«Well —» I began.
«Shut up. You’re a young man to me, so I can be rude to you. Dud left without saying goodbye to me. That wasn’t like him. He drove his car away one evening and nobody has heard from him since. If he got tired of my fool daughter and her brat, if he wanted some other woman, that’s all right. He got a brainstorm and left without saying goodbye to me, and now he’s sorry. That’s why I don’t hear from him. Find him and tell him I understand. That’s all — unless he needs money. If he does, he can have all he wants.»
His leaden cheeks almost had a,pink tinge now. His black eyes were brighter, if possible. He leaned back very slowly and closed his eyes.
I drank a lot of my drink in one long swallow, I said: «Suppose he’s in a jam. Say, on account of the girl’s husband. This Joe Mesarvey.»
He opened his eyes and winked. «Not an O’Mara,» he said. «It’s the other fellow would be in a jam.»
«Okay. Shall I just pass on to the Bureau where I heard this girl was?»
«Certainly not. They’ve done nothing. Let them go on doing it. Find him yourself. I’ll pay you a thousand dollars — even if you only have to walk across the street. Tell him everything is all right here. The old man’s doing fine and sends his love. That’s all.»
I couldn’t tell him. Suddenly I couldn’t tell him anything Larry Batzel had told me, or what had happened to Larry, or anything about it. I finished my drink and stood up and put my coat back on. I said: «That’s too much money for the job, General Winslow. We can talk about that later. Have I your authority to represent you in my own way?»
He pressed a bell on his wheel chair. «Just tell him,» he said. «I want to know he’s all right and I want him to know I’m all right. That’s all — unless he needs money. Now you’ll have to excuse me. I’m tired.»
He closed his eyes. I went back through the jungle and the butler met me at the door with my hat.
I breathed in some cool air and said: «The general wants me to see Mrs. O’Mara.»
FOUR
This room had a white carpet from wall to wall. Ivory drapes of immense height lay tumbled casually on the white carpet inside the many windows. The windows stared towards the dark foothills, and the air beyond the glass was dark too. It hadn’t started to rain yet, but there was a feeling of pressure in the atmosphere.
Mrs. O’Mara was stretched out on a white chaise longue with both her slippers off and her feet in the net stockings they don’t wear any more. She was tall and dark, with a sulky mouth. Handsome, but this side of beautiful.
She said: «What in the world can I do for you? It’s all known. Too damn known. Except that I don’t know you, do I?»
«Well, hardly,» I said. «I’m just a private copper in a small way of business.»
She reached for a glass I hadn’t noticed but would have looked for in a moment, on account of her way of talking and the fact she had her slippers off. She drank languidly, flashing a ring.
«I met him in a speakeasy,» she said with a sharp laugh. «A very handsome bootlegger, with thick curly hair and an Irish grin. So I married him. Out of boredom. As for him, the bootlegging business was even then uncertain — if there were no other attractions.»
She waited for me to say there were, but not as if she cared a lot whether I came through. I just said: «You didn’t see him leave on the day he disappeared?»
«No. I seldom saw him leave, or come back. It was like that.» She drank some more of her drink,
«Huh,» I grunted. «But, of course, you didn’t quarrel.» They never do,
«There are so many ways of quarreling, Mr. Carmady.»
«Yeah. I like your saying that. Of course you knew about the girl.»
«I’m glad I’m being properly frank to an old family detective. Yes, I knew about the girl.» She curled a tendril of inky hair behind her ear.
«Did you know about her before he disappeared?» I asked politely.
«Certainly.»
«How?»
«You’re pretty direct, aren’t you? Connections, as they say. I’m an old speak fancier. Or didn’t you know that?»
«Did you know the bunch at the Dardanella?»
«I’ve been there.» She didn’t look startled, or even surprised. «In fact I practically lived there for a week. That’s where I met Dudley O’Mara.»
«Yeah. Your father married pretty late in life, didn’t he?»
I watched color fade in her cheeks. I wanted her mad, but there was nothing doing. She smiled and the color came back and she rang a push bell on a cord down in the swansdown cushions of the chaise longue.
«Very late,» she said, «if it’s any of your business.»
«It’s not,» I said.
A coy-looking maid came in and mixed a couple of drinks at a side table. She gave one to Mrs. O’Mara, put one down beside me. She went away again, showing a nice pair of legs under a short skirt.
Mrs. O’Mara watched the door shut and then said: «The whole thing has got Father into a mood. I wish Dud would wire or write or something.»
I said slowly: «He’s an old, old man, crippled, half buried already. One thin thread of interest held him to life. The thread snapped and nobody gives a damn. He tries to act as if he didn’t give a damn himself. I don’t call that a mood. I call that a pretty swell display of intestinal fortitude.»
«Gallant,» she said, and her eyes were daggers. «But you haven’t touched your drink.»
«I have to go,» I said. «Thanks all the same.»
She held a slim, tinted hand out and I went over and touched it. The thunder burst suddenly behind the hills and she jumped. A gust of air shook the windows.
I went down a tiled staircase to the hallway and the butler appeared out of a shadow and opened the door for me.
I looked down a succession of terraces decorated with flower beds and imported trees. At the bottom a high metal railing with gilded spearheads and a six-foot hedge inside. A sunken driveway crawled down to the main gates and a lodge inside them.
Beyond the estate the hill sloped down to the city and the old oil wells of La Brea, now partly a park, partly a deserted stretch of fenced-in wild land. Some of the wooden derricks still stood. These had made the wealth of the Winslow family and then the family had run away from them up the hill, far enough to get away from the smell of the sumps, not too far for them to look out of the front windows and see what made them rich.
I walked down brick steps between the terraced lawns. On one of them a dark-haired, pale-faced kid of ten or eleven was throwing darts at a target hung on a tree. I went along near him.
«You young O’Mara?» I asked.
He leaned against a stone bench with four darts in his hand and looked at me with cold, slaty eyes, old eyes.
«I’m Dade Winslow Trevillyan,» he said grimly.
«Oh, then Dudley O’Mara’s not your dad.»
«Of course not.» His voice was full of scorn. «Who are you?»
«I’m a detective. I’m going to find your — I mean, Mr. O’Mara.»
That didn’t bring us any closer. Detectives were nothing to him. The thunder was tumbling about in the hills like a bunch of elephants playing tag. I had another idea.
«Bet you can’t put four out of five into the gold at thirty feet.»
He livened up sharply. «With these?»
«Uh-huh.»
«How much you bet?» he snapped.
«Oh, a dollar.»
He ran to the target and cleaned darts off it, came back and took a stance by the bench.