David Alexander - Masters of Noir - Volume 4

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 assault 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 noble 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, “Hello,” 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 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 . I guess you’re too young to remember the 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-class people.”

“I see. And that’s where Ladugo met her, at the 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 snob. But Venice is a hell 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 glass of beer in front of me. “I wouldn’t call him handsome.”

“Angela did. She went up to his apartment tonight. I broke in and somebody clobbered me. When I came to, she was gone. But she phoned him from home while I was still there.”

Bugsy looked at me evenly. “Maybe the old man should have hired somebody who knew his business.”

“You might have a point there. I’ll go when I finish the beer.”

He went down to serve the man at the other end of the bar. He came back to say, “I always mixed Angela’s drinks real, real weak. She’s got no tolerance for alcohol.”

I said nothing, nursing the beer.

Bugsy said, “Can’t you muscle this Hartley a little? He didn’t look like much to me.”

“He’s a citizen,” I said, “just like you. And the Department is full of boys who hate private operatives, just like you do.”

“Maybe I resented the old man sending you down here to drag her home. Some of the joints she’s been in, this could be a church.”

“He didn’t send me down here . I wound up here because she did. I don’t think he knows where she goes.”

Bugsy drew himself a small beer. He looked at it as he said, “And maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he just hired you to keep the Ladugo name out of the papers.”

“That could be,” I said, and finished my beer. “Good night, Bugsy.”

He nodded.

At home, I took a warm shower and set the alarm for seven o’clock. I wanted to write my reports of the two days before going over to relieve Barney.

I’d finished them by eight, and a little before nine, I drove up in front of the Ladugo driveway. There was no sign of Barney Allison.

He wouldn’t desert a post; I figured Angela must have already left the house. I drove to the office. If Barney had a chance to leave a message, he would have left it with my phone-answering service.

Barney’s Chev was parked about four doors from the entrance to my office. Angela wasn’t in sight; I went over to the Chev.

Barney said, “She went through that doorway about fifteen minutes ago. Maybe she’s waiting for you.”

“Maybe. Okay, Barney, I’ll take it from here.”

He yawned and nodded and drove away.

Angela Ladugo was waiting in the first floor lobby, sitting on a rattan love seat. Her gaze didn’t quite meet mine as I walked over.

When I was standing in front of her, she looked at the floor. Her voice was very low, “What — happened last night?”

“You tell me. Do you want to go up to the office?”

She shook her head. “It’s quiet enough here.” She looked up. “I — can’t drink very well. You might think that’s absurd, but it’s — I mean, I really don’t know what happened last night. I wasn’t really — conscious.”