After my alarm went off, I got up, showered, and looked through my suits to find the cleanest. The double striped, dark brown job looked the best. I didn’t see any obvious stains and it was still reasonably well pressed. I picked out a light blue shirt with a soft collar and a dark blue tie and figured that would get me through the day. I put on the trousers and the shirt and went out to the kitchenette and made some coffee. I sat at my table and drank two cups. After that, I smoked a cigarette, called my service, and found that Sheila had arranged the meeting with Martha Henderson for 10:00 am, just as I had asked.
I called Cliff and told him about my encounter with Detto. I said the kid told me Henderson stole Clayman’s jewels for Benny because someone paid Benny three grand for them. Maybe he couldn’t get all of it into a courtroom, but I thought maybe he could use it to convince Plowe to drop Croft out of it.
Cliff asked me if the kid had anything else to say, and I told him, “The guy who paid Benny for the rocks is supposed to be some rich guy with a house near Silver Lake. You know anybody who fits that bill?”
He didn’t answer at once, but then slowly said, “No,” and thinking out loud, he added, “There were lots of mansions up there in the twenties. Most of them are gone now, and the few that are left have almost all been cut into cheap rooming houses.” His voice became lighter, and he said, “Silver Lake went out of style about the same time as Scott Fitzgerald, and the money couldn’t run away fast enough. Bobby Andrus scared some away. As far as I know, it’s been more than fifteen years since anyone with serious lettuce has lived up there.”
He coughed and said, “I wouldn’t waste a lot of time looking for this guy. The best fact you have is that Henderson stole the stuff for Benny. How confident are you with that?”
I ran my tongue across my lips and said, “I’m sure that’s what happened, but can you sell it? I don’t know. Maybe Detto was lying. Or maybe the sickness was talking. I don’t think much of either one, but they’re possible.” I exhaled slowly and added, “The Henderson kid also said there was a man in Silver Lake. At least, Walford said he did.” I worried at my bottom lip with my teeth and tapped a finger quickly and repeatedly on the table.
A minute passed and Cliff said, “I don’t know, Phil. I’m not keen on relying on a hophead, and Walford’s story may be hearsay two or three times removed. I like the idea that Henderson took the stuff for Benny, and I don’t see the Silver Lake guy – if he even exists – adding much to that story.”
“I think there’s something there. Something that needs digging into.”
Cliff disagreed and said, “The focus should be on building up that kid’s story about Henderson and Benny.”
I tapped my finger faster and harder. “As far as I can tell, only three guys can put meat on those bones, Cliff. One’s dead. The second one’s Benny, and I don’t think he’s going to confess just because we ask him. Even if we say, ‘pretty please’.”
Cliff snorted, and I said, “And, the way I think the story goes, the third guy is that guy in Silver Lake.” My finger was tapping hard enough to sting. “The other night, Benny gave me a speech about a fish he had on the line. A guy with a big name who kept big company. He all but said that wad of cabbage I saw him with came from that guy. That fits Detto’s story.”
“So? What says the fish with the big name is the guy from Silver Lake? Anything? Or is that nothing more than your assumption?” I started to answer, but Cliff wasn’t waiting. “And maybe Benny had some dough – ok – and maybe he got it from some big shot. But that doesn’t mean a fellow in Silver Lake paid Benny to steal Clayman’s necklace. With Benny, there are plenty of other possibilities.”
“You’re right, but as I put it together, this is the possibility that makes the most sense.” Still, I respected Cliff too much to disregard his reaction, and my own words sounded weak when I said, “It just seems there must be a connection between that guy and all of this. And that finding him is important.”
I couldn’t tell if Cliff had been listening or if he’d been thinking thoughts of his own. All he said was, “Find me something that says Henderson stole the jewels for Benny – something better than the testimony of a drug-sick hophead. Anything else is unnecessary.”
Cliff’s “unnecessary” didn’t sit right with me. Stopping at Benny and Henderson left too much undone to my way of thinking.
“Maybe I am going too far – maybe knowing Henderson took the rocks for Benny is enough. Add that to Croft’s story about seeing Benny and Henderson at Spike’s – a story that has witnesses – and the money Benny was throwing around the other night, and maybe that is the end, Cliff. Maybe, tied all together with Detto’s story, that’s enough to get Plowe to yank Benny in and put it to him. Anyone should be able to do that math and pull out the right answers.”
I went quiet and then added. “But I’m not Plowe, and I’m not Red, and it’s not the end for me. There are still things I need to know.”
“Let me tell you something, Phil.” Cliff’s voice was sharp with frustration. “You’re one of the best investigators I’ve ever known. You dig harder and faster than a badger after a mouse and I’ve watched you untangle problems that might baffle Einstein. But sometimes.” He paused. “Sometimes you don’t know when to stop, and you go too far your own way, and no one can tell you anything.”
I wasn’t going to argue with Cliff – he wasn’t saying this to be nasty, but because it’s what he thought – so I just said, “I can’t do it any other way, Cliff. It just doesn’t work for me. That’s why I’m not a cop.”
Maybe I should have stopped there, but I couldn’t. “But you need to understand, Cliff, I keep an awful lot to myself. I don’t share all my thoughts as soon as I have them, and I don’t tell everything I know or everything I’ve heard. Not until I’m ready. There’s no point in bringing anyone in too early or telling them things that will only lead to trouble if I don’t pull them off.”
