Unhappy Hooligan (30 page)

Others, of course, might have gotten away with it. The only reason for the popular belief that “there is no such thing as a perfect murder” is that if it’s really perfect the killing is never discovered at all, or else passed off as an accident.

Which might very well have been the situation in this Charteris case—if it really
was
murder. The problem was tantalizing—at the moment it could have been accidental, or suicidal, or homicidal for all that could be absolutely proved. Most probably the latter, of course. But eyewitnesses would have helped …

And that damn photo of Deirdre kept intruding itself into his meditations, like King Charles’ head in poor Mr. Dick’s novel. It presumably supplied the element of motive—almost too much motive. Motive for Deirdre herself, on the face of it. If she were to be saved, at least from the ignominy and harassment of arrest, somebody would have to come up with the real murderer, caught dead to rights. A reasonable doubt wasn’t going to be quite enough, not with such formidable adversaries as Wilt Mays and Sergeant McDowd.

Rook decided to take a chance and phone the West Los Angeles police substation. McDowd wasn’t always as hard-nosed as most police detectives. Luckily he was on duty and in the office. His voice was wary but not unfriendly. “Yeah, Howie, I heard you were called in on this Charteris thing—”

“It was your man, then, who was doing a stakeout at the house on Tigertail last night?”

“Huh? No, not one of ours. We got no personnel to spare for that kind of duty. I got the word about you from the D.A.’s office about half an hour ago. So you’re going to come roaring in and try to make us professionals look bad, eh?”

“Mac, will you try to forget that policemen and defense investigators are supposed to be deadly enemies? I’m only trying to help Mrs. Charteris, and you’re trying to pin a murder rap on her, but we are both of us just out for the facts …”

“I’m pretty well out of it,” corrected the sergeant. “We weren’t moving fast enough, I guess. Anyway, the case has been taken outa our hands. If there’s an arrest, Wilt Mays will order it himself.”

“You think that Deirdre is innocent, then?”

“No, Howie. I think she’s probably guilty as hell. She lied, and she’s got no alibi. She didn’t cry or take on or show much surprise when she found out her husband was dead. And she must be guilty or she wouldn’t have retained Hal Agnews.”

“Ease it, Mac! She saw from the way Mays’ men were leaning on her at the morgue which way the wind was blowing. And not all Hal’s clients are guilty, remember.”

McDowd only snorted, a meaningful snort.

“And if Hal thought her good for it, would he call me in and give me a free hand? No, Mac. You can’t convict her just on the old ‘who else?’ thing. Why are you so sure it was murder, anyway? Just the fact that the driver ran a boulevard stop and didn’t hit the brakes before or after the accident?”

“That—and the fact that the car obviously wasn’t stolen by some kids out for a joy ride, but for one particular purpose. But as far as we’re officially concerned, the case is still felony hit-and-run, plus driving a motor vehicle without the consent of the owner. We might have more if those teen-age kids in the jalopy came forward, but you and I both know that’ll be the day!”

“Yes, the Kitty Genovese Syndrome—‘we musn’t get involved!’ You haven’t got any lead at all on the supposed eyewitnesses yet?”

“Nope. All old Mr. Wilson could tell us was that it was an old Ford, a boy and a girl in it, getting away in one hell of a hurry. You know how many hopped-up old cars there are in the city, mostly with cute signs like ‘Support your local fuzz’ or ‘Make love not war’ or even ‘Help stamp out virginity.’ If the old man had got even the first couple of letters of the license we could have got on the hot line to Motor Vehicles in Sacramento and had it run through the computers, but as it is, we’re up the creek.”

“Mind telling me what, if anything, your men got on the death car?”

“No prints, except those of the couple who owned it. Ashtray was empty. Smears on the fender matched Charteris’ blood type, fabric was from his slacks, dog’s fur matched. No question but it was that car.”

“Thanks,” said Rook. “Mind giving me some names and addresses?”

“Now, Howie, after all! If Wilt Mays finds I’m cooperating with a defense investigator—”

“I still carry a press card, and I’ll probably do a story on this for the
Tribune.
Doesn’t that give you an out?”

