Death in Donegal Bay (11 page)

It was still light when we arrived at the Detterwalds’ house three houses north of Marilyn’s unsold Colonial. Duane explained to Daphne that he was taking me down to show me some investment property on the beach.

“I talked with Mike,” he told me, as we went down the steep winding road. “I got nowhere. Jesus, that dago is dumb!”

“It might be time,” I suggested, “to review old loyalties.”

“That could be,” he admitted. “We’re a long way from high school. We got along well when Mike was Mr. Big. But after Duke Ellis put a stop to his career and I started to make a few bucks, I began to get the feeling that Mike resented me.”

“Maybe he found out that you were the man who warned Felicia not to put the restaurant in his name.”

“No. Only Felicia and I knew that, and she wouldn’t tell him Mike just has to be top dog.”

We checked the cars in the restaurant parking lot and found no Volvo. We went to the Dunes Motel and the manager told us Max Kronen was occupying unit number twelve.

We could hear angry voices inside when I knocked on the door.

There was pleading in Max’s voice when he called, “Come in. The door isn’t locked.”

I opened the door. Mike and Max were standing at the far end of the room, near the sliding glass door that led to the beach. Max was holding his stomach and there was blood slowly seeping from his nose.

“You damned fool!” Duane said to Mike. “Don’t you know that a boxer’s fists are considered lethal weapons in this state?”

“Shut up, Weasel,” Mike said. “Who’s your fat friend?” He paused to study me. “You? The guy who used to spar with Charlie Davis?”

“One and the same,” I admitted. “Duane is right, Mike. You had better cool it. You could be in serious trouble.”

“Get out of here,” he said, “Both of you.”

I shook my head.

Mike smiled, and sized me up, head to toes. “How many times have you been kayoed, big boy?”

“Several times,” I said. “But never by a middleweight. I didn’t come here to fight you. I came to talk with Max.”

“Close the door on your way out,” he said. “Your turn will come.”

I shook my head again.

“You’ve got exactly five seconds. Go!”

“I’m not leaving, Mike,” I told him. “Do you want to go outside and settle this?”

He smiled again, the happy warrior. “Oh, do I ever! Let’s go.”

I almost knew what his first punch would be when we stood there on the macadam of the parking lot. It would be the big overhand right. That could be the main reason Mike never got to the crown; he led too often with that club fighter’s major weapon.

Duke Ellis had kept moving inside of it, bringing his hook along, slamming it into Mike’s belly. That fight had been fought under the Marquis of Queensberry Rules, originated long ago by the Eighth Marquis of Queensberry.

To me, that particular marquis was famous only as the creep who had tried to destroy Oscar Wilde. His rules had no validity for me, and I didn’t have a trained boxer’s hook.

I did have a hard head. I moved inside Mike’s opening haymaker and cracked several of his front teeth with the top of my head. He looked startled, and one hand went up to cover his mouth.

I stepped on his foot, to keep him from moving back, and put all I had into a right hand deep into his out-of-shape stomach. He went to his knees slowly, holding his stomach with both hands, flecks of blood from his torn lips splattering out as he exhaled. Then he fell forward on his face.

Duane stood there, staring down almost pityingly at his fallen hero. He said softly, “You know something? Tonight’s the first time that Mike ever called me Weasel.”

M
AX WAS STANDING IN
his open doorway when we got back, holding a washcloth wrapped around ice cubes to his bleeding nose.

“I never thought I’d be glad to see you, Callahan,” he told me. “That bastard might have killed me. He’s crazy! I wonder who put him wise to me?”

“I did,” Duane said. “He’s a friend of mine—or was. What kind of trouble is he in now?”

“None I’ve discovered so far,” Max said. “Or at least none I can prove. And that’s all I will tell you about that.” He looked at me. “Why are you here?”

“Because I warned you to lay off Corey Raleigh—and you didn’t.”

“I didn’t lay a finger on him!”

“You conned him, Max.”

He shrugged. “All right! I conned him. Look who’s talking! You think I don’t know your reputation? You conned plenty of people.”

“Not anybody in my line of work, not if it would cost him his job. And never a kid. Did Corey scare you? Is that why you tried to talk him into quitting?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“And you switched sides,” I went on. “I know your reputation, too, Max. You sold out to the highest bidder again.”