He sighed. “So, there’s something you aren’t telling me.”
“Well, Detto was with another guy that night at the Hi Ho, and maybe he heard what Detto heard. But he’s a junky, too.”
“That’s not much help. But who is this guy?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t interested me before. If you really want to know, you’ll have to ask Detto about him.”
“I’ll have to ask?”
“Yeah. I’m part of the reason the kid’s in the hospital, remember, and he might not be too happy to continue our conversation.” I laughed. “Besides, I have some other people to see and a few other things to do.”
“Are these more of those things you’re not ready to share?”
I laughed again. “I’ll be talking with the Henderson lady today. That may help shake things loose. And maybe I’ll drive around Silver Lake and see if I can find a big house that’s not all cheap rooms let by the week.” That sat for a moment, and then I said, wrapping it in easy humor as if it were a joke, “I have some other ideas, but you don’t need to worry about them. Just yet.”
Cliff was too smart to be diverted by my weak camouflage and said, wryly, “If you’re thinking about breaking the law, I’d advise against it.”
“It’s not always easy to know just how far the law stretches.”
And that’s how we left it.
I put the coffee cup in the sink and went back to the bedroom for my coat and tie. While I was there, from the dresser drawer, I pulled out an old DA investigator’s badge Cliff had once given me and put it in my wallet. I finished dressing, picked up my hat, and went down to my car. I drove west down Franklin and used Vine to cut over to Sunset. I grabbed a quick breakfast at a café near the Palladium, played some hide and seek as I drove away to be sure I wasn’t being tailed, and still made it to Beverly Hills in plenty of time to keep my appointment with Martha Henderson.
Sierra Vista Drive was one of those streets off Doheny that pass by plenty of fancy houses on lawns that looked like they were cared for by squads of obsessive gardeners intent on perfecting nature. Clayman’s place was an imposing pile of white on almost an acre, with grass cut as neat and sharp as a putting green, tidy gardens of flowers and shrubs, and stunning trees. Ten Doric columns rising two stories and set in pairs ran from a stone porch to the roof of the place and formed a massive portico across the mansion’s entire front façade. Above the porch, the gable was a thin rectangle that divided the lower floors from a third floor of dormer windows and a steeply angled roof of black slate. A small cupula crowned the roof. The drive was long and circular and bordered by immaculately trimmed bushes.
I parked next to a grayish blue Ford Special coupe that was only a few years younger than my Chevy and followed several white stone steps to the portico. Intricately carved stone spanned the doorway and sidelights of finely wrought stained glass panels in simple geometric shapes. I rang the bell and waited.
Sheila opened the door. She was wearing her brave and defiant smile – the look that reminded me of Diane – but her eyes were red and watery and had pain in them. She was holding a small black book with a gold clasp. She said, “Good morning, Phil. I hope you don’t mind, but Martha asked me to come.”
“No. I expected to see you. Wanted to see you,” I said. I started to ask her if she was all right but stopped myself and threw out something empty instead. “There’s nothing I have to say you can’t hear.”
She smiled and walked me across the entrance hall – two stories of air and light framed with dark wood and beautifully intricate plaster work – into a room larger than my apartment. It was the kind of room made for canapés and cocktails, and Roger Clayman didn’t strike me as the kind of man who sat and shared pleasantries with anyone over dainty sandwiches and watery booze. The furniture was all finely made, but it wasn’t a comfortable room, and nothing in it said anything about Clayman that you wouldn’t already know from looking at the outside of his house. It wasn’t a room where anyone laughed or cried or shared much of anything at all. It was a room reserved for strangers.
A small, sturdy woman was standing there, near a fireplace that rarely saw a fire. She was fifty or maybe fifty-five, with gray hair, bound in a tight bun, and wearing a light blouse over a dark skirt that reached to the middle of her calves. Her shoes were dark, ran up her ankles for support, and had thick, sturdy soles.
Sitting in a chair next to the fireplace, was a man of sixty or more. He had a friendly face, that was wearing a careful, polite smile, and was dressed in a thick cotton work shirt, denim trousers and boots. He stood as I walked towards the fireplace side of the room, but he didn’t seem comfortable on his feet; he trembled and seemed to fight for his balance. He was shorter and smaller than his wife.
Sheila made introductions and explained that Mr. Henderson didn’t want his wife to face me alone. “I tried to tell him you aren’t one of those brutal, unmannered pulp magazine detectives. The kind who drink their breakfast, smoke all the time, and use coarse language in front of women.”
The old man broke in, saying, “Whatever he may be, my place is with my wife.” And he sat down.
I said I agreed and wouldn’t have it any other way. I explained I had some questions, that I was working for Croft’s lawyer, and that I would share whatever they told me with him. I assured them I would not pass anything they told me on to Lt. Plowe or Lt. Redmond.
“My questions are for Mrs. Henderson, but I would be happy to hear from all of you.”
Sheila and I sat on a sofa, while Martha Henderson took a chair near the fireplace, on the opposite side from her husband. I cleared my throat and started in.
“Mrs. Henderson, when did you last see the missing necklace and ring?”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen them,” she said. “I’ve just heard talk about them.”
I looked at Mr. Henderson, thought about David Henschel telling me of an older man who brought them to his shop, and said, “But you saw them not too long ago, didn’t you? When Mr. Clayman had you take them to Jacob Henschel’s son.”
