Built for Trouble (5 page)

“So where does that leave us?” Nola asked quietly.

“Where? Strictly up the creek, minus oars. Next question.”

“How—how far up the creek? What did you have in mind?” Nola asked. “It’s a shakedown, of course, but there
is
a certain nuisance factor here.”

“Not shakedown, just business,” I insisted.

“So how do we know you’ve got the damn thing?” Joe asked. He was trying to sound careless, but it wasn’t going very well. Nola picked an imaginary speck from her knee and put the fish hooks out for another try.

“You realize, Mr. Baker, that this is all rather sketchy. You’d have to have a great deal more to—to go on than you’ve given us if you expect this to have any real value.”

Now it was my turn to fish, but I wasn’t going to watch Nola. She had had some time on the stage and would be able to cover; I wanted to see how Joe Lamb rolled with the punch.

“What you want to know,” I said, “is whether or not I can prove you killed Hank Sawyer. That it?”

Joe’s eyes widened and the cigarette he’d been drawing on suddenly lost its glow as his breath caught in his throat. He swallowed once quickly, then bounced up off the sofa and pointed a shaking finger at me.

“Baker, you’re nuts! Stark, raving nuts! You haven’t a damn thing to go on at any point along the line and—”

“Hold it,” I said. Nola had a cool smile in place now, something almost amused, but it was a damn good guess that the wheels were turning hard and fast under that head of black hair. I went to the window, looked toward the green lawn and pool outside, and began to take a quick count of the progress. In a way Joe was right; I didn’t have much on Hank’s passing but a guess. And there was a long mile to go before I’d be able to prove anything. For one thing, I still wasn’t ready to believe that he was killed for what he knew about the phony rescue, and that led directly to the next point. What did he know? How could I find out? And what would I do if I did find out?

I needed time to work things around. Joe had asked how he could be sure I had the beer tin. It gave me an opening.

“Let’s take things as they come,” I said, turning back to the two of them. “You don’t think I’ve even got the Lucky Lager can? Fair enough; I’ll prove possession. Nola, give me an earring or a pin, something that’s unique, something only you would have. I’ll photograph it against your beer can and bring the picture. Then you’ll know damn well I’ve got the can and could turn it over to you at any time. When you’re sure I can deliver the goods we’ll get together on a settlement and—”

“We aren’t holding still for any pay-off,” Joe barked, but Nola seemed not to have heard. Her face grew thoughtful as she pointed her cigarette at me. “Naturally, Mr. Baker, you’ve worked out how all of these transactions will be handled.”

“Damn right. But at the moment, that part of the program isn’t pressing us any. Let’s just say that I realize my
modus operandi
is a little risky and that I’ve taken steps accordingly. Now how about an earring or some such thing?”

Nola reached one hand to her ear, then frowned and nodded slowly. “We can go at least that far without admitting a thing, I would imagine. Joe, suppose we go into the bedroom and select a trinket suitable for the picture. Will you excuse us, Mr. Baker.”

“Don’t horse around all day,” I said sharply. “I’ve got work to do.”

“You have other clients, Mr. Baker?” Nola asked.

“Never mind the humor,” I said grimly. “Let’s get on with the show.”

They were gone several minutes. When they came back, Joe fingered an ivory earring, a drop job with the dangling part carved in what looked like Chinese writing. He tossed it to me, and Nola sat down on the sofa, then forlornly cradled her head in her hands. Joe put a hand on her shoulder, then followed me to the door.

“Take it easy, Nola,” he said, his hand on the knob. “We’ll work it out somehow.

“And don’t call me; I’ll call you,” I said, and went out. Joe closed the door and tagged along, all the way through to the street before he caught my arm.

“Just a second, Baker,” he said stiffly. I stopped and looked down at him. “A little friendly advice: don’t push your luck. Maybe you can squeeze a few lousy bucks out of the kid on the strength of your nuisance value, but don’t try to go big. You’ll sure as hell wind up in jail.”

“You’re full of holes,” I said. “In the first place, she isn’t a kid. She’s all of twenty-eight and in full possession of her faculties. This isn’t a nuisance, it’s a hundred and fifty thousand dollars worth of publicity, and I’m not going to any jail; I’m going to collect a lot of dough. Now take off.”

I stood by the Ford and waited until Lamb got into his car. It was last year’s Plymouth sedan, ice blue and a nice wagon, but he didn’t dig out. He stalled a few minutes with a cigarette and then carefully worked the car out of his parking spot. When he drove past he didn’t give me a second look. I whistled softly and got into my hack.

