“He put down the shotgun,” Seidman continued, “ran out in the hall, and started to yell about the gunshot upstairs before anyone had a chance to think or say that the shot might have come from his room. He went up the stairs and got to the door of Haliburton’s room, broke it down and told everyone to get away and call the cops. He wanted to make sure Haliburton was dead and to buy himself some time. He put the body on the bed, moved the rug to cover the holes, and waited for you to show up. Then he told you his story.”
“But,” said Rnzini, “why the shaving cream?”
“Hide his face,” I said. “He could wear a mask right in front of you. He probably used his towel to move the body, keep from getting blood on him. Then he just walked into the washroom over there and took another clean towel. Bloody one’s probably under the body or the bed. Then he gave you his story, walked down to his room, grabbed his already packed bag, if he even had one, and went out the door.”
One of the two forty-watt bulbs in the ceiling fixture sputtered and died. Phil pointed downward.
“We can go downstairs now and find an empty room and no fingerprints,” he said. “Then we can start doing legwork.”
“I didn’t…” Rnzini started. “You didn’t ask enough questions,” Phil said wearily. “You weren’t suspicious enough. You didn’t make everyone sit down someplace where you could keep an eye on them. You get a crime and witnesses, you sit them down where you can see them till someone who knows what he’s doing shows up. I don’t care if it’s your mother or your priest.”
Rnzini had nothing to say. Phil got off the bed slowly and walked out of the room into the hall. I stayed long enough to give Rnzini a look of sympathy.
“My brother and old man have a dry cleaning business in Pasadena,” he said. “I could go in with them.”
“Your report was good, really good,” I said.
“What’s with him, anyway?” Rnzini said, nodding in the general direction of my departed brother.
“He’s a cop,” I said. “If you stick around a couple of dozen years, you’ve got a chance at being as good a cop and as miserable a man as he is. It comes with the badge.”
By the time I caught up with Phil and Seidman, they were already back in the lobby, leaning on the desk clerk, who looked surprisingly unseedy for the Belvedere. His suit was wrinkled but a suit nonetheless. It looked better than mine. His tie was neat. His dead giveaway was the stubble on his face. He needed a touch of grime and that was it. His face was pale and somewhere between twenty-five and forever years old, with a few strands of dark hair combed, brushed, and plastered forward to give himself and no one else the illusion that something was growing up there.
“Haliburton checked in at one in the morning?” Seidman said, consulting his notebook. It was almost dawn.
“Yes,” said the clerk.
“And Mr. Mann in 303?” Seidman continued. Phil simply stood with his arms crossed, looking angry. The clerk couldn’t keep his eyes from him.
“Let’s see,” he said, finding a pair of glasses and checking his register. “Checked in a few minutes later. Said he was a colleague of Mr. Haliburton and wanted a room very near him. I gave him 303 right below, which didn’t seem…”
“What did he look like?” Seidman interrupted.
“Mr. Haliburton?” asked the clerk.
“Mann.”
“Glasses, dark mustache, hat tilted forward, a fairly large man, not as large as Mr. Haliburton,” said the clerk. “Think you could identify Mann again without the hat, glasses, and mustache?” asked Seidman.
Without… I don’t know. I didn’t really stare at him. We were busy at the time…”
“Thanks,” said Seidman, closing his notebook.
“Our killer has flair,” I said as we walked back to the car. “A wooden spear in the stomach and a shotgun blast through a floor.”
“If the same guy did both these jobs tonight,” Phil said.
“It’s possible,” I said, getting into the car.
“You thought Billy Conn was going to beat Joe Louis,” Phil reminded me. “I think we should talk to Mrs. Shatzkin.”
Seidman nodded. The sun was definitely coming up and it was Tuesday. On the way to Bel Air we stopped at a stand for coffee and some sinkers. The guy had no cereal. I looked at the counterman’s newspaper while he read it and caught only the headline that said the United States had sunk a Japanese warship and crippled a battleship from a secret air base near Manila.
It was just before seven when we got to the front door of the Shatzkin house. Phil knocked instead of pressing the bell. The Mexican maid answered. She was wearing a robe and a yawn.
“Mrs. Shatzkin is still sleeping,” she whispered.
“Wake her up,” Phil said.
“But…”
“But hell,” Phil shouted, “Tiene prisa. Move.”
The frightened girl moved. We could hear her going up the stairs as we entered the hall. Phil led the way and found the living room. He looked at the furnishings with distaste, probably comparing the place to his own in North Hollywood and not enjoying the comparison and the lack of sleep.
Camile Shatzkin came down in about five minutes. She had taken the time to put on her face and a robin’s-egg blue robe that cut a nice V at the neckline, which could distract us.
“What is this?” she said.
“We’re the scorekeepers,” I said.
Phil told me to shut up.
“Mr. Peters says you admitted yesterday to being a close friend of Thayer Newcomb,” Phil said. “Is that right?”
“Why yes,” she said with a slight fluster and hand movement. “I’ve known Thayer for…”
“And you rented an apartment in Culver City where you could meet him secretly,” Phil went on.
Mrs. Shatzkin bit her lower lip prettily.
“I don’t see what this has to do with my husband’s murder,” she said. “If you are going to persist along these lines, I’m going to have to insist that I can say no more until I talk to my lawyer.”
“Newcomb is dead,” I said.
Phil shot me a look that should have sent me skidding on my heels through the wall.
“Thayer is dead?” she said, putting her right hand up to her throat. “That’s awful. How?”
“Someone shoved a wooden stake into his chest,” I said.
Phil stepped toward me with a ready fist. I tried to watch him and Camile Shatzkin. I interpreted her look as shock and fear, but I didn’t see any grief coming for a lost lover. She sobbed and sat with shaky knees on the nearest chair.
“When did you see Mr. Newcomb last, Mrs. Shatzkin?” Seidman asked, to draw Phil’s attention from me.
“I don’t know,” she said weakly, “Maybe a week, two weeks. I don’t know. We were… we had decided not to see each other again. I regretted the whole thing. And then Jacques died.” I still didn’t see any grief and neither did Phil or Seidman.
“Do you know where Mr. Haliburton is?” Seidman went on.
She looked up in something resembling surprise.
“Why? I mean, he left last night. Quit. He was very devoted to Jacques, almost a son to us. He just couldn’t stand being around here. I understood.”
If there was any devotion in Haliburton, it had been directed at Mrs. Shatzkin, and if there was maternal love in his looks, Oedipus could move over to make room for one more on the couch.
“Haliburton is dead,” I said, taking two steps back from Phil.
Seidman stepped between us and said softly, “Phil, Phil… not here.”
“He’s dead?” Mrs. Shatzkin said with eyes opening in bewilderment.
“Yeah,” I said. “Isn’t it curious how men who get too close to you wind up dead? The count is three, and the way I see it, there’s one left. Care to come up with a name, Camile?”
Camile coughed like her namesake and almost had a fit. “Maria,” she called through the cough, “Maria.”
The maid came running in.
“Call Doctor Gartley now. Tell him to come quickly. I’m going to my room.”
Without a goodbye or final comment, she made her exit.