He shook his head. “I took packages there,” he said, “but I didn’t look to see what was in them.”
“Did you normally run errands for Mr. Clayman?”
“No. Jack did that.”
“Why didn’t Jack take these packages?”
Mrs. Henderson answered. “In the last few months, Mr. Clayman didn’t trust Jack much. And not at all when things of value were involved. To be honest, lately Mr. Clayman had started acting like he didn’t trust anyone.”
“Did Mr. Clayman know about Jack’s past – his trouble with the police?”
“Yes. We told him about Jack’s record. We explained it had all happened right after Jack’s mother had died, and that Jack was just a young boy who fell under bad influences.” She looked to her husband, then picked at her blouse, as if she was removing something very small I couldn’t see. “Jack promised he had learned his lesson and had changed,” she continued. “I believed him.” She looked up at me and smiled. “It was always easy to believe Jack.”
John Henderson coughed and said, “But then we learned that Jack had been arrested soon before he came here. He hadn’t told us about that.”
“How did you find out?”
The old man said, “A policeman came by one afternoon and said he would like to talk to Jack. About a robbery. And he told us about the arrest. The one we didn’t know about.”
Mrs. Henderson picked up the story. “We confronted Jack, and he said the police were lazy and wrong and had to drop the charges in the end. He said the police would always try to stick guys like him – guys with a record – for anything that happened. He was angry and hurt and we let it go.”
“Was there anything – besides his record – that made Mr. Clayman distrust Jack?”
The Hendersons looked at each other, the old man gave a small nod, and Mrs. Henderson said, “About a month ago – maybe – Mr. Clayman found Jack in his office with no explanation. Jack said he was looking for papers he needed for the car. But Mr. Clayman didn’t believe him, since that was something John would take care of. He was convinced rigt then Jack was looking for things to steal. Mr. Blinder was here that day and said Mr. Clayman was being too hasty in his judgment and –”
I jumped in before she finished and said, “I’m sorry to be so direct, Mrs. Henderson, but I suppose that explains why you told the police Jack wasn’t here the day Mr. Clayman died? You were afraid that, because of this history, the police would assume Jack stole the missing jewelry?”
Mr. Henderson said, “Mr. Summers, I don’t think I appreciate the implication behind your question.” His voice was unnaturally harsh and low. He was obviously working at being much tougher than he was, and it was charming, in its way.
Mrs. Henderson smiled at him. “No, John. He’s right. I was scared. The police were bound to blame Jack because of his record. And I lied.” She looked at me and said, “Jack was here. And he did take the car about the same time Mr. Croft left.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Henderson. To protect one of my nephews, I might have done the same thing. I don’t know.”
“You have nephews, Mr. Summers?”
“Yes. Three. One in Illinois and two in Iowa. The oldest just turned 18. But I haven’t seen any of them for a while, now. I haven’t been home for almost two years.”
She looked at me just like she knew all about living far away from family.
I asked, “Did Mr. Clayman have many visitors?”
“No. Mr. Rutledge, the accountant, used to come every month, and Mr. Blinder used to come even more often. But all that changed. Mr. Blinder hasn’t been to the house for two or three weeks. He and Mr. Clayman had an argument–”
I interrupted. “Do you know what it was about?”
“No. But, in the last few months, Mr. Clayman was angry all the time, and he fought with so many people. He even fired Mr. Rutledge, who’s always been the nicest man.”
Mr. Henderson said, “There were days in the past few months I thought he was going to let us go.” The Hendersons looked at each other in that way old couples have of acknowledging shared sorrow.
Mrs. Henderson turned to me. “You must understand, Mr. Summers, he was very sick. And in a great deal of pain. He had terrible headaches. He wasn’t thinking as clearly as he used to. He forgot things – names, words, where he had put things. He was suspicious of everyone. He trusted no one. He was convinced Mr. Rutledge was stealing from him, that Mr. Blinder had robbed him for years, and that Jack was going to steal anything he could. He even accused John and me of plotting against him. He said we knew Jack was a wolf preying on him, and he said we were helping Jack by protecting him.”
I nodded, not because I agreed with anything she said, but because I wanted to show I understood how difficult it all must have been. She looked at me with her lips raised in a slight smile and then looked back to her husband. I let things sit for a moment, and then I asked, “Had Mr. Clayman talked about needing travel arrangements for anyone recently?”
“What kind of arrangements?”
“Airline tickets? Hotel reservations? Within the last week?”
“He had me look at costs for the Super Chief between Los Angeles and New York City not long ago. I gave him the rates for roomette and double bedroom accommodation, but he didn’t mention it again. He’s never asked me about any airplane. And it’s been years since he’s stayed in a hotel.”
“Did he say who was the train was for?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“For himself, maybe?”
“No, Mr. Summers. Mr. Clayman wasn’t in any condition to travel to New York City. He couldn’t spend three days cooped up on a train. Even if he had his own bedroom.”
I sat for a moment and then shifted the conversation again.
“Did Mr. Clayman ever tell you he might have to sell some things?”
She quickly said, “Yes.”
“When was that?”
She let out a long breath of doubtful air and said, “I couldn’t say, exactly. It’s just something he said from time to time over the last few years.”
“Do you remember when he last mentioned it?”
She thought for a while and said with a question in her voice, “Last week?”
“Do you remember what he said?”