It wasn’t hard to figure. Parking for the apartment building was down under the far end, and the entrance was on the back street. Nola had held up beautifully until the last, then put on the sad act with her head in her hands. But it was an easy guess that she had recovered and headed for her car to tail me the second her door closed. Why else would Joe Lamb stall around and talk to Eddie Baker?

I fired up the Ford, pulled out into the traffic on Los Feliz, and drove slowly in the right-hand lane, carefully going over the cars behind me in my rear-view mirror. When I made a right turn at Hillhurst, three cars in the block of traffic behind followed me in the turn. I swung right again at Kingswell, a small street, and two of the hacks in the string continued on down Hillhurst. Only one, an MG, made the corner with me, and it was keeping well back. All I could see was a head in a scarf of some kind, but when I went left and started south on Vermont Avenue, I still had company.

It’s a big city, L.A., and losing her wasn’t going to be any great chore, but I had to be sure I did lose her. I didn’t want anyone walking in on me while I had that Lucky Lager can in my possession, and taking a picture of it was going to run into time. I drove slowly along Vermont, turning over possibilities as I went, and when the pattern began to form, I increased my speed a bit. The MG was over a block behind and fell back, then picked up a few miles per hour and closed up once more. I headed for Jefferson Boulevard, turned left, whipped over to Flower Street, and pulled to a stop. The MG eased over to the curb a block back, the girl in a scarf still behind the wheel.

I WASTED A COUPLE OF MINUTES at the wheel, then got out and raised the hood, looked under it for a moment, and went back to reach into the dashboard area. I stood in the street for a second or two, then went back to lean on a fender and peer at the engine. When I figured the breakdown was pretty well established, I slammed the hood down and wiped my hands on a handkerchief. Hailing the first cab that came along, I got in and pointed down Flower Street.

“Run down to Washington Boulevard and swing onto the freeway headed south,” I said.

“Sure, Mac. And then where?”

“Manchester,” I said. It was a long way down and would hold him until I changed orders. I peeked out the back window and saw the MG trailing along about a block and a half behind.

Traffic was light; it was early afternoon. We wheeled right at Washington, then circled up the ramp and onto the freeway. The cab picked up speed and, checking the rear, I saw the little open car bob up behind us.

“Look,” I told the cabbie, “there’s a bus zone, a turnout for passenger unloading, about Jefferson Boulevard and—”

“Now wait a second, doc!” The driver half turned in his seat and we began to slow. “I can’t let no fares out there. It’s another half mile up to where I can get off the freeway and this meter’s going to run—”

“The hell with the meter,” I said, and tossed two singles onto the seat beside him. “Just swing over to the side and let me out at the stairway. Perfectly legal; I’m paying you for all the way to Manchester and then some.”

“That makes it different,” he said, gathering in my cash, and a few minutes later we eased into the right lane and then out onto the bus loading zone. I jumped out and the cab sped away. Just before I started down the concrete steps I turned, and as the MG rolled slowly past, I grinned at her. Nola couldn’t park here, and there was no place to stop; all she could do was run on to the next exit. As her bug began to gather speed, I waved and blew her a kiss.

Taking the steps two at a time, I made Flower Street, crossed the intersection, jumped into my Ford, and barreled away.

But I didn’t drive down to Union Station. There really was no point in picking up the beer tin; it was clear that the can alone wasn’t going to open the golden gates.

I wiggled through the traffic, swung over to Echo Park, walked over to the edge of the water, and flopped down on the grass to think. I’d been wrong once and right once. Wrong because I had over-estimated the value of exposing the publicity stunt. Sure it would embarrass her—Nola’s taking the trouble to tail me proved that—and it would cost a few dollars at the box office when
Island Love
was released, but it wouldn’t be fatal to Nola’s career. Thinking back, I could remember half a dozen stars who had outlived worse messes than that. But I was sure I was right with my guess about Hank Sawyer being murdered. Joe Lamb’s face had seemed an instant and positive answer. An answer, but not proof and proof was the thing I had to come up with next. What had Nola been hinting at when she said I’d need a great deal more to go on? What was missing? What did Hank Sawyer have on Nola that Eddie Baker didn’t have?

I loafed away a couple of hours there in the park and came up with two solid conclusions. First, whatever it was that Nola was trying to protect against was still around and still worrying her. Second, I wasn’t going to advance the ball an inch until I found out what it was.

I decided I’d have to do some careful checking at Hank Sawyer’s place.

