End of a Call Girl Page 2

  “That miserable Ryerson,” she fumed. “I didn’t think he’d know what to do with a girl. I should have been suspicious when he phoned for one.”

  “How did he happen to have your number, Dora?”

  “He’s done some work for me, income tax work.”

  “How about Jean’s friends?” I asked. “Is there any girl she’s particularly close to?”

  “The girl she lives with. The address is on that paper I gave you. She and I aren’t friends so I don’t know whether she lied to me or not when I phoned about Jean.” “Is this girl home during the day?”

  “Some days. She’s a model. Aren’t you going back to ask Ryerson why he lied?”

  “He just left for lunch. I’ll get back at him as soon as possible. I don’t want to waste any time waiting.”

  “Good boy, Puma. And keep my name out of it.”

  I didn’t promise that. I could try to, but I couldn’t promise I’d be successful. I climbed into the Plymouth and drove over to San Vicente Boulevard. In an eight-unit apartment building there, built around a blue tile pool, I found the apartment of Jean Talsman.

  And Mary Cefalu, the mailboxes in the lobby informed me. That would be a paisan, Mary Cefalu, and I hoped she would like me better than she did Dora.

  • • •

  She was a tall girl and thin. She had a thin face with brown eyes as big as Italian olives and a thin-lipped wide mouth. She probably wouldn’t qualify as pretty but she would attract all the truly masculine eyes within range. “My name is Puma,” I said.

  She stood in the doorway of her apartment and looked at me without interest. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “I guess not. I’m looking for Jean Talsman.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s missing. Do you know where she is?”

  “I think I do. You’re not the police, are you? God knows, you’re big enough to be.”

  “In a way, I’m a policeman,” I admitted, “though I’m licensed by the state.” I took out the photostat of my license.

  She looked at it and said, “A private detective. Good day to you, sir.” She started to close the door.

  “Wait!” I said sharply.

  She stood there, the door half closed.

  “I can come back with a policeman,” I explained, “and he’ll want to know what Jean was doing the night she disappeared. I’ll have to tell them all about the engagement she had. And you’ll make all the papers as her roommate. Now, Miss Cefalu, how much modeling work do you think you’ll get after that happens?”

  Her chin lifted. She looked like nothing below a duchess. “Are you presuming to threaten me, Mr. Puma?”

  “Believe me, paisan, I’m not. I’m leveling.”

  “Dora Diggert sent you, didn’t she? You’re working for her.”

  “At the moment. I’m in business for myself, not Mrs. Diggert.”

  She stood in the doorway appraising me in indecision for seconds. Then she said quietly, “Come in.”

  The apartment was furnished in wrought iron and glass and bright nubby fabrics. The dining area overlooked the pool.

  Mary Cefalu closed the door behind me and stood there, still skeptical. Then she asked, “Where are you from?”

  “Fresno, originally,” I answered. “Why?”

  “You have that — peasant look. I’m from Tulare, myself.”

  “And you have that princess look,” I said. “Well, that’s the way the mop flops.” I sighed.

  She laughed and the room seemed warmer. She said, “I’ve just put some coffee on. Would you like a cup?”

  “Thanks,” I said, and went over to sit at the wrought-iron and glass table in the dining area.

  She was in the kitchenette, reaching up for a cookie jar, when she said, “Dora and I don’t get along. I blame Dora for what happened to Jean.”

  “You know what happened to Jean?”

  She turned to stare at me. And then her face lightened. “Oh, I meant what happened — you know, why Jean got into — that line of work.”

  “I understand. Dora didn’t twist her arm, did she?”

  “No. But she introduced Jean to some of those cowtown billionaires and Jean is entirely too vulnerable to that kind of living.”

  “You mean she was used to living well?” “About as much as you and I are. But she had a brother who got involved with the Syndicate and he began to live high off the hog. She thought a lot of that brother.”

