Built for Trouble Read online

  “Well, naturally I’m sorry, Mr. Baker, but—” She glanced nervously toward the door and then went on: “—but I don’t quite see that all this concerns me.”

  “Turn it off,” I said, grinning. “Don’t tell me that Carol forgot to mention the beer tin.”

  She smiled then, smiled when you knew damn well she wanted to tear me apart. The kid was more than good at staging an act. She got up and walked across to a small glass box on the coffee table and brought back cigarettes. The profile was enough to start a guy scratching himself, and when our eyes met I knew she could read it in my face. Before I could zero in on the business at hand once more, the chimes rang and she got up to open the door. The brains of the combine hurried in, a thin character half a head shorter than she was. He had on a classy gray suit, a gabardine job cut to make the most of his meager physical endowment. The introductions were curt; the formality of meeting Joe Lamb quickly over.

  “Now what the hell is going on here?” Lamb asked. He pointed an anemic finger under my nose. “Unless I got it all wrong, this adds up to blackmail.”

  “Watch your language,” I said. “We’re going to call it a business deal.”

  “Like hell we are!” He paced the floor, his short legs moving in quick, abbreviated strides. His hair was gray at the fringes and he had piercing brown eyes. I glanced at the sofa, saw that Nola was on the edge of the cushions, and then watched Joe Lamb make one more lap of the rug.

  “All right, Jockey; you’re piling up mileage but we’re getting nowhere. How about lighting someplace and we’ll get down to cases?” I said. Joe circled past the glass box, caught up a smoke, and struck a match with nervous fingers. When he sat down next to Nola, I stood up and took over the pacing.

  “We can start by agreeing that everyone here knows exactly what happened two weeks ago. I was had; the evidence is clear and plentiful. That Lucky Lager tin tells the whole story and a moron, once all of the pieces were put in front of him, could assemble a fair picture of how this swindle was staged. The motive was profit; I want my share. It’s as simple as that.”

  “What evidence?” Nola asked mildly. “So far you’ve only made one vague reference to a beer can.”

  “Not a beer can, a special edition. Only one was struck off, a home-made job with a fancy brass petcock on one end to let the air out and a valve from a tire in the other. It could be filled at any service station, or with a hand pump. A chunk of lead the size of my fist weighted it down. Sure as hell we aren’t going to waste any more time arguing about what it was for or who used it.”

  “And where is this contraption now?” Nola asked.

  “It was half buried in sand off the beach at Playa Del Rey. I brought it up and now it’s for sale. Do I hear a bid?”

  Joe Lamb’s mouth dropped open. “You brought it up! I—”

  “I believe,” Nola cut in quickly, “that Mr. Baker mentioned pieces of a puzzle. So far we’ve only heard about one item, the can.” She stood up and walked easily to the window, looked toward the swimming pool, and casually adjusted the Venetian blind just a little. But there wasn’t anything wrong with that blind! She moved smoothly and gave out with the calm and collected air like the actress she was, but the edge was there just the same. And she’d cut in on Joe Lamb before he could say anything about who was supposed to have taken care of the beer tin. Nola Norton wasn’t going to let Hank Sawyer’s name be dragged into this if she could help it. She turned toward me now and managed a smile.

  “What are some of the other pieces, Mr. Baker?”

  “A picture,” I said, and spent a little time getting a cigarette lit. Joe edged toward the front of the cushion under him, and Nola crossed her legs a shade too casually. “You had to be sure there was one really good exposure on the roll of film, something professional, something that would catch an eye without relying too heavily on cheesecake. But it’s almost impossible to take that kind of picture in strong sunlight, so you hustle out there in early morning and do the job right. And at the same time Nola swims out and drops the can of air, first being careful to line it up with something ashore so she’ll be able to locate it later.

