The Zebra-Striped Hearse (24 page)

“I’m no gentleman. I’m a detective.”

“I see.”

He and his friends by the window watched me go up the stairs. I was the event of the day. A red bulb lit the third-floor corridor. I tapped on the door of 308.

“Who is it?” Vicky said in a dull voice.

“Lew Archer. Remember me?”

Bedsprings made a protesting noise. She opened the door and peered out. Her face had thinned.

“What do you want?”

“Some talk.”

“I’m all run out of talk.”

Her eyes were enormous and vulnerable. I could see myself mirrored in their pupils, a tiny red-lit man caught in amber, twice.

“Let me in, Vicky. I need your help.”

She shrugged and walked away from the open door, sprawling on the bed in a posture that seemed deliberately ugly. Her breasts and hips stood out under her black dress like protuberances carved from something hard and durable, wood or bone. A Gideon Bible lay open on the bed. I saw when I sat down in the chair beside it that Vicky had been reading the Book of Job.

“I didn’t know you were a Bible reader.”

“There’s lots of things you don’t know about me.”

“That’s true. Why didn’t you tell me Ralph was a friend of the Campions?”

“That should be easy to figure out. I didn’t want you to know.”

“But why?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“We have business in common, Vicky. We both want to get this mess straightened out.”

“It’ll never get straightened out. Ralph’s dead. You can’t change that.”

“Was he involved in Dolly’s murder? Is that why you covered for him?”

“I didn’t cover for him.”

“Of course you did. You must have recognized Campion from the description I gave you. You must have known that Dolly had been murdered. You knew that Ralph was close to her.”

“He wasn’t—not in the way you mean.”

“In what way was he close to her?”

“He was more like her financial adviser,” she said in a halting voice.

“Dolly had no use for a financial adviser. She was stony broke.”

“That’s what you think. I happen to know she was loaded at the time she was killed. Ralph told me she had at least a thousand dollars in cash. She didn’t know what to do with it, so she asked Ralph.”

“You must be mistaken, Vicky. The Campions had no money. I was told that Ralph had to pay the doctor when their child was born.”

“He didn’t
have
to. He had a good day at the race track and gave them the money. When Ralph won a little money he thought he was Santa Claus. Don’t think I didn’t put up a squawk. But she paid him back after all.”

“When?”

“Just before she was killed. Out of the money she had. That’s how he financed his trip to Tahoe.”

It was a peculiar story, peculiar enough to be true.

“Did Ralph actually see all the money Dolly claimed she had?”

“He saw it. He didn’t count it or anything, but he saw it. She asked him to take it and hold it for her, so she could make a down payment on a tract house. Ralph didn’t want the responsibility. He advised her to put it in the bank, but she was afraid Bruce would find out, and it would be gone with the wind. Like the other money—the money she had when he married her.”

“I didn’t know she had any.”

“What do you think he married her for? She had plenty, according to Ralph, another thousand anyway. Bruce took it and blew it. She was afraid he’d do the same with the new money.”

“Where did all the money come from?”

“Ralph said she got it out of a man. She wasn’t saying who.”

“Was the man the father of her child?”

She lowered her eyes demurely. “I always thought Bruce was the father.”

“Bruce denied it.”

“I never heard that.”

“I did, Vicky. Do you have any idea who the father was if it wasn’t Bruce?”

“No.”

“Could it have been Ralph?”

“No. There was nothing between him and Dolly. For one thing, he had too much respect for Bruce.”

“But the child was conceived long before she married Campion. Also you tell me she confided in Ralph about her money problems. Didn’t you say she wanted him to look after her thousand dollars?”

“Yes, and maybe he should have.” She glanced around the little room as if someone might be spying at the keyhole or the window. She lowered her voice to a whisper: “I think she was killed for that money.”

“By Bruce, you mean?”

“By him, or somebody else.”

“Did Ralph tell the police about it?”

“No.”

“And you didn’t either?”

“Why should I ask for trouble? You get enough trouble in this life without coming out and asking for it.”

I rose and stood over her. Late afternoon sunlight slanted in through the window. She sat rigid with her legs under her, as
if the shafts of light had transfixed her neck and shoulders.

