The X-Rated Corpse Read online

  "You're putting me on, Noon. I could ruin you."

  "That's what I like, Homer. A meaningful dialogue with the very young. Are you always so gracious and charming?"

  "Bullshit," he snarled. "Put up or shut up."

  I rose from the chair, smiling at him.

  He was still more than ten feet away. Aggressive, primed, wanting any excuse at all to rush me. To give me a going-over. There was smoldering anger and hostility charging from his tense body. I saw it in his tiny eyes most of all. He was up tight. Just enough to lose his head and try slamming me off the four walls. He didn't look much older than twenty one but the meanness radiating from him was older than the Cain and Abel match-up. He was in no mood for The Golden Rule.

  A bad actor, all the way. I had to be careful with him.

  "I didn't come to dance with you, Homer," I said, watching his restless feet, "so I will now show you the Fastest Gun in the East. Keep an eye on my hand. It never leaves my sleeve."

  Before he could dope out the nonsense patter, the .45 had leaped into full view. It wasn't as fast as all that but it was fast enough. His gimlet eyes popped in amazement and alarm.

  "For Chrissakes!" he whined suddenly, cringing a little. "You pulled a rod on me! You're spaced out, man—"

  "Just careful. Shall we talk now and stop flexing our muscles? I haven't got that much time, Homer. Neither have you."

  "Meaning what?" He was snarling again, eyeing me and the gun with magnified contempt. "I got nothing to say to you. I'm clean. I had no part of what the old man did. You're off your trolley, Noon. Coming here and making like Billy The Kid. Or is it Mickey Spillane like in a crappy movie I saw once?"

  "I won't argue with you, Homer. I'll ask questions. You'll answer. I'd put this thing away but you strike me as the stupid type. So I will remind you that I'm a detective. You're the civilian. My word against yours. I could really plug you and say you came at me with a chair or with one of those weight-lifting trophies I'm sure you have in your room. You reading me, Homer? I'm trying to put you wise. As meaningfully as I can."

  He frowned then and looked silly. Like an overgrown child.

  "How do you know about my trophies? My awards—"

  "It's a gift," I sighed, aiming the .45 at his broad chest.

  "Okay, okay," he grunted with massive scorn, getting the rib. Or Reason penetrating, finally. "I read you. I dig. We talk and I don't try to wrestle with you. But make it short, man." He lowered his threatening fists. "I got things to do tonight."

  "Then sit down. Over there in that chair. I'll stay here. I don't want your company very much, either. But you're necessary to me. For some answers to some questions. After that, we can say Goodbye Forever. Just don't get gay on me. Or I'll blast you into the next room. I couldn't miss a stud as big and beefy as you."

  I didn't put the .45 away. Sulking and glowering, hands thrust into the soiled Chinos, Homer Danbury took the indicated chair, dropping into its curved, antique construction, with an open display of more bravado. I could see he was going to spend the rest of the interview scowling across the wide room in my direction. Behind him, the dome-like glassed-in rear wall of the room showed only acres of night sky. The moon was on the other side of the house.

  It didn't matter about his attitude. I had him where I wanted him. Answering questions and making Nice. My way.

  "Go on, shamus. Grill me. This ought to be a groove."

  "A gas," I agreed. "How long have you been with the old man? I want the approximate, exact length of time."

  "B.Z. or Kane?"

  "Cut the comedy. Bennett Zangdorfer."

  "Little more than a year. Summer of '72." He grinned, as if it were the title of another movie he had seen. "Right after I got kicked out of the University. Met him down at Malibu. Some pals of his were tossing a luau. I was along as a swimming instructor. We rapped from the word Go. B.Z. knew what it was to keep in shape. Stay physically fit. He had some body for an old geezer. Better than cats half his age. Ask some of his chicks. He had them by the boatload."

  "I won't ask you what University. And I'm not asking his chicks, either. I'm asking you."

  "So ask, goddammit. I told the cops all this once. You got to hear it, too? What are you—a creep or something?"

  "That's one," I said. "One more and I'll put a hole in your left ear. Watch your mouth. Now—let's talk a little more about your Life and Times with Bennett Zangdorfer. Okay?"

