The Damned Don't Die Page 8

  Braddock’s puzzled expression hovered a moment between perplexity and a question then gradually resolved itself into a big grin.

  “Oh!” Braddock laughed and slapped the bar with his hand. “That wasn’t Honey, that was Herbert. That used to be his favorite drag, silly boy!”

  Windrow, trying to appear naive, turned to look at Braddock. “His what?”

  “His drag! He used to dress up as a peroxide blonde and go dancing in the straightest country-western bars in town. Some drunk would pick him up every time, Herbert was so foxy. Herbert would go with the guy, turn the trick, and a half-hour later the cowboy would be back in the bar swearing it was the best he’d ever had.” Braddock cackled and took a quick sip of bubble water. “Brilliant man.” he added, “He has these delicious foibles.”

  Windrow looked at himself in the mirror. Braddock’s laughter tapered off, and he looked at Windrow thoughtfully. Gradually, his amusement returned, reinforced.

  “You?” he said and pointed at Windrow. “You and some big blonde—”

  “It’s not like you think, Hanfield.”

  “Hah! Oh that’s rich, rich, just too, too much. …” Braddock dissolved into laughter. He came up for air long enough to say, “And we hired you, a detective. Oh, hoo hoo hoo …”

  “I’ll take care of the case,” Windrow said, coloring.

  “Some private dick you turned out to be, ahh …” Braddock was coughing and laughing. Windrow silently hoped he’d choke.

  “There’s—there’s just one thing, Marty,” Braddock said through his tears, trying to catch his breath. He put his hand on Windrow’s shoulder and leaned closer.

  “Yeah?” said Windrow, rigid. “What’s that, Hanfield?”

  “Why not me, baby? Why’d you throw it away on that big, ugly queen?”

  “It ain’t like you think, Hanfield.”

  “Aw, that’s okay, Marty, I can take it. But now that you’re out, you big handsome hunk you, don’t you think you could spare a little for your old sweetheart Hanny? Hmmm?”

  “Knock it off, Braddock. I just had breakfast.”

  “Aw … Come on, Marty-poo, just one little trick, out back, in the alley …?”

  Chapter Twelve

  WHEN WINDROW CAME OUT OF THE PACKAGE STORE ON Folsom Street with a large pair of grocery bags in his arms, he had to wedge his way through the three ladies crowding the doorway.

  “Don’t you girls ever work?” he said, gaining the sidewalk.

  One of the two black hookers eyed him sullenly. “I smell money,” she said.

  “It’s catnip,” Windrow said over his shoulder.

  “Meow,” the white hooker said.

  Windrow jaywalked backward halfway across Folsom Street, watching the girls. One of them rubbed her belly and licked her lips. Windrow turned 540º, let a truck go by, and made the curb in front of his so-called office building. When respectable clients came downtown to hire him, they usually never even got out of the cab. They went right out to the Avenues and paid the higher fees.

  But the girls made him feel good. They knew he had four twenties in his pocket and some change. They were rarely wrong about such things. Just the thought of it, the remote possibility that the money might easily become theirs, cheered them. Once after a particularly big case Windrow had danced out of the liquor store with his arms full of shopping bags and given them a twenty apiece, asking nothing in return. They were astonished. Just the day before they’d seen him buy a loaf of sourdough bread, two eggs, and two cans of beer on credit. Next thing they know he’s leafletting them with twenties and telling them to take the day off. They hadn’t, of course. Each had tucked away her bill folded twice, and stayed on the job.

  Upstairs Windrow emptied one bag into his refrigerator, leaving out an unmarked plastic bag full of fresh taco chips, a quart yogurt tub full of fresh guacamole, a dozen eggs, a lemon, and a newspaper. Out of the other bag came beer, a pint of whiskey, and a bottle of aspirin. Humming to himself, he dressed a can of Tecate by rubbing a slice of lemon all over the top of the can and pouring salt on top of that. Licking the rim, he took a long swallow. He dipped a large taco chip into the guacamole and, humming and chewing, sat himself down behind his desk in the swivel chair. He dialed a number.

