Over Her Dear Body (16 page)

I grinned. There he was. Finally. Things were on the way up, all right. Looking back at me from the pad was my mystery man from the
Srinagar.

Chapter Thirteen

That's great, Winston,” I said. “Who is he?”

He cocked an eye at his drawing. “Looks quite a bit like—” He paused, and I leaned forward a little. “—like an uncle of mine in Minnesota. But he died last year.”

“Thanks.” A couple of the other men looked at the drawing and shook their heads. Samson had been eying the thing, and he picked it up, glanced at me.

“Funny. Looks a little like Silverman, of all people. Couldn't be him, though.”

“Why couldn't it?”

“Well, it just couldn't. He wouldn't be mixed up in anything that wasn't on the up and up.”

“Of course not. Now, who's Silverman?”

Sam looked at me. “Just one of the most important and respected men in the state. Clean as they come. It doesn't look much like him anyhow, I only—”

“Okay, Sam, we'll elect him governor, but just for fun tell me who the hell he is.”

“Bob Silverman. Mr. Robert C. Silverman to us folks. Way back he was a member of the L.A. Board of Police Commissioners—before you even thought about starting an agency. Right now he's not governor, but he's a very good friend
of
the governor. Member of the State Highway Commission, on the board of half a dozen corporations, philanthropist, first-nighter at the opera and suchlike cultural activities. Besides which, he's got half as much money as the mint.”

“I never heard of him. But, then, I mingle with the little people.”

“You never even heard of opera. But there's not much about him in the news any more. He got fed up with reporters and publicity a long time ago—when you were in knee pants, Shell.”

“I was never in knee pants.”

“Once in a while he's mentioned in connection with the drive for opera funds or a charity thing, but that's about all now.”

“Sketch looks like him, huh?”

“Oh, come off it, Shell.” Sam's voice was a growl. “I just tossed that in. Sure, it looks a
little
like him. And a little like a thousand other people.”

I didn't say anything. I'd remembered something else. When Brandt had been speaking on the phone in his office, I was pretty sure he'd addressed whoever was on the other end of the line as “Bob.” It might have been Rob, or Cobb, or even slob—I wasn't positive. But I had the feeling it had been Bob. I hadn't thought about it until now.

I said as much to Sam and his tone was openly sarcastic when he replied, “Well, that
proves
it! Sheldon Scott, I've got to hand it to you. Your powers of deduction fill me with awe—”

“Oh, shut up.” I grinned at him. It had also occurred to me that Goss' name—Captain of the
Srinagar
Robert M. Goss—was Bob, too. And there were at least a couple other Bobs in Los Angeles.

But I said, “Sam, put up with my foolishness for just another minute. You said this Silverman was one of the State Highway Commissioners, among eighteen other things, didn't you?”

“Yeah. So?”

“A thought has occurred to me. We both know the biggest building program planned in the entire state is this multi-billion-dollar bunch of freeways the state's going to build soon now—or, rather, keep on building.”

“Now, hold it, Shell. Don't go off on one of your—”

“Okay, so I'm reaching a bit. But Belden, the guy just knocked off, is a real estate agent—and you say yourself his office papers show plenty of land—”

“That's enough, Shell. The next thing, you'll be telling me it was Silverman running from the Belden house last night, wearing a white dress and a black wig.”

I jumped a little. “Black wig? Where'd you get the rest of that description? All I heard was that some woman in a white dress ran from the place.”

“Witness that saw her remembered a little more. Said the woman had a lot of dark hair. Black, or maybe brown, he thought. He's not sure, but it might help.”

It might help too much. I didn't want to dwell on that woman's description, so I went ahead with what I'd been saying. “On this freeway angle, Sam. There's going to be a lot of money spent on the things. Billions. Not little millions, but juicy billions.” I lit another cigarette. “The last figures I saw were on proposals for over twelve thousand
miles
of freeways in the state—over fourteen billion dollars' worth. That's a lot of juice.”

“So?”