  "Okay." He let out a small grunt of annoyance. "Well, I came up here with him. To the Canyon. As personal masseur, gopher, Mr. Fix-It. You call it. But we got along fine. He never treated me like no flunky. I got a great salary—man, I never had bread like that in my whole life. I even cut it with Old Kane. Yep, B.Z. knew how to live, no matter how old he was. We had some great parties up here. Booze, broads, orgies. The works. He was like a father to me and I never made him regret it, either." His little eyes shot sparks across the room. "I hope he beats the rap, Noon. Maybe he will, too. That Paris chick was no Hail Mary. You know what I mean?"

  "No, I don't know. Explain yourself."

  "What's to explain? Don't that hunk of celluloid spell it out? A real hot number who did her little bit to get ahead in this cruel world. What a kick in the head. The Great Violet Paris. Oscars, Dream Dame of a million guys, idol of the world. Huh? Just another smart cunt who knew when and where to put it on the line so that it would do her the most good. Man, that's no America's Sweetheart."

  "That's two," I said, checking a sudden bolt of anger rising in my brain. "And when was the first time you were privileged to see that hot film starring Violet Paris and your beloved employer?"

  His frown was monumental. For a moment, he hesitated.

  "You heard the question." I inched the .45 higher. "When?"

  "A week ago. Maybe only the night before he showed it to her. I remember because he was so happy that day. Told me all about it. When and how it happened and how he was going to get her to come crawling back to him on her naked belly. I was kind of glad for him, too. He'd been moping around lately, like he was really feeling his age, all of a sudden. His body was letting him down to hear him tell it. Me—I couldn't have cared less about Violet Paris. Never did dig them classic-looking chicks. Too uppity for the price of my ticket. Too damn regal and the perfect lady. I wanted to see her pulled down a peg or two. B.Z. kept me up on the whole caper but—I had the bad luck to be on a bender on the night it all happened—that I am sorry about. If I'd been with him, maybe he wouldn't have gone out to her place alone like that and had to make with the dagger. Damn shame. Great old cat like him ruined by a piece of tail."

  "He went there in the Rolls, right? To her house."

  "Sure. Didn't he tell you all that?" He started to rise impatiently from the antique chair. "Come on. What the hell is all this? You got me repeating things I've said a dozen times already."

  "Sit down. And don't fidget so much. It could make you very sick." I stared across the room at him, steadily. "Homer, do you know if you're in Bennett Zangdorfer's will?"

  He blinked, swallowing hard. The gimlet eyes danced.

  "I don't get the logic behind that, Noon."

  "No? It's as simple as your deltoid muscles. You said the old guy treated you like a son. And you returned the compliment. Strikes me that an old man like Bennett Zangdorfer, with no known survivors or even distant fifth cousins, with all this loot and real estate going for him, just might show his appreciation with a tidy little bequest of sorts. Do you know of any such tidy little bequest?"

  "You're way out of line." He laughed, a bold, harsh laugh. "One of the reasons I'm so teed off at you, man, is that I was working on that all this year. Wanting B.Z. to think about me after he was gone. Your Paris bitch loused all that up for me. Anyway, I don't get the connection. Even if B.Z. left me something, what has that got to do with him killing her? He ain't dead yet and he ain't nailed to a cell, either. There's no Death Penalty in California so what the hell are you talking about? You trying to pin
me with this caper, is that it? You're still trying to give me a piece of the action."

  "Something like that," I admitted, readily enough, getting up from the chair, straightening out the kinks in my arms and legs. "I was on a fishing expedition, but you never know just what kind of catch you'll come up with. What are your future plans, Homer?"

  "They're no business of yours, Noon."

  "Tell me anyway. I've still got the gun."

  He lumbered to his feet, some of his old defiance coming back. But he kept his distance. There was a savage sneer on his piratical face. As if he had made his own points, scored some off me, anyway.

