Canvas Coffin (2 page)

There wasn’t any reason for animosity in me; I just liked to hit them. And I didn’t mind taking a punch.

“We’ll settle down out here,” Max said, “and go into the real estate business, like Dempsey. This is the country for us. Feel that sun?”

For seven years, Max had talked California, but the lure of the Bronx was deep in him.

I said, “We’ll keep fighting, Max.”

“No, no. No, we’re not that hungry.”

“The good boys, if there are any,” I went on. “I don’t want to do it the ‘classy’ way, Max. I’ve handed out some lickings; I’ve got some due me.”

“Under another noodle, you’ll continue fighting,” Max said. “Not under me.”

“Art Cary,” I suggested. “We could pack the Polo Grounds with him, Max. We’d make a mint.”

Nothing from Max “Or maybe Patsy Giani,” I said.

“Never,” Max said vehemently. “Patsy Giani,
never.
Not while I’ve got anything to do with it, not while I’ve got a string I could pull.”

Patsy was one of the new breed, racketeer-owned. Patsy was a real tough guy and he admitted it. Twenty-six years old and built like a brick outhouse, a natural mauler and brawler. He could have lived and died fighting smokers if the smart, dirty money hadn’t taken him over.

“He’d kill you,” Max said. “And if he couldn’t, they would, sometime after the fight. We want no part of Patsy Giani and his dago friends.”

“Italian,” I corrected him. “Sally says we shouldn’t use words like dago.”

“I’m not going with Sally,” he answered. “Are you reading your Hemingway, Mr. Pilgrim? You promised Sally you would, this trip.”

“Now would be a time for that,” I said. “Get it for me, huh, Max? It’s in the small grip.”

He stared at me.

“Please,” I said. “I’m still a little weak from last night.” He smiled. “Oh? You’re beginning to remember?”

“From the fight,
the fight,”
I explained. “All right, I’ll get the book myself.” I made a motion toward rising.

“Never mind,” he said. “Relax.” He got up and went through the door.

When he came back, he tossed me the book. “I’m going out to see if anybody’s wearing their sun suits. That sun starts to burn, get out of it.”

I nodded, and winked at him.

For Whom the Bell Tolls,
a new one to me. I was a little behind in my reading, and Sally would quiz me on it. I read the quotation in the front and wondered if I sent to ask for Patsy Giani, would the bell toll for me?

Traffic hummed and the sun worked and I read. Traffic hummed and the sun went away for a while and I read on.

A chime sounded and I came out of the Hemingway world to this one.

It was a telegram from Sally. She’d be here around seven.

I was on the way back to the patio when the door opened and Max came in. His face was pale; he stared at me with horror and some wonder in his brown eyes. He had a newspaper in his hand.

“What’s wrong, Max? You sick?”

“I’m sick. We’re in trouble, kid.” He waved the paper at me. “Nobody’s been here — no — cops?”

“Hell, no. What is it, what’s the story?”

He looked past me. “The clerk, damn it — ” He turned toward the door. “I’ll be back.” He threw me the paper. “Read that, and ask if we’re in trouble.” The door slammed behind him.

There was a picture of a girl on the front page, a girl with a badly battered face. She was wearing a negligee from which one breast was about to emerge. She was sprawled awkwardly on what seemed to be a studio couch, her puffed mouth hanging open, her dead eyes staring.

The headline read:
Model Found Slain.
The story under the headline identified her as former B girl who had recently enjoyed exceptional success as a photographer’s model and had been offered a contract by a small producer.

It was a Hearst paper and the writer called this
the promise of a new and fabulous career cut short by the brutal hand of a lustful and vicious killer.

The girl’s name was Mary Kostanic.

But her professional name was Brenda Vane.

T
HIS WAS THE GIRL
I’d left the party with. I stared at the battered face, but there was no memory stir, no recognition in my mind at all.

Behind me the door opened, and I turned to see Max standing there.

“He’s not on now,” Max said. “He won’t be on until six tonight.”

“Who?”

“The desk clerk. The man I got our key from last night.”

“Why do you want him?”

“I want to tell him you and I came home together. I want to find out if he remembers that.”

“No, Max,” I said. “We aren’t buying anybody. We’re going into this clean. This is murder, Max.”

