The Far Side of the Dollar (25 page)

“All right. I think Tom went with Harley of his own free will, rode in the trunk of Harley’s car to the Barcelona Hotel, and stayed there without anybody having to hold a gun on him. I don’t understand his reasons, and I won’t until I talk to him. But he probably didn’t know about the extortion angle. There’s no evidence that he profited from it, anyway. He’s broke.”

“How do you know? Have you seen him?”

“I’ve talked to somebody who talked to him. Tom said he needed money.”

“I suppose that’s good news in a way.”

“I thought it was.”

I made a move to go, but she detained me. There was more on her mind:

“This Barcelona Hotel you speak of, is it the big old rundown place on the coast highway?”

“Yes. It’s closed up now.”

“And Tom hid, or was hidden, there?”

I nodded. “The watchman at the hotel, a man named Sipe, was a partner in the extortion. He may have been the brains
behind it, to the extent that it took any brains. He was shot to death this morning. The other partner, Harley, was stabbed to death last night.”

Her face was open, uncomprehending, as if she couldn’t quite take in these terrible events.

“How extraordinary,” she breathed.

“Not so very. They were heavy thieves, and they came to a heavy end.”

“I don’t mean those violent deaths, although they’re part of it. I mean the deep connections you get in life, the coming together of the past and the present.”

“What do you have in mind?”

She grimaced. “Something ugly, but I’m afraid it has to be said. You see, the Barcelona Hotel, where my son, my adopted son, has been staying with criminals, apparently”—she took a shuddering breath—“that very place was the scene of Ralph’s affair with Susanna Drew. And did you say that the watchman’s name was Sipe, the one who was shot?”

“Yes. Otto Sipe.”

“Did he once work as a detective in the hotel?”

“Yes. He was the kind of detective who gives our trade a bad name.”

“I have reason to know that,” she said. “I knew Mr. Sipe. That is, I talked to him once, and he left an impression that I haven’t been able to wipe out of my memory. He was a gross, corrupt man. He came to my house in Brentwood in the spring of 1945. He was the one who told me about Ralph’s affair with Miss Drew.”

“He wanted money, of course.”

“Yes, and I gave him money. Two hundred dollars, he asked for, and when he saw that I was willing to pay he raised it to five hundred, all the cash I had on hand. Well, the money part is unimportant. It always is,” she said, reminding me that she had never needed money.

“What did Sipe have to say to you?”

“That my husband was committing adultery—he had a snapshot to prove it—and it was his duty under the law to arrest him. I don’t know now if there was ever such a law on the books—”

“There was. I don’t think it’s been enforced lately, or an awful lot of people would be in jail.”

“He mentioned jail, and the effect it would have on my husband’s reputation. This was just about the time when Ralph began to believe he could make Captain. I know from this height and distance it sounds childish, but it was the biggest thing in his life at that time. He came from an undistinguished family, you see—his father was just an unsuccessful small businessman—and he felt he had to shine in so many ways to match my family’s distinction.” She looked at me with sad intelligence. “We all need something to buttress our pride, don’t we, fragments to shore against our ruins.”

“You were telling me about your interview with Otto Sipe.”

“So I was. My mind tends to veer away from scenes like that. In spite of the pain and shock I felt—it was my first inkling that Ralph was unfaithful to me—I didn’t want to see all his bright ambitions wrecked. So I paid the dreadful man his dirty money—and he gave me his filthy snapshot.”

“Did you hear from him again?”

“No.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t attach himself to you for life.”

“Perhaps he intended to. But Ralph stopped him. I told Ralph about his visit, naturally.” She added: “I didn’t show him the snapshot. That I destroyed.”

“How did Ralph stop him?”

“I believe he knocked him down and frightened him off. I didn’t get a very clear account from Ralph. By then we weren’t communicating freely. I went home to Boston and I didn’t see Ralph again until the end of the year, when he brought his ship to Boston harbor. We had a reconciliation of sorts. It was then we decided to adopt a child.”

I wasn’t listening too closely. The meanings of the case were emerging. Ralph Hillman had had earlier transactions with both of the extortionists. He had been Mike Harley’s superior officer, and had thrown him out of the Navy. He had knocked down Otto Sipe. And they had made him pay for his superiority and his power.