  “Emmy? Marty. Papers delivered. Bill’s in the mail. What? My office. Listen. What did Mrs. Trimble look like? Blonde? Big? Sexy clothes? No chest? Yeah. Okay. That wasn’t Mrs. Trimble. I said that wasn’t Mrs. Trimble. What? Well, I think it was Mr. Trimble. Right, he wants a divorce from himself. Well, give him credit for trying. No, I don’t know why. Nobody’s seen her. Medium height, a hundred thirty pounds, brunette, favors triangular glasses. Into the kinky sex. Yeah, a pair. Well, three of them, actually, counting the second Mrs. Trimble. Harry Feyn makes it a foursome. Editor of magazine called Brandish. What? You know him? Sure, I’ll hang on.”

  Windrow stood up and leaned over the desk to get another chip full of guacamole. His mouth was still full when he said, “Yeah, I’m still here.” He listened for a long time. Emmy Cohen was telling him that Harry Feyn had twice been a client of hers. In each case, someone had filed charges against Feyn for assault, and in each case, the charges had been dropped.

  The first person had been Mrs. Trimble.

  The second person had been Sammy Driscoll.

  Windrow’s rapid chewing slowed to a cow’s pace, then stopped altogether. “Wait, Emmy, wait. What were the circumstances?” He heard the rustle of files at the other end of the phone. Driscoll had dropped the charges; Mrs. Trimble had failed to show up in court.

  “So you never saw Mrs. Trimble for the first time? Right. But when she came to you about the divorce she said Feyne had recommended you? Did she say anything else? Nothing. Man, I don’t know what it means. Sure. I’ll let you know.” He hung up.

  Windrow swiveled his chair so that he faced the window on to the street.

  So the loose ends were suddenly tying knots with each other, all by themselves. From a zero, first thing in the morning, he’d piled up a new client and more leads than he could follow in one day.

  Harry Feyn knows the Trimbles, and Harry Feyn knows Sam Driscoll. There is at the moment no connection between Driscoll and the Trimbles, except that Driscoll brought charges against Feyn and would have had to deal with Emmy Cohen through Feyn. Virginia Sarapath knew Driscoll and lived next door to Trimble. Virginia Sarapath had no connection to Feyn, except that she knew Driscoll fairly well and lived next door to Feyn’s other buddy, Trimble. No matter which way you turned when you left Virginia Sarapath’s house, the paths led to Feyn.

  Virginia was new in town. Even though she was pretty, she didn’t have any real friends. She didn’t get along well enough with her sister to do things with her socially; she didn’t like to drink. Windrow hadn’t noticed any booze in her apartment, whereas in Marilyn’s place there was plenty of evidence of it. Like in her eyes.

  So she meets this guy Driscoll. Driscoll looks like a nice man, but he’s on the lam from his wife. All he really wants to do is score. More than that, he wants to score in unusual ways. Virginia’s not too sure at first and no doubt he’s cagey about it—at first. Then he makes his play. Will she let him tie her up? Naked? Maybe whip her or knock her around a bit?

  If she says no, he backs down right away, tries later, or maybe even turns it around. He makes a joke out of it. Well, look. Why doesn’t she tie him up? Look, just tighten this knot a bit. See? It’s fun …

  Maybe she’s turned off, or scared. If not sooner, then later. Besides, not only is this guy kinky, he’s married. No matter what happens, she gets hurt, in more ways than one. So she gets out. Relations are strained at the office, but eventually things calm down. Then, whammo! Someone beats her up so badly she cuts her wrists with a razor. If it had been a prowler, even a rapist, it might not have happened. She would have gone for help.

  A thought struck Windrow. What if it did happen like that? What if the sadist was a man completely unknown to her and
she went to Trimble for help? And Trimble, seeing her condition, refused to have anything to do with her—or did it to her all over again? Then she would have killed herself. Out of despair.

  But Trimble didn’t look either type. He was crazy as a loon, no doubt about it. But something about his story, or what Windrow had heard of it, rang true. Trimble probably did try to mind his own business, for as long as possible, until the scene next door had become too much to bear. Trimble was a sensitive man. He was a normal citizen in certain respects, too. A city boy, he’d seen plenty. If the girl next door liked to get beaten up in her spare time, that would be okay with him. But something, some noise or something in her voice, had made him go next door.

  What had Herbert Trimble found there?

  Windrow opened another Tecate, dressed it and returned to his chair with a chipful of guacamole.

