Stuart Kaminsky - Never Cross A Vampire

I told him I could and went to my own car. We drove in tandem through Los Angeles. I caught part of a boxing match on the radio to keep me company, but I couldn’t keep my mind on it long enough to know who was fighting or winning. The patter of the announcer and his false rise in excitement as he described the blows was like a friend at your side who jabbers on and you don’t listen to, but you like having him there.

When we got to Bel Air, no one tried to stop us. The move up Chalon was getting routine for me, so I pulled ahead of Phil and Seidman and led the way.

The Shatzkin house was dark except for an upstairs light.

Phil was about to ham-hand the door when I put out my hand to stop him. He wheeled, ready to take my head, and then waited. I knocked gently. Then I knocked a little louder. In a while footsteps came down the stairs inside.

“Who is it?” came Camile Shatzkin’s voice.

“Jerry,” I said.

“Jerry?”

She fumbled with the door and kept talking. There was a touch of shrewish anger seething in her tone that Jerry Vernoff would never have the chance to be disillusioned by.

“I thought you were going to stay away from here,” she hissed. “What happened? Did Peters…”

And the door flew open on the bright trio of Peters, Pevsner, and Seidman, a group that could have wilted an innocent person, let alone one as guilty as Camile Shatzkin.

“Trick or treat,” I said.

She almost fainted, but Seidman moved forward to keep her from falling.

“I thought it was a delivery I was expecting,” she said, pulling herself together.

“Do you usually faint when the delivery man comes?” I said.

Phil grabbed my arm and squeezed hard enough to let me know he wanted me to shut up.

Camile Shatzkin, in glimmering red robe, her dark hair down, looked every inch the opera star in her big moment.

“I’ve been under a great strain,” she explained, pulling herself away from Seidman’s support.

“That ‘great strain’ business might carry you about a week,” I said. “Then you’ll have to think up another line.”

“Why are you here?” she demanded.

“Do you want to invite us in, or do you want to get dressed right now and come with us?” Phil asked wearily.

Camile Shatzkin flushed in indignation. We all expected her to say, “How dare you talk to me like that?” but she disappointed us by letting her nostrils flare in anger and stepping back to usher us into the living room. We’d been there before. We weren’t impressed.

Mrs. Shatzkin sat down on a sofa after flipping on some lights and folded her hands in her lap, ready for anything. She looked at me briefly, trying to read some answers in my face, but my face doesn’t hold any answers. My face is a weary question mark. I was willing to stare her down. The advantage was mine. She was easier to look at than I was, and I could read her with no trouble.

“Jerry Vernoff has confessed before two reliable witnesses that he killed your husband, Thayer Newcomb, and Haliburton,” said Seidman. “He also said that you conspired with him to commit those murders.”

I sat down without taking my eyes from Camile Shatzkin, and Phil looked around the room feigning boredom, acting as if this was the routine part of a case already wrapped up. There was nothing to read in Seidman’s voice or face. He was simply giving information and withholding some. He didn’t tell her that Vernoff was dead and probably in the morgue by now. He didn’t tell her that all she had to do was say nothing to stay out of this, to walk away clean with her estate. There was no case on her, just the accusation of a dead man, a murderer three times over.

“How could he say such a thing?” she said, trembling. “I don’t believe he… I think you’re lying. And I think I’ll have to ask you to leave and talk to my lawyer.”

“I guess we’ll have to book her and take her downtown,” Phil said, examining a painting of a French landscape on the wall.

Camile Shatzkin said nothing.

“He’s dead,” I shot in.

Phil’s head turned in my direction and Seidman shook his head. Mrs. Shatzkin looked at me, but nothing dawned. Almost all the “he’s” in her life were dead. I had to be more specific.

“Jerry Vernoff,” I said. “He’s dead. His neck is broken and he’s lying in the morgue by now. One more on the slab and you’ll have killed a whole basketball team worth of men.”

“Jerry is…?” She smiled with a touch of madness and a shake of her head. “No. This is another trick.”

“No trick,” said Seidman, going along because there was nothing else to do. Phil was at my side. I hoped he wouldn’t hit me in my sore back if he decided to strike. But he sensed a crack in Camile Shatzkin and stood waiting.

“Look,” said Phil, “what’re we bothering with this for? We have a man’s dying confession and testimony. That’s enough to hang her. If she wants to shut up, let her shut up.”

Phil clearly had a way with words. We all looked down at Camile the Widow and waited to see which way she would go. If she told Phil to go chew on an electric eel, that was the end of it. If there was a clock ticking you could have heard it, but there wasn’t. Luckily no one’s stomach growled. “I loved him,” she said very quietly.

“What?” growled Phil.

Camile Shatzkin looked up with tears starting in her eyes. “I loved him.”

“Jerry Vernoff?” Seidman said.

“Darryl,” she said.

“Darryl?” said Phil, looking at me and Seidman. “Who the hell is Darryl?”

“Darryl Haliburton,” she said, her eyes red. “I didn’t know he was going to kill Darryl. I didn’t really realize how much I loved him, needed him.”

“Vernoff said it was your idea to get rid of your husband,” said Seidman.

“It was his,” she said, pulling a handkerchief from her robe. Her chest rose with a sob.

“How did you help?” I asked.

This was it, but she didn’t know it.

“I didn’t have to do anything, just let Newcomb in, watch him shoot Jacques, and make no effort to follow him. All I had to do was identify William Faulkner as the murderer.”

“That lets my man off the hook?” I asked.

Phil nodded.

Seidman went upstairs with Mrs. Shatzkin to check her room and be sure there were no weapons of self- or other destructiveness. While she dressed, Phil and I sat in the living room ignoring each other.

“My knee’s getting better,” I said, sitting down.

Phil grunted. That was our conversation for the night.

In which a famed writer returns home and this obscure private detective finds that financial security is hard to come by even in the best of times.

It was well after two in the morning when Faulkner was released. I was surprised that I wasn’t particularly sleepy, though I was tired. I had been working a lot of nights since the two cases began. Faulkner looked composed, though I detected below that wry, thin exterior a tight sheet of controlled anger. He accepted his belongings and, to give him credit, didn’t give the usual line about suing the Los Angeles Police Department for false arrest.

“Can I give you a ride back to your hotel?” I asked him, trying to reach the spot on my back where Vernoff had clobbered me with his gun.

Faulkner accepted and on the way sat looking out the window listening silently and pulling at his pipe while I told him the tale.

“That Vernoff should bear such rancor toward me suggests the frightening prospect of others who might harbor such thoughts about each of us without our knowing,” he whispered.

Most of my enemies weren’t so subtle, but I just nodded in agreement. We paused at a red light and watched a drunk in a doorway trying to stand up and having a hell of a time at it. Faulkner and I both urged him up silently, and I forgot to move when the light went green. A kid in the car behind hit his horn and pulled me up to what passed for reality.