Browning PI Read online

  'I can't imagine you being tense, Lieutenant,' I said. 'I like the way you step across a dead body.'

  Martingdale had done that, showily, a few times. Now he swivelled and punched me in the stomach hard enough to bend me over. 'Oh, sorry Mr Browning. My fist slipped . . .'

  Pete McVey growled and Hamer grinned at him. 'Something on your mind, peeper?'

  'Yeah,' Pete said. 'We've told you what happened here, as much as we can . . .'

  'You've told us shit,' Martingdale said. 'You're looking for someone you won't name. Some guys you don't know snatched Browning and brought him here.'

  'And tortured me,' I said.

  'Yeah,' Hamer said. 'And you said nothin'. I can see you got hero written all over you.'

  'At least I've got my army discharge papers,' I said. 'Like Mr McVey. . .' I let the implied insult hang in the air.

  Martingdale turned on me savagely. 'Listen, you limey son of a bitch. I don't care if you swam back from Dunkirk. This is Los Angeles county, nineteen-forty fucking three and you're a couple of hairs in my nose. There's nothing in this for me. You won't tell me who you're working for or what it's all about. All I've got is one dead cracker and a couple of smart peepers who can make a self-defence case. It was hardly worth getting out of bed for. Might as well be a nigger cutting for all the juice in it.'

  Martingdale was a big, handsome man, running to fat but still with a few years of appeal for the women left in him. It didn't surprise me that he'd been in the sack that early in the evening. It would have surprised me if the partner had been his wife. Hamer was small and rat-faced with thin, mousey hair. I sensed that he hated Martingdale's guts but was smart enough never to show it. Martingdale wasn't smart enough to see it.

  'I dunno, Lieutenant,' Hamer said, 'this stiff looks kinda familiar to me. Maybe we better hold these two a while, till we find out who he is.'

  Martingdale sneered. 'You figure he's the governor's brother, out shooting coon. Something like that?'

  Hamer was used to the sarcasm and didn't let it faze him. 'Hell, we don't even know who the cabin belongs to.'

  'Neither do we,' I said.

  'Who asked you?' Hamer snarled. 'It just sticks in my craw to let these birds go.'

  'You'd be wasting your time to do anything else,' Pete said. 'Our lawyers'd have us out in the morning and all you'd have would be ink on your fingers.'

  All very well for you, I thought. I don't have a lawyer. I stayed well clear of the breed—I suspected that they communicated among themselves and there were a few things in my past, matters pending, you might say, I didn't want anyone to pick up on. Still, I nodded and tried to look as if I had a fancy mouthpiece, too. Hamer examined me closely.

  'Where have I seen you before?'

  'Kid Galahad? Sante Fe Trail?' I said.

  'Jesus,' Martingdale growled. 'A play-actor. Probably both pansies.'

  Pete turned red and his right fist bunched, but he didn't say anything. Martingdale heaved his body off the table, where he'd arranged himself in a pose that would've looked better when he was twenty pounds lighter. 'We've got your names and addresses. We'll take the Colt.' He pointed to Pete's gun which was on a chair beside the body. 'Anything to add?'

  Pete and I shook our heads.

  'Right. You have a word with your lawyers and the client and be at my office tomorrow at three. If you don't show up and if you haven't got a better story, you can tear those licences up and put them down the john. Let's go, Hamer.'

  He took a manila envelope from his pocket, scribbled on it and dropped it on the chair next to the Colt; he signalled to the uniformed men to do something about the gun and the body and stalked out of the cabin. Hamer gave us one brief, malevolent glance and followed him.

  I gave Pete a cigarette and lit us both up. 'I'm glad you've got a good lawyer,' I said. 'This is a ticklish spot.'

  Pete watched a cop push his gun into the envelope using a pencil. 'I haven't got a lawyer,' he said.

  10

  On the drive back to LA I smoked all my cigarettes and some of Pete's. I'd taken the brandy from the cabin and used a bit of that too. I forgot about my hat but suddenly I remembered my car.

  'Hey, my car?'

  'They took it,' Pete said. 'Last I saw it was heading back to the city. It'll turn up.'

