David Alexander - Masters of Noir - Volume 4

“Oh, he identified him,” Romano answered softly. “Come on, Grierson. I want to look in on Ferguson’s flat.”

The Fergusons had occupied the ground floor of a house of mellowed brick on a pleasant, tree-lined street in Greenwich Village. Romano got the key of Ferguson’s apartment from the superintendent. Daylight still showed through the windows, but the apartment was shadowy and Romano switched on lights.

He said, “Ferguson must have been sitting in that chair right there when he came back to consciousness after his stroke.” He crossed the room and sat down in a chintz-covered easy chair.

“He came to,” Romano continued. “He was confused. He probably wasn’t too sure where he was, even. He called to his wife, and she didn’t answer.”

Romano got to his feet. “The bedroom door was closed. Ferguson walked toward it.” Romano walked toward the bedroom door and opened it. He switched on another light, stood in the doorway.

“He looked down and saw his wife’s body on the floor, right inside the doorway. Then he looked up and saw the murderer’s face staring at him through a window.”

Romano drew aside, “Come over here, Grierson,” he said. “Stand here in the doorway.”

Grierson obeyed.

“Look straight ahead of you,” Romano said. “You see, Ferguson was right. There is a window.”

Grierson was a good cop and a conscientious one, but sometimes his mind did not work too fast. He turned to Romano, his face blank.

Romano said, “You want me to draw you a picture? Ferguson saw the face of the man who killed his wife in what he called a window, the thing that’s right in front of you. He called it The Face of Evil, but it was The Butcher’s face, the face of the psycho who killed five women in this neighborhood.”

Grierson didn’t see a window.

All he saw was his own face reflected in the mirror on the wall.

I finally caught up to her around eleven o’clock in a bar just off Windward Avenue. Windward Avenue is in Venice and Venice is not what you would call the high-rent district in the Los Angeles area.

A juke box was doling out the nasal complaints of a hillbilly songstress and most of the men at the bar looked like they worked with their hands. At the far end of the bar from the doorway, Angela Ladugo was sitting in front of what appeared to be a double martini.

The Ladugo name is a big one in this county, going way back to the Spanish land grants. Angela seemed to have inherited her looks from mama’s side of the family, which was mostly English.

I paused for a moment in the doorway and she looked up and her gaze met mine and I thought for a moment she smiled. But I could have been wrong; her face was stiff and her eyes were glazed.

The bartender, a big and ugly man, looked at me appraisingly and then his gaze shifted to Miss Ladugo and he frowned. A couple of the workingmen looked over at me and back at their glasses of beer.

There was an empty stool next to Angela; I headed toward it. The bartender watched me every step of the way and when I finally parked, he was standing at our end, studying me carefully.

I met his gaze blandly. “Bourbon and water.”

“Sure thing,” he said.

“New around here, are you?”

“Where’s here — Venice?”

“Right.”

Before I could answer, Angela said, “Don’t hit him yet, Bugsy. Maybe he’s a customer.”

I looked over at her, but she was looking straight ahead. I looked back at the bartender. “I’m not following the plot. Is this a private bar?”

He shook his head. “Are you a private cop?”

I nodded.

He nodded, too, toward the door. “Beat it.”

“Easy now,” I said. “I’m not just any private cop. You could phone Sergeant Nystrom over at the Venice Station. Do you know him?”

“I know him.”

“Ask him about me, about Joe Puma. He’ll give you a good word on me.”

“Beat it,” he said again.

Angela Ladugo sighed heavily. “Relax, Bugsy. Papa would only send another one. At least this one looks — washed.”

The big man looked between us and went over to get my whiskey. I brought out a package of cigarettes and offered her one.

“No, thank you,” she said in the deliberate, carefully enunciated speech of the civilized drunk on the brink of the pit.

“Do you come here for color, Miss Ladugo?” I asked quietly, casually.

She frowned and said distinctly, “No. For sanctuary.”

The bartender brought my bourbon and water. “That’ll be two bucks.”

He was beginning to annoy me. I said, “Kind of steep here, aren’t you?”

“I guess. Two bucks, cash .”

“Drink it yourself,” I told him. “Ready to go, Miss Ladugo?”

“No.” she said. “Bugsy, you’re being difficult. The man’s only doing his job.”

“What kind of men do that kind of job?” he asked contemptuously.

A silence. Briefly, I considered my professional decorum. And then I gave Bugsy my blankest stare and said evenly, “Maybe you’ve got some kind of local reputation as a tough guy, mister, but frankly I never heard of you. And I don’t like your insolence.”

The men along the bar were giving us their attention now. A bleached blonde in one of the booths started to giggle nervously. The juke box gave us Sixteen Tons .

Angela sighed again and said quietly, “I’m ready to go. I’ll see you later, Bugsy. I’ll be back.”

“Don’t go if you don’t want to,” he said.

She put a hand carefully on the bar and even more carefully slid off the stool. “Let’s go, Mr.—”

“Puma,” I supplied. “My arm, Miss Ladugo?”

“Thank you, no. I can manage.”

She was close enough for me to smell her perfume, for me to see that her transparently fair skin and fine hair were flawless. She couldn’t have been on the booze for long.

Outside, the night air was chilly and damp.

“Now, I’ll take your arm,” she said. “Where’s your car?”

“This way. About a block. Are you all right?”

A wino came lurching across the street, narrowly missed being hit by a passing car. From the bar behind us, came the shrill lament of another ridge-running canary.

“I’m all right,” Miss Ladugo said. “I’m — navigable.”

“You’re not going to be sick, are you?”

“Not if you don’t talk about it, I’m not. Where did Papa find you?”

“I was recommended by a mutual acquaintance. Would you like some coffee?”

“If we can go to a place that isn’t too clattery. Isn’t Bugsy wonderful? He’s so loyal.”

“Most merchants are loyal to good accounts, Miss Ladugo. Just another half block, now.”

She stopped walking. “Don’t patronize me. I’m not an alcoholic, Mr. — Panther, or whatever it is.”

“Puma,” I said. “I didn’t mean to sound condescending, but you must admit you’re very drunk.”

“Puma,” she said. “That’s a strange name. What kind of name is that?”

“Italian,” I told her. “Just a little bit, now, just a few steps.”

“You’re simpering, Mr. Puma. Don’t simper.”

I opened the door of my car on the curb side and helped her in. The flivver started with a cough and I swung in a U turn, heading for Santa Monica.

Nothing from her. In a few minutes I smelled tobacco and looked over to see her smoking. I asked, “Zuky’s joint all right?”

“I suppose.” A pause. “No. Take me home. I’ll send someone for my car.”

“Your car—” I said. “I didn’t think about that. I should have left mine and driven yours. I guess I live closer to Venice than you do.”