  “At noon, Nola and the Taylor girl come down for a swim. With her experience as a lifeguard, Nola has no trouble convincing me that she’s in panic out there, and she does it without calling for help. Three would have been a crowd. She has already spotted her can of air. When I start out to the rescue, she dives for the beer can, kicks hell out of the sand and silt on the bottom, and comes up again. She wasn’t thrashing this time, just that white bathing cap bobbing in the surface, and now I know why. As I got closer, she went under again, and this time down into the murky water. With her mouth over the brass fitting, she simply took air from the can and exhaled through her nose. When Eddie Baker was desperate for air and started toward the surface, there was the quick grab from behind and the tussle was over. How does it sound, Nola?”

  “Like a fantastic dream. You aren’t by any chance a heroin addict, are you?” Joe bounced off of the sofa and made another nervous forage in the cigarette container.

  “So you’ve got a beer can and a dream, Baker,” Joe said sourly. “The way you describe that can, you could have made it yourself in half an hour with no more tools than a soldering iron and some lead. Who’s going to believe that we—”

  “Anyone who takes a second look at the pictures that appeared in Monday’s paper,” I said. “There was no particular reason for the editor to look at them critically; they were good and that’s all he wanted, but if I sing my song they’re going to haul them out for a recount. When they do and add up one shot obviously taken the morning before the rescue instead of afterward, it won’t be a very long guess to the facts.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Nola asked quietly.

  “Where? Strictly up the creek, minus oars. Next question.”

  “How—how far up the creek? What did you have in mind?” Nola asked. “It’s a shakedown, of course, but there is a certain nuisance factor here.”

  “Not shakedown, just business,” I insisted.

  “So how do we know you’ve got the damn thing?” Joe asked. He was trying to sound careless, but it wasn’t going very well. Nola picked an imaginary speck from her knee and put the fish hooks out for another try.

  “You realize, Mr. Baker, that this is all rather sketchy. You’d have to have a great deal more to—to go on than you’ve given us if you expect this to have any real value.”

  Now it was my turn to fish, but I wasn’t going to watch Nola. She had had some time on the stage and would be able to cover; I wanted to see how Joe Lamb rolled with the punch.

  “What you want to know,” I said, “is whether or not I can prove you killed Hank Sawyer. That it?”

  Joe’s eyes widened and the cigarette he’d been drawing on suddenly lost its glow as his breath caught in his throat. He swallowed once quickly, then bounced up off the sofa and pointed a shaking finger at me.

  “Baker, you’re nuts! Stark, raving nuts! You haven’t a damn thing to go on at any point along the line and—”

  “Hold it,” I said. Nola had a cool smile in place now, something almost amused, but it was a damn good guess that the wheels were turning hard and fast under that head of black hair. I went to the window, looked toward the green lawn and pool outside, and began to take a quick count of the progress. In a way Joe was right; I didn’t have much on Hank’s passing but a guess. And there was a long mile to go before I’d be able to prove anything. For one thing, I still wasn’t ready to believe that he was killed for what he knew about the phony rescue, and that led directly to the next point. What did he know? How could I find out? And what would I do if I did find out?

  I needed time to work things around. Joe had asked how he could be sure I had the beer tin. It gave me an opening.

  “Let’s take things as they come,” I said, turning back to the two of them. “You don’t think I’ve even got the Lucky Lager can? Fair enough; I’ll prove po
ssession. Nola, give me an earring or a pin, something that’s unique, something only you would have. I’ll photograph it against your beer can and bring the picture. Then you’ll know damn well I’ve got the can and could turn it over to you at any time. When you’re sure I can deliver the goods we’ll get together on a settlement and—”

  “We aren’t holding still for any pay-off,” Joe barked, but Nola seemed not to have heard. Her face grew thoughtful as she pointed her cigarette at me. “Naturally, Mr. Baker, you’ve worked out how all of these transactions will be handled.”

  “Damn right. But at the moment, that part of the program isn’t pressing us any. Let’s just say that I realize my modus operandi is a little risky and that I’ve taken steps accordingly. Now how about an earring or some such thing?”

  Nola reached one hand to her ear, then frowned and nodded slowly. “We can go at least that far without admitting a thing, I would imagine. Joe, suppose we go into the bedroom and select a trinket suitable for the picture. Will you excuse us, Mr. Baker.”