  'It better,' I said. 'I still owe money on it. Where the hell are we with this thing, Pete?'

  Instead of answering, McVey questioned me carefully about the time I'd spent with May Lin. I told him all I could remember which, despite the booze and the sapping and the torture, was just about everything. I've got a memory that seems to be protected from all the painful, damaging things that happen to me. As I was talking, I realised that it didn't add up to much.

  'At least we can go after Charles Tan,' I said.

  Pete flipped his empty Luckies pack out the window. 'I doubt it. I still can't work out how he knew not to come back to the cabin. Still, he's a pretty smart customer. He'll calculate you're on the loose. Maybe the papers'll carry something about Hank tomorrow. That Hamer looked like a boy to make a buck from the reporters, wouldn't you say?'

  'Could be. What're you saying?'

  'Charles Tan'll disappear. There's one detail you might be able to fill in, Rich?'

  I was sucking at the mangled fingernail, trying to stop it throbbing. 'Shoot.'

  'May Lin. You figure she set you up?'

  'I don't know. Wait, I'll check my gun.' I'd taken the .38 down from the shelf where Brown/Tan had put it. The cops hadn't frisked me. I ejected the magazine and checked the action. There was a bullet wedged in the breech. 'Jammed,' I said. 'Hard to say. Might've just happened. . .'

  'You were in the sack with her, right?'

  'Sure, but that doesn't. . .'

  'What I mean, dummy, is did you take a look at that bandage on her neck? Was she still wearing it?'

  'Jesus, I don't remember.'

  'Come on. You didn't do it with your clothes on, did you?'

  I tried to remember but I couldn't. Had there been some kind of a bandage, a sticking plaster? Had she worn a ribbon or a scarf? I didn't think so, but I just couldn't get a clear picture. I shook my head. 'Nothing. Maybe the crack on the head scrambled the memory.'

  'Guy doesn't usually forget things like that,' Pete complained. 'Okay, tell me again about Hank and the commies.'

  I ran through what I remembered of Hank's rambling about Christianity and Communism. None of it made any sense to me and I said so.

  Hank grunted. We were getting close to Santa Monica, to the place called the Gold Coast where the stars used to live before the action shifted north to Malibu. We'd have to turn off here tomorrow and report to the cops if Pete was planning to play it that way. He had to concentrate on his driving now that the traffic was heavier. We were heading towards downtown LA before he spoke again. 'Know much about what's happening in China around now, Rich?'

  'Nothing,' I said.

  'Don't keep up with the foreign news, eh?'

  'Where I come from people used to worry about China all the time. They reckoned the Chinese were going to come down and take over Australia. That's why they sent them all back after the gold rush and wouldn't take in any more.'

  'That's interesting,' Pete said.

  'Not if you heard about the yellow peril morning, noon and night, the way I did. My father was nuts on the subject. He was bog Irish himself, so I guess he had to have someone to look down on. Anyway, it never happened.'

  'No. The Japs came instead.'

  'Right.' I occasionally had sentimental feelings about Australia and the Japanese threat but I didn't worry too much about it. I hadn't been back to the country since I skipped out in 1921 and I didn't have any impulse to visit. Still and all, I didn't want the Japanese to take it over. I guessed the Americans would have something to say about that.

  'Well, the Japs and the Chinese have had a war. Still going on as far as I know. The Japs are winning but there's plenty of fight in the Chinese.
Some of them are Communists. I imagine they want to take the place over after we beat the Japs.'

  'Most likely,' I said. 'Communists usually do like to run things, don't they? What's this got to do with us?'

  'Damned if I know. I can tell you something about Hank, though. Name's Henry Hewson and he's got something to do with an organisation called "The Friends of Christian China". They've got a branch or a chapter in LA.'

  I'd seen the police examine Hank's body and empty the pockets of his overall. I recalled a few keys, some money, spare bullets for the Winchester and that was about all.

  Pete took his eyes off the road long enough to grin at me. 'I lifted a thing or two while you were out prowling in the woods. Might've handed them over if that Lieutenant and Sergeant had been nicer guys.'

  I was full of admiration. 'You let them take your gun. You let them walk on you a bit. I should've known you had something up your sleeve.'