“You’re telling me this is murder. How stupid can you get, Luke? You going to tell the cops you were with her, but you don’t know where, or how long? You going to tell ‘em you can’t remember how you left her? That’s some story, isn’t it? They’ll buy that.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Is it? How do you know you were with her? Maybe I lied to you. Maybe I killed her and I was trying to cover, this morning. Did you think of that?”

“Simmer down, Max,” I said wearily. “You’re no killer.”

“And neither are you. And there’ll be two guys swearing you came home with me; me and the desk clerk. I’ll do the thinking. Just leave it up to me, kid.”

I thought about the sports writers’ comments. Last night I’d looked like the old Luke Pilgrim, the killer. Last night,
after
that seventh-round haymaker of Charley’s.

“What beats me,” Max said, “is why the law hasn’t been here already.”

I didn’t answer.

“Of course,” Max went on, “they probably don’t know about the party. This paper just came out, and the law’ll be getting calls now, I’ll bet. They — ” He stopped, looking at me thoughtfully.

Then he went to the phone, picked it up. He said, “Will you give me the nearest Los Angeles police station, please?” A pause. “No, not Beverly Hills. This concerns the Los Angeles police. Hurry, please.”

I went over to sit near the window. I could see the winding drive that led off Sunset, the cars jamming the parking-lot. Not a clunker in the bunch.

Max was saying, “ — just this second saw the afternoon paper, and wanted to tell you I was with the girl around midnight, and … Yes, Max Freeman, and I’m at — ”

A Jaguar came out from under the portico and headed down toward Sunset. Well-named, that car, like a sleek cat. The man driving it had a goatee and wore a beret.

Max replaced the phone in its cradle and rubbed his hands on his trousers. He expelled his breath noisily. “Beat ‘em to the punch, I say. Every angle-shooter at the party will put the bee to us, if we don’t. And this town is all angle-shooters.”

“I thought you liked this town. You were going to settle here, this morning.”

“The town I like, but not the people. Besides — ”

“Max,” I interrupted, “do you think I killed her?”

“Don’t talk like a damned fool.”

“I could have. I wonder if I’ll ever know.”

“Shut up. You’re getting all wound up, thinking that crap. The law finds out you lost your memory, it won’t matter if you did or not. Take it easy now and let me handle this.”

I could feel a drop of sweat running down my side.

“You’re the middleweight champ of the world, don’t forget that. This is a town which goes easy on the names. You’re a name. Unless they got a real, solid case, they won’t make any rough moves. But don’t do any talking.”

My right arm jerked. I said, “I’m not as dumb as you think, Max. And you’re not as bright. This isn’t a fight you’re finagling — this is murder.”

“That I know. And I’ll handle it.”

Only one man came, a detective sergeant named Sands. He didn’t look like a municipal cop; he wasn’t heavy enough, for one thing, and his voice was low-pitched. He would have weighed in as a middle, a tanned, fairly slim man with gray-black hair and dark-blue eyes.

He listened to Max’s story without interruption, and then looked at me. “Anything to add?”

I shook my head.

He continued to look at me. “Know the girl long?”

“Met her last night, Sergeant.”

Max said quickly, “We both met her last night.”

“And she brought you
both
home?”

Quiet in the room, for a second, before Max answered, “That’s right, Sergeant.”

I was trembling. I looked at the sergeant, and found his eyes on me. Nothing, no words, nothing.

“Why?” Max asked. “Why’d you ask that?”

“Because it isn’t what the room clerk said.”

“He’s a liar, then. He’s — ”

The sergeant raised a hand. “Take it easy. He’s a fight fan. It isn’t likely he’d overlook the middleweight champ. I’m a fight fan, myself.” He came over to stand in front of me. “Could I see your hands? The knuckles, please.”

The hands trembled, but I held them out for his inspection. Not a mark on them.

I dropped them again, and he said, “You were sure a tiger, those last couple of rounds.”

I nodded.

“Do any drinking at the party?”

“A couple, two or three.”

“Do much drinking, generally?”

“Very little.”

He looked at Max. “I’m going to ask him some questions, now, and I don’t want a word out of you, not a single word.” He turned back to me. “You face the other way so you can’t see him.”

