According to Fred (who confirmed and expanded upon what Welles had told me), Dr. Dailey was a former chief of staff at Los Angeles County Hospital, and-until fairly recently-had been an associate professor of surgery at the University of Southern California.
“There was some kind of scandal that got hushed up,” Fred said, “back in early ’45… a malpractice situation that got paid off and swept under the carpet. But serious enough that the doc had to resign both his positions.”
“You don’t know what the nature of that malpractice was?”
“Well, you gotta understand, the doc’s in his late sixties, or anyway that’s what I’d guess… and it’s pretty well known he’s not really functioning on all cylinders, these days.”
“How so?”
Fred shrugged. “He’s forgetful, turned into a regular absent-minded-professor type-hell, maybe even senile. He probably sewed a scalpel up inside somebody.”
This wasn’t tracking. “Then what makes a pregnant movie star want to go under his knife?”
“Dailey’s respectable, with a spotless reputation… prior to those resignations, anyway… and, besides, I would venture to say he’s not doing the cutting, himself. It’s probably that amazon, doing it.”
I leaned back in my chair, arms folded, shaking my head. “If you’re under the impression I know what the hell you’re talking about, partner, you’re as batty as this doc sounds.”
Fred selected a fresh cigar out of a carved wooden box-like Welles, Rubinski was strictly a Havana man. “I’m talking about this South American woman Dailey took in as a partner-Dr. Maria Winter. Big, handsome gal in her forties, some kind of war refugee.”
“The war was in Europe, as I recall.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, puffing the cigar, getting it going, “she was over there studying, when the bombs started dropping, went to the University of Prague or some such-what landed her in that part of the world, how the hell should I know?… But eventually she wound up on Doc Dailey’s doorstep, when he was still at the County Hospital. He took her under his wing, and she worked as his nurse while she took classes, till she could pass the boards for her California medical license.”
“How do you happen to know all this?”
“I don’t ‘happen’ to know it.” He drew on the cigar, held in some smoke, blew it out, choosing his next words carefully. “I refer clients to them, in need of the Dailey clinic’s particular medical specialty.”
“Oh.”
“Look, any number of people could have filled you in on those two characters-I mean, it’s one of those only-in-Hollywood affairs.”
“How so?”
Fred shook his head, grinned, cigar in his teeth now, like he was waiting for a circus marksman to shoot it out. “Respectable doctor, at the end of his career, happily married, kids, grand-kids-and then this built-like-a-brick-shithouse hot tamale good-neighbor-policies her way into his life.”
I frowned. “She’s not just his business partner, you mean?”
“Naw! The doc is separated from his wife, maybe filed for divorce by now, for all I know. It’s comical-Dailey’s this proper little old man, suddenly in the clutches of this tall, curvy femme fatale-”
“And they’re running an abortion clinic together,” I said. “Right out in the open?”
Fred smirked. “That’s not hard in L.A. It’s a homicide bureau setup, y’know-a protected ring with Dailey and Winter up near the top of the list. The State Medical Board investigates any complaints or info that comes in, regarding abortions performed by doctors or chiros or midwives or whoever; but they turn their results over to the homicide bureau, who either shake down or crack down on anybody outside of the ring… and those who are in the ring, tip-offs are made, any arrests are smothered… you get the picture.”
“Are we back to Fat Ass again?”
“He’s a homicide dick,” Fred said, nodding. “Now, Harry the Hat, he wouldn’t touch this kind of crap.”
“And you’re saying, the A-1 has an existing relationship with Dr. Dailey and his partner-”
“Dr. Winter. Yeah. We get a referral fee.”
“A kickback.”
Half a smile dimpled Fred’s plump cheek. “Why, does that offend your sensibilities, Nate? We swim in Hollywood waters-so what if it’s a swimming pool, and not the Chicago River? That doesn’t make the water any less scummy.”
I sat thinking for a while, then asked, “Early this month, did you get a phone call from a girl-kind of a low, husky voice-wanting to get in touch with me?”
Fred’s endless forehead clenched in thought. “Come to think of it… yeah-she was the daughter of an old friend, she said, wanted to say hello.”
“And you gave her my number at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“I think I did. Why? Shouldn’t I have…?”
I didn’t answer. My heard was whirling. I was still trying to wrap my brain around the notion that Beth Short had chosen an abortionist who took referrals from my own detective agency! What the fuck was going on?
“I have to talk to this Dailey,” I said, “ and his amazon partner-sooner the better.”
Fred was looking at me, funny. “Well, his office is probably open for another half hour or so… What are you not telling me, Nate?”
“You don’t want to know.” I stood, digging my car keys out of my trousers. “Where is Dailey’s office, Fred? Can I make it there before he closes?”
Fred blinked. “Are you kidding?”
“Do I look like I’m fucking kidding?” I yelled, leaning in, a hand against the desktop. “Where is Dailey’s office, Fred?”
He swallowed and pointed to his left. “Just down the hall, Nate.”
Down the corridor, around a corner, there it was, on the frosted glass: Doctor Wallace A. Dailey, M.D., Surgeon; Doctor Maria Winter, M.D., Gynecologist. The Dailey practice seemed to engulf the equivalent of three or four standard Bradbury Building office layouts.
So.
Elizabeth Short had gone to see her doctor-that is, the abortionist whose fee she was trying to raise-and had noticed, either on her way to or from that doctor’s office, the neighboring A-1 Detective Agency. She had recognized the A-1 as mine, remembered my talking about opening a California branch, and may even have checked the building directory, where my name was listed. Then she called Fred Rubinski and got my number at the hotel.
All of which led me to believe the baby she was carrying had not been mine: that seeing my name had simply reminded her of one more male acquaintance she could shake down in her effort to raise that five hundred dollars she needed to abort somebody’s child.
But if I wasn’t the father, then who was?
A man who tortured her and cut her in half and left her, drained of blood, in a vacant lot?
The chairs that lined the waiting room were empty, and the receptionist-a pleasant white-uniformed brunette in her early twenties-looked up and out from her window and informed me the office would be closing, momentarily.
I gave her my card, explained that I was the president of the A-1 Detective Agency, and would like the opportunity to briefly introduce myself to the two doctors.
Soon I was waiting in an office whose walls were decorated with framed diplomas, awards, and group photographs in both hospital and academic settings. I took one of two wooden, cushioned chairs across from a desk that was massive and mahogany and bare except for a blotter and family photos in standing frames-if any work had been done at this desk lately, it wasn’t showing. Wooden filing cabinets hid in corners, and along the back wall a lighted cabinet displayed a considerable collection of carved jade-mostly Buddhas and dragons and other Oriental figurines, with a shelf of exquisite jewelry and an intricate Chinese fan.
The door opened and a man in a white jacket and green tie and brown tweed trousers stepped in, drawing his head back and blinking as he saw me sitting there. He was in his sixties, somewhat pudgy, with a salt-and-pepper mustache-neatly trimmed, as was his full head of gray hair-and regular features, including rheumy green eyes behind wireframed glasses.