Chapter 17
The call from Brendt livened things the next morning. The actor phoned twice before Bishop arrived to say he had information that might identify the prowler. But he insisted on talking to the lieutenant.
Bishop told Trask he would go and see the actor.
"Why didn't you tell him to come in?"
The Irishman grinned. "He says he has to feed his pets."
The Lieutenant looked bewildered. "All morning?"
Trask nodded. "Apparently it takes a long time. I suggested he come by in an hour and he said he couldn't. Seems they eat slow."
"What the hell has he got? A menagerie? I'd like to see those pets."
He drove quickly to the Echo Park area, too irritable even to listen to the radio news.
"All I need now is to go watch some goddamned actor feed his pets," he told himself bitterly as he climbed the winding hilly streets above Echo Park Lake. "The damned fool probably has fifty parrots or cats." The thought of fifty cats in one closed room was already making him nauseous. If they were mixed with parrots and dogs, he would die.
The pets turned out to-be stranger than that. When the bald actor greeted him in dirty Levi's, he seemed quite agitated. He waved to Bishop to follow and darted back into a dark hallway muttering, "I don't like to interrupt their feeding. It upsets them."
. The detective emerged at last into a huge high-ceilinged room with bay windows on three sides. The view of Los Angeles was breathtaking. On one side were the tall dun-colored Hollywood hills, on the other the tall office buildings of the business district. Bishop was admiring the view when he felt something tug sharply at his trouser cuffs. When he lowered his eyes to see what it was, he almost jumped through the window.
It was a seven-foot boa constrictor!
"Relax, Lieutenant," Brendt said. "He's very friendly. The only time he gets mad is if you step on him hard. This is the baby who has a temper." He pointed to a large mongoose attached to a leash in the far corner of the room. The animal's dark eyes glared at him. "Sit down," Brendt said affably. "I'll be through in a minute and then we can talk."
Glancing around the room filled with crates, odd tables, and book shelves, Bishop selected a small claw-legged upholstered chair. He had noticed a strong smell in the room when he entered. Now it was an overpowering stench. "Is all that coming from them?" he asked.
The actor, who was crouching on his saddled feet over a large crate, shook his head. "No. This adds to it." He held up a dead rat by the tail. He continued to talk as he fed rats to his pets. "Strange as it may seem, they're friends and like to eat their meals together, Lieutenant. It makes for complicated arrangements. Sometimes I don't have enough rats to go around. Have to cut them up. Which they don't like too much."
He pointed to the long brown serpent with the dark crossbars. "Hamlet is a very funny snake. Sometimes he gets grouchy for days and won't come near me. If I don't feed him right, he gets worse. Maybe it's the Latin temperament. He's Cuban.
"The mongoose, Lollobrigida, looks angry, but she's not. Don't you think she's got eyes like Gina's? Beautiful actresses usually bore me. Their vanity is written all over their faces. Biggest scene-stealers in the business. But she fascinates me. Would you care for a rum-soaked cigar?" The words tumbled out of the actor's mouth helter-skelter as he placed the rats in two open cages and coaxed the animals inside.
"We can talk now," he said. "They'll eat without coaxing."
Bishop, who had been breathing through his mouth for several minutes, turned his eyes away from the jaws of the boa. "Can't we go inside? I forgot my oxygen tank," Bishop said. He could never figure actors. As far as he was concerned, they were all nuts. Especially the unsuccessful ones.
"I don't think I can leave till they finish," Brendt said seriously. "They might have indigestion, or fight. Afterwards I have to put Hamlet back in his cage and put him in the garden for his sunbath. He loves to he in the sun after he eats."
"All right," Bishop said resignedly. "What'd you want to tell me?"
"In a minute. Want a rum-soaked cigar?"
"No, thanks. I only smoke Dutch Masters."
"I only smoke rum-soaked cigars," the actor said, lighting one. He stopped puffing and looked at Bishop. "Has it ever occurred to you that Tom Swaller might be the prowler?"
Bishop blinked at him. "We checked Swaller with Penny Bruce. She would have known him."
"Unless he were disguised," Brendt said slowly.
The detective suddenly remembered Penny's hesitation when she had looked at Swaller. And there had been something familiar about the prowler. A disguise would explain it. "Hey, you may have something there," he said excitedly. "What brought this on? I mean, what made you think we might have been wrong about Swaller?"
Sy Brendt shrugged as he puffed on his rum-soaked cigar.
"I thought about it soon after the thing happened. But you were chasing Steiner, Sanderson-whatever he's called. When that fell through, I thought I'd tell you what I thought."
"I'm damned glad you did," Bishop said. "I wish more people were as helpful as you. Half the time a cop has to work uphill because nobody who knows anything wants to stick his neck out." He looked at the actor. "What else do you know about him?"
"I know he's an arrogant bastard who's always shooting his mouth off. Thinks he's a holy marvel with women."
Bishop stood up. Hamlet had finished his lunch, but Lollobrigida was still gnawing lazily on a leg. He felt a little queasy in the stomach.
"Can I use your phone?" he asked.
"Right near the front door," Brendt said smiling.
The detective phoned his office and asked for Trask.