  “And she went to work for Dora in rebellion?” Mary Cefalu paused in the act of putting some cookies on a plate. “Maybe. You know, I never thought of it that way, but it could be …”

  She brought the cookies over. The electric percolator on the table was through perking and she poured us two cups of coffee.

  “Cream?” she asked. “Sugar?”

  “Neither, thank you,” I said. “You told me before that you thought you knew where Jean was. Has she been in touch with you?”

  “Not directly. Her brother phoned.”

  “Oh? And — ”

  “He was the man who was waiting for Jean at the Beverly Canyon Motel.” “God!” I said. “What’s the matter?”

  “I was just thinking of how horrible that must have been. Imagine going to an assignation and discovering it’s your brother waiting for you.”

  “He told me it was the only way he could get to talk with her. She hated him ever since he became a mobster. He thought the shame of her being discovered might make her listen to reason.”

  “He told you this on the phone?”

  Mary Cefalu nodded.

  “Do you know him? Did you recognize his voice?”

  She shook her head. “I never met him. Jean has told me about him. Why did you ask that?”

  “Because it means you can’t be sure it was her brother who phoned. What did he tell you?”

  “That he and Jean were going to Palm Springs for a couple of days.”

  “And why couldn’t you have told Dora Diggert that when she called?”

  Her thin face stiffened. “I wouldn’t tell Dora Diggert anything. I despise that woman!”

  I sipped my coffee and ate a cookie. I said, “It’s phoney. If Miss Talsman was going to Palm Springs, she would have come home for some clothes, first. And she would have phoned you.”

  “She did come home for some clothes,” Mary said. “That same night. I was out.”

  “In that case,” I said, “this seems like a voluntary disappearance.” I waited for her to look at me. “Do you think it is?”

  She nodded, looking at me doubtfully. “If I didn’t, I would have gone to the police yesterday.”

  The phone rang and she went to answer it. It was for me.

  It was Dora Diggert. “That redhead from Ryerson’s office just phoned me. You told her I’d sent you over there, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right. I thought it would help to get me in to see Ryerson if I used your name.”

  “Well, the girl says she didn’t tell the police you were sent by me. But she did tell them you talked with George this morning.”

  “The police — ? What are they bothering her about?”

  “Because George was just found dead, that’s why. He was murdered.”

  TWO

  DO THE POLICE know who did it?” “The girl didn’t say. And I imagine she has an angle in not giving them my name. The point is, Puma, can you keep my name out of it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I’ll try, Mrs. Diggert. I’d better call George’s office right now.”

  I hung up and looked at Mary Cefalu. I said quietly, “George Ryerson has been killed. I questioned him this morning and the police will want to know why.” She stared at me. “So — ?”

  “If I tell them I was employed by Dora Diggert to locate Jean the police will know what Jean is. Do you want them to know that?”

  She shook her head and continued to stare at me.

  “But if I tell them you hired me, as Jean’s roommate, the reasons why she went to the motel will never come out.”

  Mary asked, “You’d lie about that?”

  “Wouldn’t you, for Jean? Won’t you?”

  She nodded. “Of course.” She took a deep breath. “I’m a little frightened, though.”

  I smiled at her. “Paisan, so am I. May I use your phone?”

  She nodded absently and poured herself another cup of coffee.

  I phoned George Ryerson’s office and a voice I thought I recognized answered the phone.

  “Joe Puma,” I said efficiently, “calling George Ryerson.”

  “Is that so, Puma? And where are you now?”

  It sounded like Sergeant Lehner, but I couldn’t be sure. I asked, “To whom am I speaking?”

  “The law, Puma. Sergeant Lehner. Where are you now?”

  “At a client’s apartment,” I said. “Why?”

  “The client that sent you over here this afternoon?”

  “That’s right, Sergeant. A Miss Mary Cefalu.”

  “And what’s her connection with Ryerson?”

  “There isn’t any. Would you mind telling me what this is all about, Sergeant?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you. Give me your client’s address. And wait there for me.”