Elaine was thinking along the same lines. She said in a soft, despondent voice:

“Mr. Sipe would never have entered our lives if Ralph hadn’t used that crummy hotel for his crummy little purposes.”

“You mustn’t blame your husband for everything. No doubt he did wrong. We all do. But the things he did nineteen or twenty years ago aren’t solely responsible for this kidnapping, or whatever it was. It isn’t that simple.”

“I know. I don’t blame him for everything.”

“Sipe, for instance, would probably have been involved anyway. His partner Mike Harley knew your husband and had a grievance against him.”

“But why did Tom, my poor dear Tom, end up at that same hotel? Isn’t there a fatality in it?”

“Maybe there is. To Sipe and Harley it was simply a convenient place to keep him.”

“Why would Tom stay with them? They must be—have been outrageous creatures.”

“Teen-age boys sometimes go for the outrageous.”

“Do they not,” she said. “But I can’t really blame Tom for anything he’s done. Ralph and I have given him little enough reality to hold on to. Tom’s a sensitive, artistic, introverted boy. My husband didn’t want him to be those things—perhaps they reminded Ralph that he wasn’t our son, really. So he kept trying to change him. And when he couldn’t, he withdrew his interest. Not his love, I’m sure. He’s still profoundly concerned with Tom.”

“But he spends his time with Dick Leandro.”

One corner of her mouth lifted, wrinkling her cheek and eye, as if age and disillusion had taken sudden possession of that side of her face. “You’re quite a noticer, Mr. Archer.”

“You have to be, in my job. Not that Dick Leandro makes any secret of his role. I met him coming out of your driveway.”

“Yes. He was looking for Ralph. He’s very dependent on Ralph,” she added dryly.

“How would you describe the relationship, Mrs. Hillman? Substitute son?”

“I suppose I would. Dick’s mother and father broke up some years ago. His father left town, and of course his mother got custody of Dick. He needed a substitute father. And Ralph
needed someone to crew for him on the sloop—I sometimes think it’s the most urgent need he has, or had. Someone to share the lusty gusty things he likes to do, and would like a son to do.”

“He could do better than Dick, couldn’t he?”

She was silent for a while. “Perhaps he could. But when you have an urgent need, you tend to hook up with people who have urgent needs of their own. Poor Dick has a great many urgent needs.”

“Some of which have been met. He told me that your husband put him through college.”

“He did. But don’t forget that Dick’s father used to work for Ralph’s firm. Ralph is very strong on loyalty up and down.”

“Is Dick?”

“He’s fanatically loyal to Ralph,” she said with emphasis.

“Let me ask you a hypothetical question, without prejudice, as they say in court. If your husband disinherited Tom, would Dick be a likely heir?”

“That’s excessively hypothetical, isn’t it?”

“But the answer might have practical consequences. What’s your answer?”

“Dick might be left something. He probably will be in any case. But please don’t imagine that poor stupid Dick, with his curly hair and his muscles, is capable of plotting—”

“I wasn’t suggesting that.”

“And you mustn’t embarrass Dick. He’s come through nobly in this crisis. Both of us have leaned on him.”

“I know. I’ll leave him alone.” I got up to go. “Thank you for being frank with me.”

“There’s not much point in pretending at this late date. If there’s anything else you need to know—”

“There is one thing that might help. If you could give me the name of the agency through which you adopted Tom?”

“It wasn’t done through an agency. It was handled privately.”

“Through a lawyer, or a doctor?”

“A doctor,” she said. “I don’t recall his name, but he delivered Tom at Cedars of Lebanon. We paid the expenses, you understand, as part of the bargain that we made with the mother.”

“Who was she?”

“Some poor woman who’d got herself in trouble. I didn’t actually meet her, nor did I want to. I wanted to feel that Tom was my own son.”

“I understand.”

“Does it matter who his parents were? I mean, in the current situation?”

“It does if he’s wandering around Los Angeles looking for them. Which I have reason to think he may be doing. You should have a record somewhere of that doctor’s name.”

“My husband could tell you.”

“But he isn’t available.”

“It may be in his desk in the library.”