“Something about letting the car go. After all, he didn’t use it much anymore. At the time, I just thought he wanted to get rid of Jack.”
“Do you remember anything else he said about selling things?”
“Not in particular, but Mr. Clayman always complained about taxes. In one of his moods, he’d say the taxman wouldn’t be satisfied until he had taken the roof from our heads and the food from our mouths.”
“Did he ever talk about selling jewelry, like the necklace and the ring?”
“No. Not with me.”
I looked at Mr. Henderson and asked, “Did he tell you why the packages were going to Mr. Henschel’s store?”
“No, sir. He did not.”
I looked at him and then at her and then let my gaze drift up to the ceiling. My eye caught on a long crack. I traced its wandering path from the cornice above the fireplace to the plaster ceiling rose in the center of the room and back again while I replayed the conversation in my head.
I looked at them both and said, “Thank you. You’ve been a great help, and I’m sorry to disturb you. Especially now. But I do have just a few more questions if you don’t mind.”
She smiled wanly and said, “No. I understand. This is important.”
“I’ll be as quick as I can.” I tried to look as amiable as I could and to keep all accusation out of my voice, because an idea was growing in the back of my head, and I thought Mrs. Henderson could help me judge its worth. “Did you know Mr. Clayman called me the day he died, and he knew Blinder had been to see me, and he knew what Blinder wanted me to do?
Her eyes were wary, and her voice rose slightly, as she said, “Yes.”
“And you talked about these things with him?”
She didn’t say anything right away, but looked at Sheila, who nodded slightly. Only then did Mrs. Henderson give out with a very quiet, “Yes.”
Sheila leapt in and said, “Phil, I called Martha after you and Bill left. There was something I had been wanting to ask her, and I was curious about what my uncle had in mind. I told her what you had said.”
I pinched my lip, looked at Mrs. Henderson, and asked, “How did Mr. Clayman react when you told him? Was he angry?”
“No. The very opposite. He smiled and said he was expecting it. He told me Mr. Blinder wanted to come by and that, when he did, I was to show him in and take him directly to the study even if the door was closed. And then he shut himself up in his office and I heard him on the telephone.”
“Didn’t that seem odd, since Mr. Clayman and Mr. Blinder had argued and weren’t talking?”
“They had argued, and Mr. Blinder hadn’t been to the house in weeks – that’s right – but Mr. Clayman and Mr. Blinder must have been talking.”
“What made you think that?”
“The way he reacted – without surprise. And the way he told me Mr. Blinder would come.”
“But Mr. Clayman didn’t tell you he had talked to Mr. Blinder, did he? That’s just something you decided for yourself?”
“No, you’re right. Mr. Clayman didn’t tell me. It’s just something I thought.”
I chewed on this for a bit, and then asked, “Did he tell you why Mr. Blinder was coming?”
“No. But that wasn’t unusual. Mr. Clayman kept so many things to himself.”
“Was it unusual for him to shut himself in his office?”
“No.”
“To ask you to show Mr. Blinder in, even if his door was closed?”
“Yes. That was unusual.”
“Could you make out who he called or what he said?”
“No.”
Things had started falling in to place, but I had to be sure of something. “Mr. Blinder hasn’t been to the house for two or three weeks – for a long while, I think you said. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Could he have been here – in the last few days – without you knowing it?”
She thought for a while, shook her head, and said “No.”
After that, I smiled at them both and said, “You’ve been a great help, and I appreciate your time.” I stood up to show I was finished.
Sheila rose and said, “I’ll show Mr. Summers out.”
As we stood on the portico, Sheila apologized for calling Martha. “I was curious, Phil, and I didn’t even stop to think I might be breaching a confidence.” She looked at me and I was going to tell her not to worry, but I saw her eyes mist, and her face went tired and sad.
After a moment, she said, “To be honest, I also hoped Martha might be able to tell me about something of my mother’s I hoped to find. I had asked her about it before – last week – and she said she knew nothing, but I wanted to try again.” She showed me the book she still had in her hands. “This was what I thought Uncle Roger was hinting he had and wanted to give to me.” She undid the clasp and opened the book. Her fingers traced some neat and precise handwriting in blue ink. She lingered on the page long enough so that I could read the printed title – “Diary” – and then, in blue script, “Lillian Rose Clayman, 1919.”
Still looking at the book, but with emotion shaking her voice, she said, “Martha didn’t know anything about it then, but she found it in his desk after he died. She gave it to me this morning. I was reading the last pages, just before you came.”
She looked into my eyes, and I knew she was going to cry. Unsure, I put my hand on her arm.
“Oh, Phil,” she said, and sighed long and deep. Her head dropped down to her chest, and she put her hand on mine. I could feel her shoulders rise and fall with her breath.
Her words were quiet and broken. “I already knew most of it. What my father told me was true. But he left out so much.”
She squeezed my hand and looked up. Tears escaped from her eyes and trickled down her face. I took my hand away and straightened my tie even though it didn’t need it.
“I’m sorry. It’s unfair of me to cry in front of you,” she said. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smiled weakly, and asked, “Did Martha help?”
“She confirmed things I thought had happened. I’m close to having all we need to get Plowe and McCarty to drop the case against Mr. Croft.”
She looked at me with questions in her eyes.
I nodded slowly and said, “I could be wrong. I could still be surprised. But I think I know what happened.”