  "I'm staying put, Noon. Right here. Until the trial is over. The Fuzz don't mind and I don't mind. I may be a material witness, anyhow. I got a better place to go? This pad has two swimming pools, ten bedrooms and all the comforts of home. Who knows? B.Z. beats the rap and maybe gets off on account of his age and we're back in business again. If he don't, well, this place maybe will be put on the auction block. That means somebody will buy it. So I'll maintain the estate, keep everything in working order. I figure the new owner just might want to keep a handy man like me around. Like I also told you, Kane and me get along like The Lone Ranger and Tonto. Between the two of us, we got a very nice life style. You dig?"

  "I dig, Homer. And you're digging your own grave, kid. Let me tell you about opportunists. And guys who work the angles. Most people don't like the type. And that includes yours truly. The day does come when a rat like you meets up with the sort of person who doesn't like a rat like you and then—well, something's got to give. It's usually the rat like you. You're a regular king-sized rodent, Homer. Haven't met one quite as big as you in years."

  The blood drained out of his face right before my eyes. It was nearly a ludicrous transformation. Like something seen in an animated cartoon. Almost as rapid, just as extravagant. And as silly.

  He lurched toward me in a menacing bound. His fists came up swinging, ready for action. For a curious, unthinking second, he had forgotten about the .45. Or maybe he was half-convinced I wouldn't use it. People have misread me that way for years. He did, too.

  "You dirty sonofabitch ratfink bastard—" he began, roaring out his rage, spewing his obscenities at me from no more than four feet away. Which was close enough for what I had in mind.

  "That's three," I said and hit him.

  Hit him with the hard barrel of the Colt, bringing it with me, up forward, as I timed a spring in his direction. It caught him completely with his pants down. Somewhere under the forest of black, unkempt Christ beard. Not even such an abundant adornment saved him.

  The heavy cold muzzle slammed his jaw upward and his head backward like a whiplash impact. And down he went. Taking a full header onto the floor, his muscular weight almost upending the antique chair, as formidable as it was. I let him lay, putting the .45 away and waiting only for a moment to see if Kane would come tottering on the dead run to see what the commotion was all about. Kane didn't show. The house was stiller than still waters. I waited one moment longer, for the tiny red haze in my thinking to go away. Homer Danbury was in a class by himself. With a dignified, fine name like he had, he was also perhaps the least attractive human being I had met in a very long while.

  When I turned him over to go through his pockets, he was breathing scratchily, hoarsely. But he was breathing. His eyes were locked shut. There was nothing in the pockets of the Chinos but a thin billfold. Keys, loose change and anything else were non-existent. The billfold, an alligator leather affair, held about sixteen dollars and a tuck-in set of plastic inserts holding the usual personal items you'd expect to find. Driver's license, Social Security card, Membership Card for some Muscle Beach Club down at Santa Monica and even a Red Cross Donor's card. There were also two photographs. One of them was Homer Danbury without the beard. He looked a little younger but as mean as ever. The other was an eye-opener. The sort of thing that makes you stop, wonder, draw a deep breath because you have stumbled onto something terribly big and important, but you just can't say what that is. Not really. Because it is so totally unexpected. So way out of sight.

  The Red Cross card had given me pause. Who expects a mean bastard to be the type to donate blood? Unless he gets paid for it.

  But the second photograph defied analysis. And reason.

  In the solemn quietude of Bennett Zangdorfer's solarium in the house at Laurel Canyon, with Homer Danbury unconscious on the floor no more than a foot away from me, I was staring down at a photograph of Violet Paris. A photo from the wallet of Homer Danbury.

  A photo of a younger, radiant Violet.

  All unforgettable beauty, smiling mouth and glowing eyes.

  That face in a million. The girl of the Silver Screen.

  Violet Paris. Miss Box Office. Cinderella story of Coronet.

  A face that shouldn't have been in Homer Danbury's billfold.

  Couldn't have been.

  But it was.

  And it was also certainly something worth thinking about.

  Thinking about a lot.

  And hard. As hard as you could without getting arrested.

  My mind was leaping, dancing, butterflying. Trying to make some sense out of two pieces of jig-saw that didn't belong together. That wouldn't connect together. Join to add up, form a sensible picture. A design. A continuity. A truth. A reasonable facsimile of fact.

  Nothing would come. Nothing at all.

  But something else did. Something also unexpected.

  An old man, on very quiet feet, who materialized like a wraith.