“You were afraid Ralph killed her.”

Her eyes shifted away from mine and stayed far over in the corners of her head. “Deputy Mungan made Ralph come down to the station and answer a lot of questions. Then Ralph went off to Nevada right after. Naturally I was scared.”

“Where was Ralph the night Dolly was killed?”

“I don’t know. He was out late, and I didn’t wake up when he came in.”

“You still think Ralph murdered her?”

“I didn’t say I
thought
it. I was scared.”

“Did you ask him?”

“Of course I didn’t ask him. But he kept talking about the murder. He was so upset and shaky he couldn’t handle a cup of coffee. This was the night after it happened. They had Bruce Campion in the clink, and Ralph kept saying that Bruce didn’t do it, he knew Bruce didn’t do it.”

“Did Ralph see Bruce before he left for Tahoe?”

“Yeah, Bruce came to the house in the morning when they let him out. I wouldn’t of let him
in
if I’d been there.”

“What happened between Bruce and Ralph that morning?”

“I wouldn’t know. I was at work. Ralph phoned me around noon and said he was going up to Tahoe. Maybe Bruce went with him. He dropped out of sight that same day, and I never saw him again. A couple of days after that, the papers were full of him running away, and the Grand Jury brought in a murder conviction.”

“The Grand Jury indicted him,” I said. “There’s a big difference between an indictment and a conviction.”

“That’s what Ralph said, the day he came back from the lake. I thought a week or so away from it all would get it off his mind. But he was worse than ever when he came back. He was obsessed with Bruce Campion.”

“Just how close were they?”

“They were like brothers,” she said, “ever since they were in Korea together. Bruce had more on the ball than Ralph had, I guess, but somehow it was Ralph who did the looking after. He thought it was wonderful to have Bruce for a friend. He’d give him the shirt off his back, and he practically did more than once.”

“Would Ralph give Bruce his birth certificate to get out of the country?”

She glanced up sharply. “Did he?”

“Bruce says he did. Either Ralph gave it to him voluntarily, or Bruce took it by force.”

“And killed him?”

“I have my doubts that Bruce killed either one of them. He had no apparent motive to kill Ralph, and the money Dolly had puts a new complexion on her case. It provides a motive for anyone who knew she had it.”

“But why would anybody want to kill Ralph?”

“There’s one obvious possibility. He may have known who murdered Dolly.”

“Why didn’t he say so, then?”

“Perhaps he wasn’t sure. I believe he was trying to investigate Dolly’s murder, up at the lake and probably here in Citrus Junction. When he came back from Tahoe, did he say anything to you about the Blackwells?”

“The Blackwells?” There was no recognition in her voice.

“Colonel Mark Blackwell and his wife. They brought me into this case, because their daughter Harriet had taken up with Campion. The Blackwells have a lodge at Tahoe, and Harriet was there with Campion the night before last. Then she disappeared. We found her hat in the lake with blood on it. Campion has no explanation.”

Vicky rose on her knees. Moving awkwardly, she backed away to the far side of the bed. “I don’t know nothing about it.”

“That’s why I’m telling you. The interesting thing is that
Ralph spent some time in the Blackwells’ lodge last May. He worked as their houseboy for a week or so. They fired him, allegedly for stealing.”

“Ralph might of had his faults,” she said from her corner, “but I never knew him to steal anything in his life. Anyway, there’s no sense trying to pin something on a dead man.”

“I’m not, Vicky. I’m trying to pin murder on whoever killed him. You loved him, didn’t you?”

She looked as though she would have liked to deny it and the pain that went with it. “I couldn’t help it. I tried to help it, but I couldn’t stop myself. He was such a crazy guy,” she murmured, so softly that it sounded like an endearment. “Sometimes when he was asleep, when he was asleep and out of trouble, I used to think he was beautiful.”

“He’s asleep and out of trouble now,” I said. “What about the bundle of clothes he brought back from Tahoe?”

“There was no bundle of clothes, there was just the coat. He had this brown topcoat with him. But I know he didn’t steal it. He never stole in his life.”

“I don’t care whether he stole it or not. The question is where did he get it?”