After my alarm went off, I got up, showered, and looked through my suits to find the cleanest. The double striped, dark brown job looked the best. I didn’t see any obvious stains and it was still reasonably well pressed. I picked out a light blue shirt with a soft collar and a dark blue tie and figured that would get me through the day. I put on the trousers and the shirt and went out to the kitchenette and made some coffee. I sat at my table and drank two cups. After that, I smoked a cigarette, called my service, and found that Sheila had arranged the meeting with Martha Henderson for 10:00 am, just as I had asked.
I called Cliff and told him about my encounter with Detto. I said the kid told me Henderson stole Clayman’s jewels for Benny because someone paid Benny three grand for them. Maybe he couldn’t get all of it into a courtroom, but I thought maybe he could use it to convince Plowe to drop Croft out of it.
Cliff asked me if the kid had anything else to say, and I told him, “The guy who paid Benny for the rocks is supposed to be some rich guy with a house near Silver Lake. You know anybody who fits that bill?”
He didn’t answer at once, but then slowly said, “No,” and thinking out loud, he added, “There were lots of mansions up there in the twenties. Most of them are gone now, and the few that are left have almost all been cut into cheap rooming houses.” His voice became lighter, and he said, “Silver Lake went out of style about the same time as Scott Fitzgerald, and the money couldn’t run away fast enough. Bobby Andrus scared some away. As far as I know, it’s been more than fifteen years since anyone with serious lettuce has lived up there.”
He coughed and said, “I wouldn’t waste a lot of time looking for this guy. The best fact you have is that Henderson stole the stuff for Benny. How confident are you with that?”
I ran my tongue across my lips and said, “I’m sure that’s what happened, but can you sell it? I don’t know. Maybe Detto was lying. Or maybe the sickness was talking. I don’t think much of either one, but they’re possible.” I exhaled slowly and added, “The Henderson kid also said there was a man in Silver Lake. At least, Walford said he did.” I worried at my bottom lip with my teeth and tapped a finger quickly and repeatedly on the table.
A minute passed and Cliff said, “I don’t know, Phil. I’m not keen on relying on a hophead, and Walford’s story may be hearsay two or three times removed. I like the idea that Henderson took the stuff for Benny, and I don’t see the Silver Lake guy – if he even exists – adding much to that story.”
“I think there’s something there. Something that needs digging into.”
Cliff disagreed and said, “The focus should be on building up that kid’s story about Henderson and Benny.”
I tapped my finger faster and harder. “As far as I can tell, only three guys can put meat on those bones, Cliff. One’s dead. The second one’s Benny, and I don’t think he’s going to confess just because we ask him. Even if we say, ‘pretty please’.”
Cliff snorted, and I said, “And, the way I think the story goes, the third guy is that guy in Silver Lake.” My finger was tapping hard enough to sting. “The other night, Benny gave me a speech about a fish he had on the line. A guy with a big name who kept big company. He all but said that wad of cabbage I saw him with came from that guy. That fits Detto’s story.”
“So? What says the fish with the big name is the guy from Silver Lake? Anything? Or is that nothing more than your assumption?” I started to answer, but Cliff wasn’t waiting. “And maybe Benny had some dough – ok – and maybe he got it from some big shot. But that doesn’t mean a fellow in Silver Lake paid Benny to steal Clayman’s necklace. With Benny, there are plenty of other possibilities.”
“You’re right, but as I put it together, this is the possibility that makes the most sense.” Still, I respected Cliff too much to disregard his reaction, and my own words sounded weak when I said, “It just seems there must be a connection between that guy and all of this. And that finding him is important.”
I couldn’t tell if Cliff had been listening or if he’d been thinking thoughts of his own. All he said was, “Find me something that says Henderson stole the jewels for Benny – something better than the testimony of a drug-sick hophead. Anything else is unnecessary.”
Cliff’s “unnecessary” didn’t sit right with me. Stopping at Benny and Henderson left too much undone to my way of thinking.
“Maybe I am going too far – maybe knowing Henderson took the rocks for Benny is enough. Add that to Croft’s story about seeing Benny and Henderson at Spike’s – a story that has witnesses – and the money Benny was throwing around the other night, and maybe that is the end, Cliff. Maybe, tied all together with Detto’s story, that’s enough to get Plowe to yank Benny in and put it to him. Anyone should be able to do that math and pull out the right answers.”
I went quiet and then added. “But I’m not Plowe, and I’m not Red, and it’s not the end for me. There are still things I need to know.”
“Let me tell you something, Phil.” Cliff’s voice was sharp with frustration. “You’re one of the best investigators I’ve ever known. You dig harder and faster than a badger after a mouse and I’ve watched you untangle problems that might baffle Einstein. But sometimes.” He paused. “Sometimes you don’t know when to stop, and you go too far your own way, and no one can tell you anything.”
I wasn’t going to argue with Cliff – he wasn’t saying this to be nasty, but because it’s what he thought – so I just said, “I can’t do it any other way, Cliff. It just doesn’t work for me. That’s why I’m not a cop.”
Maybe I should have stopped there, but I couldn’t. “But you need to understand, Cliff, I keep an awful lot to myself. I don’t share all my thoughts as soon as I have them, and I don’t tell everything I know or everything I’ve heard. Not until I’m ready. There’s no point in bringing anyone in too early or telling them things that will only lead to trouble if I don’t pull them off.”
