Deadfall (Nameless Detective) (4 page)

“Did the man call again?”

“Not as far as I know. But I’m convinced he contacted Leonard later on, at his office.”

“Even though Leonard didn’t mention it to you?”

Washburn nodded emphatically.

“What makes you so sure?” I asked.

“The missing money. Two thousand dollars from the house safe.”

“Two thousand
cash?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a lot of money to keep around the house.”

“I suppose so,” he said. “But the safe is hidden in the master bathroom; Leonard had it specially built. No one could find it if he didn’t know it was there.”

I had heard that one before; professional burglars fell all over themselves laughing when
they
heard it. But all I said was, “Why did the two of you need that much cash on hand?”

“Grocery money. Mad money. Spur-of-the-moment trips to Nevada. Emergencies. All sorts of reasons. We each put in a percentage of our income every month.”

I said, “Nevada?”

“Leonard liked to gamble. Poker, blackjack, roulette. Nothing compulsive; he only went three or four times a year. I usually went with him. And he won more than he lost, so I didn’t mind. Gambling was his only bad habit.”

“When did you find the two thousand missing?”

“The day after the … after Leonard’s death. The police asked me to make an inventory to find out if anything was missing.”

“
Was
anything missing, other than the cash?”

“No. The safe hadn’t been touched; there was still five hundred dollars left in it. No one but Leonard and I had the combination. No one but Leonard could have taken the money.”

“And you think he took it to pay this mysterious caller. For the name of the person who allegedly murdered his brother.”

“Yes,” Washburn said. “He had absolutely no other reason to take that much cash out of the safe.”

“What about for gambling purposes?”

“That’s what the police think. Leonard sometimes gambled here in the city—just poker—but he
never
used house money unless he asked me first, and then only if it was for a Nevada trip. Besides, the most he ever risked at one sitting was two hundred dollars. He had an ironclad rule about that.”

“Did he tell you when he took house money for other reasons?”

“Usually.”

“Why not this time? Why would he buy information that way without confiding in you?”

“You’d have to have known Leonard,” Washburn said, and there was something different in his voice now: a kind of sadness seasoned with hurt and a touch of bitterness. “He was a very private man. We loved each other, and yet when it came to his family and his business, he … well, sometimes he shut me out. Particularly where his brother was concerned.”

“Why is that?”

“Kenneth didn’t like me, didn’t like anyone who wasn’t straight. He told Leonard once that he didn’t want anything to do with his faggot boyfriend, and Leonard didn’t stand up to him. It was as if, underneath, he … he was ashamed of me.” Washburn looked away, over at Eberhardt’s empty desk. He seemed very small, sitting there—and very alone. “Anyhow,” he said after a time, “that was why I wasn’t invited to the party the night Kenneth died.”

“Was Leonard invited?”

“Oh yes. And he went, even though he knew it hurt me.”

I was beginning to get a picture of what kind of man Leonard Purcell had been. And I didn’t particularly like what I saw. I watched Washburn finish what was left in his cup, put the cup down carefully on the edge of my desk. Watched him hunch a little inside his jacket. Damn Sam Crawford and his mandates about the heat.

I said, “More coffee, Mr. Washburn?”

“No, thank you. It’s a bit too strong for me.”

“I can add some water …”

“No, really, I’m fine.”

I got up and poured another half-cup for myself. When I sat down again I said, “About Kenneth. How did he feel about Leonard being gay?”

“I don’t really know. I suppose he ignored it, as if it were a temporary aberration on Leonard’s part. Leonard was married once, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“For five years. Ruth divorced him when she found out he had male lovers.” A faint smile. “I was one of them.”

“Do you know his ex-wife?”

“No, not really.”

“Was the divorce bitter or amicable?”

“Not as bitter as it might have been, I guess—Leonard didn’t talk about that much, either. She did let him have the house.” Pain moved through his expression again, like something dark and restive just beneath the surface of his features. “He really loved that house. So did I, until … well, now it’s as dead for me as he is.”

“How long had you been living there with him?”

“Two years, ever since Ruth moved out. It was a permanent relationship.”

“I’m sure it was.”

“We were going to be married one day,” he said.

I knew that gays sometimes had unofficial wedding ceremonies, without benefit of marriage licenses, presided over by ministers from the Unitarian church or some other liberal congregation. But I did not want to discuss that sort of thing with Washburn. It was a private matter, and painful for him now—and I was still old-fashioned enough to feel uncomfortable with some of the more open and iconoclastic attitudes of the homosexual community.

I said, “Let’s get back to the man on the telephone. Do you have any idea who he might be?”

“No, none.”

“Was he young, old?”

“Young—twenties or thirties, I’d say.”

“Black, white, Oriental?”

“I’m not sure. Latin, perhaps.”

“Did he have an accent?”

“A faint one. I couldn’t quite place it.”

“Anything else distinctive about his voice?”

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

“Did he sound educated?”

“Well, he used proper English. But he didn’t seem very well-spoken.”

“Any other impression of him?”

“I’m afraid that’s all.”

“If what he said to you is true he must either have been at Kenneth’s house that night and witnessed what happened, or he’s close to someone who was there and witnessed it.”

Washburn worried his lower lip for a time. Then he said, “He didn’t strike me as the type Kenneth would invite to one of his fancy parties. His friends were mostly rich people.”

“An acquaintance of one of the guests, then?”

“Kenneth’s daughter,” Washburn said musingly. “She’s the wild type.”

“Wild in what way?”

“Oh, you know, drugs. The whole scene.”