“Oh, what the hell!” McDowd read off the names and addresses of Wilson and the Dibble couple. “But I doubt if you get anything more out of them than we did. The old man just gets rattled and clams up, and the Dibbles don’t care about the murder, they just want to sue somebody for the damage to their car. How you going to operate, Howie?”

“Good question. I’m working—I have to—on the premise that Deirdre is innocent. I’ll just have to rush off in all directions and check everybody who knew the Charteris couple …”

“Shooting at the moon, huh? Well, I’ll tell you one thing. When you got a case involving a dame as luscious as Mrs. Charteris, you can’t figure her out of the setup. The job was either done by her or because of her, mark my words.”

“Thanks. And if I get anything I’ll fill you in first, Mac.”

“You’d better. Anyway, I wish you luck. I hope I’m wrong about Deirdre—she’s sure one beautiful hunk of stuff.”

“I noticed that too,” Rook admitted. He hung up and turned his attention to the morning papers. Both
Tribune
and
Times
had gone easy on the Charteris story, saying little more than that it was the official theory that it might have been not accident but murder, and that an intensive investigation was under way. He checked his watch—it was still too early to get hold of Lou Elder at the
Trib
city room, but Rook called him at home and managed to get the city editor out of bed. Lou had once, on the old
Chronicle,
been a cub reporter under the big man’s stern tutelage, and the two had remained friends.

“So hang on to your hats, boys, here we go again!” said Lou. “I had a hunch this might be a story, so I already had everything on the victim pulled out of the files. Going all the way back to when he was president of his class at UCLA, and then a boy wonder playing polo at Midwick and Riviera. Inherited some dough from a grandfather, spent most of it on fast women and slow horses, then settled down and parlayed what was left into a nice pot. Navy lieutenant in World War II, fought the battle of the Potomac.”

“Any scandals?” pressed Rook hopefully.

“Nothing worse than a night-club brawl or two—he punched Frankie Sinatra or Sinatra punched him, but that could happen to anybody. Played around with the Hollywood crowd for a while, had his name linked with various stars and near-stars, then finally surprised everybody by marrying the relatively unknown Delaney girl. Most of the clips on him are from Sports or Society, nothing red hot.”

“Never married before?”

“Seems not. He played the field until he got married. I don’t think we have anything on the wife, even in Drama. She was the face on the cutting-room-floor type, wasn’t she?”

“Maybe, Lou. But she’ll be all over the front pages any minute now, I’m afraid. So get ready. You’ll have the exclusive when and if I get it. And pictures too—maybe one picture that’ll set your teeth on edge. But my advice to you is not to go overboard on any handouts you get from Wilt Mays or anybody in the D.A.’s office. Agnews thinks they’re going to try to try this case in the newspapers first, and we’d like to block that.”

“You and Agnews are fronting for the widow, and Mays is really going to try to set her up for the hit-run murder?”

“Looks that way. So let the other papers go along, it may backfire.”

“Like that, huh?”

“Yes, like that. Deirdre didn’t do it, Lou. It seems there were a couple of eyewitnesses to the killing, two kids parked in a hot-rod, and I’ve got to locate them somehow. Do you think if we offered a reward of say a hundred bucks—?”

Lou said he doubted if teen-agers today ever read anything but the
Free Press
and the other hippie sheets peddled along the Sunset Strip. “But I suppose we can try it in want ads.”

“Run a box, offering the reward and asking the couple who were parked in the Ford on Darlington near Gretna Green late Wednesday night to come forward. Okay? And don’t forget, play this story easy.”

Rook hung up. Then—after having to look in his little black book for a number that would have been on the tip of his fingers only a few months ago—he dialed again. There was a considerable wait, and then a faint “Hello?”

“Evelyn, this is Howie!” The fair and fortyish lady, like most of the amiable females Rook took out for occasional dinners and bowling, had eventually come down with a bad case of honorable intentions. Rook had been a reasonably happy widower for many years, and liked it that way. But he usually managed to part friends.

“I know it’s Howie—and I know it’s around eight o’clock in the morning, you rat fink! I thought you’d gone off and joined the French Foreign Legion or something—”

“I’m on a case. Will you look up something for me in the back files of that scandal sheet you call a fan magazine?” And he explained.

“I should really tell you where to go, Howie dear. But I’ll look … only this is going to cost you dinner, with wine yet! Call me at the office around noon.”