I turned in the chair and waited. I wondered if he could hear my heart beat.

He said quietly, “Who was carrying the key?”

“Neither of us. Max got it at the desk.”

“And who got into the elevator first?”

I was going to say I didn’t remember, but then I thought of his earlier words. He’d mentioned the room clerk, but not the elevator operator. Maybe he was a fight fan, too.

I said, “Neither. We walked up.”

I could hear Max’s quick intake of breath, and the sergeant must have, too. He glanced quickly at Max, and back to me.

His voice was softly casual. “I want to play along with you, Champ. But I’m all cop, first. A lie, now, would put you in a real rough spot from here on.”

“I can’t afford to lie,” I said, “now or ever.”

“And maybe you can’t afford not to.” He looked over at Max. “Both of you come to the west-side station at four, and fill out your statements. Ask for me; I’ll be there.” He paused. “We’re keeping this quiet as we can, as long as we can. Boxing couldn’t take it, today. But we can’t work any miracles.” He didn’t say good-by.

Silence in the room, and then we heard the elevator door slam, and Max went to our door and opened it to look down the hall.

When he closed it again, I said, “You should have briefed me. You did walk up last night, didn’t you?”

He nodded. “I can’t think of everything. I haven’t had much experience with murder. They’re going to go easy, you know that? It’s the title, and we’ve always been cleaner than most, and they’re going to go easy.”

“The man’s all cop,” I answered. “He said that, and I believe him. He’s all cop, and smart.”

“We’re dumb?”

“We’re dumb in lots of ways. I wish Sally was here. She’s not dumb any way.”

Max looked at me bleakly. “She’s got a lot of reading behind her. A hell of a lot of good that’ll do us in this mess.”

“She’ll think of something,” I said. “I don’t want to think about it any more, Max.”

“No, you never want to think. I spoiled you. Aach — ” He went over to slump on a love seat.

I left him there, staring at the carpet, while I went in to take a hot, hot shower. I was itchy and jumpy and the cool eyes of Sergeant Sands were still in my memory.

If he was going easy on us, it was because of orders from upstairs. I had the feeling that Sergeant Sands wasn’t even easy on himself.

The needle shower dug at me and steam filled the shower stall. My mind went reaching back for last night, trying to find a frame for the picture of Mary Kostanic, alias Brenda Vane. Somebody had really worked on that face. Me?

Killer Pilgrim.

I was shaving when the phone shrilled. The bathroom door was open now, and I could see Max at the phone. I could hear, “Yeah. Right. Sure I know him. Jesu-us!” Max turned to look my way and shook his head. “Course. We’ll be there as quick as we can make it.”

I had stopped shaving, and I came out now into the sitting-room.

“Charley Retzer,” Max said. “In a hospital. Been unconscious since they picked him up on the street at eleven last night.”

“I did that to him?” I said. “Or a car? What is it?”

“Not you,” Max said quickly. “You and everybody else who’s ever hit Charley. But it was your name he remembered when he came to. We’ve got time, but it’ll be a rat race. From there to the station and then to eat and then the airport. Why’d they phone
us?”

“Easy, Max. Slow down.”

He took a deep breath.

I said evenly and slowly, “We can miss Sally at the airport and we can miss the session at the station. But we’ve got to see Charley. That’s the one important thing.”

“All right.
All right!”

I went into the bedroom to dress, and Max followed me in. He said wearily, “Since when are you getting sentimental? Think of the times he’s gouged you and butted you and elbowed you and open-handed you. If you’re going to get soft, why Charley?”

“The way he fought was the way he learned to fight,” I said. “There wasn’t anything personal in it; it was just a way to win. Max, he’s one of ours. He’s our kind of bastard.”

“Yeah, I guess. God, that battle he had with Zale, huh?” All guts and blood, that one. I said nothing.

“And Graziano, too. He never ducked anybody, did he?”

“Not even Patsy Giani,” I said meaningly.

“No, but I’ll bet he wishes he had. I thought Giani killed him that night.”

“He didn’t even put him in the hospital,” I said.

Max said nothing to that. He shook his head and went back to the other room.