When I turned into the alley at Hank’s place, I drove very slowly past his garage. I hadn’t noticed the lock closely before but I gave it my full attention now. Not very big. One of those laminated steel jobs and dulled with the grease of many handlings. This was going to be easy, much easier, anyway, than trying to distract the landlady and get Hank’s key at the same time.

I drove on out to the street, swung over to the hardware store, and bought a similar lock. It only took a few seconds to lift the hood of the Ford and rub a little dirty grease on my new lock. Then I drove to a service station, bought some gas, scrubbed the grease off of my hands, and went back to see the lady who owned Hank’s apartment. She came to the door in a bathrobe again, a pair of slippers flopping at her heels.

“Sorry to bother you again,” I said quickly, “but it will only take a moment. The company sent me out to have a second look at those power tools Mr. Sawyer bought.”

She sighed heavily, reached toward the side, and brought out her key tied to the stick. “Lord a’mighty. You insurance people never rest,” she complained.

“That’s right,” I agreed. She pulled the robe a little tighter around her and we went down the walk, into the alley, past the garages for two other places, and stopped behind Sawyer’s garage door. When she lifted her key I quickly took it out of her hand.

“Here, I’ll do that,” I said. I turned the key, opened the lock, handed the key back to her, and lifted the door. As it went up I turned sideways to hide the switch, dipped into my pocket, dropped Hank’s lock, and brought out the one I’d just bought. I hung it on the hasp and went toward the two new pieces of equipment standing amid the clutter.

“Won’t take long,” I said briskly. Slipping a card and pencil out of my pocket, I jotted down the numbers on the tags of the lathe and drill press.

“That’s all,” I said, moving toward the door. I glanced up and saw that the house key was still there.

“Heaven help us! You dragged a body clear over here for that? I’d think you could have phoned Sears Roebuck and asked them the—”

“I don’t like it either, lady,” I cut in. She’d caught me short; I didn’t want to try to explain it away. “The boss said go out and check and that’s what I have to do.”

We stepped outside. I lowered the garage door and snapped home the lock.
My
lock, and the key was in my pocket; now all I needed was darkness and a flashlight.

It was getting on toward midnight and my nerves were beginning to jump. I had a small flashlight in one jacket pocket and a couple of spare batteries and some thumbtacks in the other as I walked softly down the alley toward Hank’s garage. This was new work for me, strictly amateur night, but it had to be done. The houses on each side were dark. I slipped the key into the padlock, raised the door enough to duck under, and eased it back down again.

It took a few seconds to locate the house key. When I had it I listened for footsteps along the alley, heard nothing, and let myself out of the garage. Up the side stairway, into the house as silently as possible, and the worst part was over. I went into the bedroom, caught up a couple of blankets, pulled the shades, used my thumbtacks to fasten blankets over each window for better blackout, and snapped on my flash.

Not much had changed since the morning I’d been here to use the phone. The panel of pin-ups was still in place; the five bare spots I had noticed and that the newspapers had mentioned were still obvious.

And then it hit me.

I went toward the collection of cheesecake, my flashlight playing over the pictures. Suppose those five missing shots had been Nola Norton. Sure, they’d have to come off of the wall when Hank entered into this little swindle. Some of the boys had seen his display of art. He could figure that no one would be likely to
recall
that some of these pix were Nola when the publicity broke, but he’d damn well know that if any of the lifeguards happened up here and saw them later there would be recognition. Recalling a picture or a face is often hard, but it doesn’t take a genius to do pretty well on recognizing a person once a picture is in front of him.

So maybe he ripped them off and burned them—unless they were a clue to whatever he had over Nola that might push her to murder—something far more damaging than a gimmicked beer tin and an exposed publicity stunt; something Nola could have been talking about when she put out the feeler to see if I had any evidence other than the Lucky Lager can.

The answers to a lot of my problems might be quickly solved if I could find the pictures.

In the next hour I turned up nothing of importance. A dresser drawer contained an album of pictures, almost all of Hank himself. None were of Nola. By two o’clock I had decided that if the police were unable to find those pictures, and they had looked, probably I wouldn’t either. But they weren’t looking especially hard—this wasn’t more than an accidental death so far, and since they had already combed the apartment, maybe my time would be better spent in the garage. Maybe Hank figured that Nola might make a forage through the house. At any rate I couldn’t do any worse in the garage. I snapped off the light, pulled down the blankets, rolled them up, checked the alley for stray citizens, and carried the blankets down to the garage.