He put down the phone for now and started to make a list of things to do this morning. It was too early for most of them—people were still asleep, offices weren’t open. And it was still too early to do anything about enlargements of that confounded photo. Rook sprawled out in his ancient Morris chair and
thought.
Sometimes that wasn’t a bad idea, in a case like this.

Rook’s mental processes were not those of other men, and certainly not those of other private investigators. He had sometimes found it useful to try to dissolve his own personality into the minds of the adversaries. Who could have killed John Charteris—and
why
?

He leaned back and closed his eyes—and immediately there appeared before him his own King Charles’ head, the photo of Deirdre. It was ugly, it was evil, it was obscene. But he had seen ugliness, and evil, and obscenities before. This photo was different—

And then suddenly Mr. Howard J. Rook smote his forehead with the heel of his hand, so hard that he could almost feel his teeth rattle. He called himself names that he wouldn’t have thought of applying to his own worst enemy. Then he grabbed for the phone and called the very private and unlisted number of Hal Agnews’ apartment. After a long wait he heard a mumbled “Agnews speaking.”

“Hal, old buddy! I hope I didn’t wake you from rosy dreams of Sophia Loren, as you said to me last night?”

“Don’t try to be cheery this early in the morning! No, Howie, no dreams. If you must know, I didn’t sleep worth a damn. I can’t seem to get that photo of Dee Charteris out of my mind …”

“You too, huh?” Rook felt triumphant. “Hal, right there is our answer! You and I didn’t even
know
the lady until yesterday, but the photo knocked the wind out of us so we can’t forget it, right?”

“Right, I guess. And think what it’ll do to a jury, with the biggest enlargement I can get, mounted on an easel and standing right by the bench during the entire trial, so the jurors will see nothing else!”

“Easy, Hal.” Rook had a sudden suspicion, perhaps unjust, that the attorney hoped in spite of himself that this case would actually come to trial—it would give him an outlet for all sorts of histrionics and the publicity would be of tremendous value. “Remember, neither of us wants Deirdre to go through that ordeal. But look, I’ve got a hunch. No matter what she says, I’m sure as shooting that Deirdre showed that photo to somebody. It stands to reason! When she gave the envelope to you did she have to go somewhere and hunt for it?”

“Let me think. She—she had the envelope of prints and negatives in her handbag, why?”

“Then she’d been carrying it around with her. She’s only human, and she proved to us that she wants sympathy. And what do you imagine the effect of that photo would be on a man who was secretly just a little in love with the lady? As it would be hard for any normal man in his right mind not to be, if he was around her very much or if he had sentimental memories of her?”

There was a pregnant pause. “Howie, you’re a genius!”

“Just remember you said that when my expense account comes in. I’ve just obligated you for a hundred-dollar reward through the
Tribune,
hoping to locate those eyewitnesses, and I’m going to have to call in a leg man on this case.”

“Ouch,” said the attorney. “Take it easy, I haven’t got any money out of the client yet. But if you need help, give Mike Finn a ring.”

Finn was a retired police detective, who had his own shoestring agency out in the Valley, occupying his time mostly with skip-tracing and subpoena service. But he was a determined little bulldog of a man and he did have a state ticket. “I’ll call him,” said Rook.

“Howie, I’ve been lying awake and worrying.
Is
our client innocent?”

“I can’t read minds, but I think she is. Though the Irish are bad haters and can brood over a wrong. But she’d hardly have used that particular murder method, nor would she have killed her own pet. No, Hal. Charteris was killed by somebody who saw the pictorial proof of Deirdre’s torture, and who brooded over it and then set out to do something about it, like a knight of old going forth to do battle with a dragon.”

“It’s a good theory, Howie. You mean some boy friend?”

“Somebody close to her, or who used to be close to her, or who would like to be close to her. Who else? And this narrows it down so we’re not working in the dark—all we have to do is to find out who she showed that photo to! But frankly, when we get him I’d rather give him a medal than turn him over to the law.”

“Likewise—but the code of the Round Table doesn’t hold in our courts today. Somebody may have been trying to do Deirdre a big favor, but he only managed to put her own lovely neck in jeopardy. She’s got to open up. You have a way with women, go see her. I’d go with you but I have to be in court at ten o’clock on a probation plea …”