Lund: I was afraid of Martin. I'm not trying to shift the blame on him. We're both in this. But I was afraid of him. Don't know exactly why, I'm not a coward, but there was something about the cold way he did things that scared me.
Q: You mean you were physically afraid of Pearson?
Lund: Yes sir, that's what I mean.
Within a day the four of them moved to a small hotel in Juan-les-Pins, between Nice and Cannes, and went to work. They had stationery printed with the company's name, and Therese started writing and calling directors, while Martin wired the Paris writer to go ahead. When they drove back to Paris in September, they had a shooting script of a story they all liked, but the minimum cost of the picture would be fifteen thousand dollars and they felt they should have at least another five thousand dollars on hand to cover extra expenses. They were eleven thousand dollars short and didn't know a soul in the world with that kind of money.
One evening Sam brought a beefy American with a plump baby face to Therese's flat, explained, “This is Eddie. He was a warrant officer in Italy, ran a PX there. He was in Germany for a while, too. Eddie is pulling a deal that can be the answer to our problem.”
Eddie's plan was simple. He was driving his car into Germany with three thousand dollars' worth of penicillin and other drugs. He had the necessary contacts and expected to return with ten thousand dollars within a week. He'd made such a trip months before, shortly after he was discharged.
Sam told them, “Eddie is willing to cut us in—our nine grand will return about thirty thousand dollars. He takes ten grand for the risk; we get the rest. It's a cinch. He knows where to buy the stuff here, and the people big enough to swing a deal like this in Germany. We can't lose. Still be able to start the picture before winter hits the Riviera.”
Martin chiseled Eddie's cut down to seven thousand dollars, then he and Sam and the girls talked it over through the night. The main factor was: could Eddie be trusted? In the morning Theresa checked, found Eddie was interested in opening a cafe with his French girl friend and her father— Evidently Eddie expected to settle down in Paris.
With the trunk of his Austin packed with two spare tires, which in turn were stuffed with drugs, they saw Eddie off on a Wednesday morning. He was to return by Monday at the latest. They spent a nervous, impatient week end and on Monday Eddie didn't show up. His girl was hysterical, said she had a feeling something was wrong. On Tuesday Sam phoned an army buddy stationed near the town Eddie had headed for. Eddie was in jail. He had overlooked one minor detail. He was still using old army plates on his car, forgot they were outdated. He had been stopped by German police one hundred and sixty miles inside the border.
Eddie returned ten days later—all charges against him had been dropped, but the German police had taken the drugs, probably to sell themselves. Even Martin was convinced Eddie hadn't double-crossed them.
Martin, Sam, and the girls got drunk that night in Therese's flat. She and Gabby passed out on the first bottle of cognac. Although he rarely drank, Martin managed to keep up with Sam. Martin said, to no one in particular, “Damn the way things work out. If I wasn't married, I could marry Therese and stay here, or take her back to the States. Now—nothing. No Therese, no Paris, no future.”
“We can always sell our passports, five grand each, keep us eating here for another few years,” Sam said, listening to himself, watching a mirror and thinking Orson Wells couldn't have said the line better. Sam always acted when he was drunk, and now he swayed in the center of the room and did a part he'd had in a little theater production years ago.
“You and your jerky hustling ideas,” Martin mumbled, staring at Sam. Then Pearson staggered across the room to the couch on which Therese was sleeping. He said thickly, “You know... what you just said... rings lot of bells in my head. Gives me an idea, an out for us. Yeah. Listen. Sam, you goddamn ham, will you stop talking and listen? I have it... all so simple... and clear. Your car.”
“What's the big idea, genius? And what about my car?” Sam added quickly.
“It's so simple,” Martin said, as he tried to sit on the couch, rolled off to the floor, and passed out.
CHAPTER 4
SATURDAY started off badly.
I spent a restless night and when it seemed I was just about to knock off some real sleep, Ruthie woke up crying. It was a little after seven and she had wet her bed—first time in months —and by the time I'd convinced her it wasn't any great tragedy, it was half-past seven and I'd lost any desire for sleep. I just felt lousy.
