The Third Figure Page 3

  “But …” I moistened my lips. “But I’m working for Mrs. Vennezio, not for Russo. All I have to do is give her the murderer’s name. That’s the agreement. It’s got nothing to do with the Outfit.”

  In exasperation, Larsen sharply shook his head. “That’s being just plain naïve, Steve. If you were a—a society reporter, I could understand it. But you’ve spent five years reporting crime. You should know better.”

  “Well …” Indecisively I hesitated before deciding to say, “There’s the money, too. Ten thousand dollars. I—I was thinking that I could put it in a mutual fund. It could be an annuity.”

  “I thought you said it wasn’t the money.”

  “It isn’t. Not entirely. Still, I’d be a fool not to think about it. Newspapers don’t pay that much, George—and the clairvoyance business hasn’t been very brisk lately, either. So when you add it all up—”

  “When you add it all up,” he interrupted, “there’s something that doesn’t sound right. Mrs. Vennezio moves out on her husband. Supposedly she’d’ve divorced him, except that she’s Catholic. She hasn’t lived with him for two years, during which time he’s been keeping another woman. Then Vennezio gets murdered. And now his widow can’t rest until she knows who murdered him.” Larsen shook his head. “It just doesn’t make sense, Steve. There’s something missing.”

  “You haven’t talked to her, though. She’s a—a peasant type. She’s superstitious, and she’s not really very bright—or at least not very sophisticated. Also, she’s a Sicilian, and apparently she was raised to go by either the code of the church or the code of the Mafia, whichever applied. And, in this case, it’s the Mafia. Vengeance. She’s got to know who—”

  “But that’s exactly where the whole thing smells. The Mafia has its code of vengeance, all right. God knows there were enough blood feuds, even in this country—and not so long ago, either. But don’t forget omerta—the code of silence. No matter what happens, you’re not supposed to talk about it—and especially not to the police. Now, you’re not exactly the police, but you’re not exactly the corner grocer, either. And if Mrs. Vennezio is already in hot water with the Outfit, the last thing she’d do is contact someone on the outside. And you know it, Steve. You’re closing your mind to some very obvious points, here. And it could be dangerous. I’m telling you,” he repeated, “that you could end up dead, or at the very least beaten silly, just to remind you not to talk. And then, if you don’t talk, you could actually be indicted for withholding material evidence in a capital crime.”

  “Who’d indict me?” I asked.

  “What?” His voice was short and irritable. I’d seldom seen Larsen really angry, but now his lips were tightened and his jaw was clenched.

  “I said, who’d indict me? The district attorney of La Palada?”

  For a moment I thought he was actually going to lose his temper, something I’d never seen. But he simply said, “La Palada,” as if it were an obscenity.

  “Well, I mean it, George. Who would indict me?”

  “You talk like you’re on the other side already.”

  Now I felt myself becoming angry.

  “That’s a lot of crap, and you know it. I asked the question for a reason. The murder of Dominic Vennezio is already swept under the rug. There’ll never be an arrest made, and you realize it as well as I do. Now, if that’s the case, why the hell shouldn’t I make a few thousand dollars? For that matter, why shouldn’t I make myself one thousand dollars, just for going to Los Angeles and getting an interview that any crime reporter in the country would give anything to get? That’s all I’m committed to now, you know—just a trip down to Los Angeles. I could be right back here Monday morning.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing.”

  “l am?”

  “Yes, you are. When you talk about it being a closed case, don’t forget about the CIIB.”

  “The what?”

  “The Criminal Identification and Investigation Bureau. California’s FBI.”

  “They don’t ask for indictments, though.” I hesitated. “Do they?”

  “Not usually. But they can, in certain situations. And La Palada is a situation they’re looking into.”

  “Well, I know, but …”

  “There’s another thing I’d like to know.”

  “What’s that?” I was aware that I must sound defensive. Suddenly it was the way I felt.

  “Why did Mrs. Vennezio come to you?”

  “I’ve already told you, there wasn’t anyone else she could go to. Besides, she—she read my clippings.”

  “Oh.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with that?” Now my voice sounded plaintive—also the way I felt.

  “Nothing’s wrong with it, except that you know as well as I do that you’ve always worked with the police. You need the information we develop. You’ve admitted to me, several times, that these—these flashes of yours are a pretty sometimes thing. They’re—”

  “Now listen, George. You’re the one person in the world who should know that—”

  “They’re genuine flashes, all right,” he interrupted smoothly. “I’m not saying they’re not. I’ve profited by them myself, and I’ve always been the first one to admit it. Publicly. All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t become the victim of your own publicity. You know as well as I do that the Sentinel hired you for your publicity value when you found that murderer down in San Jose. And you also know that every time you and the San Francisco Police Department managed to come up with a murderer, the Sentinel spread your picture all over the front page, thereby selling a few thousand extra papers. Now, I’m not knocking it, Steve. And I’m not knocking you. All I’m pointing out is that, by your own admission, you operate just about like any reasonably talented detective. You pound the pavements, and you spend a lot of time chasing your tail. And then—still by your own statements—after you’ve walked a few miles and chased down a few bum leads and spent a lot of time moping around my office, you finally get your flash. But the point is that you’ve usually had help. Also, you’ve sometimes been wrong, and sometimes you’ve just simply failed. Now …” Again he leveled his long forefinger at me. “Now, everyone fails. It’s no sin. But if you start messing around with the Outfit and they don’t like the way things are going, they don’t just call you into the boss’s office for a friendly little chat.”