  I gave him Mary’s address and went back to the wrought-iron table. I sat down and poured another cup of coffee.

  Mary looked at me with a question in her eyes.

  I said, “At least one officer is coming here, a Sergeant Lehner.” I smiled reassuringly at her. “It’s very simple. Jean was missing and you hired me to find her. Jean is a model, though she hasn’t had much work in that field lately. The man she was to meet was a man named George Ryerson. But later, Jean’s brother phoned and told you what he did. All of it is the truth except for the simple switch of clients.”

  “And Dora Diggert gets off the hook,” Mary said bitterly.

  “We’re not thinking of her. We’re thinking of Jean, aren’t we? It’s only Dora’s good luck that we’re thinking of Jean in this.”

  She sighed. “I guess. But I don’t like it, somehow.”

  “It’s all the truth,” I insisted. “And you can tell them about Jean’s brother, his tie-up with the mobs if you like. Tell them all the truth except the truth that will hurt Jean.”

  She stood up and stretched her long, taut body. She looked down at me thoughtfully. “Can I trust you, Joe Puma?”

  “To the grave,” I said.

  She went to the kitchenette and came back with a bottle of Bushmills. “Join me?” I nodded.

  As she poured them, I said, “Remember, we don’t know George Ryerson is dead. If Dora hadn’t phoned, I wouldn’t have known it, and we don’t want her mentioned. So let them break that news.”

  “I’ll remember,” she said. She lifted her glass. “To luck.”

  We drank to that. We could use it in the next few hours.

  • • •

  Lehner came with another officer, but we never got to talk with him. Lehner did all the interrogating.

  Mary gave him her story honestly and completely except for the single lie about being my client.

  When she had finished, Lehner asked, “If her brother phoned, why were you still worried about her?”

  Mary said evenly, “For two reasons. First, her brother is a hoodlum and I didn’t like his story. And second, how could I be sure it was her brother?”

  Lehner’s thin, pugnacious face was bland. “I suppose you couldn’t. And how did Miss Talsman happen to know Mr. Ryerson?”

  “I have no idea. She has a number of friends we don’t share.”

  “I see. What … uh … business did you say you were in, Miss Cefalu?”

  “I didn’t say. I’m a model. Coats, suits and hands.”

  “Uh-huh. Could you give me the names of some of the agencies you work for?”

  Her chin lifted and her gaze was cool and candid. “Are you being insolent, Sergeant?” She was once more a countess.

  He shook his head, studying her quietly.

  She said in a cold, level voice, “I can give you the phone numbers of half a dozen major agencies I’ve worked for in the last two months. Would that be sufficient?”

  “That would be fine,” he said, and turned toward me. “Well, what’s your story?”

  “I was born in Fresno,” I began, “of poor but proud Italian parents in the year — ”

  “Don’t get smart, Puma,” he said. “I want to know why you went to see Ryerson.”

  “Miss Cefalu has told you. And before I tell you anything, Sergeant, I want to know why we’re being questioned. This is still America, despite your inflated opinion of yourself and your power.”

  The other man seemed to move closer. Lehner said softly, “Easy, Puma. You were never on my hit parade.”

  “A repugnance I reciprocate,” I answered. “Let’s go down to the station and talk to Captain Jeswald.”

  He stared and I stared and the other man muttered something. Finally, Lehner said, “I suppose it’s your size that’s made you so arrogant.”

  “My size and cops like you,” I admitted.

  “Officers,” he corrected me.

  “Officers like you,” I said. “No matter what you may think of me, Sergeant, I’m still a citizen and helping to pay your salary. I think I warrant your respect.”

  He stared some more. If I had been fifty pounds lighter I might have been frightened.

  Finally, he said, “Ryerson’s dead.”

  “Murdered?”

  He nodded.

