The Galton Case (10 page)

Bolling started to get out of the car.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Don’t tell him who you are.”

“I want to ask him about his father.”

“He doesn’t know where his father is. Besides, there’s a question of identity. I want to see what he says without any prompting.”

Bolling gave me a frustrated look, but he stayed in the car. The driver of the pickup paid for his gas and rattled away. I pulled up even with the pumps, and got out for a better look at the boy.

He appeared to be about twenty-one or -two. He was very good-looking, as his putative father had been. His smile was engaging.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“Fill her up. It’ll only take a couple of gallons. I stopped because I want you to check the oil.”

“I’ll be glad to, sir.”

He seemed like a willing boy. He filled the tank, and wiped the windshield spotless. But when he lifted the hood to check the oil, he couldn’t find the dip-stick. I showed him where it was.

“Been working here long?”

He looked embarrassed. “Two weeks. I haven’t caught on to all the new cars yet.”

“Think nothing of it.” I looked across the highway at the windswept shore where the long combers were crashing. “This is nice country. I wouldn’t mind settling out here.”

“Are you from San Francisco?”

“My friend is.” I indicated Bolling, who was still in the car, sulking. “I came up from Santa Teresa last night.

He didn’t react to the name.

“Who owns the beach property across the highway, do you know?”

“I’m sorry, I wouldn’t know. My boss probably would, though.”

“Where is he?”

“Mr. Turnell has gone to lunch. He should be back pretty soon, if you want to talk to him.”

“How soon?”

He glanced at the cheap watch on his wrist. “Fifteen or twenty minutes. His lunch-hour is from eleven to twelve. It’s twenty to twelve now.”

“I might as well wait for him. I’m in no hurry.”

Bolling was in visible pain by this time. He made a conspiratorial gesture, beckoning me to the car.

“Is it Brown’s son?” he said in a stage whisper.

“Could be.”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“I’m waiting for him to tell me. Take it easy, Mr. Bolling.”

“May I talk to him?”

“I’d just as soon you didn’t. This is a ticklish business.”

“I don’t see why it should be. Either he is or he isn’t.”

The boy came up behind me. “Is something the matter, sir? Anything more I can do?”

“Nothing on both counts. The service was fine.”

“Thank you.”

His teeth showed bright in his tanned face. His smile was strained, though. He seemed to sense the tension in me and Bolling. I said as genially as I knew how:

“Are you from these parts?”

“I could say I was, I guess. I was born a few miles from here.”

“But you’re not a local boy.”

“That’s true. How can you tell?”

“Accent. I’d say you were raised in the middle west.”

“I was.” He seemed pleased by my interest. “I just came out from Michigan this year.”

“Have you had any higher education?”

“College, you mean? As a matter of fact I have. Why do you ask?”

“I was thinking you could do better for yourself than jockeying a gas pump.”

“I hope to,” he said, with a look of aspiration. “I regard this work as temporary.”

“What kind of work would you like to do?”

He hesitated, flushing under his tan. “I’m interested in acting. I know that sounds ridiculous. Half the people who come to California probably want to be actors.”

“Is that why you came to California?”

“It was one of the reasons.”

“This is a way-stop to Hollywood for you, then?”

“I guess you could say that.” His face was closing up. Too many questions were making him suspicious.

“Ever been to Hollywood?”

“No. I haven’t.”

“Had any acting experience?”

“I have as a student.”

“Where?”

“At the University of Michigan.”

I had what I wanted: a way to check his background, if he was telling the truth; if he was lying, a way to prove that he was lying. Universities kept full dossiers on their students.

“The reason I’m asking you all these questions,” I said, “is this. I have an office on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood. I’m interested in talent, and I was struck by your appearance.”

He brightened up considerably. “Are you an agent?”

“No, but I know a lot of agents.” I wanted to avoid the lie direct, on general principles, so I brought Bolling into the conversation: “My friend here is a well-known writer. Mr. Chad Bolling. You may have heard of him.”