I worked out with weights before breakfast, while Ruthie listened to radio music and watched. I took it easy, starting out with seventy-five pounds, and after doing a lot of curls and squats, I ended up pressing one hundred and fifty pounds, did some stomach work, and Ruthie was waiting for me to be flat on my back. She scrambled all over me and we “wrestled” and then took a shower together, which always gave her a big kick.
As I toweled myself I felt pretty sad. Even when I was in serious training I never had much hard muscular definition, like the musclemen you see posing for pictures. Now that I had cut down on my workouts, I was getting to look more and more like a tub of lard.
There wasn't much in the house for breakfast, so after toast and orange juice, we went down to the super market, and the place was jammed. I stocked up on eggs and bacon, bananas, bread and milk, along with some canned staples, then we got in line.
Waiting in line got me on edge. It seemed as if all I'd been doing the last few days was waiting, wasting time, or going around in circles. When we finally reached the cashier, he overcharged me two cents on an item. Although checking up on super-market cashiers is one of my hobbies, I didn't want to hold up the long line. Unfortunately the item happened to be Ruthie's cereal, and as the guy was putting our stuff in a bag, she said loudly, “Daddy, he charged you twenty-one cents for Shredded Wheat and it's only nineteen cents!”
“It's okay, forget it.”
“But you always say these cashiers can't add—on purpose,” she said in her shrill voice that cut through all the other noises of the store.
There were plenty of snickers behind me and the cashier gave me a pained look, started taking the things out of the bag. Somebody behind me in the line said, “Aw, for Christsakes, I'll give you the lousy two pennies!”
“Forget it,” I told the clerk, putting a ten-dollar bill on the counter. He said, “Hold your money. If I made an error, I must correct it. Customer is always right—it says.”
It took him about five minutes to check the items against the register receipt, and finally he found the error, then spent another few minutes making out a slip to put in the register with my money, and I finally walked out without daring to look at the impatient line behind me.
For a second I nearly bawled Ruthie out, before I told myself it wasn't her fault. She was highly satisfied with things. When we got back to the apartment and finished breakfast, she asked what we were going to do now, and I said we might as well do the laundry. I got her dresses and underwear, together with my things, and the towels. We had one piece of luck—one of the two machines in the basement was empty. While we were waiting for the clothes to wash, a couple of housewives came down and made the usual comments about how nice Ruthie looked, etc. All in this patronizing tone of, “You poor, poor bastard, so brave to raise a child all alone,” which always got my water on.
We took the clothes up to the roof and hung them up. Ruthie suggested we go to Coney Island, but I wasn't up to that, and Betsy Turner was paying me thirty dollars to do some work during the day. We went down and changed the bed linen, swept and dusted, cleaned up the apartment, and by then the clothes were dry.
I usually spent the week end with Ruthie, so I took her to the office. There were two skip-tracing jobs in the mail and a request from an insurance company that I go out to Hempstead to identify the remains of a car wrapped around a lamppost. The wreck was now in a garage, so that could wait a few days. I sent out my usual first form letter to the guy who had moved with his unpaid TV set, and the family that took a deep freeze with them. It was Ruthie's day to investigate O'Hara's desk, and I yelled at her a couple of times, which didn't put either of us in a good mood. There was a phone message from the garage, reminding me to finish the wiring job on the foreign heap. I put that in my pocket and locked up.
There were too many cars on the roads for a ride, so we came back to the flat for lunch. The phone rang. My cousin Jake said he was working and Grace thought it would be an idea if he picked up Ruthie, took her back with him. “She can play with the boys, spend the night, and you'll be here on Sunday.”
Ruthie was against the idea—violently against it. “I want to be with you, Daddy. I didn't see you much this week.”
“But I told you I have to work.”
“On Saturday?”
I nodded. “Tell you what, you go with Uncle Jake and I'll pick you up after supper, take you home. Then we'll both drive out tomorrow.”
“Well... all right, but you're trying to get rid of me.”
“Stop that kind of talk. You know I'm on a big case, have to work.”
Over the phone, Jake shouted, “Give it to her, Dick Tracy. I'll be off in an hour. Want me to pick her up, or will you be at the P.O.?”
“We'll be outside the post office.”
I made French toast with chocolate syrup for lunch and Ruthie felt better. Jake was sitting in his old Dodge when we drove up. As Ruthie got into the front seat beside him and said, “Don't forget to come for me after supper,” Jake asked, “How come you're so busy-busy these days?”