“Prove it,” he said. “Sue me.”

“You stay clear of Corey. I don’t want him to turn into another you.”

“Okay.” He sneered. “Let him sweat it out in his garage office, taking advice from you. I got four people working for me.”

“All four working at minimum, I’ll bet. Lock your door, Max. Anthony might be planning a comeback.”

As we climbed into his 280-Z, Duane said; “You came up here and learned nothing.”

“I hadn’t actually planned to come up,” I explained. “But when Jan told me about Daphne’s interest, I suggested we come up together. Remember, this is a community-property state. Jan will make the trip worthwhile for me.”

He shook his head. “Not Jan. She wouldn’t overcharge me.”

His crystal ball was unclouded. On the way home, Jan said, “I love that couple. I am going to refurnish that place at our cost. This will be the very first time I have ever done that.”

Duane and Jan had shared their historic firsts on the same summer evening. I said nothing.

“Why,” she asked, “did Duane lie to Daphne? You two didn’t go down to the beach to look at any property.”

“I suppose he was trying to shelter her from knowledge of the cruel outside world.”

“His beauty in the buff? She’s been there before.”

“Duane is sentimental,” I explained. “Look how long he has stuck with Mike. How did that dopey Mike get to be elected president of your senior class?”

“Duane ran his campaign. What kind of trouble is Mike in now?”

“I don’t know. I hope it’s more than he can handle.”

Loyalties, loyalties….I remembered when I was sixteen and my best friend of eight years had proved to be less than a friend. Why, I asked my mother, had my friend changed?

She had explained it to me, and the years since had proved her right. People don’t change. It is only that it takes longer to find out about some of them.

The night was bright, the moon was full. Several outdoor parties were visible in the spreads that bordered Ranch Road. Duane had rescued Daphne from the real world and brought her to this bucolic playland retreat. It was possible that he had not done her a favor.

Alan had made an honest woman out of Felicia. Honest was the wrong word; he had made a legal woman out of Felicia. Perhaps she had decided that illegality was more fun. It seemed clear now that Mike had decided it was.

Unless he deals in gullible, senile widows, it is hard to hate a con man. They rarely resort to violence, and their victims are usually as larcenous (but not as clever) as the perpetrators. Bilking a bigot like Cyrus Reed Allingham out of a portion of his excessive wealth was almost a form of public service.

But not blackmail. And certainly not blackmail that may have caused the death of an innocent. But had he been? Had Luther Barnum really been an innocent?

I should have spent more time this morning in Rubio’s Rendezvous. Maybe Luther had played a major part in the supporting cast of his own tragedy. He could have been a principal.

“Why so quiet?” Jan asked. “What are you thinking about?”

“About murder,” I said.

“I don’t want to hear any more. Go back to your thinking.”

I had no thoughts left that would make things clearer. Tomorrow, I would ask Corey if Baker had revealed anything new. And I would go back to Rubio’s. To quote Marilyn’s idol, I would think about it tomorrow.

Despite the full moon, which usually keeps me awake, I slept soundly through the night, thanks to my afternoon workouts and my two-punch bout in Donegal Bay.

I phoned Corey before breakfast and asked him about his visit with Alan Baker.

“I didn’t get in to see him,” he told me. “Mrs. Baker’s car was on the driveway and I didn’t want to blow my cover. He’ll call me when the coast is clear. He always does.” He paused. “I have a hunch.”

“Let’s hear it. Hunches are my specialty.”

“I think you and I are working on separate cases. I think Mr. Baker is crazy jealous, and I don’t blame him. If I had a wife as pretty as she is, I’d keep her in a vault.”

“Your instincts are almost as sharp as mine,” I said, “but the cases could be connected.” I told him about my confrontation with Anthony on the parking lot and added, “Keep in touch.”

“Natch,” he said. “Until I can build up my weight, you’re a handy man to have around.”

Jan seemed preoccupied at the breakfast table. “Is something troubling you?” I asked.

“Audrey. I’m not sure she’ll go along with my no-markup deal for the Detterwalds.”

“You could threaten to quit if she didn’t.”

“Don’t be absurd. Audrey is much more than a boss to me. She is my friend!”