Bolling was confused. He was a sensitive man, and my underhanded approach to the boy troubled him. He leaned out of the car to shake hands:

“Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m very glad to meet you, sir. My name is John Brown, by the way. Are you in the picture business?”

“No.”

Bolling was tongue-tied by the things he wanted to say and wasn’t supposed to. The boy looked from Bolling to me, wondering what he had done to spoil the occasion. Bolling took pity on him. With a defiant look at me, he said:

“Did you say your name was John Brown? I knew a John Brown once, in Luna Bay.”

“That was my father’s name. You must have known my father.”

“I believe I did.” Bolling climbed out of the car. “I met you when you were a very small baby.”

I watched John Brown. He flushed up warmly. His gray eyes shone with pleasure, and then were moist with deeper feelings. I had to remind myself that he was a self-admitted actor.

He pumped Bolling’s hand a second time. “Imagine your knowing my father! How long is it since you’ve seen him?”

“Twenty-two years—a long time.”

“Then you don’t know where he is now?”

“I’m afraid not, John. He dropped out of sight, you know, quite soon after you were born.”

The boy’s face stiffened. “And Mother?” His voice cracked on the word.

“Same story,” I said. “Don’t you remember either of your parents?”

He answered reluctantly: “I remember my mother. She left me in an orphanage in Ohio when I was four. She promised to come back for me, but she never did come back. I spent nearly twelve years in that institution, waiting for her to come back.” His face was dark with emotion. “Then I realized she must be dead. I ran away.”

“Where was it?” I said. “What town?”

“Crystal Springs, a little place near Cleveland.”

“And you say you ran away from there?”

“Yes, when I was sixteen. I went to Ann Arbor, Michigan, to get an education. A man named Lindsay took me in. He didn’t adopt me, but he let me use his name. I went to school under the name of John Lindsay.”

“Why the name change?”

“I didn’t want to use my own name. I had good reason.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t the other way around? Are you
sure John Lindsay wasn’t your real name, and you took the name of Brown later?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Somebody hired you, maybe.”

He flushed up darkly. “Who are you?”

“A private detective.”

“If you’re a detective, what was all that bushwa about Hollywood and Sunset Boulevard?”

“I have my office on Sunset Boulevard.”

“But what you said was deliberately misleading.”

“Don’t worry about me so much. I needed some information, and I got it.”

“You could have asked me directly. I have nothing to hide.”

“That remains to be seen.”

Bolling stepped between us, sputtering at me in sudden anger: “Leave the boy alone now. He’s obviously genuine. He even has his father’s voice. Your implications are an insult.”

I didn’t argue with him. In fact, I was ready to believe he was right. The boy stepped back away from us as if we’d threatened his life. His eyes had turned the color of slate, and there were white rims on his nostrils:

“What is this, anyway?”

“Don’t get excited,” I said.

“I’m not excited.” He was trembling all over. “You come here and ask me a bunch of questions and tell me you knew my father. Naturally I want to know what it means.”

Bolling moved toward him and laid an impulsive hand on his arm. “It could mean a great deal to you, John. Your father belonged to a wealthy family.”

The boy brushed him off. He was young for his age in some ways. “I don’t care about that. I want to see my father.”

“Why is it so important?” Bolling said.

“I never had a father.” His working face was naked to the light. Tears ran down his cheeks. He shook them off angrily.

I bought him, and made a down payment: “I’ve asked enough questions for now, John. Have you talked to the local police, by the way?”

“Yes, I have. And I know what you’re getting at. They have a box of bones at the sheriff’s station. Some of them claim that they’re my father’s bones, but I don’t believe it. Neither does Deputy Mungan.”

“Do you want to come down there with me now?”

“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t close up the station. Mr. Turnell expects me to stay on the job.”

“What time do you get off?”

“About seven-thirty, week nights.”

“Where can I get in touch with you tonight?”

“I live in a boardinghouse about a mile from here. Mrs. Gorgello’s.” He gave me the address.

“Aren’t you going to tell him who his father was?” Bolling said.

“I will when it’s been proved. Let’s go, Bolling.”

He climbed into the car reluctantly.