He sighed. “So, there’s something you aren’t telling me.”
“Well, Detto was with another guy that night at the Hi Ho, and maybe he heard what Detto heard. But he’s a junky, too.”
“That’s not much help. But who is this guy?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t interested me before. If you really want to know, you’ll have to ask Detto about him.”
“I’ll have to ask?”
“Yeah. I’m part of the reason the kid’s in the hospital, remember, and he might not be too happy to continue our conversation.” I laughed. “Besides, I have some other people to see and a few other things to do.”
“Are these more of those things you’re not ready to share?”
I laughed again. “I’ll be talking with the Henderson lady today. That may help shake things loose. And maybe I’ll drive around Silver Lake and see if I can find a big house that’s not all cheap rooms let by the week.” That sat for a moment, and then I said, wrapping it in easy humor as if it were a joke, “I have some other ideas, but you don’t need to worry about them. Just yet.”
Cliff was too smart to be diverted by my weak camouflage and said, wryly, “If you’re thinking about breaking the law, I’d advise against it.”
“It’s not always easy to know just how far the law stretches.”
And that’s how we left it.
I put the coffee cup in the sink and went back to the bedroom for my coat and tie. While I was there, from the dresser drawer, I pulled out an old DA investigator’s badge Cliff had once given me and put it in my wallet. I finished dressing, picked up my hat, and went down to my car. I drove west down Franklin and used Vine to cut over to Sunset. I grabbed a quick breakfast at a café near the Palladium, played some hide and seek as I drove away to be sure I wasn’t being tailed, and still made it to Beverly Hills in plenty of time to keep my appointment with Martha Henderson.
Sierra Vista Drive was one of those streets off Doheny that pass by plenty of fancy houses on lawns that looked like they were cared for by squads of obsessive gardeners intent on perfecting nature. Clayman’s place was an imposing pile of white on almost an acre, with grass cut as neat and sharp as a putting green, tidy gardens of flowers and shrubs, and stunning trees. Ten Doric columns rising two stories and set in pairs ran from a stone porch to the roof of the place and formed a massive portico across the mansion’s entire front façade. Above the porch, the gable was a thin rectangle that divided the lower floors from a third floor of dormer windows and a steeply angled roof of black slate. A small cupula crowned the roof. The drive was long and circular and bordered by immaculately trimmed bushes.
I parked next to a grayish blue Ford Special coupe that was only a few years younger than my Chevy and followed several white stone steps to the portico. Intricately carved stone spanned the doorway and sidelights of finely wrought stained glass panels in simple geometric shapes. I rang the bell and waited.
Sheila opened the door. She was wearing her brave and defiant smile – the look that reminded me of Diane – but her eyes were red and watery and had pain in them. She was holding a small black book with a gold clasp. She said, “Good morning, Phil. I hope you don’t mind, but Martha asked me to come.”
“No. I expected to see you. Wanted to see you,” I said. I started to ask her if she was all right but stopped myself and threw out something empty instead. “There’s nothing I have to say you can’t hear.”
She smiled and walked me across the entrance hall – two stories of air and light framed with dark wood and beautifully intricate plaster work – into a room larger than my apartment. It was the kind of room made for canapés and cocktails, and Roger Clayman didn’t strike me as the kind of man who sat and shared pleasantries with anyone over dainty sandwiches and watery booze. The furniture was all finely made, but it wasn’t a comfortable room, and nothing in it said anything about Clayman that you wouldn’t already know from looking at the outside of his house. It wasn’t a room where anyone laughed or cried or shared much of anything at all. It was a room reserved for strangers.
A small, sturdy woman was standing there, near a fireplace that rarely saw a fire. She was fifty or maybe fifty-five, with gray hair, bound in a tight bun, and wearing a light blouse over a dark skirt that reached to the middle of her calves. Her shoes were dark, ran up her ankles for support, and had thick, sturdy soles.
Sitting in a chair next to the fireplace, was a man of sixty or more. He had a friendly face, that was wearing a careful, polite smile, and was dressed in a thick cotton work shirt, denim trousers and boots. He stood as I walked towards the fireplace side of the room, but he didn’t seem comfortable on his feet; he trembled and seemed to fight for his balance. He was shorter and smaller than his wife.
Sheila made introductions and explained that Mr. Henderson didn’t want his wife to face me alone. “I tried to tell him you aren’t one of those brutal, unmannered pulp magazine detectives. The kind who drink their breakfast, smoke all the time, and use coarse language in front of women.”
The old man broke in, saying, “Whatever he may be, my place is with my wife.” And he sat down.
I said I agreed and wouldn’t have it any other way. I explained I had some questions, that I was working for Croft’s lawyer, and that I would share whatever they told me with him. I assured them I would not pass anything they told me on to Lt. Plowe or Lt. Redmond.
“My questions are for Mrs. Henderson, but I would be happy to hear from all of you.”
Sheila and I sat on a sofa, while Martha Henderson took a chair near the fireplace, on the opposite side from her husband. I cleared my throat and started in.
“Mrs. Henderson, when did you last see the missing necklace and ring?”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen them,” she said. “I’ve just heard talk about them.”
I looked at Mr. Henderson, thought about David Henschel telling me of an older man who brought them to his shop, and said, “But you saw them not too long ago, didn’t you? When Mr. Clayman had you take them to Jacob Henschel’s son.”