  “Don’t horse around all day,” I said sharply. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “You have other clients, Mr. Baker?” Nola asked.

  “Never mind the humor,” I said grimly. “Let’s get on with the show.”

  They were gone several minutes. When they came back, Joe fingered an ivory earring, a drop job with the dangling part carved in what looked like Chinese writing. He tossed it to me, and Nola sat down on the sofa, then forlornly cradled her head in her hands. Joe put a hand on her shoulder, then followed me to the door.

  “Take it easy, Nola,” he said, his hand on the knob. “We’ll work it out somehow.

  “And don’t call me; I’ll call you,” I said, and went out. Joe closed the door and tagged along, all the way through to the street before he caught my arm.

  “Just a second, Baker,” he said stiffly. I stopped and looked down at him. “A little friendly advice: don’t push your luck. Maybe you can squeeze a few lousy bucks out of the kid on the strength of your nuisance value, but don’t try to go big. You’ll sure as hell wind up in jail.”

  “You’re full of holes,” I said. “In the first place, she isn’t a kid. She’s all of twenty-eight and in full possession of her faculties. This isn’t a nuisance, it’s a hundred and fifty thousand dollars worth of publicity, and I’m not going to any jail; I’m going to collect a lot of dough. Now take off.”

  I stood by the Ford and waited until Lamb got into his car. It was last year’s Plymouth sedan, ice blue and a nice wagon, but he didn’t dig out. He stalled a few minutes with a cigarette and then carefully worked the car out of his parking spot. When he drove past he didn’t give me a second look. I whistled softly and got into my hack.

  It wasn’t hard to figure. Parking for the apartment building was down under the far end, and the entrance was on the back street. Nola had held up beautifully until the last, then put on the sad act with her head in her hands. But it was an easy guess that she had recovered and headed for her car to tail me the second her door closed. Why else would Joe Lamb stall around and talk to Eddie Baker?

  I fired up the Ford, pulled out into the traffic on Los Feliz, and drove slowly in the right-hand lane, carefully going over the cars behind me in my rear-view mirror. When I made a right turn at Hillhurst, three cars in the block of traffic behind followed me in the turn. I swung right again at Kingswell, a small street, and two of the hacks in the string continued on down Hillhurst. Only one, an MG, made the corner with me, and it was keeping well back. All I could see was a head in a scarf of some kind, but when I went left and started south on Vermont Avenue, I still had company.

  It’s a big city, L.A., and losing her wasn’t going to be any great chore, but I had to be sure I did lose her. I didn’t want anyone walking in on me while I had that Lucky Lager can in my possession, and taking a picture of it was going to run into time. I drove slowly along Vermont, turning over possibilities as I went, and when the pattern began to form, I increased my speed a bit. The MG was over a block behind and fell back, then picked up a few miles per hour and closed up once more. I headed for Jefferson Boulevard, turned left, whipped over to Flower Street, and pulled to a stop. The MG eased over to the curb a block back, the girl in a scarf still behind the wheel.

  Chapter 5

  I WASTED A COUPLE OF MINUTES at the wheel, then got out and raised the hood, looked under it for a moment, and went back to reach into the dashboard area. I stood in the street for a second or two, then went back to lean on a fender and peer at the engine. When I figured the breakdown was pretty well established, I slammed the hood down and wiped my hands on a handkerchief. Hailing the first cab that came along, I got in and pointed down Flower Street.

  “Run down to Washington Boulevard and swing onto the freeway headed south,” I said.

  “Sure, Mac. And then where?”

  “Manchester,” I said. It was a long way down and would hold him until I changed orders. I peeked out the back window and saw the MG trailing along about a block and a half behind.

  Traffic was light; it was early afternoon. We wheeled right at Washington, then circled up the ramp and onto the freeway. The cab picked up speed and, checking the rear, I saw the little open car bob up behind us.

