn of the century, the first of the wealthy cigarette kings, Abbot Kinney, purchased a large tract of Southern California marshland near the Pacific Ocean where, in 1905, he proceeded to build an American version of the famous canal city of Italy. He called it "Venice-by-the-Sea" and it was designed to function as a center of social elegance and high culture.
In the beginning, the city lived up to its promise. Californians were serenaded by authentically costumed gondoliers as they boated down an array of glittering canals. Ornate hotels lined the beach and a new amusement park provided thrills for thousands of visitors. In a triumph for culture, the legendary actress Sarah Bernhardt was lured there to perform Camille.
Gradually, however, the canals became polluted due to poor engineering design; they were eventually condemned as a public health menace. By 1925, most of them had been filled in and the gondolas were in dry rot. A forest of ungainly oil derricks had sprouted along Venice streets, killing the last vestige of scenic charm. Now, more than a decade later, the ill-fated city retained nothing of its former beauty. It was just another sand-blown, sun-faded California beach town.
The phone book listed three trailer parks in the area. We checked out the first two without success. When we questioned their owners, showing Enright's photograph, they assured us that he'd never rented space from them. They had never seen the man.
***
Our last stop was the Crescent Moon Trailer Court, a block off Venice Boulevard just short of the beach.
"I've got a hunch this is the one," I told Hammett and Gardner.
"If you're right, and we find him," said Erle, "you don't think he'll turn violent on me, do you?"
I shook my head. "Not if you don't provoke him. We just need to make sure he's living at this place, and if Elina is with him."
"Since Enright doesn't know you," said Hammett, "there's no reason for him to give you any trouble."
"Okay," said Gardner. "Actually, it should be kind of fun."
I parked the Duesenberg in an alley between two buildings a block from the trailer park. If Enright was in the vicinity, I wanted to make sure he didn't spot the car.
We walked over to the Crescent Moon Trailer Court. It lacked a crescent moon. A tall wooden sign bore the court's name in scrolled red letters, but the painter had neglected to put in the moon. Or maybe nobody gave a damn.
It had that look-of nobody giving a damn. The lot had never been properly graded; of rutted dirt and sand, and choked with patches of scraggly weed, it was surrounded by an unpainted wooden fence, many of the slats missing, and a row of unkempt eucalyptus trees. Two dozen dented trailers were parked on the lot, like derelict ships washed ashore. Every space sported its own unpainted wooden utility shed and its own set of sagging clotheslines; pegged laundry provided an intimate look into the dreary lives of the park's occupants.
At the street entrance to the park a small corrugated metal shack was marked office in sputtering neon. Whoever owned the place obviously kept it lit all day. The first three letters had blackened; by night the message it conveyed would be confusing.
We sent Gardner in to inquire about Enright while we waited in the cool shadow of the building.
"I think Erle figures this as a lark," declared Hammett.
"Well, he didn't get punched in the stomach," I said. "Me, I take Mr. Enright very seriously."
After a few moments Erle came out of the office, nodding to us. "Our boy's here all right," he said. "Trailer five." He pointed. "The red one close to the fence, underneath the tree."
"Great," I said. "Did you find out if anyone else is living with him?"
"Nope," said Erle. "I didn't want to seem too nosy. I just asked about Enright."
"Got your cover story all worked out?" I asked.
"To perfection," he said.
In place of his usual sports outfit, Erle had changed into a suit, tie, and vest before we left his house, in keeping with his intended role as a salesman. His leather briefcase and wire-rimmed glasses completed the image.
"Don't say anything to rouse his suspicion," I warned Erle. "If he answers your knock and nobody is standing behind him, see if you can coax Elina to the door. Providing she's there, of course. If she is, maybe she'll answer."
"All this jabber is useless," Hammett complained sourly. "Erle knows what to do. Let him do it."
"I guess I'm a little nervous," I admitted.
"Go on, Erle," said Hammett. "We'll be watching from the fence. Now, scat!"
As Gardner walked toward the red trailer, I sighed. "Let's hope he's home."
"He is," said Hammett. "I can see the nose of his truck in back of the trailer."
At the fence, I pressed close to the rough-grained wood, peering through a gap where three slats were missing. From this vantage point, underneath the leafy branches of the eucalyptus tree, we could see and hear everything.
Erle reached the trailer and mounted the steps leading to the door. He knocked. Waited. Knocked again.
A bumping sound came from within. Then the door swung open and Merv Enright was there, in rumpled pants and a torn undershirt, looking mean. He needed a shave, a haircut, and a new personality.
"Yeah?" he growled. "What the hell do you want?"
"I'm Hiram Bixby," Erle told him brightly. "Bixby Life… the insurance policy that leaves you with an inner glow of security. This week we happen to have a special on-"
"Breeze!" snapped Enright. "I don't need no friggin' insurance."
