David Alexander - Masters of Noir - Volume 4

“Didn’t you drive home?”

She shook her head. “I’m almost sure I didn’t. I think someone drove me home in my car. Was it Jean?”

“You don’t need to lie to me, Miss Ladugo,” I said gently. “I’m on your side.”

“I’m not lying.”

I said, “You phoned Hartley when you got home. You didn’t sound drunk to me then. You just sounded scared.”

Her eyes were blank. “You were there?”

“That’s right. You’re not going to see Hartley again, are you?”

She shook her head. “Of course not. Are you — still going to follow me?”

“Shouldn’t I?”

She took a deep breath that sounded like relief. “I don’t know. Are you going to tell my dad about — last night?”

“Most of it is in the report I wrote. Most of it. I’m not sure where the line of ethics would be. It isn’t my intention to shock your father or — hurt you.”

She looked at the floor again. “Thank you.”

The downcast eyes bit was right out of the Brontes; I hoped she didn’t think I was falling for her delicate lady routine.

She looked up with a smile. “As long as you’re going to be following me, why don’t we go together?” Charm she had, even though I knew it was premeditated.

“Fine,” I said. “It’ll save gas.”

We went to some shops I had never seen before — on the inside, that is. Like her poorer sisters, she shopped without buying. We went to Roland’s for lunch.

There, under the impulse of a martini, I asked her, “Were you and your mother closer than you are with your father?”

She nodded, her eyes searching my face.

“You don’t — resent your father?”

“I love him. Can’t we talk about something else?”

We tried. We discussed some movies we’d both seen and one book we’d both read. Her thoughts were banal; her opinions adolescent. We ran out of words, with the arrival of the coffee.

Then, as we finished, she said, “Why don’t we go home and talk to my father? I’m sure I don’t need to be watched anymore.”

“Might look bad for me,” I said. “So far as he knows, you’re not aware I’m following you.”

Some of her geniality was gone. “I’ll phone him.”

Which she did, right there at the table. And after a few moments of sweet talk, she handed the phone to me.

Her father said, “Pretend I’m taking you off the job. But keep an eye on her.”

“All right, sir,” I said, and handed the phone back to her.

When she’d finished talking, she smiled at me. “You can put the check on the expense account, I’m sure. Good luck, Mr. Puma.”

“Thank you,” I said.

We both rose and then she paused, to suddenly stare at me. “I haven’t annoyed you, have I? I mean, that report about last night — this doesn’t mean you’ll — make it more complete?”

I shook my head. “And I hope you won’t betray your father’s trust.”

The smile came back. “Of course I won’t.”

I asked, “How do I get back to my car?”

“You can get a cab, I’m sure,” she said. “I’d drop you, but I have so much more shopping to do.”

She had me. I couldn’t follow her in a cab and I couldn’t admit I was going to follow her. I nodded good-bye to her and signaled for the check.

I got a cab in five minutes and was back to my car in ten more. And, on a hunch, I drove right over to Westwood.

I came up Hartley’s street just as the Continental disappeared around the corner. A truck came backing out of a driveway, and, by the time I got started again, she must have made another turn. Because the big black car was nowhere in sight.

I drove back to Hartley’s apartment building. There was an off chance he was home and she had arranged to meet him somewhere. I parked in front.

Ten minutes of waiting, and I went up to his door. I could hear a record player giving out with Brahms. I rang the bell. No answer. I knocked. No answer.

The music stopped and in a few seconds started over again. Hartley could be asleep or out, or maybe he liked the record. I tried the door; it was locked.

Was there another door? Not in the hallway, but perhaps there was one opening on the balconies overlooking the pool.

I found that there was a small sun-deck right off Hartley’s door. The door was locked but I could see into his living room through a window opening onto the sun-deck. I could see Hartley.

He was on the floor, his face and forehead covered with dark blood. I didn’t know if he was dead, but he wasn’t moving.

I went along the balcony to the first neighbor’s door and rang the bell. A Negro woman in a maid’s uniform opened it and I told her, “The tenant in Apartment 22 has been seriously hurt. Would you phone the police and tell them to bring a doctor along? It’s Mr. Hartley and he’s on the floor in his living room. They’ll have to break in, unless the manager’s around.”

“I’ll phone the manager, too,” she said.

I went to the nearest pay phone and called Mr. Ladugo. He wasn’t home. I phoned Barney Allison and told him what had happened.

“And you didn’t wait for the police to arrive? You’re in trouble, Joe.”

“Maybe. What I want you to do is keep phoning Mr. Ladugo. When you get him, tell him what happened. And tell him his daughter was just leaving the place as I drove up.”

“Man, we could both lose our licenses.”

“You couldn’t. Do as I say now.”

“All right. But I’m not identifying myself. And when the law nabs you, you’d better not tell them you told me about this.”

“I won’t. Get going, man!”

From there, I drove to Santa Monica, to one of the modest sections of that snug, smug suburb where one of my older lady friends lived. She was well past seventy, and retired. But for forty years, she had handled the society page for Los Angeles’ biggest newspaper.

She was out in front, pruning her roses. She smiled at me. “Hello, stranger. If it’s money you want, I’m broke. If it’s a drink, you know where the liquor is.”

“Just information, Frances,” I said. “I want to know all you know about the Ladugos.”

“A fascinating story,” she said. “Come on in; I’ll have a drink with you.”

She told me what she knew plus the gossip.

Then I said, “Because Ladugo’s wife was messing around with this other man, it doesn’t necessarily follow that Ladugo wasn’t the child’s father. She and the other man could have been enjoying a perfectly platonic friendship.”

“They might have been. But I don’t think so. And neither did any of their friends at that time. I mean her good friends, not the catty ones. They were frankly scandalized by her behavior.”

“All right,” I said. “Your gossip has usually proven more accurate than some supposedly factual stories. May I use your phone?”

She nodded.

I phoned Barney Allison and he told me I could reach Mr. Ladugo at home. I phoned Mr. Ladugo.

He said, “My daughter’s here now, Mr. Puma. She tells me that she never went into Mr. Hartley’s apartment. She stayed there quite awhile, ringing his bell, because she could hear music inside and she thought he must be home.”

“She told me this morning,” I said, “that she was never going to see him again. She could be lying now, too.”

A pause. “I — don’t think she is. She’s very frightened.” Another pause. “How about Hartley? Is he dead?”

“I don’t know. Did Hartley try to blackmail you, Mr. Ladugo?”

“Blackmail me? Why? How?”

“Let me talk to Miss Ladugo, please,” I said.

His voice was harsh. “Is something going on I don’t know about?”

“Could be. But I don’t know about it either. Could I speak with Miss Ladugo?”