  I thought about it and then said, “You’re contradicting yourself, George.”

  “How do you mean?” He reached over to the stove for the coffee pot.

  “According to what you said first, the thing I have to worry about is what would happen if I found out who killed Vennezio. Now you’re worrying what’ll happen if I don’t. You can’t have it both ways.”

  Larsen refilled his cup, glanced at mine and then shrugged, resigned.

  “All right, go ahead. Everyone’s entitled to make a damned fool of himself once in a while, and it’s obvious you’re determined to do just that. But when you find yourself looking down a gun barrel or lying with your face on the floor mat of Russo’s shiny new Cadillac, don’t forget there’s one little flaw in your M.O. that we haven’t even discussed yet.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s your unfortunate habit of wandering around like a kid playing blindman’s buff. You’ve admitted to me, several times, that you just ‘follow your nose,’ as you put it, until—surprise—there you are: you’ve found your murderer. You can reach out and touch him—and he can touch you. With whatever’s handy. So far, you’ve been lucky. All your murderers’ve been amateurs, just like you. Either that, or the police haven’t been far behind. But you can’t buck the odds in this business, Steve. For a while you can, but sooner or later you come a cropper. Ninety-five times out of a hundred, we could run things with just one man in a squad car, for instance. We could do the job a lot cheaper, and make the taxpayers a lot happier. But then comes the ninety-sixth time. And it means a man’s life. It’s as simple as that.”

  �
��Well, I think you’re exaggerating. You—”

  “All right,” he interrupted sharply, raising a peremptory hand. “If you won’t listen to anything else I’ve said, for God’s sake, remember this: whatever you do, have the basic, elementary common sense not to stay in La Palada. Not that it’ll make a damn bit of difference, if they decide to—to discipline you. But at least you’ll be in more or less friendly territory.”

  “All right, that’s good advice. How far is La Palada from Los Angeles?”

  “Just a few miles, depending on where you are in L.A.,” he answered moodily. “As a matter of fact, I know of a good place for you to stay. It’s the Prescott Motel. It’s a nice place, and it’s not far from La Palada. Not too expensive either.”

  “Good. Thanks. Do you think I should notify the CIIB before I go? As a precaution?”

  “Oh, for …” He slammed down his cup, hard. His voice was loud and exasperated as he said, “Can’t you get it through your head what you’re getting yourself into? If you notify the CIIB, the first thing they’ll do is put a tail on you. Either that, or they’ll demand that you inform for them. But either way, you’d be cutting your chances of survival by about three hundred per cent. It’s bad enough, your wandering down to see Russo like he was some—some potentate in the Shriners, or something. But for God’s sake, keep your—your innocence. It’s the only thing that’ll get you back in one piece. It’s bad enough, you’re coming here. That was stupid enough, if you really want my opinion. But if you go to the CIIB, or the FBI, you’re just asking for—”

  Suddenly the kitchen door opened. Mrs. Larsen entered, smiling.

  “You’re raising your voice, George,” she observed, cheerfully. “Did Steve do something else to make your detectives look silly?”

  He stared at her and snorted.

  “Not this time, Carrie,” he said. “Not this time.”

  3

  BY THE TIME I’D rented a car, drove across Los Angeles, and lost my way three times on the freeways before finally finding the Prescott Motel, it was after ten o’clock Saturday night. But Larsen had been right; the Prescott was a good motel, although not as reasonable as I’d hoped. I unpacked, changed into a sport coat and found my way to the dining room for a belated dinner. The motel was laid out in a wagon-wheel pattern, so that each room opened both on the outdoors and also on a hallway leading to the hub, containing the dining room, bar and lobby.

  After dinner, out of curiosity, I asked for a La Palada phone book. First I looked up Frank Russo. There was a listing for “F. Russo,” which seemed close enough. Next I tried Mrs. Vennezio. She, too, was listed, and I also found an F. Hanson, which might be Dominic Vennezio’s mistress. Reflecting that I’d exhausted all the contacts I had in the Vennezio murder, I decided to have a drink and take stock. Since the time was almost eleven, I had no desire to call Mrs. Vennezio, and certainly I wasn’t going to call Russo for an appointment—or, for that matter, Mrs. Hanson.

  Over the drink I began thinking about my conversation with Larsen, and in the darkness of the bar, surrounded by strangers, I suddenly experienced a very lost, very lonely feeling. Larsen had been right. I’d been a vain, shortsighted fool to accept Mrs. Vennezio’s strange, illogical proposition. At best, I was a gifted amateur—with a gift that even I couldn’t define. Only the week before I’d read in a popular magazine that a noted psychologist considered clairvoyance in humans to be essentially the same as instinct in the lower animals and therefore no more remarkable than, say, the migratory instinct in birds. The author had then concluded with the speculation that clairvoyants were perhaps lower down on the evolutionary scale than ordinary humans.