“So when that much money's spent anywhere, building roads or buying jelly beans, a pile of it's going to be loot. Unless a very squinty eye is kept on the boys spending the dough.” I paused. “And, Sam, what commission in California is primarily responsible for planning and building our freeways?”

He bit deeply into his cigar, reached into his pants for one of the wooden matches he carries, and struck it. That was the next thing to a dismissal. He knew I almost invariably retreated from the choking fumes of his foul cigars, when he managed to light one, which wasn't often.

Holding the burning match he said, not without some sarcasm, “Well, we got a State Division of Highways, a State Department of Public Works, and a few highway engineers who—”

“Yeah, and we've also got a State Fish and Game Commission—maybe they ought to be interested, at that. Fourteen billion clams makes a fishy chowder.” I leaned forward. When I'd first brought this up, it had just been an idea to toss off, but the more I thought about it the more I liked it. “Look, Sam, the answer I was so subtly hinting for is the State Highway Commission. Granted,
our
commissioners are honorable, decent, very valuable members of society—not like those two turnpike commissioners in Pennsylvania. Even the jury found those boys guilty of conspiracy. How about the road-building frauds in Indiana? And that's not all, not by a long shot.”

He lit the cigar, dragged deeply on it.

“And Belden,” I went on, “was a guy who could buy real estate right and left without anybody wondering about it twice. Of course, maybe once is enough. Remember, I
saw
Belden with—well, a guy who maybe looks like this one.” I tapped the drawing.

“Shell, the highway commissioners aren't the only men with the kind of inside info you're talking about. There's plenty of others.”

“Uh-huh. But as far as I know, none of them looks like Winston's drawing.”

He didn't say anything. Instead, a thick almost green cloud of smoke boiled across Sam's desk at me. That did it. I got up.

“Sam, I was only thinking aloud.”

“Yeah, I know. That's the pitiful part of it.” He blew a little extra smoke and added more gently, “Shell, you know I don't mind your peculiar fits of the brain. Not too much. And once in a while you're almost right. But when you start talking to me or anybody in the department about a man of Silverman's character and reputation, have a better reason than your ear itches when you think about him. Would that be asking too much?”

“Not at all, Sam. I'll see if I can dig up something besides an itch. It's just that old ear wound—”

“Dig up—you stay the hell away from Silverman!” I grinned at him, waved at the men and started toward the door.

Sven was leaning against the wall where he could catch me as I went out. He said grinning, “Come on, Shell. Just between you and me. What
really
happened to your pants?”

I scowled at him, sneered at everybody in the Homicide Squadroom and left with their parting comments still burning my ears.

Before leaving the Police Building I checked a directory and found the address of Robert C. Silverman on Strada Vecchia Road in Bel Air. Bel Air, where the houses are just like houses anywhere, except that they look like hotels and the people build them out of money.

Silverman—in Bel Air. Maybe it would be a wild goose chase, but I would chase a lot of geese to find a man who even remotely resembled Winston's drawing. It was worth a look.

Bel Air, only a mile or so from the city of Beverly Hills, is the kind of place you go through big steel gates to get into. It's profusely planted, overgrown with trees and shrubs, all sorts of green things. All sorts of people live there, too—everybody from movie stars to millionaires. Quiet hangs over the hills, and the birds sing sweetly. The streets are narrow, winding, without sidewalks, and the maximum speed is twenty-five miles an hour. I kept the Cad down to twenty going up Bel Air Road, past the kind of houses we poor people call mansions. Curving drives swept up to many of the homes, and often the driveways led to homes out of sight from the road.

I swung onto Strada Vecchia Road and kept going up. Most of the houses were dark at this early-morning hour, but lights burned in a few. One of the few was Silverman's. A black Fleetwood was parked in the wide white-graveled drive leading from Strada Vecchia up alongside the house. In the middle of the close-cropped green lawn, a lighted fountain bubbled prettily.

I parked in the road before the two-story mass of stonework, got out and walked up the drive. Light from inside the house and from the fountain spilled onto the driveway and must have clearly illumined my features as I walked past the Fleetwood.

