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Authors: William Campbell Gault
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impression they have him on a retainer basis.”
“Criminal lawyers?”
“Not all of them. The only one I can think of is Norman Geler.”
“Norman Geller,” Vogel said, “is married to Farini’s sister. They shared an office up here for a couple of years.”
“There is your connection,” I said. “Now Jan would like to have some civilized conversation.”
They stayed with the literary B’s that day—Barthelme, Borges, and Bellow. I had to wait until they got to Bellow to worm my way into the conversation.
Bernie left, we had dinner, the sun went down. There was nothing but garbage, as usual, on the commercial tube. PBS was offering us a string quartet playing one of the musical B’s, Brahms. Jan listened to that. I phoned the Raleigh house, and Corey was home.
“What’s new?” I asked him.
“Nothing exciting. Do you know a man named Max Kronen?”
“I do. Why?”
“He came to my house this afternoon and tried to question my dad about me. My dad told him to get lost.”
“You watch out for him, Corey. He could be a rough customer.”
“Not as rough as my dad. What is he, a private eye?”
“He is. And it’s possible he’s working for Joe Farini. Lieutenant Vogel was here before dinner, asking about him.”
“How come he asked you? Are you getting into this case?
“Not your end of it. But I have a gut feeling that you’ll be calling on me before long. Did Mrs. Baker leave the house today?”
“Oh, yes! She went to the beauty parlor to have her hair tinted and then to the Biltmore for lunch and then to I. Magnin for some shopping and then home. Dullsville! Who needs a Sam Spade for that kind of surveillance?”
“Corey, you are not Sam Spade. You be careful!”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Of course, sir. Keep in touch, teach.”
He was getting too big for his britches. Kids. I went in and listened to Brahms with Jan.
It was a troubled night of confused dreams dimly remembered. My father was mixed up in it somehow, and the Hearst Castle and the party at Jan’s house in Beverly Glen, the part where Mike Anthony had brought Felicia Rowan. One of these days I would have to hit the couch to see if a shrink could make any sense out of my dreams.
“You were muttering again,” Jan said in the morning. “Bad night?”
“Too many dreams. Who said ‘the stuff that dreams are made of?”
“Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon. Shakespeare said it better in The Tempest—‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on and our little life is rounded with a sleep.’”
“I guess Hammett was no Shakespeare, huh?”
She shrugged. “Hammett edged him in plotting. Would you like waffles for breakfast, master?”
“Great! And some of those tasty pork sausages you bought in Solvang. How come you didn’t go to college?”
“I couldn’t play football,” she explained, “and I didn’t want to blunt my education.”
Orange juice, waffles with pork sausage, coffee with the Las Angeles Times. The morning was overcast; it would clear before noon along the coast, which is where we lived.
I was reading the stock quotations to find out how much money I had lost yesterday when Mrs. Casey came in to tell me Lieutenant Vogel was on the phone.
“Don’t come rushing down here,” he warned me, “but I thought I should inform you.”
“Down where?”
“To the Travis Hotel. Luther Barnum has been murdered.”
Chapter Nine
“W HY SHOULDN’T I COME down? I won’t get in your way.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t. But there are other officers here, and I would prefer to not let them know you have more cooperation from the department than some of their investigator friends.”
“I get it. Any suspects?”
“We’ll talk about that in my office. I should be back there by eleven o’clock, at the latest.”
When I came back to the breakfast room, Jan asked, “What now?”
“A man has been murdered—Luther Barnum, a police stoolie.” I sat down and picked up the Times.
“Is he involved
“Criminal lawyers?”
“Not all of them. The only one I can think of is Norman Geler.”
“Norman Geller,” Vogel said, “is married to Farini’s sister. They shared an office up here for a couple of years.”
“There is your connection,” I said. “Now Jan would like to have some civilized conversation.”
They stayed with the literary B’s that day—Barthelme, Borges, and Bellow. I had to wait until they got to Bellow to worm my way into the conversation.
Bernie left, we had dinner, the sun went down. There was nothing but garbage, as usual, on the commercial tube. PBS was offering us a string quartet playing one of the musical B’s, Brahms. Jan listened to that. I phoned the Raleigh house, and Corey was home.
“What’s new?” I asked him.
“Nothing exciting. Do you know a man named Max Kronen?”
“I do. Why?”
“He came to my house this afternoon and tried to question my dad about me. My dad told him to get lost.”
“You watch out for him, Corey. He could be a rough customer.”
“Not as rough as my dad. What is he, a private eye?”
“He is. And it’s possible he’s working for Joe Farini. Lieutenant Vogel was here before dinner, asking about him.”
“How come he asked you? Are you getting into this case?
“Not your end of it. But I have a gut feeling that you’ll be calling on me before long. Did Mrs. Baker leave the house today?”
“Oh, yes! She went to the beauty parlor to have her hair tinted and then to the Biltmore for lunch and then to I. Magnin for some shopping and then home. Dullsville! Who needs a Sam Spade for that kind of surveillance?”
“Corey, you are not Sam Spade. You be careful!”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Of course, sir. Keep in touch, teach.”
He was getting too big for his britches. Kids. I went in and listened to Brahms with Jan.
It was a troubled night of confused dreams dimly remembered. My father was mixed up in it somehow, and the Hearst Castle and the party at Jan’s house in Beverly Glen, the part where Mike Anthony had brought Felicia Rowan. One of these days I would have to hit the couch to see if a shrink could make any sense out of my dreams.
“You were muttering again,” Jan said in the morning. “Bad night?”
“Too many dreams. Who said ‘the stuff that dreams are made of?”
“Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon. Shakespeare said it better in The Tempest—‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on and our little life is rounded with a sleep.’”
“I guess Hammett was no Shakespeare, huh?”
She shrugged. “Hammett edged him in plotting. Would you like waffles for breakfast, master?”
“Great! And some of those tasty pork sausages you bought in Solvang. How come you didn’t go to college?”
“I couldn’t play football,” she explained, “and I didn’t want to blunt my education.”
Orange juice, waffles with pork sausage, coffee with the Las Angeles Times. The morning was overcast; it would clear before noon along the coast, which is where we lived.
I was reading the stock quotations to find out how much money I had lost yesterday when Mrs. Casey came in to tell me Lieutenant Vogel was on the phone.
“Don’t come rushing down here,” he warned me, “but I thought I should inform you.”
“Down where?”
“To the Travis Hotel. Luther Barnum has been murdered.”
Chapter Nine
“W HY SHOULDN’T I COME down? I won’t get in your way.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t. But there are other officers here, and I would prefer to not let them know you have more cooperation from the department than some of their investigator friends.”
“I get it. Any suspects?”
“We’ll talk about that in my office. I should be back there by eleven o’clock, at the latest.”
When I came back to the breakfast room, Jan asked, “What now?”
“A man has been murdered—Luther Barnum, a police stoolie.” I sat down and picked up the Times.
“Is he involved
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