  “Look,” I told the cabbie, “there’s a bus zone, a turnout for passenger unloading, about Jefferson Boulevard and—”

  “Now wait a second, doc!” The driver half turned in his seat and we began to slow. “I can’t let no fares out there. It’s another half mile up to where I can get off the freeway and this meter’s going to run—”

  “The hell with the meter,” I said, and tossed two singles onto the seat beside him. “Just swing over to the side and let me out at the stairway. Perfectly legal; I’m paying you for all the way to Manchester and then some.”

  “That makes it different,” he said, gathering in my cash, and a few minutes later we eased into the right lane and then out onto the bus loading zone. I jumped out and the cab sped away. Just before I started down the concrete steps I turned, and as the MG rolled slowly past, I grinned at her. Nola couldn’t park here, and there was no place to stop; all she could do was run on to the next exit. As her bug began to gather speed, I waved and blew her a kiss.

  Taking the steps two at a time, I made Flower Street, crossed the intersection, jumped into my Ford, and barreled away.

  But I didn’t drive down to Union Station. There really was no point in picking up the beer tin; it was clear that the can alone wasn’t going to open the golden gates.

  I wiggled through the traffic, swung over to Echo Park, walked over to the edge of the water, and flopped down on the grass to think. I’d been wrong once and right once. Wrong because I had over-estimated the value of exposing the publicity stunt. Sure it would embarrass her—Nola’s taking the trouble to tail me proved that—and it would cost a few dollars at the box office when Island Love was released, but it wouldn’t be fatal to Nola’s career. Thinking back, I could remember half a dozen stars who had outlived worse messes than that. But I was sure I was right with my guess about Hank Sawyer being murdered. Joe Lamb’s face had seemed an instant and positive answer. An answer, but not proof and proof was the thing I had to come up with next. What had Nola been hinting at when she said I’d need a great deal more to go on? What was missing? What did Hank Sawyer have on Nola that Eddie Baker didn’t have?

  I loafed away a couple of hours there in the park and came up with two solid conclusions. First, whatever it was that Nola was trying to protect against was still around and still worrying her. Second, I wasn’t going to advance the ball an inch until I found out what it was.

  I decided I’d have to do some careful checking at Hank Sawyer’s place.

  When I turned into the alley at Hank’s place, I drove very slowly past his garage. I hadn’t noticed the lock closely before but I gave it my full attention now. Not very big. One of those laminated steel jobs and dulled with the grease of many handlings. Thi
s was going to be easy, much easier, anyway, than trying to distract the landlady and get Hank’s key at the same time.

  I drove on out to the street, swung over to the hardware store, and bought a similar lock. It only took a few seconds to lift the hood of the Ford and rub a little dirty grease on my new lock. Then I drove to a service station, bought some gas, scrubbed the grease off of my hands, and went back to see the lady who owned Hank’s apartment. She came to the door in a bathrobe again, a pair of slippers flopping at her heels.

  “Sorry to bother you again,” I said quickly, “but it will only take a moment. The company sent me out to have a second look at those power tools Mr. Sawyer bought.”

  She sighed heavily, reached toward the side, and brought out her key tied to the stick. “Lord a’mighty. You insurance people never rest,” she complained.

  “That’s right,” I agreed. She pulled the robe a little tighter around her and we went down the walk, into the alley, past the garages for two other places, and stopped behind Sawyer’s garage door. When she lifted her key I quickly took it out of her hand.

  “Here, I’ll do that,” I said. I turned the key, opened the lock, handed the key back to her, and lifted the door. As it went up I turned sideways to hide the switch, dipped into my pocket, dropped Hank’s lock, and brought out the one I’d just bought. I hung it on the hasp and went toward the two new pieces of equipment standing amid the clutter.

  “Won’t take long,” I said briskly. Slipping a card and pencil out of my pocket, I jotted down the numbers on the tags of the lathe and drill press.

  “That’s all,” I said, moving toward the door. I glanced up and saw that the house key was still there.

  “Heaven help us! You dragged a body clear over here for that? I’d think you could have phoned Sears Roebuck and asked them the—”

  “I don’t like it either, lady,” I cut in. She’d caught me short; I didn’t want to try to explain it away. “The boss said go out and check and that’s what I have to do.”