“I'm on a m-u-r-d-e-r case.”
“Well now,” Jake said, impressed. “Who is it?”
“Gee, Daddy, you never told me you were working on a killing,” Ruthie said, as I silently cursed TV and comic books.
“Nobody important,” I said quickly as Jake winked and stepped on the starter, asked, “What time will you be over?”
“Eight o'clock,” Ruthie said, and I nodded. “And I want to know all about the murder....”
As they drove off and I climbed back into my car, I remembered I was supposed to be at the Turner apartment at eight. I would have to phone Jake later and tell Ruthie to stay over, and she'd raise hell.
I sat in the car, wondering what to do, where to begin the day's “work.” I needed to do a lot of straight thinking and I can think best when I'm working with my hands. Reaching for a cigarette, I came up with the message from the garage.
Joe, the garage manager, was glad and surprised to see me. I got into my coveralls, went to work on this low-slung job. I worked steadily for the rest of the afternoon and of course I knew what was wrong with me—I'd acted like a goon last night, slipping the dope on her husband like I was slugging Betsy. All things considered, she'd taken it pretty well, but I'd been too rough on her.
The truth was, I was giving her an all-around rooking. I couldn't solve the murders, was in way over my head. As Al Swan had said, there wasn't much any private agency could do here, but that wasn't any excuse for taking her dough.
Granted I wasn't much of a detective, but what little work I was doing was sloppy as hell. But what else could I do? It would take me months to check all the Browns in New York City, and that was probably a blind alley.
I could tail Cliff Parker, but I was convinced he and Louise were in the clear. That was sloppy—my being convinced didn't mean a thing. The Andersun family—all blanks. Betsy—? I didn't think she did it, but I couldn't rule her out. A man or woman feeling she was unsatisfactory in bed could snap her cap enough to murder. And hiring me could be a corny cover-up. Should check what the police had on her.
The police—I was playing the game wrong with them, holding out about Cliff. All told I was doing a good job of snafuing the works. It would be more honest to take Betsy's money by snatching her pocketbook.
I kept going over the possible angles, wishing I could come up with a motive—any motive. All I came up with was a headache. By four I'd finished and rechecked the car, drove it around the garage, and picked up twenty-five dollars. Joe tried it himself, and he was almost as big as I was and laughed as he squeezed into the small front seat. As I was washing up, I noticed him making out the bill. All told I'd put in nine hours and he wrote down, “Labor—two days.” I didn't ask what he was charging the car owner.
He gave me the usual, “Barney, any time you want a steady job...”
“Yeah and thanks. Call me again, Joe, whenever you have something special.”
I stood outside the garage for a moment, still restless, and finally I drove down to the police station, asked for Lieutenant Franzino, almost hoping he'd be out. I had to wait a few minutes, then I went into his office, which was as dingy as Al's.
Franzino was a surprise... a small man, shabbily dressed, with his suit wrinkled and a button missing. He had a thin face with a banana nose that had been busted a long time ago. An old hat was pushed back on his head, covering most of the iron-gray hair, and he looked serious, humorless, and very capable.
His voice was low and polite as he lit a fancy-looking pipe, sent out a cloud of aromatic smoke, asked, “What's on your mind, Mr. Harris?”
“Any news?”
“Not a thing. Put a dozen men on the Brown angle—no dice, so far. Running down one or two other things, but to date not a sniff of anything promising.”
We were silent for a moment, and of course he didn't bother to ask if I'd found anything. “About Turner's wife, what's her alibi?”
“Says she was home alone. The super of the house was installing a lobby light between ten and midnight—he didn't see her leave. Got anything on her?”
“No.”
There was another dull silence, then he asked in a mild voice, “What made you think your client might have done it?”
“Told you, nothing. Merely checking on all alibis.”
He smiled and his teeth were a tobacco yellow. “You can be sure we've worked over every alibi. How's it feel to be in on a murder case? Swan told me this is your first criminal case.”
His voice reminded me of the patronizing housewives at the washing machine. I lit a cigarette, let him have it gently. “By the bye, I found out what Turner was doing on the block, the night he was killed.”