“He
said
somebody gave it to him. But people don’t give away that kind of a coat for free. It was real good tweed, imported like. Harris tweed, I think they call it. It must of cost a hundred dollars new, and it was still in new condition. The only thing the matter with it, one of the buttons was missing.”

“Can you describe the buttons?”

“They were brown leather. I wanted to try and match the missing one so he could wear it. But he said leave it as it was, he wasn’t going to wear it.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “He said he wasn’t going to wear it and he was right.”

“Did he bring it with him when he came down south?”

“Yeah. He was carrying it over his arm when he got on the bus. I don’t know why he bothered dragging it along with him. It was warm weather, and anyway it had that button missing.”

“Which button on the coat was missing, Vicky?”

“The top one.” She pointed with her thumb between her breasts.

I wished I had Mungan’s button with me. I remembered now where I had seen other buttons like it, attached to a coat that answered Vicky’s description. One of the girls in the zebra-striped hearse had been wearing it.

I
DROVE BACK
to the coast and hit the surfing beaches southward from the fork of 101 and 101 Alternate. Some of the surfers recalled the black-and-white hearse, but they didn’t know the names of any of the occupants. Anyway they claimed they didn’t—they’re a closemouthed tribe.

I had better luck with the Highway Patrol in Malibu. The owner of the hearse had been cited the previous week end for driving with only one headlight. His name was Ray Buzzell, and he lived in one of the canyons above the town.

“Mrs. Sloan Buzzell” was stenciled on the side of the rustic mailbox. An asphalt driveway zigzagged down the canyon side to her house. It was a redwood and glass structure with a white gravel roof, cantilevered over a steep drop. A small Fiat stood in the double carport, but there was no hearse beside it.

A violently redheaded woman opened the front door before I got to it, and stepped outside. Her hard, handsome face was carefully made up, as though she’d been expecting a visitor. I wondered what kind of visitor. Her black Capri pants adhered like oil to her thighs and hips. The plunging neckline of her shirt exhibited large areas of chest and stomach. She was carrying a half-full martini glass in her hand and, to judge by her
speech, a number of previous martinis inside of her.

“Hello-hello,” she said. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“I’m just a type. How are you, Mrs. Buzzell?”

“Fine. Feen. Fane.” She flexed her free arm to prove it, and inflated her chest, which almost broke from its moorings. “
You
look sort of beat. Come in and I’ll pour you a drink. I hope you drink.”

“Quantities, but not at the moment, thanks. I’m looking for Ray.”

She frowned muzzily. “People are always looking for Ray. Has he done something?”

“I hope not. Where can I find him?”

She flung out her arm in a gesture which included the whole coast. From the height we stood on, we could see a good many miles of it. The sun was low in the west, and it glared like a searchlight through barred clouds.

“I can’t keep track of my son any more,” she said in a soberer voice. “I haven’t seen him since breakfast. He’s off with his crowd somewhere. All they care about is surfing. Some weeks I don’t set eyes on him for days at a time.” She consoled herself with the rest of her martini. “Sure you won’t come in for a drink? I just made a fresh shaker, and if I have to drink it all by myself I’ll be smasherooed.”

“Pour it out.”

“The man is mad.” She studied my face with exaggerated interest. “You must be a wandering evangelist or something.”

“I’m a wandering detective investigating a murder. Your son may be able to help me.”

She moved closer to me and whispered through her teeth: “Is Ray involved in a murder?”

“That I doubt. He may have some information that will help me. Are you expecting him home for dinner?”

“I never know. Sometimes he’s out all night with his crowd. They have bedrolls in the hearse.” She burst out angrily: “I could
kill
myself for letting him buy that thing. He practically
lives
in it.” Her mind veered back to the point. “What do you mean, he has information?”

“I said he may have.”

“Who was murdered?”

“A man named Simpson, Quincy Ralph Simpson.”

“I never heard of any such man. Neither did Ray, Im sure.”

I said: “When Simpson was last seen alive by his wife, he was carrying a brown Harris tweed topcoat with brown leather buttons; the top button was missing. That was two months ago. The other day I saw one of the girls in Ray’s crowd wearing that topcoat, or one exactly like it.”