  “All right,” I said. I settled back in my chair. “I was one of his visitors today. I asked him what business he’d had with Jean Talsman and he claimed he didn’t even know her. I asked him if he had phoned her for one of his clients and he admitted that might be true. That was all he’d tell me.”

  “I see. And where was this engagement supposed to have taken place?”

  I told him about the motel and my trip out there and the information I’d garnered from the desk clerk. And finished by saying, “So naturally I came back here to find out from Miss Cefalu if Jean’s brother fit the description the desk clerk gave me of this man.”

  He looked at Mary. “Is there any picture of her brother around?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” she answered. “There might be, in one of her drawers.”

  Lehner’s sardonic face turned my way again. “Was Ryerson registered at the motel?”

  “Not by that name. Under the name of George Reimers.”

  He smiled cynically. “And the girl is a model, you say, like Miss Cefalu here?”

  “I never compared her with Miss Cefalu,” I said stiffly. “I never met her.”

  He stood up. “Well, with your permission, Miss Cefalu, we’ll check the apartment for a picture of this brother. You may do it under our guidance if you prefer.”

  “Or you can refuse to,” I explained to her, “unless they bring a warrant.”

  Lehner didn’t look at me as he said, “That’s correct.”

  “I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ve nothing to hide.”

  They went into the bedroom, leaving the other man with me. He sat down at the table and brought out a crumpled cigarette package. It was empty. He sighed.

  I threw my pack across to him and said, “There’s still some coffee. Want a cup?”

  He glanced toward the other room and then smiled at me. “I guess.” He picked up the cigarettes. “You and the sergeant aren’t buddies, are you?”

  “Even in the Department,” I said, “he hasn’t got any buddies.” I poured him some coffee.

  “You could be right,” he said sadly, “and it’s a damned shame. Because he’s a very competent man.”

  “That’s not enough, not today,” I answered. “The bedside manner is important, too, today. You’re new to plainclothes, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “How’d you guess?”

  “All the uniformed men are so polite in this town. It still sticks with you a little.”

  “Don’t butter me, Puma,” he said with a grin. “I don’t like private men any more than he does.”

  I didn’t argue with him. I asked, “How did Ryerson get it, and where?”

  He frowned and glanced again toward the other room.

  “For God’s sake,” I said, “it will be in all the papers in another half hour.”

  He smiled. “You can wait, then.”

  I leaned back and smoked and ignored him. He smoked my cigarette and drank Mary’s coffee and ignored me.

  George might have been a Syndicate kill but the Syndicate kills these days were very rare and never over the fate of a call girl. It would more likely be due to some shenanigans of George with the account of some maverick hood. The big boys can make all the money they need by using lawyers and accountants instead of torpedoes. Las Vegas had set up the new semi-legal criminal element, the smooth boys who looked almost like human beings and who paid fifty thousand a week for single entertainers in their legalized clip-joints.

  But to get back to my problem, the death of George Ryerson might possibly have nothing to do with the disappearance of Jean Talsman. The whole mix-up could have been simply an unfortunate coincidence.

  Though for some reason I doubted that.

  And the redhead …? She had told me she’d never heard of Dora Diggert. Then how could she have phoned her at an unlisted number? She must have lied when we first met. Because Ryerson had done some income tax work for Dora and the redhead looked like one of those efficient girls who don’t forget a client’s name.

  • • •

  Sergeant Lehner came back into the room with Mary. He said to the other officer, “Nothing in there. And Miss Cefalu tells me there is no photograph anywhere in this room. We’ll go out to that motel.” He looked at me. “Come down and make out your report at your convenience, Mr. Puma. Any time within the next hour will be soon enough.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant,” I said. “Remember me to the Captain.”

  “That I will,” he promised. “I’ll tell him all about you.”

  They left and Mary stood at the open doorway, staring at me. Then she closed the door and began to cry.

  “Have another snort of that Bushmill’s,” I suggested. “Jean could be perfectly all right. This might have nothing to do with Jean.”