I followed her to the library and while she rummaged in the desk I looked at the pictures on the wall again. The group photo taken on the flight deck must have been Hillman’s squadron. I looked closely at their faces, wondering which of the young men had died at Midway.

Next I studied the yachting picture of Dick Leandro. His handsome, healthy, empty face told me nothing. Perhaps it would have meaning for somebody else. I took it off the wall and slipped it into the side pocket of my jacket.

Elaine Hillman didn’t notice. She had found the name she was looking for.

“Elijah Weintraub,” she said, “was the doctor’s name.”

I
PHONED
Dr. Weintraub long-distance. He confirmed the fact that he had arranged for Thomas Hillman’s adoption, but he refused to discuss it over the phone. I made an appointment to see him in his office that afternoon.

Before I drove back to Los Angeles I checked in with Lieutenant Bastian. He’d been working on the case for nearly three days, and the experience hadn’t improved his disposition. The
scarlike lines in his face seemed to have deepened. His voice was hoarse and harsh, made harsher by irony:

“It’s nice of you to drop by every few days.”

“I’m working for Ralph Hillman now.”

“I know that, and it gives you certain advantages. Which you seize. But you and I are working on the same case, and we’re supposed to be cooperating. That means periodic exchanges of information.”

“Why do you think I’m here?”

His eyes flared down. “Fine. What have you found out about the Hillman boy?”

I told Bastian nearly all of it, enough to satisfy both him and my conscience. I left out the adoption and Dr. Weintraub, and the possibility that Tom might turn up at the Santa Monica bus station at nine that night. About his other movements, and the fact that he had probably been a voluntary captive in the Barcelona Hotel, I was quite frank.

“It’s too bad Otto Sipe had to die,” Bastian grumbled. “He could have cleared up a lot of things.”

I agreed.

“Exactly what happened to Sipe? You were a witness.”

“He attacked Ben Daly with a spade. Daly was holding my gun while I examined Harley’s body. The gun went off.”

Bastian made a disgusted noise with his lips. “What do you know about Daly?”

“Not much. He has a service station across from the Barcelona. He struck me as dependable. He’s a war veteran—”

“So was Hitler. L. A. says Daly had previous dealings with Sipe. Sipe bought secondhand cars through him, for instance.”

“That would be natural enough. Daly ran the nearest service station to where Sipe worked.”

“So you don’t think Daly killed him to shut him up?”

“No, but I’ll bear it in mind. I’m more interested in the other killing. Have you seen the knife that Harley was stabbed with?”

“Not yet. I have a description.” Bastian moved some papers around on top of his desk. “It’s what they call a hunting knife, made by the Oregon firm of Forstmann, with their name on it. It has a broad blade about six inches long, is very sharp and
pointed, has a striped rubber handle, black and white, with finger mouldings on it Practically brand new. Is that an accurate description?”

“I only saw the striped rubber handle. The fact that the blade is quite broad, sharp, and pointed suggests that it’s the same knife that stabbed Carol.”

“So I told L. A. They’re going to send me the knife for identification work.”

“That’s what I was going to suggest.”

Bastian leaned forward, bringing his arms down heavily among the papers on his desk top. “You think somebody in town here stabbed him?”

“It’s an idea worth considering.”

“Why? For his share of the money?”

“It couldn’t have been that. Harley had nothing left by the time he left Las Vegas. I talked to the high-roller who cleaned him out.”

“I’m surprised Harley didn’t shoot him.”

“I gather there were professional guns around. Harley was never more than a semi-pro.”

“Why then?” Bastian said, his eyebrows arched. “Why was Harley killed if it wasn’t for money?”

“I don’t think we’ll know until we put our finger on the killer.”

“Do you have any nominations?” he said.

“No. Do you?”

“I have some thoughts on the subject, but I’d better not think them out loud.”

“Because I’m working for Hillman?”

“I didn’t say that.” His dark eyes veiled themselves, and he changed the subject. “A man named Robert Brown, the victim’s father, was here asking for you. He’s at the City Hotel.”

“I’ll look him up tomorrow. Treat him gently, eh?”

“I treat ’em all gently. Harold Harley called me a few minutes ago. He’s taking his brother’s death hard.”

“He would. When did you let him go?”