  Behind me, Kane's querulous, dry, thin voice said, almost sadly:

  "I told you I'd be careful what I say to him. Now you've gone and spoiled everything, Sir."

  "I didn't keep it in mind, Kane," I said, without turning around. There was something in the old man's tone. A note of tragedy that was pure comeback echoes of other voices, other rooms. Other times. "I'm sorry, oldtimer. He's got a mouth on him that would beat St. Francis."

  "I'm sorry too, Sir." The voice was almost funereal, now.

  "Kane?" I was still staring at the photo in the billfold. Dazed.

  "Yes, Sir?" The formality was ingrained. Too hard to ever lose.

  "Am I correct in assuming that you have a gun pointed at the back of my head?"

  "I'm afraid I have, Sir," came the thin but firm reply. Politely.

  "About that," I said, "I really am sorry."

  Not because I thought the butler did it. Oh, no. Just because I now knew that something had been done and I didn't know what it was. But worse than that, I'd lost the ball.

  And I wouldn't be able to call the next play.

  Kane would have to.

  Citizen Kane. B.Z.'s faithful retainer.

  Who was just as obviously more than a man who answered the door and closed his eyes when Bennett Zangdorfer was throwing an orgy. The man's man was in the Violet Paris mess up to his silver-haired head. Beyond that, I didn't know.

  I wondered if I'd ever get out of Laurel Canyon alive.

  Speaking of sports, the odds looked awful.

  I was down on my knees with a gun at my back.

  Never Trick a Chick

  "Mind if I get up and turn around now?"

  "Please do, Sir."

  "I won't try anything funny."

  "I'm sure you won't. Under the circumstances."

  "I hope you know what you're doing, Kane."

  "It isn't that so much, Sir, but that I must now do what your poorly-thought-out actions suddenly compel me to do. You understand me, sir?"

  "I'm trying to, Kane. Believe me, I am."

  When I faced him, straightening up from the floor, still hanging onto Homer Danbury's puzzling billfold, it was to see a very determined old man, faultless in his manservant's black, covering me morosely with a frontier model Colt .45 held unwaveringly in his thin right hand. Kane looked pained and unhappy but he also gave me the distinct impression he'd shoot me out of my shoes if I acted up. The
pistol had to be a leftover from a Cooper horse opera.

  "You're sure that thing shoots, Kane?"

  "Oh, yes, Sir. We keep it in the house at all times. The Canyon is isolated, you know. Up here there was always the danger of unwanted visitors. I've kept it oiled and in working order since Tom Mix made a gift of it to Mr. Zangdorfer. That was a long time ago. . . ."

  "Ever have to use it?"

  The old manservant smiled. A slow, still oddly sad smile.

  "No, Sir. There was never the need. Until now, I'm afraid."

  I hadn't raised my arms and he didn't seem to insist on that. I watched him, trying to think a little faster. It never is easy to do when you're at the wrong end of a gun. Kane didn't seem to be in any great hurry about what he intended to do. Homer Danbury was barely moving on the floor. Just breathing hoarsely, moaning a little. It was the only sound there was in that great sprawling mansion atop the bluff.

  "The suspense is killing me, Kane," I said. "Are you or aren't you? Do you or don't you?" The bore of the .45 was dark and ugly.

  "I beg your pardon, Sir?" He was somehow silly, Colt in hand, standing straight and proper before me, back to the arched entranceway.

  "I'm asking you, Kane, in my own peculiar way, what is going on here? Are you in connivance with Homer there? Did you both work a racket on old B.Z.? Are you going to kill me to keep my mouth shut or are you just going to call the cops to have me arrested for knocking the mean young kid around? That's what I'm asking you, Kane."

  I could have punched him in the nose, he was that shocked.

  "Mr. Noon—really, Sir. I haven't the slightest notion what you are talking about—"

  The sudden chagrin in the rheumy old eyes flooded me with relief. The utter perplexity on the wrinkled brow was like an answer to a holler for help. Kane drew himself up stiffly, shaking his head at me as if I'd walked into his immaculate house with muddy shoes.

  "Then that's all you intended?" I asked, still finding it difficult to believe I was being so lucky. "To call the Law and have me Bums-Rushed out of here?"