“Well, well,” he said, “the estimable Sergeant Sellers. Good Old Homicide, himself! Come on in, Sellers. Who’s the guy with you?”
Sellers didn’t wait for the invitation. He pushed his way into the room, and I followed.
Sellers kicked the door shut.
“Know this guy?” he asked.
The man looked me over, shook his head. “Who is he?”
“Donald Lam, a detective.”
“What’s he want?”
“He doesn’t — I do.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to know all about him.”
“Ask somebody else.”
“Why not introduce us?” I asked.
The man said, “I’m Stanwick Carlton.”
“Oh,” I said.
Sellers walked over and sat down in the most comfortable chair in the place.
I put my hand out to Carlton and said, “Glad to know you, Mr. Carlton.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Donald Lam.”
We shook hands.
Carlton said, “Sit down and have a drink, Lam. Might as well. There isn’t anything else to do. The boys are nice to me. Tell me to do anything I want to, go anywhere I want to, just don’t leave town. Every time I leave the damn hotel some cop picks me up and trails along with me.”
“You don’t know when you are lucky,” Sellers said.
“Perhaps not, but I could stand with a little less good luck, if that’s what you call being lucky.”
Sellers said, “You could be behind bars.”
“For what?”
Sellers couldn’t think of the answer to that one.
“I’m the subject of morbid curiosity,” Carlton announced. “I’m the husband of a tramp, a tramp that got caught in the meshes of her own illicit love affair and got killed. Are you married, Lam?”
“No.”
“Have a drink, then. Don’t get married. You get all wrapped up in someone. They’re your very life. And then the first thing you know, they get killed in an auto camp. Have a drink. What do you want? Bourbon and 7-Up? Scotch and soda? Ginger ale and rye? Or…”
“Scotch and soda,” I said.
Charlton walked over to the dresser and said to Sellers, “You can’t drink, you’re on duty. That’s your hard luck.”
He splashed liquor into glasses with an unsteady hand and said, “Anyhow, the guy’s civilized. He drinks Scotch and soda.”
Sellers said, “You could have hired this man to shadow your wife.”
“That’s right,” Carlton proclaimed. “I sure as hell could. There’s lots of things I could have done. There’s lots of things I could do. I’m on the eleventh floor. I could make a parachute out of a sheet and jump out of the window. Want to see me try it?”
Sellers didn’t say anything.
Carlton grinned, and said, “What’s your angle in the racket, Lam?”
“No angle,” I said. “Old Beagle over here just picked me up and is taking me along to let people look me over. He thinks he’s going to discover something.”
“I may at that,” Sellers said, watching the whisky with hungry eyes.
“Why don’t you break down and be human, Sellers?” I asked. “After all, you can’t stay on duty twenty-four hours a day. And as far as this investigation is concerned you’re all finished.”
“Who says I’m finished?”
“I do. You’re up against a brick wall.”
Carlton tossed down his drink and said drunkenly, “I don’t want any sympathy. All I want is to be left alone. I don’t know what the hell I came to California for, anyway. I was just lonesome. I wanted to see my wife. I saw her — stretched out on a slab in an undertaking parlor.”
“Everyone knows about it. They read it in the papers. A cheap, sordid little affair out at an auto court. My God, I don’t think it was even a first-class dump. Okay, I’m the fall guy. I’ve got to arrange for her burial. I’ve got to go down and pick out the coffin. I’ve got to go to the funeral. I’ve got to listen while some concealed voice sings The End of a Perfect Day to organ music. I wish to hell I’d have been the one to…”
“Take it easy,” I said. “Little Pitchers, over here, has big ears.”
“So he does,” Carlton said, turning to Sellers. “I’d almost forgotten about you.”
Sellers said, “Some day, Lam, I’m going to take you to pieces just to see what makes you tick.”
Sellers heaved himself up out of the chair, crossed over to the bureau, poured bourbon into a glass and then dumped in ginger ale.
“Attaboy!” Carlton said. “I knew you had a human streak in you.”
“What the hell did you come to California for?” Sellers asked.
“I tell you, I wanted to see my wife, I was lonely.”
“Why didn’t you let her know you were coming so she’d be meeting you?”
“I’m damned if I know,” Carlton said. “I just had a hunch that something was wrong, that she was in some sort of a jam.”
He sneered into his drink and said, “The old sub-conscious. Good old mental telepathy. Thought she was in trouble and needed a helping hand from her husband!”
Sellers said, “Damn it, you came here because you had a hunch. You’ve admitted that you were suspicious of Dover Fulton. You started looking him up. You found out that he was with your wife. You trailed them to that auto court. You busted in there and did some talking and told them you were through; that as far as Dover Fulton was concerned, he’d taken your woman and now he could keep her. You stalked out.
“Your wife didn’t really care for Fulton, except as someone to play around with. She loved you, but she wanted just a little variety. So when she went on her vacation, she wanted to do a little playing. She…”
Carlton came up out of the chair. “Damn you,” he said, “watch what you’re saying! I don’t give a damn if you are a cop, I’ll throw this drink in your face!”
“You do it, and you’ll be flattened out as though a steam roller had gone over you,” Sellers said.
Carlton hesitated for a moment. “You keep a decent tongue in your head when you’re talking about Babe.”
Sellers said, “Just the same, you went out there, Carlton. It stands to reason you did.”
Carlton, quivering with anger, said, “God-damn it, let’s not misunderstand each other, Sergeant. If I’d gone out there and caught her with that son-of-a-bitch I’d have killed him so dead he never would have…”
“And then killed your wife,” Sellers said.
There were tears in Carlton’s eyes. “Not Babe,” he said. “I’d have booted her. I’d have kicked her. I’d have given her a black eye, and then I’d have said, ‘Get your clothes on and come home, you little tramp!’ And when I’d got her home I’d have loved her — just like I always will love her. Now then, keep your filthy mind on something else for a change, flat foot.”
Sellers said, “You’re drunk.”
“You’re damn right I’m drunk,” Carlton said. “Want to make something of it?”
Sellers got up and came to stand facing Carlton, chin to chin. “You watch yourself,” he said, his broad hulk making Carlton seem even more slender and fragile. “I could slap you real hard and break you in two. I could pick you up by the back of the neck and give you a good shake, and all of your teeth would jar loose. I know how you feel, and I’m making allowances for it, but don’t crowd your luck too far.”
“You know how I feel!” Carlton said sarcastically.
“I just want to know one thing,” Sellers said. “Did you hire this guy?”
“No.”
“Did you ever talk with him?”
“I’ve never seen him in my life.”