“Where does she live, do you know?”

“With some fellow on Mission Creek. She has a houseboat there. At least she did a few months ago.”

“‘What’s the fellow’s name?”

“I don’t remember Leonard mentioning it.”

“What’s
her
name? Purcell?”

“Yes. Melanie Purcell. Kenneth’s daughter by his first marriage.”

“Would you know if she was at the party that night?”

“I’m not sure. I think she might have been.”

“What can you tell me about the other guests?”

“Very little, I’m afraid. Alicia is the person to ask.”

“Kenneth’s widow?”

“Yes. She’s his second wife.”

“What happened to the first one?”

“They were divorced.”

“Where would I find Alicia?”

“Well, I think she’s still living at the house.”

“In Moss Beach, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“Did Leonard handle his brother’s legal affairs?”

“No. He didn’t feel it was proper.”

“Who did?”

“An attorney here in the city. I don’t remember his name.”

“I can get it from the police. Did Kenneth leave a will?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Who inherited the bulk of his estate?”

“Alicia, Melanie, and Leonard.”

“How much was the estate worth?”

“I don’t know exactly. Quite a lot.”

“What was Leonard’s share?”

“I don’t know that either,” Washburn said. “Talking about it was so painful for him; I tried not to pry.”

“Do you know if the will has cleared probate yet? If the inheritance has been paid?”

“I’m sure it hasn’t. I’d know if it had been.”

“Let’s assume Kenneth
was
pushed off that cliff,” I said. “Who do you think did the pushing?”

He spread his hands. “I just have no idea. Someone he was involved with on one of his real estate deals, possibly.”

“Quasi-legitimate, some of those deals, according to the papers.”

“Yes. So I understand.”

“In what way?”

“I really couldn’t say.”

“Did Leonard know?”

“I suppose he did.”

“But he wouldn’t discuss it?”

“No. He didn’t approve, I can tell you that.”

“Did Leonard happen to say anything about his brother’s missing snuff box?”

“No, nothing.”

“Kenneth collected snuff boxes, didn’t he?”

“Snuff bottles, too,” Washburn said. “And humidors, cigarette boxes—anything rare and valuable connected with tobacco.”

I made a note on the pad in front of me; I had been making notes right along. While I was doing that Eberhardt burst in. He doesn’t just walk into a room, like most people; he barrels in as if he’s one of the vanguards in a raiding party. Washburn, looking startled, swung around on his chair. I got up, saying, “Just my partner,” and introduced them.

Eberhardt wanted to know if he was intruding; I said no, Washburn’s and my business was about finished. He nodded, muttered something about it being like an icebox in here, poured himself some coffee, and went to his desk and picked up his phone.

I said to Washburn, “So your theory is both Kenneth and Leonard were killed by the same person—Leonard so he wouldn’t expose the truth about his brother’s death.”

Washburn nodded. He seemed a little ill at ease now that someone else was in the room.

“But why didn’t Leonard expose the truth? Why contact the murderer instead of the police? Why let him or her know that the crime against Kenneth had been found out?”

“Leonard might have been trying to make him admit something incriminating, just so he could be sure. He had to’ve known the person; he must not have believed his own life was in danger.”

Plausible answers—up to a point. But it still didn’t quite add up for me. I said as much to Washburn. I also pointed out to him that Leonard’s murderer didn’t have to be the same person who had pushed Kenneth to his death—
if
Kenneth had been pushed. It could just as easily have been the man on the telephone.

“But what motive would he have? Leonard must have paid him the two thousand dollars; the police didn’t find it in his office and it certainly isn’t in the house.”

“Maybe he didn’t give Leonard the name once he had the payoff,” I said. “Maybe he didn’t
have
a name; it could have been a straight extortion ploy, no truth to it at all. And maybe he demanded another payoff and went to the house to collect it. Leonard refused, the man threatened him with a gun, something happened to make him use it …”

“Yes, I see what you mean. But I don’t really care
who
it was, or why; I just want him caught and put in the gas chamber.” He folded his pale, delicate hands together again. “You know, it’s funny,” he said. “I never believed in capital punishment until now. Now I want to go to San Quentin when the time comes and watch that motherfucker
die
. ”

I didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say to that.

“You will work for me?” he said. “Do what you can to find him?”

I kept silent a while longer. The thing was, I felt sorry for him. He was so small and alone, sitting there, so empty; and I kept seeing him the way he’d been last Thursday night, after he had looked into the dining room and seen what was left of his lover. I couldn’t turn him down. How could I turn him down?

“If the police have no objections,” I said finally, “yes, I’ll investigate what you’ve told me. But you have to understand that if they don’t think Kenneth was murdered, or that there’s any connection between his death and Leonard’s, chances are they’re right and I won’t find out anything.”

“I understand. But they’re not right, I know they’re not.”

“Also I don’t come cheap,” I said. “I get two hundred and fifty dollars a day plus expenses.”

“That doesn’t matter. Money doesn’t matter. I have enough.”

“All right then.” I got one of the agency contracts out of the desk and filled it in and had him sign it. Then I asked, “Where can I reach you? You’re not staying at the house?”

“No. I couldn’t spend a night there, not any more. It was all I could do to make myself go back last Friday to take inventory for the police. I’m staying with a friend.” He gave me a name and an address on upper Market, on the fringe of the Castro district, and said that he would be there days as well as nights, at least until next Monday: he had taken a leave of absence from his job at Bank of America. He also gave me a check for a thousand dollars and insisted I let him know when I wanted more.