Dead Pigeon (14 page)

“I can work that end. I told Grosskopf to call here if he can’t get in touch with me.”

“I hope that old sourpuss doesn’t get too nosy. Clauss might hear about it and I’m sure he hates Grosskopf. Clauss must know almost every hoodlum and stoolie in this town. Do you plan to go cruising this afternoon?”

“Nope. I had enough of that this morning. Speaking of stoolies, are you ready for a weird thought that I’ve just dreamed up?”

“I’ll listen.”

“If we can’t find Clauss, maybe we can get him to come looking for me. You know, spread the word here and there—?”

“Brock, he must know by now that we are both looking for him.”

“Right. Gillete probably does, too. And one thing he sure as hell doesn’t want is Clauss in the can, where he can make a deal with the DA.”

“That’s too tricky for me,” Lars said, “and doubtful police procedure.”

“It’s tricky,” I agreed.

He frowned. “What is it with you, a death wish? Clauss isn’t likely to miss a target as big as you.”

“Or you.”

“You think he’s kooky enough to kill a cop?”

I smiled. “There’s a way to find out.”

“You are a strange one,” he said. “But I’ll have to admit you’re right. I’ve been shot at a few times.”

“Did you go to their funerals?”

“You bastard! I never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it.”

“Clauss deserves it. You put in what time you can here in town. I’m going back to Beverly Hills.”

I stopped in at Heinie’s for lunch, and used his office phone to call Gillete. I tried to pitch my voice higher this time than when he had phoned me.

When he answered, I said, “This is just a friendly warning, Mr. Gillete. There’s a private eye in town who is determined to railroad Emil Clauss into the can. I think you should warn him.”

“Why should I? And who the hell are you?”

“A friend of Emil’s and possibly an associate later.”

A fairly long silence. Then, “What’s the private eye’s name?”

“I don’t know it. Clauss might. The peeper is working with a Santa Monica cop. That’s all I know now. If you’re not interested in Clauss, forget what I said.”

“I already have,” he said, and hung up.

Was it the word “associate,” I wondered, that had prompted his momentary silence? Would he assume that since he had dumped Tucker, he might be invited into the big time?

That Lars and his proper police procedure … How often had he been guided by that? Though he would never admit it, he was a cowboy cop. He had seen too many killers walk and too many criminals get minimum sentences. He had saved the taxpayers a lot of money on cases that would have clogged the courts for years if the guilty could afford expensive attorneys.

The only phone calls I had received, the desk clerk told me, were this morning’s calls from Lars. There was no need to record what I had learned today; the connection was complete.

All of them were fervent followers of the American dream,
money
. Whether it was blackmail or the swindle Bay had run in Chicago or the Mafia or cops on the take, it was money. The love of money is the root of all evil.

I was stretched on the bed, trying to nap, when the phone rang.

“Mr. Callahan?” a woman asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m calling from Meridian Hospital in Santa Monica. A patient here has asked me to phone you. He wants you to come here. His name is Rudolph Grosskopf.”

“What happened to him?”

“He has a broken arm and some bruises. He told the doctor he was walking down an alley and stumbled over something. We have the feeling that might not be true.”

“Tell him I’m on the way,” I said.

He had stumbled in an alley? Why would he ask for me? He must have been doing what he had promised to do when he and I talked on the bench—asking around. It was likely that he had asked the wrong person.

I
DIDN’T PHONE LARS
. Grosskopf, I was sure, would not be as cooperative with Lars as he would with me. Cops were not his favorite people.

He was in a two-bed room, but there was no other occupant. He had dark bruises below both eyes. He grinned as I entered.

“Don’t tell me it could have been worse,” he said. “That’s what the doctor told me. It wasn’t the guy who hit me that broke my arm. I broke it when I fell. He hit me twice and I went down. Then some woman started screaming at him from the end of the alley.”

“What were you doing in the alley?”

“Taking a leak. Old guys have to pee a lot. I had a couple of beers in this bar and was walking toward home when one of the guys from the bar followed me down the alley.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“Not by name. I’ve seen him there before. He’s a little guy, but he sure has a wallop. He was wearing blue corduroy pants and a blue work shirt. He had an earring in his left ear.”