  It seemed more likely, given her slight experience in the scene, that Virginia knew whoever it was who had beaten her so severely. That she had then either killed herself out of humiliation, or …

  Or it had been faked.

  Windrow put the nails in the horseshoe she saw in his mind’s eye. Sarapath, Driscoll, Feyn, Trimble. Trimble, Feyn, Driscoll, Sarapath.

  This guy Feyn knows everybody in town. Did he know Virginia Sarapath? He certainly reacted strongly to her name. Had that been his conception of his part of playing Herbert Trimble? Why had he been in the house with Trimble when Windrow had visited there? Why had he hidden himself? Was he just waiting for Herbert to score a trick? Or did he have more than that to hide? Was the trick a ruse? Why should he even bother to be involved with the Sarapath case? Why didn’t he just throw Herbert Trimble to the wolves—or at least let him be interrogated? After all, if Herbert were innocent …

  Or was he so innocent? Windrow suddenly remembered the bruises on Mrs. Trimble’s throat, ineffectually hidden by the gaudy collar with the rectangular links. Herbert had worn a cravat this morning; obviously, since he and “Mrs. Trimble” were the same person, his neck would sport the same bruises. From what he had heard, Trimble must like to get bruised up, once in a while. Or had someone tried to strangle Trimble?

  Another thing. Virginia Sarapath’s neck had bruises on it. Had Virginia and Herbert fallen into the hands of the same person? Or just the same technique?

  And where, where is the real Mrs. Trimble? She must be a very interesting person.

  Windrow picked up the phone and dialed the number given him by Hanfield Braddock.

  “Hanny? Windrow. No, I haven’t changed my mind. Listen. I need to talk to someone in the morgue who knows what’s going on down there. My office. Okay.” He hung up.

  Five minutes later the phone rang.

  “Mr. Windrow?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Michael, down at the county morgue. I understand you have a question?”

  “Yes, Michael. You got any unidentified stiffs down there?”

  “Always.”

  “Female.”

  “Um, four.”

  “Caucasian.”

  “Two.”

  “Brunette, about a hundred thirty pounds …”

  “That leaves one.”

  “Would a photo do it?”

  “Nope. Came out of the bay. She’s almost completely decomposed.”

  “Could you match a dental chart?”

  “Sure, give me a place to start.”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  Windrow hung up and dialed Braddock’s number gain.

  “Hello?”

  “Dentists.”

  “Charming people. They always have nitrous oxide, cocaine, those little tools …”

  “Palo Alto dentists. Menlo Park, Portola Valley. In a hurry, it’s late.”

  “You just had breakfast.”

  “It’s two o’clock. I gotta know.”

  “I’ll get back to you.” Braddock hung up.

  This one took a little longer. Windrow opened another Tecate and finished the guacamole, sitting in front of his window. After half an hour, the phone rang. The caller identified himself as Dennis the dentist. Windrow told him what he needed. The fellow was most obliging. Dennis the dentist would see what he could do. He hung up, and Windrow, taking a Tecate with him, curled up on his sofa for a nap.

  The telephone woke him up at a quarter to six. It was Michael, morgue Michael.

  “Mr. Windrow? The charts arrived a little while ago. The city didn’t have an account with the messenger service …”

  “What? Did you pay him?”

  “Yes, sir. Since you’re a friend of Walter’s …”

  “Walter? Walter—Oh. Oh, yeah, Walter. Well, Michael, you did good. Just send me a bill. Six-eight-two Folsom Street.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary, Mr. Windrow. I could just bring it over, after work. I’m just up the street. We could have a drink …”

  “That’s okay, Michael, just send me the bill, like I said. I’m, uh, all pledged up tonight.”

  Michael was quiet for a moment.

  “You get that address?”

  “Uh, sure, Mr. Windrow.” Michael sounded hurt.

  “What about the dental plates?”

  “You must be onto something, Mr. Windrow. It’s a match. Both the uppers and lowers, except for one filling that could have been done later. And two broken teeth.”

  “Broken teeth? Where?”

  “Left front. Canine and incisor.”

  “Like from a severe blow, maybe?”

  “I’m not the pathologist, Mr. Windrow, but yes, they may have been broken like that.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Hard to tell. Might have been internal injuries or poison or something like that. Nothing to show for it outside the two teeth, but they haven’t run extensive tests yet either. They just brought her in last week …”

  “How long has she been in the drink?”