I'd thought the car was empty, but as I passed it somebody said, “Well, it's you—what's-your-name.
Scotty!
”

It was a woman's voice. Something about it, and her calling me Scotty, brought back memories I couldn't capture immediately. But somehow I knew they were happy memories, because I turned around grinning widely.

“That's who!” I cried.

I spun around and peered into the Fleetwood. “And who might you—ah.” I caught the flash of yellow hair, and big eyes blinking, and a sort of shadowy voluptuousness below. In a moment I remembered the name, possibly because I had thought when I'd first heard it that it was Elaine.

“It's Arline,” I said. “Hello, hello.”

“Hello, hello. You remember my name.”

“I remember much more than your name, Arline. Shall we dance?”

She laughed. “What an idea. We could hardly dance here. Besides, I don't really get warmed up until I've had a couple of Martinis.”

“That's a shame.”

“But we can talk. It's a lot easier to talk when people aren't dancing.”

“In your case, that is a monumental truth.” I stopped, frowning. Now that the surprise of suddenly hearing Arline's voice and seeing her was diminishing, I started wondering what the devil she was doing here. And right then, for no logical reason that I could pin down, small clammy-footed spiders tiptoed along my spine.

I said casually, “This is a pleasant surprise. What brings you out to Silverman's?”

“Is that who he is?”

“Don't you know?”

The yellow hair rippled as she shook her head. “No, I was out here with Ralph once before, but he made me sit in the car then, too. All I know is it's one of his clients. His biggest, most important client, says he.”

“Clients?”

“He's a lawyer. Corporation lawyer. But let's not talk about Ralph.”

“Okay,” I said, and went right on talking about Ralph, in whom my interest was increasing. “Ralph who?”

“Mitchell. But let's not—”

“He practices law at night, huh?”

“No, silly. Not usually. In fact, we were having a big evening when he got this phone call. We were at the Oyster House for dinner, and I'd just ordered my first drink when the old phone call came for Ralph. So we left and came to this dump. That was hours ago.” She paused. “I guess I shouldn't call it a dump.”

“Call it anything you like, Arline. As far as I'm concerned, you can do no wrong.”

She smiled, almost wickedly. “Oh, but I can. What are you doing here, Scotty?”

“I wish I could say I came to see you—but Ralph would probably object to that. Sir, you cur, and so forth.”

“Well ... not exactly. I mean, well.” She paused and collected her thoughts, which seemed usually fairly well scattered. “You see, he's got this great big place and he's hardly ever there, and
somebody
has to take care of it. So it won't get ... oh, mouldy and all.”

“Yeah. Clip the hedges and coupons and things.”

“Like that. Sort of like a caretaker.” She looked at me for a while, then shrugged. “Oh, the hell with it. But it's sort of like mine, you know. You could even come over and have a Martini with me some day maybe. If you phoned first. That's very essential.” She laughed. “If a man answers, you ask for Mabel or somebody.”

I was going to suggest that she be more specific, but right then the front door opened and brighter light fell on us. I glanced around to see a man stepping outside, and the figure of another man closing the door. I didn't get a good look at either of them.

Arline whispered suddenly, “I forgot to tell you, Ralph's insanely jealous.”

That was great. She had wonderful timing. She went on, “Make like you don't know me.”

Sure. At that moment I was leaning halfway into the car. I said to Arline, “Tell me, ma'am, where is the nearest all-night drugstore?”

She blinked and said, “What?” as Ralph stomped up to the Fleetwood.

I pulled my head out as he lowered thick brows and looked at me through their fringes. “What the hell do you want?”

“I was just asking the lady where the nearest all-night drugstore is.”

The eyebrows went up and then down again. I stepped around him and walked toward the house as Arline said behind me, “It's true, honey. He said, ‘Tell me, ma'am, where—‘”

I didn't hear the rest of it. But I heard Ralph say, “Sure I believe you. Sure, honey. It just seems a little—all
right
, Arline.” He got into the car.

Caretakers are hard to get these days. At least, caretakers built like Arline.

As the Fleetwood purred down the drive I rang the bell. In a few seconds I heard footsteps inside, then the door swung open and a man said, “What is it now, Ra—”