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Authors: William Campbell Gault
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Then: “It’s about a block from here, that two-story rooming house next to the Mobil station. His room is on the second floor in back.”
I left the car where it was and walked to the place, an ancient red Victorian house, narrow-windowed, with three steps leading up to a small and sagging porch.
The door was open, the screen door closed. I went in without knocking. The stairway was on the left. There was no sound from any of the rooms as I went up the stairs. Down the narrow hall I went, past the open doorway of the bathroom to the room at the end. The door was ajar.
“Barney?” I called. “Sergeant Hovde sent me.”
“Come in,” a voice answered.
I pushed the door open—and saw Luplow stretched out on the floor. I heard a sound from behind the opened door, but didn’t turn in time. Something heavy crashed into the back of my head and I joined Luplow on the floor. I heard the clatter of feet going down the uncarpeted stairs before the darkness arrived.
The dawn came slowly, voices first. “I know the guy,” one voice said. “He’s a private eye working with Lars on the Gregory kill. You remember Lars, don’t you? He used to be with us.”
“That was before my time,” the other voice said. “Isn’t he with the Santa Monica Department now?”
“Yup.”
I was no longer on the floor; somebody had laid me out on the narrow bed in the room. The image of a tall, thin man began to come into focus.
“Relax,” he said. “You’re going to be okay. The ME assured me it was only a minor concussion.”
I was in clear focus now. “Jerry Levy?” I asked.
“Right. Take it easy, Brock.”
The other man was shorter, heavier, and uglier. He asked, “What in the hell were you doing here?”
Jerry said, “Don’t mind my partner, Brock. He’s almost as mean as Lars.” He turned toward the man. “Go down and see if the landlady has come home. If she hasn’t, wait there.”
The man left. Jerry smiled and asked, “Now you can tell me . What in hell were you doing here?”
I told him the what and why and asked, “What happened to Luplow?”
“He wasn’t as lucky as you were. He really got worked over. He is now at the morgue. Do you think it was Clauss who conked him?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know what Clauss looks like and İ never saw the man who conked me.”
He smiled. “Your friend Lars is really making a crusade out of nailing Clauss, isn’t he?”
“Not as much as I am. Mike Gregory was my roomie at Stanford. Are you going to take me to the West Side station?”
He shook his head. “No need. Are you going to be all right?”
I rose to a sitting position and nodded. “As soon as I can get some fresh air.”
He smiled again. “Brock, next time you go out on the prowl, wear your old Rams helmet.”
Or take Lars with me, I thought.
He and his partner were gone when I came down the stairs some minutes later and into the fresh air from the ocean. I walked slowly and carefully back to the car and drove to the Santa Monica station.
There the desk clerk told me Lars was out on a call and wouldn’t be home until later this afternoon.
Where now? I had talked with everybody who was possibly involved, except for Arnold Gillete. That was the name I wanted to check out. I headed for Sunset Boulevard.
On my most recent visit to Los Angeles several years ago, I had come to investigate the murder of a fellow private eye, a man named Joe Puma. Joe had been the payoff man years earlier when a Mafia big shot’s son had been kidnapped for ransom. The son was no longer a child when I talked with him. He had been very cooperative.
His home was a two-story brick place in Pacific Palisades, on the bluff above the Riviera Country Club. The last time I had been here there had been a 1932 Duesenberg on his guest parking area. There was none there today.
The same gray-haired, dark-skinned, middle-aged maid opened the door to my ring.
“Is Mr. Scarlatti home?” I asked. “My name is Brock
I left the car where it was and walked to the place, an ancient red Victorian house, narrow-windowed, with three steps leading up to a small and sagging porch.
The door was open, the screen door closed. I went in without knocking. The stairway was on the left. There was no sound from any of the rooms as I went up the stairs. Down the narrow hall I went, past the open doorway of the bathroom to the room at the end. The door was ajar.
“Barney?” I called. “Sergeant Hovde sent me.”
“Come in,” a voice answered.
I pushed the door open—and saw Luplow stretched out on the floor. I heard a sound from behind the opened door, but didn’t turn in time. Something heavy crashed into the back of my head and I joined Luplow on the floor. I heard the clatter of feet going down the uncarpeted stairs before the darkness arrived.
The dawn came slowly, voices first. “I know the guy,” one voice said. “He’s a private eye working with Lars on the Gregory kill. You remember Lars, don’t you? He used to be with us.”
“That was before my time,” the other voice said. “Isn’t he with the Santa Monica Department now?”
“Yup.”
I was no longer on the floor; somebody had laid me out on the narrow bed in the room. The image of a tall, thin man began to come into focus.
“Relax,” he said. “You’re going to be okay. The ME assured me it was only a minor concussion.”
I was in clear focus now. “Jerry Levy?” I asked.
“Right. Take it easy, Brock.”
The other man was shorter, heavier, and uglier. He asked, “What in the hell were you doing here?”
Jerry said, “Don’t mind my partner, Brock. He’s almost as mean as Lars.” He turned toward the man. “Go down and see if the landlady has come home. If she hasn’t, wait there.”
The man left. Jerry smiled and asked, “Now you can tell me . What in hell were you doing here?”
I told him the what and why and asked, “What happened to Luplow?”
“He wasn’t as lucky as you were. He really got worked over. He is now at the morgue. Do you think it was Clauss who conked him?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know what Clauss looks like and İ never saw the man who conked me.”
He smiled. “Your friend Lars is really making a crusade out of nailing Clauss, isn’t he?”
“Not as much as I am. Mike Gregory was my roomie at Stanford. Are you going to take me to the West Side station?”
He shook his head. “No need. Are you going to be all right?”
I rose to a sitting position and nodded. “As soon as I can get some fresh air.”
He smiled again. “Brock, next time you go out on the prowl, wear your old Rams helmet.”
Or take Lars with me, I thought.
He and his partner were gone when I came down the stairs some minutes later and into the fresh air from the ocean. I walked slowly and carefully back to the car and drove to the Santa Monica station.
There the desk clerk told me Lars was out on a call and wouldn’t be home until later this afternoon.
Where now? I had talked with everybody who was possibly involved, except for Arnold Gillete. That was the name I wanted to check out. I headed for Sunset Boulevard.
On my most recent visit to Los Angeles several years ago, I had come to investigate the murder of a fellow private eye, a man named Joe Puma. Joe had been the payoff man years earlier when a Mafia big shot’s son had been kidnapped for ransom. The son was no longer a child when I talked with him. He had been very cooperative.
His home was a two-story brick place in Pacific Palisades, on the bluff above the Riviera Country Club. The last time I had been here there had been a 1932 Duesenberg on his guest parking area. There was none there today.
The same gray-haired, dark-skinned, middle-aged maid opened the door to my ring.
“Is Mr. Scarlatti home?” I asked. “My name is Brock
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