  “Maybe two to six months.”

  “Can’t you get any more precise than that Michael?”

  “We’d have to be authorized to make more tests, Mr. Windrow.”

  “Okay, Michael. You’ve done very well. I appreciate your help and talent. Now I want you to do one more thing for me. Take those matching charts, the name of the dentist, and whatever else you have upstairs and give them to Captain Bdeniowitz in homicide.”

  “Yes, Mr. Windrow. Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Never mind that. Just take them up there, kid. And thanks.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Windrow. Please give my best to Walter.”

  “Walt—? Oh. Oh yeah. I will. Oh and Michael.”

  The kid was all ears. “Yes, Mr. Windrow?”

  “Give that bill to Bdeniowitz. If he won’t pay it send it to me.” Windrow hung up.

  He had found Honey Trimble.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE DISAPPEARANCE OF HONEY TRIMBLE, HER PROBABLE murder, made things look bleak indeed for Herbert Trimble. Herbert would be looked upon as having been entirely too close, physically proximate, to two grisly events, to be anything but guiltless; Bdeniowitz would never turn loose until he had built up some kind of a case against Trimble, for murder one plus one. Windrow himself thought that at the very least Trimble constituted the best if not the single, material witness in the Sarapath case; and it seemed to him well-nigh impossible that Trimble should know nothing about his wife’s demise.

  The more Windrow looked into the Trimbles’ backgrounds, the more it looked as if Mrs. Trimble’s disappearance had coincided with their move to San Francisco. After just a few phone calls, beginning with one to Trimble’s Palo Alto dentist, then one each to the museum director’s secretary, the director himself, a co-worker, and a bartender who had regularly served Mrs. Trimble her Brandy Alexanders, a pattern showed its edges. The Trimbles had known a few people around Palo Alto and Menlo Park, had even had one or two close friends, chiefly among the museum staff, and had seen them on a more or less routine basis right up until the time they l
eft town. After the move, nothing. No one among the people Windrow could find could remember seeing Mrs. Trimble after the Trimbles went to the city for good. Herbert had shown up occasionally, to use the museum library. And he had commuted to Menlo Park two nights a week for a month to complete rehearsals with a small community orchestra and, finally, to perform with them for two nights. The piece was Edward Elgar’s cello concerto, and Herbert was the solo cellist. To his ex-co-worker from the museum, who had attended the performance, Herbert had movingly described the performance as the high point of his life.

  Honey hadn’t been able to make the date.

  It was during these telephone calls, in the course of mulling these odd bits of information that Martin Windrow firmed up his opinion of Herbert Trimble. First he decided, anybody who could play the solo instrument in Edward Elgar’s cello concerto, or any other instrument in the orchestra, for that matter, couldn’t be all bad. His associates described him as a brilliant, gentle man, whose moods—eccentric, ephemeral—they tolerated or overlooked entirely.

  Second, he began to believe that Herbert Trimble’s life was in danger.

  With the whistling cry of the red-tailed hawk, Windrow’s mind circled up out of his office and over the city. In his mind’s hawk’s eye he saw the slopes of the city, its neighborhoods, a certain street, a particular building, the specific apartment.

  He needed answers. The ends and pieces of this case were raveling busily, but he couldn’t yet pick out their meaning or direction.

  The cops had already checked Driscoll out and gotten nowhere. A phone call to Gleason at home got the story.

  They’d found Mrs. Driscoll, seen the three kids, in Walnut Creek, across the Bay Bridge. She’d answered their questions with a few impatient monosyllables, all negative, and sent them back across the bridge with the address of a studio apartment on Franklin Street near Washington. They’d caught him at home, to be polite, they said. They told him they knew of his connection to Ms. Sarapath, and would rather not have to embarrass him at the office with a lot of questions about their relationship. Would he mind cooperating? Of course not. Most appreciative. Well, Driscoll said, he and Virginia had a little eyeball contact over the account books, and a little physical contact in the elevator. Then came a walk to the bus stop. A few nights later they stopped into a bar for a drink; a few nights after that it was two drinks. Then drinks and dinner. Then the next night drinks, dinner, more drinks, a short cab ride to Driscoll’s apartment and well, gentlemen, we are men of the world, a spread of the hands, et cetera.