Night Lady Read online

  NIGHT

  LADY

  WILLIAM CAMPBELL GAULT

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Run, Killer, Run

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  Copyright

  ONE

  THE THING you want to remember about wrestlers is that they are not always as virile as they look. It’s a trade that appeal to the narcissist. And from self-admiration it’s only a step to love of like for like.

  And love of like for like can lead a man into something as socially respectable as Rotary or something as socially repugnant as homosexuality. A distressing number of those groaning, sweating monsters you see hamming it up in the ring have lace-edged spats and colorful silk underwear hanging in their lockers.

  Muscles do not make the man, even when they impress the woman.

  I was never a wrestling fan, so I had never heard of Adonis Devine. Even if I had heard of him, I wouldn’t have believed it. Would you believe anybody could be named Adonis Devine?

  That’s the name he gave me when he dropped in at my office one overcast morning. He didn’t look too bulky in his street clothes and his face was pure, clean, new-coin Greek. He was an extremely handsome man.

  The current pitch with these freaks is pseudo-intelligence, and they enunciate their awkwardly pretentious speech clearly and painfully. I couldn’t understand why I disliked him on sight; if I had been a woman, I would have gone over the desk, lusting for him.

  He told me his manager was missing, a man named Duncan Guest.

  “Did he take any loot with him?” I asked.

  He frowned. “I don’t quite comprehend you, Mr. Puma,” he said.

  “If he’s missing,” I pointed out, “it could follow that he’d have reason to be missing, wouldn’t it? He wouldn’t blow without tapping the till, would he?”

  He continued to frown. He said nothing.

  “Aren’t you comprehending me?” I asked him.

  He shook his head.

  “Who handled the money?”

  “I handled all the money. Duncan is … well, shall we say, unknowing about things commercial?”

  “You can say it if you want to,” I agreed, “though it’s stilted and silly phraseology. I can still hear your adenoidal overtones, Mr. Devine; go back to your Cedar Rapids dialect.”

  He smiled softly. “You’re being rude, aren’t you? You’re giving me an excuse to break your back.”

  “I’m not trying to be rude,” I said patiently, “but a relationship between a private investigator and a client is a tricky one. In order for it to be successful, it requires an exceptional honesty. Shall we start over from where you came in?”

  His smile didn’t dim. “All right. I get into bad habits, being interviewed on TV. Duncan Guest is a bad manager but a good friend. He hasn’t been seen around town for two days and I’m afraid something might have happened to him.”

  “Have you notified the police?”

  He shook his head slowly.

  “Why not?”

  I thought he colored. He stared at the top of my desk.

  I asked gently, “Does your relationship with Mr. Guest go beyond business?”

  He took a deep breath and shook his head again. “I’m a man, Mr. Puma. I’m all man.”

  “Oh?” I paused. “A recent victory?”

  He paused, too. And then nodded. “After a long and expensive succession of fifty-minute hours. And if you should ever repeat that, I would break your back. I’m not joking.”

  “I wouldn’t think of repeating it,” I said. “But if we’re going to get along, don’t threaten me. I don’t scare that easily.”

  His smile came back. “Mr. Leonard told me that. He’s the man who recommended you.”

  “All right, then,” I continued, “you’re cured. How about Guest?”

  “He has always been — more or less normal. I mean, he lived with me, understand, but he had plenty of dates with women and he didn’t take them out just for their dialogue.”

  “He doesn’t sound like an admirable character,” I said. “Was he bleeding you?”

  “Never,” he said. “Believe me, Duncan always paid his own way. He used to bet on the matches.”

  “Now wait,” I said, “who’d bet on wrestling matches? You’re not going to tell me that some matches aren’t fixed, are you?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “But to answer your first question, fans will bet on wrestling matches. There are fans, Mr. Puma, who will get very indignant if you suggest that the outcome of any match is prearranged.”

  ‘All right,” I said. “I’ve seen their faces on TV. I’ll accept that for the moment. Let’s get back to Guest — he was living with you; he left. Did he take his clothes?”

  Devine shook his head. “That’s why I’m worried about him.”

  “But you didn’t go to the police because … well, because of involved relationships they might investigate?”

  “That’s correct, Mr. Puma.” I leaned back in my chair and studied him. He returned my stare.

  I asked as politely as possible, “Do you think he left because you — were cured?”

  Some slight color in his face again. “No. We were friends, good friends, beyond — anything like that.”

  “He’s never left like this before without telling you where he was going?”

  “Never.”

  I studied him some more.

  After a minute of it, he said, “You don’t believe half of what I’m telling you, do you?”

  “I find it difficult to believe you would pay to have this Duncan Guest searched for. Why should you? What is he to you, now?”

  “Look, when I first came out here, fresh out of college, we roomed together. We starved together. I’d been a cow college fullback, and I tell you I was green. Working at Douglas as a lousy assembler and getting nowhere fast. Duncan dreamed up the wrestling bit, dreamed up my name, conned the promoters into giving me a break — ”

  “I thought he didn’t have any business sense.”

