informed us that you and Mr. Astaire had been taken away by their captain. Mrs. Forbes asked me to bring her home immediately. I did so.”
“Sort of ends a good job,” I said.
“Mrs. Forbes has indicated that she wishes to retain my services.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “Can I talk to the grieving widow?”
“I very much doubt it,” he said.
“Tell her I’m going to go talk to her father if she won’t talk to me.”
“I doubt if Mr. Cortona would welcome a call from you at this time,” said Singh.
I stood with my hands folded in front of me.
“I’ll see if Mrs. Forbes will talk to you,” Singh said, closing the door.
I listened to the derricks and thought I even heard the surf. I waited. Singh opened the door and stepped out of the way. I went in. He led me to the same room I had been in with Jeremy the night before. The first thing I saw was myself in the mirrored wall. Then I saw the grieving widow properly dressed in black with a veil. I also saw three men in dark suits. Two of the men were standing. The oldest man sat in a chair. He had an ebony cane in his hand and his white hair was worn in a wave. I recognized him. He was Guiseppi Cortona. His picture had been in the papers and the
“You wanted to see me?” Cortona said.
“I was bluffing,” I said.
The widow pulled back her veil and took out a cigarette. One of the men in suits moved quickly to light it for her.
“Bluffing,” Cortona repeated as if the word were particularly interesting. “Bluffing about what?”
“I had some questions for Mrs. Forbes. I was afraid she wouldn’t answer them.”
“We were on our way back to Los Angeles to arrange for my son-in-law’s funeral and talk to the authorities,” Cortona said. “We were also going to look you up. A friend in the police department says you killed Arthur, you and the dancer.”
“I didn’t kill him,” I said.
“And the two-bit, what was his name?”
“Talbott, Willie Talbott,” Carlotta supplied.
“Willie Talbott. You didn’t kill him either. Or the blonde. .”
“Luna Martin,” Carlotta supplied impatiently. “Papa, he killed Arthur.”
“Why would I kill Arthur?”
“To get him off your client. Because he threatened to kill you. How do I know?” Carlotta said, looking around now for an ashtray for the cigarette she had barely touched. One of the two men in suits came up with one for her.
“I can’t dance,” said Cortona sadly, touching his leg. “Been like this since I was a kid. Truck got me in an alley in Palermo. Driver was a kid like me, doing a job. Only, he didn’t come out of the alley.” Cortona nodded at the two men in suits, who moved toward me as I backed up.
“I just have three questions,” I said, remembering that my.38 was on the desk of John Cawelti.
“What?” asked Carlotta.
The two guys in suits were coming on. They were both bigger than they had looked across the room.
“Who introduced Luna to your husband?”
“How should I know?”
“Two more questions and then. .” Cortona said.
“The black Buick in the driveway. That yours?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Last question,” said Cortona.
“What do you do with your old purses?”
“My old. .”
“You throw them away?” I asked.
“That’s four questions,” Cortona said. “You’re over the limit and you’re asking stupid questions.”
“I keep my old purses. I don’t throw things away. I’m a pack rat,” Carlotta said. “I hold onto my memories. And I’ll hold onto the memory of what’s gonna happen to you right now.”
“No more questions,” said Cortona, thumping his cane on the wooden floor.
I reached back for the door.
“I didn’t kill him,” I said.
“Then,” said Cortona with a shrug, “I’m making a mistake. I have made them in the past.”
I looked at Carlotta. Her veil was back down.
“An accident,” Cortona said. “You got an ocean. You got oil things. Lots of places for an accident.”
They took my arms and turned me out of the room.
“Not too long,” Cortona called. “We’ve got to get to town.”
“I didn’t do it,” I said to the two guys who walked me down the hallway and out the front door.
“We don’t care,” said the taller, heavier one on my right arm.
“Not in the least,” said the other one.
Both were dark. Both were strong. We were on the way down the front steps. Kudlap Singh, the Beast of Bombay, was at the bottom of the steps, directly in our path.
“We’re going for a walk with our friend,” the bigger guy on my right said.
“He is not your friend,” said Singh.
“We’re still going for a walk,” said the bigger guy.
“Peters is a friend to a friend of mine,” said Singh.
“That is interesting,” said the big guy, looking at his watch. “We’re in a hurry.”
“I think you should allow him to get in his car and drive away,” Singh said, barring the path.
The guy on my left arm let go and reached under his open jacket. Singh stepped forward and grabbed his wrist. The guy’s hand came out clutching a gun. The other guy let me go and went for his gun. I gave him a solid punch to the neck, usually effective and it didn’t hurt your knuckles. Both of Guiseppi Cortona’s men were on the ground. The one Singh had grabbed was clutching a broken wrist. His gun was nowhere in sight. The other guy was on his knees, gasping like an asthmatic.
“Go,” Singh said to me.
“Come on,” I said.
“I have a vehicle,” he said. “I will find other work. Perhaps the war will end soon and I’ll be able to return to India.”
The one I had punched was trying to stand. His hands were around his neck. It looked as if he were trying to strangle himself.
“Thanks,” I said.
I ran to my Crosley, got in, started it, and almost caught the bumper of the Lincoln as I made it through a narrow space between car and house. In the rearview mirror, I saw the two bad guys trying to pull themselves together. Guiseppi wasn’t going to be happy with them. They would have been better off coming with me.
Singh stood waiting till I was down the driveway and just about to hit the road. Then he turned slowly and walked around toward the rear of the house.
I found a turnoff about half a mile down the road, pulled in, parked where I wouldn’t be seen by anyone driving by, and waited. The wait was short, about two minutes. Kudlap Singh drove past in a blue coupe. He was definitely breaking the speed limit. About five minutes later, the Lincoln zipped by in a big hurry, but I got a glimpse of the guy I had hit in the neck. He was driving. The one with the broken wrist was next to him in the passenger seat, and I saw or imagined I saw Carlotta and her old man in the back.
I drove back to the Forbes house, my heart pounding in time to the oil derricks. The front door wasn’t locked. They had left in a rush, though I was sure Cortona had made at least one phone call before they piled into the Lincoln.
I found a phone on the second floor in what looked like the master bedroom: big, blue-and-white wallpaper, a