“Then compromise. Does Audrey charge her friends the same markup that she charges strangers?”

“I don’t know,” Jan said thoughtfully. “But thanks for the ploy. I’m going to ask her.”

She left for work. I drank coffee and read the
Times.

The Dodgers had won last night, the Angels had lost. In two weeks the Rams would be heading for training camp, preparing for battles that might carry them to another Super Bowl. I had never played in a Super Bowl. To compensate for that, neither had I been forced to play two games in one week. The networks had not
owned
the game in those days; they had been minor participants.

The Russians were growling again, sending the price of gold up, the value of the dollar down. Manufacturers of home security systems were doing a land office business. Two of the oldest and most respected newspapers in the nation were going out of business. Hollywood’s alleged elite were now paying two thousand dollars an ounce for the cocaine they sniffed at their fancy parties.

That was enough of that; it was time to head for the orderly world of Rubio’s Rendezvous.

The Judge was on his bench at the end of the bar, reading the book section of the
New York Times
and drinking coffee. Rubio was standing at the near end, reading the
Racing Form.
Four elderly regulars were playing pinochle at the round table farthest from the door.

“Welcome,” Rubio greeted me. “Anything new?”

I shook my head. “Nothing that points a finger. I talked with Maria Lopez.”

He nodded sadly. “I know. She told me you did. The language that woman uses!”

“Did she tell you about the bulge under the man’s field jacket?”

“No.” He stared at me. “Bulge?”

“Bulge. Maybe a bottle of cognac. I’d have a cup of coffee, but I’ve already had three cups.”

“I have instant cocoa. It’s not bad.”

“Fine.” I took the stool next to The Judge, Rubio set the cocoa in front of me. It wasn’t bad—if compared with Mike’s clam chowder.

The Judge folded his paper neatly and laid it on the bar. “I’ve been thinking back,” he said. “We don’t have a
reason,
do we? We don’t have a motive.”

“Only a connection,” I said. “The Allinghams.”

He nodded agreement. “Lucy wrote to Luther almost every week. She sent him money. But she didn’t come down here when he died.”

“There was no funeral,” I explained. “Not even a memorial service.”

“We are planning a memorial service,” he said. “But if you were Luther’s only living relative, wouldn’t you have come down?”

“I guess.”

“Women are different,” Rubio the male chauvinist said.

“Not much different,” The Judge said. “Though I will grant you they are less emotional than men.”

“Less?”
Rubio said.

“Less,” The Judge decreed. “Do women cry at football games? Do they scream?”

“Some do,” Rubio argued. “The pom-pom girls do.”

The Judge frowned. “That’s enough of that. Let us proceed. Lucy tells Luther in a letter that her employer is being blackmailed. Why?”

“My theory,” I offered, “is that Cyrus Allingham has been guilty of some serious violation of the law that has never been uncovered. Alan Baker must have known about it.”

“You were thinking of some financial shenanigans?”

“Probably.”

“Think of it this way. If it was something financial, it would be a weak threat. Think of the high-priced attorneys he can afford, the creative accountants he can summon.”

“True.”

“We won’t discard it,” he decided. “We’ll hold it in abeyance. I have been considering another line of inquiry. About a week ago, a reporter came to see Luther at the hotel.”

“A local reporter?” I asked.

“No. He was working for one of those scandal magazines, one of those foul weeklies that are displayed on racks next to the checkout counters at supermarkets.”

“Which women buy by the millions,” Rubio said.

The Judge glared at him.

“Did you learn the man’s name?” I asked. “Do you know what magazine he worked for?”

He shook his head. “Luther was unusually secretive about that part. Which makes it a valid line of inquiry to me. It would take more work, more research than those shoddy sheets give to their stories to untangle the complicated financial manipulations of a Cyrus Allingham. It has to be something else.”

“Something important enough for Allingham to have Luther murdered?”

“We were discussing the ‘why,’ not the ‘who,’” he pointed out.

“Farini is still my favorite for the who,” Rubio said.

“Farini,” The Judge said, “is always your favorite for every bad thing that happens in this town.” He turned to me. “I questioned the desk clerk at the hotel and two residents who were in the lobby when Luther talked with the reporter. Nothing. No usable description, no name,
nothing.”