  “He’s got promotional sense. He hasn’t got any money sense. He knows how to make it, but not how to save it. And he’s a sucker for a certain type of women.”

  “What type?”

  “The blasé, the cynical, the hard-to-get. They were a challenge to Duncan Guest.”

  I asked, “Do you have a picture of him?”

  “Not with me. At home. I can get it to you in an hour.”

  I sat and thought.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Don’t you need the business?”

  “I need it. And I need the respect of the Police Department or I don’t stay in business long. My license is issued by the state but my success depends on local co-operation. Why don’t you report Guest’s disappearance to Missing Persons?”

  “You know why. We discussed that.” He stood up. “There are other investigators.”

  He was halfway to the door when I said, “I’ll go with you to get the picture. By the way, what’s your real name?”

  He turned around. “Clarence Kutchenreuter. Why?”

  I smiled. “Guest did give you a better one, didn’t he? Though a wrestler named Clarence Kutchenreuter would be a refreshing change. Is that German?”

  “Right. Good Iowa German. And look at me now.”

  “It’s a strange business,” I agreed. “I would
have sworn you were Greek.”

  He drove his car to his apartment and I followed him in mine. His apartment was at the eastern end of the Strip, an expensive apartment, expensively furnished and decorated, with a view of the city. This wrestling dodge was obviously paying Mr. Kutchenreuter very well.

  There he gave me two pictures of Duncan Guest. One was a portrait, head and shoulders, and the other was a snapshot taken at the beach, Muscle Beach.

  Duncan Guest was a well-built man and handsome in an arrogant and pugnacious way. With the pictures, Adonis gave me a list of places where Guest could be inquired about. One I recognized as a hang-out for the bulging bicep monsters and another as a haven for the lavender lads. He gave me some names and two hundred dollars.

  I was not happy about the job. But in my trade, we don’t get the clean jobs. Those go to the Police Department. The people who hire private men have reasons why they can’t enjoy the free municipal service. Some of the reasons are never revealed but I try to learn as many of them as I can. For my still-conscious conscience, battered though it is.

  At Harry’s Harlequin Bar, the fat and swarthy man behind the mahogany shook his head when I inquired about Duncan Guest. “Haven’t seen Dunk in three days,” he told me. “Who’s looking for him?”

  “I am.”

  He studied my card. “It says here ‘Joseph Puma-Investigations, Credit Reports.’ Something wrong with Dunk’s credit?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “So you’re working for somebody who misses him. Would the guy be blond and lavender?”

  “He could be blond. What disturbs you about that?”

  “I figured it for Adonis.”

  “So what?”

  “Adonis is no friend of mine. I wouldn’t help him find a collar button. He ain’t been in here for a month.”

  “And your friends have to be customers, eh? Maybe Adonis has given up joints like this.”

  “What did you mean by that crack, mister? What did you mean by joints like this?”

  “We both know,” I said. “Let’s not quibble.”

  He put his hands on the bar and stared at me. “I used to wrestle a little. I could throw you right through that window there with no trouble at all.”

  I shook my head. “And don’t try it. Live in your memories, lard-butt. They’re safe and soft and kind. Well, maybe you’ll be more polite to the police when they ask you about Guest.”

  He nodded toward the booth. “There’s the phone — call ‘em.”

  I didn’t bite. This was Santa Monica and I was not in good standing at the S.M.P.D. I said, “I don’t have to. My client will.”

  He laughed. “Adonis? They know all about him. A lot of co-operation he’ll get from the Santa Monica Department.”

  I shrugged. I said genially, “Good-bye, Harry Harlequin. Watch your weight and your tongue and you’ll be all right.” I left him glaring.

  Muscle Beach wasn’t far; I drove over there. The sun had broken through the overcast and the freaks were gamboling on the sand. Ugly with bunched muscle, tanned to a golden brown, they frolicked and postured, self-conscious and arrogant.

  The sight of them was disturbing enough. But it was the pulchritude of their audience that bothered me most. Lovely and shapely girls in tight, brief swimsuits sat on the sidelines and simpered. How could they admire these monsters?

  The thin, freckled man behind the counter of the hamburger stand seemed glad to see a man in street clothes. “What’ll it be?” he asked with a smile.

  “A couple cheeseburgers and some coffee.” I took a stool and looked out at the kelp-strewn beach. “Not many here, are there? I suppose the sun will bring them out this afternoon.”

  He slid two pats of meat onto the griddle. “Not at this end of the beach. The solid citizens stay away from here. Just the muscle-men and their fans hang around here.”

  “How about Adonis Devine?” I asked. “Does he hang around here?”

  “Not lately. You a fan of his?”

  “Not exactly,” I answered. “What sort of a fellow is he?”

  The freckled man frowned and went to the refrigerator for two slices of cheese. “I don’t know — ” He shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, some of those mammoths out there are okay — solid citizens in a nice fat racket. And I always liked Devine. It’s just — you know, a guy gets sick of looking at the same thing all the time.