T
HE
Sheriff’s substation was a stucco shoebox of a building across the street from a sad-looking country hotel. Bolling said he would stay in the car, on the grounds that skeletons frightened him:

“It even horrifies me to think that I contain one. Unlike Webster in Mr. Eliot’s poem, I like to remain oblivious to the skull beneath the skin.”

I never knew whether Bolling was kidding me.

Deputy Mungan was a very large man, half a head taller than I was, with a face like unfinished sculpture. I gave him my name and occupation, and Dineen’s note of introduction. When he’d read it, he reached across the counter that divided his little office, and broke all the bones in my hand:

“Any friend of Doc Dineen’s is a friend of mine. Come on in around behind and tell me your business.”

I went on in around behind and sat in the chair he placed for me at the end of his desk:

“It has to do with some bones that were found out in the Marvista tract. I understand you’ve made a tentative identification.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. Doc Dineen thinks it was a man he knew—fellow by the name of John Brown. It fits in with the location of the body, all right. But we haven’t been able to nail it down. The trouble is, no such man was ever reported missing in these parts. We haven’t been able to turn up any local antecedents. Naturally we’re still working on it.”

Mungan’s broad face was serious. He talked like a trained cop, and his eyes were sharp as tacks. I said: “We may be able to help each other to clarify the issue.”

“Any help you can give me will be welcome. This has been dragging on for five months now, more like six.” He threw out a quick hooked question: “You represent his family, maybe?”

“I represent a family. They asked me not to use their name. And there’s still a question whether they are the dead man’s family. Was there any physical evidence found with the bones? A watch, or a ring? Shoes? Clothing?”

“Nothing. Not even a stitch of clothing.”

“I suppose it could rot away completely in twenty-two years. What about buttons?”

“No buttons. Our theory is he was buried the way he came into the world.”

“But without a head.”

Mungan nodded gravely. “Doc Dineen filled you in, eh? I’ve been thinking about that head myself. A young fellow came in here a few weeks ago, claimed to be John Brown’s son.”

“Don’t you think he is?”

“He acted like it. He got pretty upset when I showed him the bones. Unfortunately, he didn’t know any more about his father than I do. Which is nil, absolutely nil. We know this John Brown lived out on the old Bluff Road for a couple of months in 1936, and that’s the sum-total of it. On top of that, the boy doesn’t believe these are his father’s bones. And he could just be right. I’ve been doing some thinking, as I said.

“This business about the head, now. We assumed when the body was first turned up, that he was killed by having his head cut off.” Mungan made a snicking sound between tongue and palate, and sheared the air with the edge of his huge hand. “Maybe he was. Or maybe the head was chopped off after death, to remove identification. You know how much we depend on teeth and fillings. Back in the thirties, before we developed our modern lab techniques, teeth and fillings were the main thing we had to go on.

“If my hypothesis is right, the killer was a pro. And that fits in with certain other facts. In the twenties and thirties, the Bluff Road area was a stamping ground for hoods. It was until quite recently, as a matter of fact. In those days it was a real hotbed. A lot of the liquor that kept San Francisco going during Prohibition came in by sea and was funneled through Luna Bay. They brought in other things than
liquor—drags, for instance, and women from Mexico and Panama. You ever hear of the Red Horse Inn?”

“No.”

“It stood on the coast about a mile south of where we found the skeleton. They tore it down a couple of years ago, after we put the stopper on it. That was a place with a history. It used to be a resort hotel for well-heeled people from the City and the Peninsula. The rum-runners took it over in the twenties. They converted it into a three-way operation: liquor warehouse in the basement, bars and gaming on the first floor, women upstairs. The reason I know so much about it, I had my first drink there back about 1930. And my first woman.”

“You don’t look that old.”

“I was sixteen at the time. I think that’s one of the reasons I went into law enforcement. I wanted to put bastards like Lempi out of circulation. Lempi was the boss hood who ran the place in the twenties. I knew him personally, but the law got to him before I grew up to his size. They got him for income tax in 1932, he died on the Rock a few years later. Some of his guns were sent up at the same time.