“No, thanks, lieutenant,” O’Leary said weakly.
I asked: “What does Kurbee look like?”
“Thin, white-haired. Little man about sixty-five. Maybe a little older — he was living on the old age pension.” Kissinger regarded me thoughtfully. “Is that Marty Wensel?”
I shook my head. “Marty wasn’t forty. About the same size as you described Kurbee, though. What’s the story, lieutenant?”
“Somebody shot him through the window from the roof next door. That’s all. No motive, no suspects.”
“You must have been demoted, lieutenant. A nice, juicy Hollywood murder and here you are, stuck with a Main Street wino that nobody cares about.”
“We’re democratic, Carmody. We investigate whether it’s a rich man or a beggar.”
“Bull!” I said impolitely. “You wouldn’t give a damn if all the bums on Skidrow got pushed off. You’re in this case for some reason. What is it?”
“I asked to be assigned to it as soon as I saw what we had to work with.” Kissinger didn’t change expressions. “There’s one little clue, Carmody. I’m going to let you see it.”
He dug an envelope out of an inner pocket, opened it carefully and took out a picture. He gazed at it for a second, almost licking his lips, and I had a sinking feeling that Laurie Bressette had had some torrid photographs made. Then Kissinger held it up, and it wasn’t Laurie. It was Mrs. Carmody’s boy, William.
“That’s cute!” O’Leary explained. “It catches Willie’s personality perfectly. Stupid but rather sweet. Can I have it, lieutenant? I don’t have one picture of him.”
Kissinger shook his head. “I’ll try to get it for you when the case is closed. It says here it’s an unposed, candid shot.” He put it back in the envelope. “I don’t believe it. Nobody looks like this without an effort.”
“You two could whip a very funny routine out of that,” I said. “Where did you get it?”
“In Pop Kurbee’s pocket. That’s why I’ve been trying to get in touch with you, Carmody. I was worried about you.”
“I just bet. It probably kept you awake at the office just thinking about it. Well, you’re on the case, what are you going to do?”
“Are you going to tell me how Kurbee happened to have your picture in his pocket?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he said, almost happily. “Take you downtown and ask some questions.”
“A piece of hose and some bright lights?” I asked. “A little rough stuff downstairs—”
“I don’t operate that way, Carmody,” he said indignantly.
“Oh, you don’t knock any teeth out,” I said. “You just loosen them. No bruises that show either. No broken bones.”
“No!” O’Leary burst out. “Lieutenant, if you lay a finger on him I’ll go right to the commissioner! I’ll get your badge, lieutenant, if his hair is even mussed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Miss—”
“I can take it, Maggie,” I said bravely. “I’ve been beat up before. The sight of blood doesn’t bother me... even my own.”
Kissinger yelled: “Carmody, stop it!”
“I’m warning you, lieutenant,” O’Leary said, dangerously. “I’ve written some stories for most of the newspapers in this town and they’ll back me up. I’ll have pictures on every front page in every edition tomorrow if he isn’t returned exactly as he is now. He may not be much of a catch, lieutenant, but he’s my boy and there’s no strong arm cop going to give him the third degree!”
Kissinger was so red in the face I thought he was going to have a stroke. He thought of several answers but after opening his mouth each time he changed his mind. “Get him a lawyer,” he snapped. “Come on, Carmody, you poor little thing. I’d like to work a few cross word puzzles with you — if you’re sure it won’t give you a headache!”
I had to wait till we got outside before I could laugh and then I couldn’t stop, even when we got downtown. Every time Kissinger asked a question I’d think of the look on his face when O’Leary started into him and I’d break out again. I didn’t tell him very much. He finally gave up and told me to get the hell out before he did rough me up. He was almost on the point of taking a swing at me and the hell with the consequences. So I left.
I’d planned to exit laughing, but at the door, he called to me. He had control of himself again. “Maybe you’d like to know why I’m not on the Hollywood shooting, Carmody. Because it’s out of my department. Anselmo isn’t dead. All he has is a furrow across his ribs. Just a scratch.”
Exit, Carmody — definitely not laughing!
An hour later, O’Leary and I pulled up opposite Anselmo’s Film Library on Selma. “I really messed this up,” I told O’Leary. “Obviously Wensel shot Anselmo yesterday and so this morning Anselmo returned the compliment — or so he thought. Wensel was bunking with Pop Kurbee and Anselmo shot Kurbee through the window by mistake.”
“But what could you have done?” O’Leary asked. “The old man was probably dead before you figured out it was the street photographer who shot Anselmo.”
“I didn’t mean that. All the shooting must be over that pornographic film. Anselmo has it and Wensel wanted it. What else could it be? And it was probably in Anselmo’s shop.”
“And so?”
“So I should have shaken the place down yesterday. The cop wouldn’t have any cause to open the shop with Anselmo alive. I had a sweet opportunity of getting that film.”
“Maybe it isn’t too late. We don’t know Anselmo is out of the hospital.”
I opened the car door. “I’ll try to get inside and see. You sit here.”
I didn’t wait for her to tell me it was illegal. I knew it was — also practically impossible. First I had to break in... in broad daylight — then open the safe. There was bound to be a safe. Anselmo wouldn’t leave anything like that film lying around for just anybody to pick up. I knew I couldn’t open a safe — half the time I can’t open my own. But I didn’t want to miss any bets that might find some lead to Laurie — or her remains.
I got some tools out of the rear of O’Leary’s car and went up the alley behind Anselmo’s shop. I intended to make like a workman doing a job. I might have bluffed it through, but it wasn’t necessary. All I had to do was follow somebody else’s path. The back window was wide open. So was the door of the safe. It had been souped off. The safe was as empty as Carmody’s head.
I found nothing in the way of film that couldn’t safely be shown to the East Peoria Ladies’ Guild any Saturday morning.
I spent the next two days adding up what I knew and it came out zero. I’d started out to find Laurie Bressette, and after several brilliant strokes of detective work I was still trying to find her. I didn’t know whether she was alive or dead. I didn’t know why she was missing, and I didn’t know who was responsible.
It could be Anselmo, or Marty Wensel. It could be the Voice — unless he was Anselmo or Wensel. And I couldn’t eliminate Danny Lawson, the radio actor, or Eva Vaughn. Or it could be person or persons unknown. Laurie seemed the type who could get picked up by any good-looking male...
Anselmo had been my best bet — and he still was. So I called all the hospitals until I found the one he’d been in. Note the past tense. They had released him yesterday as out of danger. But if he went home, he was keeping it a secret. He didn’t answer his phone. Maybe he wanted privacy.
Speaking of privacy, I wasn’t getting any. Lida Randolph had informed the world that I had agreed to investigate the burglary of her house. That is, the papers, particularly the movies sections, carried a brief mention of it. I could have shot O’Leary. She was up to her old tricks of getting me some publicity. That girl has been in Hollywood too long.