Masters Of Noir Vol Iv Part 13

The one who came around to my side of the car was young and healthy and looked pugnacious. He asked cheerfully if I was having car trouble.

I told him I wasn't.

"Noticed you first almost two hours ago," he went on. "You live in the neighborhood, do you?"

"About seven miles from here." I pulled out the photostat of my license to show him.

He frowned and looked at the other cop, who was standing on the curb. "Private man."

The other man said nothing nor did his expression change. It was a bored expression.

"Waiting for someone?" the younger one asked me.

I nodded. "If you're worried about me, boys, you could go up to the house and talk to Mr. Ladugo. But don't let his daughter see you. She's the one I'm waiting for and Mr. Ladugo is paying me to wait."

"Ladugo," the young man said. "Oh, yes. Ladugo. Well, good luck, Mr. Puma."

They went away.

Even in Beverly Hills, that name meant something. Puma, now, there was a name you had to look up, but not Ladugo. Why was that? I gave it some thought while I waited and decided it was because he was older, and therefore richer. But he wasn't as old as my dad, and my dad had just finished paying the mortgage on a seven thousand dollar home. He'd been paying on it for twenty years. I must learn to save my money, cut down on cigarettes, or something. Or get into another line of work, like Jean Hartley.

At seven-thirty, the Continental came gliding out of the Ladugo driveway, making all the Cadillacs on Sunset look like 1927 Flints. I gave her a couple of blocks and followed in the Continental's little sister.

There was a guilty knowledge gnawing at me. If we hadn't gone to Zuky's, she wouldn't have met Jean Hartley. And I wouldn't have been hired to follow her.

At a road leading off to the right, just beyond the UCLA campus, the Continental turned and began climbing into the hills. It was a private road, serving a quartette of estates, and I didn't follow immediately. If it dead-ended up above, Angela and I would eventually come nose to nose.

I waited on Sunset for five minutes and then turned in the road. The houses were above the road and four mailboxes were set into a field-stone pillar at the first driveway. Atop the pillar were four names cut out of wrought iron and one of the names was Ladugo. Her trip seemed innocent enough; I drove out again to wait on Sunset.

It was dark, now, and the headlights of the heavy traffic heading toward town came barreling around the curve in a steady stream of light. My radio gave me the day's news and some comments on the news and then a succession of platters.

A little before ten o'clock, the Continental came out on Sunset again and headed west. I gave it a three block lead.

It went through Santa Monica at a speed that invited arrest, but she was lucky, tonight. On Lincoln Avenue, she swung toward Venice.

Not back to Bugsy's, I thought. I thought. Not back to that rendezvous of the literate and the witty, that charming salon of the sophisticated. Not back to that rendezvous of the literate and the witty, that charming salon of the sophisticated. A block from Windward, she parked. I was parking a half block behind that when she went through the doorway. A block from Windward, she parked. I was parking a half block behind that when she went through the doorway.

I got out and walked across the street before going down that way. When I came abreast of the bar, I could see her sitting next to a man whose back was to me. I walked down another half block and saw the red Buick four-door Riviera. The registration slip on the steering column informed me that this was the car of Jean Hartley. His address was there, too, and I copied it.

Then I went back to wait.

I didn't have long. In about ten minutes, both of them came out of Bugsy's. For a few moments, they talked and then separated and headed for their cars.

I followed Angela's, though the Buick seemed to be going to the same place. Both of them turned right on Wilshire and headed back toward Westwood.

Westwood was the address on Jean Hartley's steering column. And that's where they finally stopped, in front of a sixteen unit apartment building of fieldstone and cerise stucco, built around a sixty foot swimming pool.

I waited until they had walked out of sight and then came back to the flood-lighted patio next to the pool. A list of the tenants was on a board here and one of the tenants was Hartley a.s.sociates. Hartley a.s.sociates.

Some a.s.sociates he'd have. With numbers under their pictures. But who could guess that by looking at him? I went sniffing around until I found his door.

There was an el in the hallway at this point, undoubtedly formed by the fireplace in the apartment. It afforded me enough cover.

Hartley a.s.sociates. What could that mean? Phoney stock? I heard music and I heard laughter. The music was Chopin's and the laughter was Angela's. Even in the better California apartment houses, the walls are thin. What could that mean? Phoney stock? I heard music and I heard laughter. The music was Chopin's and the laughter was Angela's. Even in the better California apartment houses, the walls are thin.

Some boys certainly do make out.

I heard a thud that sounded like a refrigerator door closing.

I wanted to smoke, but smoke would reveal me to others who might pa.s.s along the hall. Chopin changed to Debussy and I thought I heard the tinkle of ice in gla.s.ses. Light music, cool drinks and a dark night-while I stood in the hall, hating them both.

Time dragged along on its belly.

And then, right after eleven o'clock, I though I heard a whimper. There had been silence for minutes and this whimper was of the complaining type. I was moving toward the door, where I could hear better, when I heard the scream.

I tried the k.n.o.b and the door was locked. I stepped back and put a foot into the panel next to the k.n.o.b and the door came open on the second kick.

Light from the hall poured into the dark apartment and I could see Angela Ladugo, up against a wall, the palms of her hands pressed against the wall, her staring eyes frightened.

She was wearing nothing but that almost translucent skin and her fair hair. I took one step into the room and found a light switch next to the door.