  “I know. How about a man named Duncan Guest? Ever hear of him?”

  The man flipped the pats of meat over and put the cheese on the cooked side. “Hell, yes. Dunk and I play chess right there on the counter real often. He’s okay, that Dunk. Once in a while I get a feeling he’s double-gaited, but I don’t think of it any more than I can help.”

  “Double-gaited?”

  He turned to study me. “Am I talking Greek?”

  I shrugged. “I’m one of those big virile wops. I don’t know much about the weirdies.”

  He sliced two rolls. “I meant Duncan gets along with the boys and the girls. He had a girl in here the other night that made you weak just to look at her. And class, I mean real class, Beverly Hills class.”

  “Oh?” I paused. “Nothing personal, I mean — you’ve got a nice spot here, but it’s not classy, right?”

  He smiled. He put my cheeseburgers together and slid them onto a plate. “Right. And you wonder why Dunk would bring a Beverly Hills broad here?”

  “Well, yes-”

  He added sliced pickles and potato chips to the plate. “Dunk and I are good friends, real good friends.”

  “You knew he was living with Adonis Devine, didn’t you?”

  The freckled man looked at me steadily. “I knew that. Lots of guys live together and there’s nothing wrong with it. Dunk brought the girl here to introduce her to his good friend.”

  “So all right already,” I said. “You don’t have to get hot about it.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay.” He put the food in front of me and went to get the coffee. He paused and turned back. “What did you mean he was living with Devine? Isn’t he any more?”

  “Not for a couple of days. Devine hired me to look for him.”

  The man stared at me. “Dunk’s missing? Matter of fact, he hasn’t been around since night before last, at that.”

  “That would be Tuesday night,” I said. “Devine hasn’t seen him since Tuesday morning.”

  “He didn’t come home Tuesday night?”

  “Evidently not.”

  The man brought my coffee and stood staring out at the sea. Finally, he turned to face me. “I know about a place Dunk’s got, a little apartment over a garage near here.”

  “A place of his own?”

  “That’s right. He used to use it when he had a broad on the line. I’ve used it myself a couple times. He didn’t want to take any broads to Devine’s place. I never let myself wonder why.”

  “Give me the address,” I said.

  “I’ll do better than that,” he told me. “I’ve got a key, too. But don’t use it until you ring the bell for a long time, huh? He might be shacked up.”

  “I’ll be discreet,” I promised. “What kind of car does he drive?”

  “A gray Austin Healey. You figure if you see the car, he should be there, huh?”

  “In this town,” I said, “natch.”

  It was a four-car garage, bleached and weather-stained stucco, bordering the beach in Venice. I looked through a small and grimy window and saw the Austin Healey parked at the far end. The three stalls between it and the window were vacant.

  On the side of the garage next to the wooden, outside stairs there were three names, none of them Duncan Guest. The names were the occupants of apartments one, two and three. I went up the stairs and along the open wooden runway to apartment four.

  I rang the bell and heard no stirring from within.

  I rang it again, and the door to apartment three opened and a slim girl with reddish-blonde hair came out with a shopping basket.
/>   I asked, “Does Duncan Guest live here?”

  She nodded. “I don’t think he’s home, though. I haven’t heard a sound from that place since Tuesday night. Dunk — I mean, Mr. Guest doesn’t stay there all the time.”

  “I know,” I said. “But his car is downstairs in the garage.”

  She stared at me, frowning. She shrugged and went along the runway. She went around the corner and I heard her footsteps going down the stairs.

  I waited for a few minutes after that before using the key Freckles had given me to unlock the door.

  The apartment consisted of a living room, a kitchenette-dinette combination and a bathroom. Duncan Guest was in the bathroom.

  He was on the floor in there, staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t seeing anything. His throat had been effectively sliced. There was a razor blade on the floor near one outstretched hand.

  TWO

  IN A HOT and airless room of the Venice Station of the Los Angeles Police Department, Sergeant Macrae glowered at me across a desk. He was a tall, thin man with a sour Scotch face and he glowered well.

  “So the man didn’t answer and you opened the door. How?”

  “With a key given to me by the proprietor of a hamburger stand at Muscle Beach.”

  “All right. Why?”

  “Why did I open the door? Well, Guest’s car was down in the garage. His business associate was worried about him. He was missing. Isn’t it logical I’d open the door?”

  “It might be logical, but it sure as hell wasn’t legal.”

  “Oh yes it was, Sergeant. I was given the key by a man who had permission to use the apartment. By giving me the key, he also gave me permission.”

  Macrae was silent a moment, glaring at me.

  “You know I’m right,” I said.

  “Permission to use the apartment for what, Puma?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “You’d have to ask him. I just wanted to go in and look around.”

  “And how about this Greek?”

  “What Greek?”

  “The wrestler, Adonis. Why didn’t he take his business to Missing Persons?”

  “You’d have to ask him. He’s not Greek; he’s German.” I lighted a cigarette. “His real name is Clarence Kutchenreuter.”

  “Don’t try to be funny, Puma.”