  Larsen had also been right about the publicity I’d received. Most of it had been self-serving, cynically calculated to increase the Sentinel’s circulation. True, on at least three occasions during the past few years I’d discovered a murderer. The first time had been an accident: the random flash of a wayward image on my unsuspecting consciousness, turning my footsteps blindly toward the spot where a murderer crouched in the darkness, gibbering. By chance’s caprice, the story had been picked up by the wire services. I’d been working for a small San Jose daily, and within a week’s time the San Francisco Sentinel had offered to double my salary and give me a by-line. Other successes had followed—and some failures. At first, the police were derisive, even hostile. But the police were always there. We were on the same side.

  This was different. This time, I was on my own. I was in a strange town, staying in a strange motel, drinking in a strange, lonely bar.

  As I paid for the drink and slipped off the bar stool, I was conscious that the phrase Pride goeth before a fall was beginning to revolve in my thoughts. It was a phrase my father had been fond of quoting. For him it had always had a special meaning. For me it had always been a pointless parental aphorism.

  Larsen had put it another way, warning me not to become the victim of my own publicity. If the Bible were to be written in today’s idiom, I was thinking as I walked down the long corridor to my room, that’s the way a disciple might phrase it: don’t believe your own publicity.

  By ten the following morning I’d had breakfast and was standing in a telephone booth, staring at the name F. Russo, and the number, 824-4076.

  Should I wait until tomorrow, Monday?

  Should I give it up and get a plane back to San Francisco?

  As a teen-ager, trying to get up the nerve to call a girl, I could remember standing in exactly the same uncertain posture and feeling the same sheepish doubts. I hadn’t liked the feeling then, and I didn’t like it now. It was only a phone call. I wasn’t committing myself to anything. I’d come four hundred miles and I’d spend a hundred dollars before I got back to San Francisco. If I’d been a fool to take the job, I was being a bigger fool now—and a timid one, at that.

  I was dialing the number; the line was ringing. Was it Frankie Russo’s phone? F. Russo? It seemed incredible that—

  “Hello?” It was a man’s voice.

  “Is this—” I cleared my throat. “Is this Mr. Russo? Frank Russo?”

  “No. Mr. Russo can’t come to the phone right now. Who’s calling?” The voice was brusk, impatient.

  “Well, this is—I’m Stephen Drake. I—”

  “Is Mr. Russo expecting you to call him?”

  “Well, I don’t know. That is, I’m not sure. Mrs. Vennezio—Mrs. Dominic Vennezio—made an appointment for me with Mr. Russo. She said that I should—”

  “Just a minute.” The line clicked dead. I shifted the receiver from one ear to the other. As I did, I realized that the receiver was streaked with moisture. But at least now I was only a fool, no longer a timid one.

  “Hello?” It was a different voice, heavier.

  “Yes. Hello.”

  “This is Frank Russo. Are you the party that Aidia Vennezio went up to San Francisco to see Friday?”

  “Y—yes, I am.”

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Drake. Stephen Drake. Mrs. Vennezio said that I should—”

  “Where are you now, Mr. Drake?”

  “I’m in Los Angeles. I …” Desperately, I tried to decide whether I should give him the name of the motel. Larsen hadn’t …

  “Where, in Los Angeles?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. I’ve only been in Los Angeles two or three times, and I—”

  “What place is it, that you’re staying?”

  “It—it’s the Prescott Motel. But I—”

  “Just a minute.” This time, the phone was covered. Then: “I’ll send someone for you. His name is Montez. Jimmy Montez. He should be there inside a half hour.”

  “But I’ve got a car. I could—”

  “That’s all right. This place is hard to find. I’ll see you in about an hour.” The line went dead.

  As I replaced the receiver, I felt an unexpected sense of satisfaction—almost a smugness. Frankie Russo hadn’t sounded much different from any other business executive. He
was a little less polished than some perhaps, but the short, crisp phrases and the brisk, decisive manner had been the same.

  It was, after all, a business—big business. Chicago in the thirties had been one thing. This was Los Angeles. Lotus Land, thirty years later.

  I decided to have a second cup of coffee and then wait for Jimmy Montez in the lobby.

  Montez moved with the lithe, elegant grace of a bullfighter. He was wearing an expensive orange silk sport shirt, narrow-cut tan gabardine slacks and beautifully burnished brown loafers. His black hair curled down low on his bronze neck, and he walked with a long, light stride. His smile was wide and quick; his teeth were very white. His dark, restless eyes seemed both friendly and shrewd.

  “Just down here,” he said, as we left the motel lobby. “It’s that Buick, there.” He pointed to a beige sedan parked at the curb. Walking quickly a few paces ahead, he opened the passenger door for me, then briskly closed it. I watched him circle the car, whistling. His hand lingered on the gleaming hood, lightly caressing the metal.

  The car smelled new. As we pulled away from the curb I said, “Nice car.”

  He flashed me his quick, youthful smile. “We’ve only had it three weeks. It’s not even broken in yet. Mr. Russo got two at the same time. Two Buicks. He gets a better deal, that way. He does it every year.”