By three o’clock my score was still zero. Working against time and daylight, I turned over boxes, sorted through drawers, poked through the debris, and pulled things off of shelves. By four o’clock I was getting desperate, and along about then I remembered that photographs aren’t always stored flat; they can be rolled. I went to work with renewed vigor, shining my light into the ends of the pieces of iron pipe scattered around. I checked the cans of nails along the wall.

It was almost five when I flashed my light down the open end of the heavy steel shaft of the old drill press. Something glittered and I fished it out—a package wrapped in aluminum foil. I stripped away the wrappings and looked at the pictures. I flattened the first one out on the workbench. A younger Nola Norton—at least ten years younger. Seventeen or eighteen years old probably. Not filled out quite as nicely as the present edition, but still Nola. Her hair was short. A bob job, and honey colored. And all five pictures had one thing in common—they were carefully posed cheesecake.

We were getting there now. I couldn’t see outside but the darkness was due to fade into a gray dawn before long. I didn’t have a lot of time to waste but I rolled the pix back up, put them into a pocket, and pushed the facts around for a few minutes. Either Hank had known her a long time or he’d come onto something out of her past. He came from Oceanside. Or at least when he got lubricated at the only shindig we’d held, he had talked some about the rough rip tides he’d worked down there. And if I was going to try to run that down, I might as well go with all the ammunition I could get.

Glancing around, I decided to leave the blankets down here. Time was important. I kicked the blanket aside, snapped off my light, slipped out of the garage, and hurried up the side stairs. Letting myself into the house again, I went to the bedroom, jerked open the dresser drawer, and pulled out the photograph album once more. Ten years ago. I’d have to guess at it. I cupped the light over the book and turned pages until I found a couple of snapshots of Hank which I judged to be about the right vintage. I stripped them off and slipped them into a pocket. Seconds later I went down the steps, stopped long enough to switch the garage lock back to the one Hank had used, locked it, and hurried down the alley to where I’d left the Ford.

The next stop was Oceanside.

I turned off of the Coast Highway in Oceanside and drove down to the beach. It was already getting warm and there were quite a few people scattered over the sand. Parking the car, I fished out the five shots of Nola and the two of Hank Sawyer, picked the best one for each in terms of how well the face could be seen, and put the others away.

Ten years at least, maybe twelve; there wouldn’t be any point in talking to any of the younger lifeguards. I pulled off my shoes and socks like a good tourist, went down to the beach, and began to wander toward the pier. The first couple of lifeguards I passed had probably been in junior high school when Sawyer lived in Oceanside; I didn’t even stop. The next fellow had a sun-bleached mustache, a couple of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and a little excess weight. I stopped to ask about rip tides, got a short but accurate description of what actually happens, and then zeroed in.

“Been around this beach a long time, I guess,” I said, and offered smokes. He nodded and took one.

“Just summers. About the last nine years.”

A little short, according to my best guess, but still worth a try. I hauled out the pair of pictures. “Know either of these people? They used to live here.”

He held up the photographs and glanced briefly at Hank, then gave his attention to Nola. After several seconds, he shook his head.

“No, can’t say I do.” Then he grinned and looked at Nola once more. “Wouldn’t mind knowing one of them, though. You a private eye or something?”

“Insurance adjuster,” I said, and jerked a thumb up the beach. “Anyone on the crew that’s been around a little longer? Like a dozen years or more?”

“Sure. Carl’s been on the beach longer than that.”

“Where’s his station?”

“He’s in charge. You’ll find him running around in the red jeep, most likely.”

“Thanks,” I said, and moved on up the beach. I walked out on the pier and tried a few men working fishing gear at the end, but without success, and then I took a turn farther north along the beach. No luck, but when I came down off of the pier ramp there was a red lifeguard jeep parked by a hamburger stand near the beach. I climbed onto a stool next to the man in red trunks, ordered a burger without and a cup of coffee, dropped a ten-dollar bill on the counter, and turned to the lifeguard. He was tan and muscled but his face was getting weather-worn. His hair was red and cut in a tight butch, probably to make less obvious the thin spot creeping in.

“How’s business?” I asked, and smiled.

“Good. There hasn’t been any for a few days and that’s just the way we like it.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said. We made small talk for a minute or so and then I asked, “You Carl?”

“That’s right.” He looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

“Know either of these kids?” I asked, and slid the photographs in front of him. He wiped his hands on his red trunks, then picked up the pictures. He didn’t much more than glance at them and then he gave me a long look.