When the lights went on, I could see Hartley sitting on a davenport near the fireplace and I headed his way. I never got there.

As unconsciousness poured into my reverberating skull, I remembered that the sign downstairs had warned me he had a.s.sociates.

I came to on the floor. Hartley sat on the davenport, smoking. There was no sign of Angela Ladugo or anyone else.

I asked, "Where is she?"

"Miss Ladugo? She's gone home. Why?"

"Why? She screamed, didn't she? What the h.e.l.l were you doing to her?"

He frowned. "I didn't hear any scream. Are you sure it was in this apartment?"

"You know it was. Who hit me?"

Hartley pointed at an ottoman. "n.o.body hit you. You stumbled over that."

I put a hand on the floor and got slowly to my feet. The pain in my skull seemed to pulse with my heartbeat.

Hartley said, "I haven't called the police-yet. I thought perhaps you had a reason for breaking into my apartment."

"Call 'em," I said. "Or I will."

He pointed toward a hallway. "There's the phone. You're free to use it."

I came over to stand in front of him. "Maybe I ought to work you over first. They might be easier on you than I'd be."

He looked at me without fear. "Suit yourself. That would add a.s.sault to the rap."

I had nothing and he knew it. I wasn't about to throw the important name of Angela Ladugo to a scandal-hungry press. I was being paid to protect her, not publicize her. I studied him for seconds, while reason fought the rage in me.

Finally, I asked, "What's the racket this time, Jean?"

He smiled. "Don't be that way, Joe. So the girl likes me. That's a crime? She was a little high and noisy, but you can bet she's been that way before. Did she hang around? If she'd been in trouble, wouldn't she have stayed around to see that you were all right?"

"How do I know what happened to her?" I asked.

He looked at his watch. "She should be phoning any minute, from home. I'll let you talk to her if you want."

I sat down on the davenport. "I'll wait."

He leaned back and studied the end of his cigarette. "What were you doing out there, Joe? Are you working for her father?"

"No. I felt responsible for her meeting you. I'm working for myself."

He smiled. "I'll bet. I can just see Joe Puma making this big n.o.ble gesture. Don't kid me."

I said slowly, "This isn't the right town to buck anyone named Ladugo, Jean. He could really railroad you."

"Maybe. I can't help it if the girl likes me."

"That girl's sick," I said. "She has some compulsion to debase herself. Is that the soft spot you're working?"

"She likes me," he said for the third time. "Does there have to be a dollar in it? She's a beautiful girl."

"For you," I said, "there has to be a dollar in it. And I intend to see you don't ever latch onto it. I've got friends in the Department, Jean."

He sighed. "And all I've got is the love of this poor woman."

The phone rang, and he went over to it. I came right along.

He said, "h.e.l.lo," and handed me the phone.

I heard Angela say, "Jean? Is everything all right? There won't be any trouble, will there?"

"None," I said. "Are you home?"

"I'm home. Jean-is that you-?"

I gave him the phone and went into the kitchen to get a drink of water. The lump on the back of my head was sore, but the rattles were diminishing in my brain.

If she was home, she was now under the eye of Barney Allison. I could use some rest.

I went out without saying any more to Jean, but I didn't go right home. I drove back to Venice.

The big man behind the bar greeted me with a frown when I came in. I said, "I'd like to talk to you."

"It's not mutual."

"I'd like to talk about Angela Ladugo. I'm being paid to see that she doesn't get into trouble."

He looked down at the bar to where a man was nursing a beer. He looked back at me. "Keep your voice low. I don't want any of these slobs to know her name."

I nodded. "The man who met her here tonight can do her more harm than any of your customers are likely to. His name is Jean Hartley. Have you ever heard of him?"

"I've heard of him." His eyes were bleak.

I said, "I'll have a beer if it's less than two dollars."

He drew one from the tap. "On the house. What's Hartley's pitch?"

"I don't know. What's your your attraction, Bugsy?" attraction, Bugsy?"

He looked at me suspiciously. "I knew her mother. Way, way back, when we were both punks. I was just a preliminary boy and her mother danced at the Blue Garter. Blue Garter. I guess you're too young to remember the I guess you're too young to remember the Blue Garter." Blue Garter."

"Burlesque?"

"Something like that. A cafe. But Angela Walker was no tramp-don't get that idea. Her folks back in England were solid middle-cla.s.s people."

"I see. And that's where Ladugo met her, at the Blue Garter? Blue Garter?

"I don't know. She was dancing there when she met him."

"And you kept up the acquaintanceship through the years?"

He colored slightly. "No. Not that she was a sn.o.b. But Venice is a h.e.l.l of a long ways from Beverly Hills."

"She's dead now?"

"Almost three years."

"And Angela has renewed the friendship. Her mother must have talked about you."

"I guess she did. What's it to you, Mac?"

"Nothing, I guess. I'm just looking for a pattern."

"We don't sell 'em, here. I thought you were watching the girl."

"She's home," I said. "Another man will watch her until I go back to work in the morning. This is pretty good beer."

"For twenty cents, you can have another one."

I put two dimes on the counter, and said, "Hartley scares me. He's tricky and handsome and completely unscrupulous."

He put a fresh gla.s.s of beer in front of me. "I wouldn't call him handsome."