"What's the dope?" the Irishman asked.
"Do we have a stakeout on Sally and Penny?"
"Sure. What did he tell you?"
"He thinks it's Swaller, disguised. What do you think?"
"It makes sense," Trask said after a moment. "Shall I pick him up?"
Bishop hesitated. "No. Not yet. All we need is another goof and we'll have to hand in our badges. Let's make sure it's Swaller first. Put a man on him. Or better still, let's go after him ourselves."
"I'll put a man on him now and we'll relieve him after lunch. For some reason I'm hungry today. I could even go for chopped liver."
Bishop groaned. "Don't mention chopped liver, for the love of Mike."
"What's the matter? I thought you loved it. That's what you get for eating it every day. I used to feel that way about mulligan stew."
"It's not that. I just don't feel like eating, period." He felt bilious and the stench in Brendt's place wasn't helping.
"Look, I'll have to make this fast. I want to get out of this place. It smells like a sewer. I'm not sure it's Swaller, but it's worth trying. Listen carefully. Call him. He ought to be home today-it's Saturday. Tell him we got the guy and he's confessed. He can go anywhere he likes. Then pull off the men cruising the street."
"Pull them off?" Trask sounded astonished. "You saw how easily Davis got in."
"I know. But this time we're doing it differently. We'll be watching Penny's place. And I mean watching."
"What about Sally?"
"Call her and tell her to lock herself in. Back and front and let no one in. Put a man there, too. But I think our boy'll try for Penny. I think he's worried about her more, and anyway Swaller lives much closer to her."
"Shall I call Penny?" Trask asked.
"Yeah, tell her not to let anyone in. Lock herself in. Both doors just to be on the safe side. But don't give any names. If we're cockeyed on Swaller, I want this to be our secret. They're still laughing at headquarters about the last one." He inadvertently took a deep breath, and nearly fainted. "And call me back as soon as possible. I want to get the hell out of (his stinkpot. It's killing me."
Trask ran into busy signals on both Penny and Swaller and after two attempts called Sally. She was delighted by his call and invited him for lunch.
"Wish I could," he said, crestfallen. "Maybe we can do it tomorrow if this thing goes through."
She agreed to follow his instructions carefully. He tried Swaller again. Still busy. He got Penny a moment later and repeated Bishop's instructions. Then he went back to Swaller. Swaller's phone was still busy. Since he could not call Bishop back until he talked to the adman, he dialed Sally's number again.
This time they had a longer talk. Trask began to tell her about his nephew and his correspondence law course. She listened sympathetically. He enjoyed the conversation so much that he forgot Bishop was waiting. He remembered when the police switchboard operator broke in to tell him Bishop wanted urgently to talk to him. He said good-bye hurriedly and got on the other line.
"Goddamn it, Trask," Bishop shouted. "What took you so long? Did you talk to them?"
"Swaller's been busy. I'll try him again."
A few seconds later he spoke to Swaller. He gave the news of the confession in his most casual manner and told Swaller he was free to go where he liked.
The moment Swaller finished the conversation, he slammed his fist into his palm and began to dress excitedly. He put a lock-pick burglar tool in his pocket. Then he poured himself a large neat drink and gulped it down. The patrols would be pulled off in fifteen minutes. Half an hour at the latest. Then it would be safe for him to go to Penny's. He forced himself to wait the full thirty minutes. Then, putting on his jacket, he walked the few blocks to her house.
Force of habit kept him cautious. He watched the street for several minutes. Only the usual passenger cars and an occasional business or delivery vehicle entered Penny's block. He could see no uniformed men or plainclothes-men anywhere. Apparently Sergeant Trask had told the truth. He fingered the burglar tool in his pocket.
He walked briskly toward the center of the block which ran at a right angle to Penny's street. Between the garages that filled most of it, a narrow alley led to the backyards of several houses. He entered quickly and made a beeline for Penny's door. Using the burglar tool he jiggled the door lock by picking it. It worked. He opened it quickly and closed it behind him.
From the darkness of the tiny laundry room he stared at the alley. No one had followed him. Relieved, he turned towards Penny's bedroom from which the faint cha-cha-cha sounds reached him. He walked confidently down the hallway toward the closed door of her room. Suddenly a new doubt filled him. What if all this had been a trap? What if Trask had bed? What if he had really been followed? What if it had never been the police who called in the first place? He had only heard Trask's voice once before for a minute or two.
It might easily have been Penny's husband suspecting him and laying a trap. Knowing he would walk into it. He doubled back to the small room and searched the alley again. He could see no one. Reassured, he turned back toward the bedroom. At her door, he listened carefully. Silently he tried the knob. The door wasn't locked. He could hear nothing but the music. He crouched and stared through the keyhole. What he saw made the blood rush to his head.
Penny Bruce was sitting at her vanity table in a pair of black lace panties with cream-colored ruffles.
She wore nothing else.
She was looking into the glass as she combed her long black hair. The sight of her firm breasts made the blood rush to-his head. He felt weak in the knees just looking at her. It seemed ages since he had caressed those mounds. Or felt his fingers glide down those magnificent tapering legs.