He shook his head. “I took packages there,” he said, “but I didn’t look to see what was in them.”
“Did you normally run errands for Mr. Clayman?”
“No. Jack did that.”
“Why didn’t Jack take these packages?”
Mrs. Henderson answered. “In the last few months, Mr. Clayman didn’t trust Jack much. And not at all when things of value were involved. To be honest, lately Mr. Clayman had started acting like he didn’t trust anyone.”
“Did Mr. Clayman know about Jack’s past – his trouble with the police?”
“Yes. We told him about Jack’s record. We explained it had all happened right after Jack’s mother had died, and that Jack was just a young boy who fell under bad influences.” She looked to her husband, then picked at her blouse, as if she was removing something very small I couldn’t see. “Jack promised he had learned his lesson and had changed,” she continued. “I believed him.” She looked up at me and smiled. “It was always easy to believe Jack.”
John Henderson coughed and said, “But then we learned that Jack had been arrested soon before he came here. He hadn’t told us about that.”
“How did you find out?”
The old man said, “A policeman came by one afternoon and said he would like to talk to Jack. About a robbery. And he told us about the arrest. The one we didn’t know about.”
Mrs. Henderson picked up the story. “We confronted Jack, and he said the police were lazy and wrong and had to drop the charges in the end. He said the police would always try to stick guys like him – guys with a record – for anything that happened. He was angry and hurt and we let it go.”
“Was there anything – besides his record – that made Mr. Clayman distrust Jack?”
The Hendersons looked at each other, the old man gave a small nod, and Mrs. Henderson said, “About a month ago – maybe – Mr. Clayman found Jack in his office with no explanation. Jack said he was looking for papers he needed for the car. But Mr. Clayman didn’t believe him, since that was something John would take care of. He was convinced rigt then Jack was looking for things to steal. Mr. Blinder was here that day and said Mr. Clayman was being too hasty in his judgment and –”
I jumped in before she finished and said, “I’m sorry to be so direct, Mrs. Henderson, but I suppose that explains why you told the police Jack wasn’t here the day Mr. Clayman died? You were afraid that, because of this history, the police would assume Jack stole the missing jewelry?”
Mr. Henderson said, “Mr. Summers, I don’t think I appreciate the implication behind your question.” His voice was unnaturally harsh and low. He was obviously working at being much tougher than he was, and it was charming, in its way.
Mrs. Henderson smiled at him. “No, John. He’s right. I was scared. The police were bound to blame Jack because of his record. And I lied.” She looked at me and said, “Jack was here. And he did take the car about the same time Mr. Croft left.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Henderson. To protect one of my nephews, I might have done the same thing. I don’t know.”
“You have nephews, Mr. Summers?”
“Yes. Three. One in Illinois and two in Iowa. The oldest just turned 18. But I haven’t seen any of them for a while, now. I haven’t been home for almost two years.”
She looked at me just like she knew all about living far away from family.
I asked, “Did Mr. Clayman have many visitors?”
“No. Mr. Rutledge, the accountant, used to come every month, and Mr. Blinder used to come even more often. But all that changed. Mr. Blinder hasn’t been to the house for two or three weeks. He and Mr. Clayman had an argument–”
I interrupted. “Do you know what it was about?”
“No. But, in the last few months, Mr. Clayman was angry all the time, and he fought with so many people. He even fired Mr. Rutledge, who’s always been the nicest man.”
Mr. Henderson said, “There were days in the past few months I thought he was going to let us go.” The Hendersons looked at each other in that way old couples have of acknowledging shared sorrow.
Mrs. Henderson turned to me. “You must understand, Mr. Summers, he was very sick. And in a great deal of pain. He had terrible headaches. He wasn’t thinking as clearly as he used to. He forgot things – names, words, where he had put things. He was suspicious of everyone. He trusted no one. He was convinced Mr. Rutledge was stealing from him, that Mr. Blinder had robbed him for years, and that Jack was going to steal anything he could. He even accused John and me of plotting against him. He said we knew Jack was a wolf preying on him, and he said we were helping Jack by protecting him.”
I nodded, not because I agreed with anything she said, but because I wanted to show I understood how difficult it all must have been. She looked at me with her lips raised in a slight smile and then looked back to her husband. I let things sit for a moment, and then I asked, “Had Mr. Clayman talked about needing travel arrangements for anyone recently?”
“What kind of arrangements?”
“Airline tickets? Hotel reservations? Within the last week?”
“He had me look at costs for the Super Chief between Los Angeles and New York City not long ago. I gave him the rates for roomette and double bedroom accommodation, but he didn’t mention it again. He’s never asked me about any airplane. And it’s been years since he’s stayed in a hotel.”
“Did he say who was the train was for?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“For himself, maybe?”
“No, Mr. Summers. Mr. Clayman wasn’t in any condition to travel to New York City. He couldn’t spend three days cooped up on a train. Even if he had his own bedroom.”
I sat for a moment and then shifted the conversation again.
“Did Mr. Clayman ever tell you he might have to sell some things?”
She quickly said, “Yes.”
“When was that?”
She let out a long breath of doubtful air and said, “I couldn’t say, exactly. It’s just something he said from time to time over the last few years.”
“Do you remember when he last mentioned it?”
She thought for a while and said with a question in her voice, “Last week?”
“Do you remember what he said?”