“Were you asking about Clauss in the bar?”

He nodded. “With the bartender. This guy must have overheard it. Would you tell the nurse I want to leave now? I don’t like hospitals.”

“I’ll go and ask her. What’s the name of that bar?”

“The Dungeon.”

I phoned the station and Lars was there. I told him where I was and what had happened.

“I’ll meet you at The Dungeon,” he said. “You tell Grosskopf to stay where he is. We might need him for identification.”

When I came back to his room, he asked, “What did the nurse say?”

“I didn’t ask her. You’ll have to stay here for a while. You might be needed for identification. I’m going to that bar.”

“Damn it!” he said. “If that little bastard is there and you bring him here, maybe you could hold him so I could give him a couple of shots.”

I smiled at him. “Take it easy, Rudolph. Stay cool, man!”

Lars was pulling up in his car when I arrived at The Dungeon. We went in together.

There were two men standing at the bar, two others sitting at a table at the far end. One of them fit the description Rudolph had given me. He smiled as we got closer.

He said, “Look who is here. Cowboy Hovde!”

“Don’t get lippy with me, Ernie. I eat men your size.”

“Not this one. You don’t have to Miranda me. I don’t like finks and I don’t like cops who are trying to railroad Emil.”

“You are admitting you beat up an old man?”

“I gave that fink a couple of shots. He was exposing himself in a public place.”

“But you didn’t report it.”

“To the cops. I would have reported it to Emil.
He
was a good cop.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

He shook his head. “And even if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t squeal on him.”

Lars sighed. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“To the station. You’ve admitted you assaulted an old man. While we’re at the station, I can check your record.”

“Aw, come on, Lars!”

“Ernie, your friend Clauss was never a good cop. And right now he is the major suspect in two murders.”

Ernie stared at him. “Murder? Emil?”

“Yes. And that old man you slugged was once his best friend. Maybe you don’t know that Clauss was fired because he killed an unarmed drug dealer.”

“I didn’t,” Ernie admitted.

“It’s all true,” Lars said. “I’ll ask you once more. Do you know where Clauss is now?”

Ernie shook his head. “I swear to you I don’t. And if he’s that heavy now, I ain’t about to ask.”

“That’s up to you. The old guy was asking, but he has guts. And he knows that Clauss has to be put away.”

Ernie looked doubtfully at the man with him.

The man said, “I’m not a Clauss fan. What the sergeant told you is true. Emil’s turned into a weirdo, the word I got.” He looked at Lars. “We’ll do what we can, but don’t expect any miracles. This is the wrong end of town for asking questions.”

Lars was smiling when we went out. “Feisty little bastard, isn’t he? He was a pretty fair bantam-weight boxer a few years ago. I’m going home from here. I doubt if Grosskopf wants to talk with me. Did you learn anything this afternoon?”

I shook my head. I told him about my phone call to Gillete.

“Maybe that will bring Clauss out. Keep your gun handy.”

Rudolph was getting dressed when I came into his room. The doctor, he told me, had given him permission to go home. A second X ray had revealed that the bone in his lower arm had not been broken, only cracked.

“Next time you leave the house, be more careful,” I warned him. “You could be a target for Clauss. And you’re not armed.”

“I will be next time,” he said. “I could always outshoot Emil, rifle or pistol. That man’s left-handed and about as accurate as an armless midget.”

“Clauss’s best weapon is a shotgun, a sawed-off shotgun. It’s hard to miss with one of those. Matter of fact, he has two shotguns.”

“He needs ’em. What happened at The Dungeon?”

I gave him the gist of it. I asked him if he had brought enough money to pay his way out.

He nodded. “Medicare will pay most of it. I can handle the rest.” He shook his head. “You know, when this country was sane, I could get a room at the Ritz in New York for about a fourth of what this room will cost. It’s not my America anymore.”

I drove him home. The place had obviously been built many years ago, a cement-block building, fronted by a concrete parking space, with a tile roof and narrow windows, protected by wrought- iron bars.

“I call it my fortress,” he said. “We need ’em down here.”

