Джеймс Эллрой - Clandestine

“Yeah. Eddie.”

“What’s his last name?”

“Engels. Eddie Engels.”

“What’s his occupation?”

“Gambler. Punk. Wise guy. I don’t think he has a job.”

“I’m interested in the women he runs around with.”

“So am I! Ooh, la la!” Ralph started cracking up at his own wit.

“Don’t be funny; it’s not amusing.” I fanned the six photographs on the table in front of him. “Ever see Eddie with any of these women?”

Ralph scrutinized the photos, hesitated a moment, then placed a fat index finger square on the picture of Maggie Cadwallader. My whole body lurched inside and my skin started to tingle.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“How are you sure?”

“This tomato is a dog compared to some of the babes I seen Eddie with.”

“When did you see them together?”

“I don’t know — I think it was a couple of months ago. Yeah, that’s right, it was the day of the President’s Stakes — in June.”

I gathered up my photos and left Ralph with a stern warning. “You don’t breathe a word of this to Eddie. You got that?”

“Sure, Officer. I always figured Eddie wasn’t quite on the up and—”

I didn’t let him finish. I was out the door, looking frantically for a pay phone.

I called L.A.P.D. R & I, gave them my name and badge number and told them what I wanted. They got back to me within five minutes: there was no Edward, Edwin, or Edmund Engels, white male, approximately thirty years old with a criminal record in Los Angeles. I was about to hang up, then got another idea: I told the clerk to go through the automobile registration files for the last four years. This time he hit pay dirt: Edward Engels, 1911 Horn Drive, West Hollywood, owned two cars: the green ’46 Olds sedan I had tailed him in, and a ’49 Ford convertible — red with white top, license number JY 861. I thanked the clerk, hung up and ran out to my own car.

My next stop was Pasadena, where I looked for Ford and Olds-mobile dealerships. It took a while, but I found them and got what I wanted: advertising stills of their ’46 and ’49 models. Next I drove to a five and dime on Colorado Boulevard and bought a box of kiddie crayons. In the parking lot I went to work on my visual aids, coloring the Olds sedan a pale sea green and the Ford a bright fire engine red with a pristine white top. The results were good.

By this time it was one-forty-five and getting very humid. I needed a shave and a change of clothes. I drove home, showered, shaved, and changed. I got out my diary and destroyed all the pages pertaining to my encounter with Maggie Cadwallader. Then I stretched out on the bed and tried to sleep.

It was no good. My brain wouldn’t stop running with plans, schemes, contingencies, and expectations. Finally I gave up, shooed Night Train out to the backyard, locked up, and drove to the Sunset Strip.

I timed it just right, parking my car in the lot of a gas station on Sunset and Doheny and starting off on foot. The nightclubs were just opening, gearing up for another evening of high-life, and the barmen, waiters, and parking attendants I wanted to talk to were fresh faced and had plenty of time to answer my questions.

I was developing a theory about Eddie Engels; that he was arrogant, cocky to an extreme, loudmouthed, and rather stupid — just stupid enough to bring women he was planning to harm or even kill into his own backyard to wine and dine. It seemed logical. He lived within walking distance of the hottest night spots in the city, and he clearly loved to be seen with women.

So I theorized, and walked east, showing my photograph of Maggie Cadwallader to parking lot attendants, doormen, maitre d’s, and waiters. I hit every nightclub and juke joint on both sides of Sunset from Doheny to La Cienega — with no luck. I was about to admit defeat when I decided to start checking out restaurants, as well.

At my third one, I got my first confirmation. It was an Italian place and the garrulous old waiter nodded in recognition as I showed him the photo. He remembered Maggie from several weeks before, and was about to embark on a long discourse about the food she ate when I hissed at him, “ Did she have an escort? ”

Startled, the old guy smiled, said “sure,” and described Eddie Engels. He went on to tell me of all the “nicea-looking bambinas” the “nicea-looking young man” brought to eat there. It was enough confirmation, but I wanted proof. I wanted it covered thoroughly from every angle, so that when I presented my case to my superiors it wouldn’t leak an ounce of water.

I hit four more restaurants, all within five blocks of Eddie Eng els’s apartment on Horn Drive, and got three more positive identifications from waiters who recalled Eddie as an extravagant tipper who talked loudly of his racetrack winnings. They remembered Maggie Cadwallader as being quiet, clinging to Eddie and drinking a lot of rum and Cokes.

I took down the names and home addresses and phone numbers of all my witnesses and ran back to my car. It was eight-thirty, which gave me, I figured, about two hours before most people would be in bed.

I drove to Hollywood and started knocking on doors. The people I spoke to weren’t surprised: other officers had been around the week before asking questions. When I showed them my colored photos of the two cars, they were surprised. The other cops hadn’t asked anything about that — just about “strange things,” “funny stuff” that they might have seen or heard on the night of the murder. One after another they shook their heads. No one had noticed the ’46 Olds or ’49 Ford ragtop. I covered all of Harold Way and turned onto De Longpre, getting discouraged. Lights were starting to go off; people were going to bed.

On the corner of De Longpre and Wilton, I ran into three high school boys playing catch by the light of a streetlamp. I played it very palsy with them, even letting them look at my gun. With their confidence gained, I showed them my pictures.

“Hey!” the biggest of the three kids exclaimed. “What a sharp drop-top! Man, oh, man!”

One of his pals grabbed the photo and scrutinized it silently. “I seen a car like that. Right here. Just down the street,” he said.

“When?” I asked quietly.

The kid thought, then looked to the big kid for support. “Larry,” he said, “you remember last week, I snuck out and came over. Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. It was Monday night. I had to go to—”

I interrupted, keeping my voice stern and fatherly, “And the car was red and white like the one in this picture?”

“Yeah,” the kid said, “Exactly. It had a foxtail on the antenna, real sharp.”

I was ecstatic. I took down their names and phone numbers and told them they were on their way to becoming heroes. The kids were somber with the gravity of their heroism. I solemnly shook hands with all three of them, then took off.

I found a pay phone on Hollywood Boulevard and got Eddie Engels’s telephone number from Information. I dialed it, and let it ring fifteen times. No answer. Night owl Eddie was on the prowl.

I drove back to the Strip, turned north on Horn Drive and parked across the street from his bungalow court. I dug around in my trunk for some makeshift burglar tools and found some old college drafting stuff — including a metal T-square with thin edges that looked as if it could snap a locking mechanism. Equipped with this and a flashlight, I walked toward the darkened courtyard.

This time I knew to look for “Engels” on Number 11. It was three bungalows down, on the left-hand side. All the lights were off. I pulled open a flimsy screen door, looked in both directions, then covertly flashed my light on the inner door and studied the mechanism. It was a simple snap-bolt job, so I got out my T-square, transferred the flashlight to the crook of my left arm, wedged the metal edge between lock and doorjamb and pushed. It was hard, but I persisted, almost snapping the blade of the T-square. Finally, there was a loud metallic ka-thack, and the door opened.