  'Yup. You fit for some more work tonight?'

  I wasn't, but how could I say it? The man had saved my life and provided us with a further lead to follow. He was a genius. Also, I was a bit drunk. I checked the .38 again, unnecessarily. 'Sure,' I said, 'where to?'

  'Penseroso, 220A.'

  Even in the 1940s, before the Puerto Ricans came in, Penseroso Street was a little too gamey for comfort. It was a mixed district, some coloured, some Mexicans, on the border with Chinatown. I figured that 220A would be at the Chinatown end of the street. That's how it turned out. Number 220A was a small stucco building from which the white paint was peeling. It looked like it could once have been a one-horse factory or storage depot; now it was a church going by the name of the 'Eastern Evangelical Mission'. The street itself was pretty respectable, with no more than two bars every block and no obvious vice. It was late on a Saturday night and the action was elsewhere. The church carried a sign saying that its first Sunday service would be at seven a.m.—Reverend Peter Moon presiding.

  On one side the church was slap up against a three-storey apartment block; on the other there was a narrow cement walkway. We moved down it into the shadows and came up against a high gate. It was padlocked and I could hear a dog growling somewhere in the shadows. There were no lights on in the building.

  'Guess we're going to church tomorrow, Rich?'

  I nodded. I was dead tired but wanted to show willing. 'You didn't get anything else—home address, office?'

  'Nope. I don't want to keep driving you around. Let's see if we can't find your Oldsmobile.'

  It sounds ridiculous now, but it wasn't then. There weren't nearly as many cars on the road and not nearly the same turnover in stolen ones. Besides, Pete figured they had no use for my car so the driver would drop it off someplace where he could get transport. We drove around the downtown cab ranks and bus stations. We found the Olds near the Subway Terminal Building on South Street. The Red Cars ran out to the Valley, Hollywood, Santa Monica, just about everywhere in those days. It was sitting by the kerb, undamaged with the windows wound up. I opened the door and felt for the keys. No dice. I swore. Hot-wiring cars has never been one of my favourite occupations.

  'Check the floor,' Pete said.

  I did and found the keys on the mat. There was also a crumpled cigarette packet down there with two butts in it. I gave one to Pete and lit us up.

  'Thanks, Rich. Meet you at the church. Say, six forty-five. Don't be late.'

  I grinned. Glad to have the heap back, glad to be smoking. 'What'll I wear?'

  'Your gun,' Pete said and he waved and drove off.

  I approached my apartment like a virgin coming into the bridal suite. I had the .38 at the ready in one hand and a tyre iron in the other. If I could've laid my hands on a blowpipe with poisoned darts I would have taken it along. I went through the front door and pasted myself against the wall. I sidled up the stairs in pretty much the same way, keeping my back firmly against the wall and looking up. I went up to the top level and checked all the possible hiding places before going to my door.

  The lock on the door was slightly stronger than the kind you get on a cardboard suitcase. A cub scout could have opened it with his cap badge. I turned the key and snapped on the light but didn't go in. When nothing happened inside I put half my head around the door and saw why. It had already happened some time before—the place had been torn apart. The bed had been lowered and ripped open, the furniture had been pretty much smashed and the rug lifted and torn. My wooden filing cabinet was ready to serve as kindling and my files were torn and scattered around like ticker tape. Whoever it was had got mad looking for whatever it was. I didn't bother to clean up. I pushed the pieces of the bed together enough to form a support for the mattress and jammed the broken back of a chair up under the door knob. Then I took off my clothes and got into the bed. Immediately I felt the need for a piss so I had to get out, pull on a robe, open the door and use the john at the end of the passage.

  I could hear people moving around in their apartments but it would be no use questioning them about my intruder. He or they must have made some noise, but so did most of my neighbours with their radios and phonographs. Swinging crowd in the Wilcox.

  I went back to my room and noticed a card lying on the floor. I must have scuffed it clear of the debris. It was one of N. Robert Silkstein's cards and the scrawl on the back read: 'Call Mr Silkstein.' No please, no name. I put the chair back under the door and my gun down beside the bed. I put the card under the gun. I put my head on the half-wrecked pillow and went to sleep.