“Something about letting the car go. After all, he didn’t use it much anymore. At the time, I just thought he wanted to get rid of Jack.”
“Do you remember anything else he said about selling things?”
“Not in particular, but Mr. Clayman always complained about taxes. In one of his moods, he’d say the taxman wouldn’t be satisfied until he had taken the roof from our heads and the food from our mouths.”
“Did he ever talk about selling jewelry, like the necklace and the ring?”
“No. Not with me.”
I looked at Mr. Henderson and asked, “Did he tell you why the packages were going to Mr. Henschel’s store?”
“No, sir. He did not.”
I looked at him and then at her and then let my gaze drift up to the ceiling. My eye caught on a long crack. I traced its wandering path from the cornice above the fireplace to the plaster ceiling rose in the center of the room and back again while I replayed the conversation in my head.
I looked at them both and said, “Thank you. You’ve been a great help, and I’m sorry to disturb you. Especially now. But I do have just a few more questions if you don’t mind.”
She smiled wanly and said, “No. I understand. This is important.”
“I’ll be as quick as I can.” I tried to look as amiable as I could and to keep all accusation out of my voice, because an idea was growing in the back of my head, and I thought Mrs. Henderson could help me judge its worth. “Did you know Mr. Clayman called me the day he died, and he knew Blinder had been to see me, and he knew what Blinder wanted me to do?
Her eyes were wary, and her voice rose slightly, as she said, “Yes.”
“And you talked about these things with him?”
She didn’t say anything right away, but looked at Sheila, who nodded slightly. Only then did Mrs. Henderson give out with a very quiet, “Yes.”
Sheila leapt in and said, “Phil, I called Martha after you and Bill left. There was something I had been wanting to ask her, and I was curious about what my uncle had in mind. I told her what you had said.”
I pinched my lip, looked at Mrs. Henderson, and asked, “How did Mr. Clayman react when you told him? Was he angry?”
“No. The very opposite. He smiled and said he was expecting it. He told me Mr. Blinder wanted to come by and that, when he did, I was to show him in and take him directly to the study even if the door was closed. And then he shut himself up in his office and I heard him on the telephone.”
“Didn’t that seem odd, since Mr. Clayman and Mr. Blinder had argued and weren’t talking?”
“They had argued, and Mr. Blinder hadn’t been to the house in weeks – that’s right – but Mr. Clayman and Mr. Blinder must have been talking.”
“What made you think that?”
“The way he reacted – without surprise. And the way he told me Mr. Blinder would come.”
“But Mr. Clayman didn’t tell you he had talked to Mr. Blinder, did he? That’s just something you decided for yourself?”
“No, you’re right. Mr. Clayman didn’t tell me. It’s just something I thought.”
I chewed on this for a bit, and then asked, “Did he tell you why Mr. Blinder was coming?”
“No. But that wasn’t unusual. Mr. Clayman kept so many things to himself.”
“Was it unusual for him to shut himself in his office?”
“No.”
“To ask you to show Mr. Blinder in, even if his door was closed?”
“Yes. That was unusual.”
“Could you make out who he called or what he said?”
“No.”
Things had started falling in to place, but I had to be sure of something. “Mr. Blinder hasn’t been to the house for two or three weeks – for a long while, I think you said. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Could he have been here – in the last few days – without you knowing it?”
She thought for a while, shook her head, and said “No.”
After that, I smiled at them both and said, “You’ve been a great help, and I appreciate your time.” I stood up to show I was finished.
Sheila rose and said, “I’ll show Mr. Summers out.”
As we stood on the portico, Sheila apologized for calling Martha. “I was curious, Phil, and I didn’t even stop to think I might be breaching a confidence.” She looked at me and I was going to tell her not to worry, but I saw her eyes mist, and her face went tired and sad.
After a moment, she said, “To be honest, I also hoped Martha might be able to tell me about something of my mother’s I hoped to find. I had asked her about it before – last week – and she said she knew nothing, but I wanted to try again.” She showed me the book she still had in her hands. “This was what I thought Uncle Roger was hinting he had and wanted to give to me.” She undid the clasp and opened the book. Her fingers traced some neat and precise handwriting in blue ink. She lingered on the page long enough so that I could read the printed title – “Diary” – and then, in blue script, “Lillian Rose Clayman, 1919.”
Still looking at the book, but with emotion shaking her voice, she said, “Martha didn’t know anything about it then, but she found it in his desk after he died. She gave it to me this morning. I was reading the last pages, just before you came.”
She looked into my eyes, and I knew she was going to cry. Unsure, I put my hand on her arm.
“Oh, Phil,” she said, and sighed long and deep. Her head dropped down to her chest, and she put her hand on mine. I could feel her shoulders rise and fall with her breath.
Her words were quiet and broken. “I already knew most of it. What my father told me was true. But he left out so much.”
She squeezed my hand and looked up. Tears escaped from her eyes and trickled down her face. I took my hand away and straightened my tie even though it didn’t need it.
“I’m sorry. It’s unfair of me to cry in front of you,” she said. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smiled weakly, and asked, “Did Martha help?”
“She confirmed things I thought had happened. I’m close to having all we need to get Plowe and McCarty to drop the case against Mr. Croft.”
She looked at me with questions in her eyes.
I nodded slowly and said, “I could be wrong. I could still be surprised. But I think I know what happened.”
Lettres d'un Inconnu 