Charley in the hospital and Brenda Vane dead and Mr. Pilgrim reading Hemingway in the bright sunlight. Me and Tunney, readers. Maybe I could work up to Shakespeare, like Gentleman Gene.

I’d rather be Harry Greb, Jr.

We rented a car, a Cadillac. Max thinks he’s another Walt Faulkner, and a Caddy convertible is his idea of a hot heap. In this town they’re like Chevs in Detroit.

The sun was still up there as he wheeled it through the Sunset afternoon traffic. His face was gray and his hands were tense on the wheel. He had some unrepeatable words for the driving-habits of every unfortunate who happened to get in front of us.

Great little man for a crisis, Max Freeman, steady as a house of cards. It was a good thing Sally was on the way.

The hospital was in West Los Angeles, right off Westwood Boulevard. It was a rest home, really, a small place that couldn’t have held more than ten patients, top. It looked like one of those alcoholics’ purse-traps to me.

And probably to Max. His nose was wrinkling as we went up the three concrete steps to the front porch. A small brass plate on the door invited us to enter, which we did.

A carpeted hallway, with glass doors leading off to the left, with an open stairway making the wall to our right. The glass doors led to a fairly large carpeted room that held two desks and a variety of living-room furniture.

A gray-haired man in a white jacket was sitting at one of the desks, going over some charts. He had the build of John L. Lewis, but not the eyebrows. The eyebrows were thin white lines over a pair of bloodshot blue eyes.

He rose as we entered. He asked, “Mr. Pilgrim?”

“I’m Luke Pilgrim, Doctor,” I said. “This is my manager, Max Freeman.”

He shook our hands. He said, “I’m Doctor Drinkwater. Mr. Retzer is going to be all right.”

There was relief in Max’s voice. “What was it? What knocked him out?”

Dr. Drinkwater permitted himself a small smile. “Mr. Pilgrim, I believe, in the ninth round. And after that, some whisky.”

Max’s smile was as frosty as the doctor’s. “Could we see him, now?”

“Of course. Room eight, right at the top of the stairs, there.”

Going up, Max said, “Mr. Pilgrim, I believe, in the ninth round. I’ll bet he thought he was Milton Berle, getting that one off. Drinkwater, what a name for a dipso quack!”

“You just don’t like to be the straight man, Max. I didn’t know Charley drank.”

“There ain’t anything Charley hasn’t done,” Max said. He paused at the top of the stairs, and looked at the door to room eight, which was partially open. He seemed nervous.

I went ahead of him and pushed the door open, and Max followed me in.

Only Charley’s head was visible; the rest of him was covered by a heavy dark-blue wool blanket.

He looked our way and grinned. One eye was puffed shut, and the whole left side of his face seemed to be out of place, but the grin was genuine.

“Hey, Champ, hello! And Maxie.”

“You were asking for me, Charley,” I said. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“Asking, hell, I was
looking
for you, Champ. Man, you never did
this
to me before.” And then suddenly serious: “What the hell came over you, Luke, in those last two rounds?”

I was now standing next to him. “I don’t know, Charley. That high right hand you landed in the seventh, and I guess I went nuts.”

“You sure did.” He looked past me at the wall. “First time in thirteen years I was kayoed, Luke. The only time since I’ve been a pro.”

“Good time to quit, Charley,” I said quietly. “I’ll be quitting myself, I think. Maybe one more. With Giani.”

“Don’t be simple, Luke. Patsy’d kill you. He’s a bull. He’s a tiger.”

“Maybe. Let’s talk about you. What happened to you?”

“Shame, I guess. Damn it, Luke, you butchered me. For these West Coast yokels. I figured some easy bucks, old Luke Pilgrim, just a show for these hicks. And then you made like Graziano. I’ve been your screen, Luke. I’ve kept a lot of good boys from ever getting to you. I saved you from a lot of young men’s punches. I — ”

“And you’ve thumbed me and gouged me and butted me and worse,” I interrupted. “Quit talking like Grant-land Rice.”

His grin came back. “All right. Hey, Luke, remember Jersey City, in the fifth?”

“That was the closest you ever came,” I agreed. “And you stalled. You could have walked in and put me in the three-dollar seats. You sure had a baboon in your corner that night.”