Oblivious of anything else now, he glued his eyes to the hole and enjoyed her. It was as if he were watching an exciting, sensuous French film. He saw her make the long graceful motions with her comb and brush; motions that made her lovely breasts shiver. He felt a pounding in his temples as she began to slide long slim legs into a pair of sheer black hose. When she flexed her beautiful limbs to draw up the stockings, he could hardly stand it.
She hooked the tops of the black stockings to her garter belt and walked up and down before the long glass examining herself.
When she stood still before the mirror and tested the firmness of her breasts, he could bear it no longer. He had to have her now.
Jumping up from his crouching position, he opened the door quickly and went inside. Dazed with desire, he threw his arms around her, covered her mouth with his own and in a swift movement lifted her and and threw her down on the bed. The hammering in his temples was so loud as he rolled on top of her and began kissing her that he did not immediately hear the men come in. He moved his mouth hungrily down her throat and was cupping her breasts when rough hands pulled him away from her.
Penny screamed. Reaching frantically inside his coat, Swaller drew a gun and fired wildly at his attackers. He was trying to fire again when the first of the bullets struck his chest.
He stared bewilderedly into the faces of Lieutenant Bishop and Sergeant Trask. Shaking his head, he muttered, "No."
Bishop caught him as he began to roll off the bed. Swaller turned his face to the girl, stared at her with obvious loathing, and said, "Why?"
The girl shuddered and turned her eyes away from the question on his face. A moment later he was dead. Penny began to sob into her pillow. The ex-New York detective watched the unclad weeping girl helplessly, then seizing a dress from a nearby chair, he covered her nakedness. "See if she has any liquor inside," he whispered to Trask. "She's in bad shape."
"Did he rape her?"
Bishop stared at the girl's form, still racked with sobs.
"I don't know. We came in fast. But if he didn't, he got pretty close." To himself he muttered; and no one in that art class recognized him. Why?
As Trask left, he bent down to examine the corpse.
The front bell rang and Bishop went to answer the door. Several persons had heard the shots and came running. He showed them a badge and shut the door firmly. When he reached the bedroom, Trask was giving Penny a shot of Jack Daniels Sour Mash Whiskey as she lay propped up under the bedclothes. Her eyes were all red and her cheeks tearstained but she was quiet.
"You feel better?" Bishop asked gently.
She nodded.
"I'm sorry we weren't any quicker. He's the prowler, isn't he?"
She hesitated for a moment and then nodded. She avoided the detective's eyes. His experienced eyes noticed and wondered why.
"It must have been pretty horrible," Trask said. "His sneaking up on you undressed and all." She's hiding something, he thought.
She did not reply.
"Look, would you like me to get a doctor?" Bishop asked.
She shook her head. "I'll be all right," she said hoarsely. "You came in before he could do anything."
"You want me to call in a neighbor? She can get you anything you need. Or your husband?"
"No," she said almost hysterically. "Just leave me alone now, for God's sake! Just leave me alone!"
Bishop made a face. "I'll call you later to let you know when we might need you for the coroner's inquest. You'll have to testify and identify him. It won't take too long."
"Please leave me alone," she said, her lips trembling. "I'll do anything you want. Identify him, testify-anything. Only I want some peace now."
"This man is dead," Trask said apologetically. "We have to go through a certain police routine in these matters, but we'll make it short. Would you like to get dressed and wait in the living room? You'll feel much better. We can't move the body until the photographer and the medics get here. But it shouldn't be too long."
"All right," Penny said wanly. "I'll go inside."
Bishop, who had been staring at the body, straightened up. "Mrs. Bruce, why didn't you recognize Swaller as the prowler the other day?"
Her face twitched nervously. "I don't know. I was-he was all different when he came here the other time. He didn't look like Swaller at all. His hair, his voice, his nose were all different."
Trask's eyes brightened. "That accounts for her hesitation. There was something familiar about him, but the man was disguised."
Penny nodded. "He was completely different. He talked differently and he wore glasses. I thought even then I knew him, but I couldn't be sure."
Bishop nodded. "Okay, we'll leave you to get dressed now." When they were outside, Bishop said, "I wish we could have taken him alive."
"There was nothing else we could do," Trask said. "You saw him draw the gun." The little detective took off his straw hat, nodded absently and moved toward the front room. "The guy threw me completely off balance," the Irishman continued. "I thought he'd go in and talk to her for a while. But he jumped on her right away and there was nothing else I could do." He paused thoughtfully. "He must have got all worked up looking at her through the keyhole and couldn't wait."
The ex-New York detective said nothing as he tore the cellophane from a cigar and chewed the end.
"What's the matter, Mike? You look unhappy."
Bishop shrugged. "I can't understand why he came in the back door. And why it was unlocked. You told her to lock it, didn't you?"
The big Californian scowled. "What difference does that make, Mike? The girl identified him as the prowler. That's all we need. The case is closed. Stop worrying. You're always worrying."
Bishop growled. "Don't tell me to stop worrying, damn it. If I'm going to worry, I'm going to worry. That's all there is to it. There's something about this whole business I don't like. And I'm not sure what it is yet, and nobody recognizing any classmates after class-together. Disguises, slimises-why?"