Back at the hotel, I propped a chair under the knob of the door before I took my shower. Clauss obviously frightened me more than he did Grosskopf.

The attack on Grosskopf by Ernie couldn’t have been dictated by Gillete. He had probably never heard of the man, and it had been too soon after my phone call for that. But there had been time enough for Gillete to warn Clauss.

Nolan hadn’t called. Perhaps he was dreaming up new fantasies for me. He would have made a lousy private eye; he didn’t know when to lie or how to do it.

Frustration had made me foolhardy. Phoning Gillete had been a dumb and dangerous move. The hunter had now become the hunted. What would have been a threat to a rational man would be only a challenge to Clauss.

It was probable, when I went down to dinner, that I was the only guest in the long and distinguished history of the Beverly Hills Hotel who had ever carried a fifteen-shot Galanti in a shoulder holster into their dining room.

No booze tonight. I planned to go hunting in the forlorn hope that Clauss was a night crawler and still in town. I comforted myself with the knowledge that a moving target is the most difficult target to hit.

Down the mean streets of the town Raymond Chandler had labeled Bay City, concentrating on the saloons. From there to Venice and back to Santa Monica.

I was luckier on my second trip past The Dungeon. Through the wide front window I could see the blue shirt of the man I knew only as Ernie.

I parked in front and went in. There were three customers in the place, all standing at the bar, all male. Ernie turned toward the doorway as I came in.

“More trouble?” he asked.

“Not for you. I’m not a cop. My name is Brock Callahan.”

He nodded. “I thought I recognized you this afternoon. You must have put on weight since you were with the Rams.”

“A little, I guess.”

“That Hovde!” he said. “He brings out the worst in me.”

“Me, too, quite often. But everything he told you was true. His son told me that Clauss beat up his wife so badly she was taken to a hospital and was put into intensive care. His son won’t have anything to do with him.”

“Jesus! What’s his beef with you?”

“I think he killed a friend of mine. And it’s possible I’m next on his list.”

He took a sip of his beer. “I asked around a little today. All I learned so far from a fink who’s been wrong before is that Clauss is steamed about some private eye who’s out to nail him.”

“You’re standing next to him, Ernie. That’s what I was, after I left the Rams.”

“Then what in the hell are you doing down here? This is Clauss country, man.”

“That’s what I’m doing down here, looking for him. Only this time I’m armed, Thanks for what you told me.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Don’t lead with your chin.”

It had not been a fruitless trip. I now knew that Clauss had been alerted by Gillete. There was the possibility that Gillete had ordered him to cool it. He had to realize that Clauss’s erratic behavior was dangerous folly. Mavericks are not the kind of soldiers that well-run hoodlum organizations recruit. Nor do they tolerate personal vendettas.

But Clauss, in his present state of mind, was not likely to take rational advice. That was all right with me. I didn’t have the ammo to take on an army. One on one against Clauss would be my preference.

I drove past the fortress of Rudolph Grosskopf before heading for the hotel. The narrow windows showed no light from within. All seemed serene under a full moon. Maybe the old curmudgeon would find a female partner mature and tolerant enough to appreciate him. I hoped so. He was my kind of man.

I had given my address to too many people. Even Clauss could know it by now. I phoned the Crest Motel in Santa Monica and got a reservation. I phoned Mrs. Casey and told her where I would be and asked her to notify Jan if she called.

I put a chair under the knob of my door again, and laid my Galanti on the bedside table.

Tomorrow I would set up camp in Clauss country.

“H
EADING FOR HOME?” THE
clerk asked in the morning. “That’s a beautiful town you live in, Mr. Callahan.”

“It is,” I agreed. “Unfortunately, I have to go to Cleveland first and spend several weeks there.”

I unloaded my luggage in my room at the Crest Motel before phoning Lars to give him the address.

He said, “I phoned you this morning and the clerk told me you were on your way to Cleveland.”

“I lied to him. I didn’t want Clauss to come busting in there. Anything new?”

“Nothing worth repeating. I’m still buried in paperwork.”

“Well, you now know where I am if you need me.

After breakfast, I phoned my broker friend at Hutton. I told him my new address and asked if he had learned anything about Winthrop Loeb.