Chapter 9
The telephone rang at eight thirty, as I was getting dressed. Eberhardt or Paul Glickman, I thought. It was Eberhardt.
“You hear the news yet?” he said.
“What news?”
“I figured,” he said. “Why the hell don’t you read the newspapers? Or listen to the damn radio?”
“My life is depressing enough without wallowing in other people’s misery. What’s up?”
“Thomas Lujack is dead, that’s what’s up. Murdered last night. Way it looks, Nick Pendarves killed him.”
I feigned astonishment. There would be no use in confiding in Eb; he would only raise a fuss. He has been a conservative, law-loving man all his life, except for one foolish slip a few years ago; ever since that slip, he has become even more rock-ribbed in his outlook. Besides, I had no satisfactory explanation to give him for my actions last night-or at least none that would satisfy him.
Thomas Lujack’s death had made page two of the Chronicle, not because of the circumstances but because of the tie-in to the Hanauer thing. The details were sketchy, so Eb had thought to call one of his cronies at the Hall of Justice for a complete rundown.
His account contained two pieces of information that I paid particular attention to. One was the fact that the call alerting the police had been anonymous: male voice saying that something funny was going on at Pendarves’s address, the garage door was shut and a car engine was running inside. That explained the reactions of the two patrolmen. It also added to my feeling of wrongness about the whole business. The other piece of information gave me pause, though, because it tended to support the circumstantial evidence: Pendarves had disappeared. His Plymouth Fury had been found abandoned near Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park at six this morning.
I asked, “What’s the official theory?”
“Either Thomas went to see Pendarves on his own hook or Pendarves asked him to come. Depending on which, there was some kind of fight or Pendarves deliberately cold-cocked Thomas; then he finished the job. One way it’s first-degree, the other way maybe it’s second-degree. Up to him and his lawyer to convince a jury.”
“You buy all that?”
“Any reason I shouldn’t?”
“For one thing, why would they meet in the garage?”
“That’s where Pendarves was when Thomas showed up. Or Thomas was knocked out somewhere else and Pendarves carried him into the garage afterward.”
“All right. But why kill him with carbon monoxide?”
“Some screwy idea that jumped into Pendarves’s head, maybe on account of it was also a good way to get Thomas’s car off the street and buy himself some time. Who knows why people do crazy things? They don’t know themselves, half the time.”
“Were his fingerprints on the BMW?”
“No. Which doesn’t mean diddly and you know it.”
“Yeah. Gloves.” The same reason they hadn’t found my prints on the BMW. “So Pendarves set up the monoxide thing and then just took off, huh?”
“Panicked and took off, right.”
“Why didn’t he just hang around and wait for the monoxide to do its job and then get rid of both the car and the body? He’d be in the clear that way.”
“Like I said, he panicked. It happens.”
“Inspectors find any evidence that he went on the run? Suitcases and clothing missing?”
“No,” Eberhardt said, “but so what? He could have packed light; you can’t always tell. There isn’t anything in the house that’s worth much.”
“Why would he abandon his car?”
“Throw the law off his scent. Called a cab or somebody he knew and had himself picked up in the park and driven to Greyhound or the airport or any one of a hundred places. Takes time to check all the possibilities.” He paused. “Listen, you got a reason for being so doubtful?”
“No specific reason,” I said. “I’m playing devil’s advocate, that’s all. But doesn’t it seem a little off-the-wall to you?”
“A little, I guess,” he admitted. “What’re you thinking? That it might tie into the Hanauer case? Same person who ran down Hanauer killed Thomas?”
“Possible, isn’t it?”
“Anything’s possible. But hell, why? Why frame Pendarves? Where’s the sense in that?”
“Where’s the sense in Hanauer’s murder or any of the rest of it? I want the answers, Eb. Don’t you?”
“Sure. Thomas’s wife and brother probably will too. Don’t let’s get ahead of ourselves.”
“Yeah. Either of them able to shed any light on what happened?”
“No. Coleman told the cops he hadn’t talked to Thomas since yesterday afternoon and then it was about business. The wife said he stayed in the city after the conference with you and Glickman. Called her and told her he had some things to take care of and he’d be home late, but he didn’t say what the things were.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll talk to Glickman. Then we’ll see how things stand.”
We rang off. And as I finished dressing I thought: I don’t care about the circumstantial evidence or what anybody says — it didn’t happen the way it looks. It’s a phony, a setup. Nick Pendarves damned well did not kill Thomas Lujack.
* * * *
Glickman said, “The family hasn’t decided if they want you men to continue your investigation. They’re still in shock.”
“You talk to both the wife and brother?” Eberhardt asked.
“Yes.”
“Separately?”
“Yes.”
“And they both said the same thing?”
“More or less. It’s not surprising that they should be indecisive at this point-”
“It is to me,” I said. “Why would they need to think about it? Pendarves may or may not have killed Thomas, but he didn’t run down Frank Hanauer. And Thomas probably didn’t either. Don’t they want his name cleared?”
“I should hope so.”
“And while they’re making up their minds? What are we supposed to do? Sit around on hold?”
“Legally there is nothing any of us can do until the family makes a decision.”
“Which could take days.”
“Yes. But I doubt it’ll be more than twenty-four hours.”
I glanced at Eb, who shrugged. Eberhardt the philosophical; Que sarasara. There were times when I wished I could adopt his detached professional attitude, but this wasn’t one of them. I fidgeted on Glickman’s upholstered visitor’s chair. We were in his private office on Terrific Street, and the antique ship’s clock on one wall said that it was already five minutes before noon.
To Glickman I said, “Did you tell them there’s some doubt Pendarves is guilty? That Thomas’s murder may in fact be tied directly to Hanauer’s?”
“I told them you expressed that concern, yes. Coleman asked if there was any evidence to support it. I had to tell him no.”
“That’s part of the reason for us staying on the job. To find evidence to support it.”
“I told him that too. He said he would think about it.”
“Yeah,” Eberhardt said. “Think about it.”
“Will you talk to them again?” I asked Glickman. “Try to use your influence?”
“Certainly. But you must understand, I’m in a touchy legal position here. I can only go so far.”
Strict letter of the law, I thought. Well, good for you, Paul. I hope nothing happens to turn your head. I hope you keep on being one of the lucky ones.
* * * *
Eberhardt went to finish up a routine background investigation and I went back to the office, where I dug Thomas Lujack’s home telephone number out of the file. Ten rings, no answer. We hadn’t been given Coleman’s home number, but I knew that he lived in Burlingame; and even though the number was unlisted, it took me all of ten minutes to get it. And all of five seconds to reach his answering machine. I hung up without leaving a message. If I was going to talk to him, I wanted it to be in person.
The next call I made was to Containers, Inc. A bored female voice-Teresa Melendez, no doubt-informed me that Mr. Coleman Lujack was not in the office today because there had been a death in the family. She didn’t seem to care much that a second of her three employers had died by violence. But that might say more about the Lujacks and the climate at Containers, Inc., than it did about her personally.