  Ordinarily, after a day like the one I'd had, I wouldn't back myself to make a seven a.m. meeting, especially at a church. But I suppose I knew I wouldn't get a lot of sleep on the ruined Murphy bed and I was right. I tossed and turned, trying to avoid the sharp, broken end of a spring. I had dreams of Chinese coming in waves across frozen ground, throwing themselves at me with guns firing, not caring how many went down. (Korean vets later told me that this was pretty much the way it was over there ten years later. I'm very glad I didn't experience it for real.) The result was that I had a bath at about six a.m. and was shaved and, if not fresh, at least clean and full of coffee when I met Pete on Penseroso.

  It was a cool, misty morning with some threat of rain in the air. I shivered a little in my lightweight suit. Pete was wearing a topcoat and a hat with a narrower brim. He looked less of a hayseed, more like a man who might go to church and think about what he heard. The street was almost deserted apart from a straggle of people, mostly Asians, standing around outside the church. They wore dark suits and hats and talked among themselves in tight little groups. The only other Anglos were an elderly couple who clung to each other as if for physical support and a couple of women, respectable-looking types in sensible hats.

  Pete looked at his watch, said, 'Let's go,' and we joined the movement towards the front door.

  As I hung my second-best hat on a peg in the small lobby I reflected that it must have been at least twenty years since I'd been in a church, maybe longer. About fifty people crowded into a space that could perhaps have accommodated a few more if the chairs had been pushed closer together. As it was, they were set in neat rows back from a raised platform where there was a lectern and a small table with a couple of chairs drawn up to it. A pile of battered hymn books sat on the chair at the end of each row and we passed them out among us.

  The whole set-up was very bare and austere compared with the Anglican church and Sunday school I'd been compelled by my mother to attend in my childhood. I'd always associated religion with a lot of gold and red velvet and polished wood and stained glass, but I realised that was wrong. Despite the difference in the physical surroundings, this was the same ball game. It all had to do with the people—with the fear and false hopes that had been bred into them. Although most of the faces here were yellow with slanted eyes, they wore the same expressions as those back in Newcastle—desperately wanting to believe that the world was not as bad as it seemed.

  I jerked my mind away from these unusually philos
ophical thoughts and studied the hymn book. It had been printed for the Chinese Mission Society in Shanghai in 1910 and was full of songs and prayers about converting the heathen. I glanced at Pete, who was carefully studying all the faces he could see. I did the same. A few more people had turned up, men and women. A few of the men were of the same stamp as Hank—thin, bitter-looking types. Suddenly, I urgently wanted a cigarette and a drink. Then there was a rustling among the congregation. Three people filed onto the platform—two women and a man. The man's head was lowered and turned away as he talked to the women, who sat down at the table and opened their hymn books. The man took his place behind the lectern. He was a big guy, wearing a dark suit, white shirt and tie. He lifted his head and faced us squarely. It was cold in the hall but that wasn't why I shivered. The man on the platform was Mr Brown, aka Charles Tan.

  11

  I felt Pete stiffen in the seat beside me, but then we were all up on our feet in response to a gesture from the man out in front.

  'I see some strangers among us,' he said, looking not only at Pete and me but at a few other people in the room. 'You are welcome, friends. I am Reverend Moon and I have Mrs Armitage and Mrs Tan on the platform with me. Mrs Tan is going to say a few words on behalf of her committee a little later in the meeting. But first, a song and a prayer. 'Holy are the Heathen, too'—number nine.'

  Someone up front produced a button accordion and the congregation launched into song. They all seemed to know the tune, what there was of it, and the words, as well. Most of them didn't even bother to open their books. I opened mine and Pete did the same and we mimed and faked our way through lines like, 'Though their skins may be yellow or black/Still their souls are as white as the snow'.

  In the pause after the hymn, as we were sitting down, I hissed, 'It's him.'

  'I dunno,' Pete said. 'Looks a bit different to me. Listen to the voice.'

  I got plenty of opportunity to do that over the next twenty minutes. Moon spoke for all that time almost without drawing breath. He rattled on about the gallant struggle going on in China against the forces of darkness and how it was only sensible for the Christian world to want to make Christians of the country with more souls in it than any other.