The first pale fingers of dawn were lighting the night sky as Sergeant Beigler pulled up outside No. 247: a bungalow type of villa, screened by a high overgrown hedge.
He took a flashlight from the glove compartment of his car, then crossed the sidewalk, pushing open the wooden gate and using the beam of the flashlight to light his way up the short path to the front door. He lifted the well-worn mat and picked up the key the dead woman had written would be there.
He paused for a moment to look at the bungalow low opposite which was in darkness, then loosening his gun in its holster, he put his thumb on the bell push and kept it there. He didn’t expect anyone to answer the door, but he was a careful cop. He wasn’t using the key until he was sure that no one but the dead was in the bungalow.
A two-minute wait satisfied him, and slipping the key into the lock, he opened the door. He stepped into a small hall, shut the door and swung the beam of his flashlight around until he located the light switch. He snapped down the switch and the ceiling light came on, showing him a passage ahead of him with closed doors either side.
He was a little surprised to find, apart from grubby white nylon drapes, the two front rooms were unfurnished. The third door further down the passage gave onto a bathroom. From the towels on the hot rail and the pink sponge in the bath rack, he concluded someone used the bathroom. The door opposite led into the kitchenette. The empty, dusty cupboards and drawers told him no one living in this bungalow ever ate there.
He moved on to the two rooms at the end of the passage. He opened the left door, switched on the light and entered a bedroom. He saw at a glance this was no ordinary bedroom.
In the centre of the room was a king-size bed. The sheets and the pillowcases were immaculate and hadn’t been used. There was a big mirror fitted to the wall opposite the bed and another mirror covered the ceiling.
The carpet was thick and the colour of old claret. The bottle green coloured walls were decorated with framed photographs of smiling, naked showgirls. There was a big closet on one side of the room and Beigler walked over to it and opened the doors. A brief look showed him that here was all the perverted paraphernalia of a call girl from albums of erotica to whips and canes. He closed the cupboard, then walked out of the room and paused as he faced the closed door of the remaining room. He reached forward, turned the handle of the door and pushed it open. The door swung slowly back. There was a light on in the room. Facing him was a single bed. A man was slumped down in the bed, a newspaper spread across the sheet. Death had caught him in the harmless occupation of reading the evening news. He wore blue and white pyjamas; the front of the jacket was stained with blood. There was blood on his clenched hands and a smear of blood across his suntanned cheek.
Beigler stared at him for a long moment, then moved into the room.
The dead man was powerfully built with the shoulders of a boxer. His crew-cut hair was the colour of Indian ink. A pencil line moustache gave him a swaggering, sexy look. He belonged to the regiment of playboys you see on the beaches of Paradise City; flaunting their muscles, their maleness and their virility; their only assets, for the dollar never comes easy to men like them.
Beigler saw a telephone on the bedside table. He dialled La Coquille’s number. He had just finished speaking with Hess when the front door bell rang. He went to the front door to Find Detective 2nd Grade Tom Lepski standing on the doormat.
‘The Chief said there was trouble out here,’ Lepski said as he stepped into the hall. He was a wiry, tall man, tough, with a lined, suntanned face and clear ice-blue eyes.
‘Yeah a stiff. Come and see him.’
Beigler led the way back to the bedroom. Lepski stared at the dead man then pushed his hat to the back of his head.
‘That’s Johnnie Williams,’ he said. ‘Well, well, so he’s got his at last.’
‘You know him?’
‘Oh, sure. I’ve seen him around. One of the big money gigolos at the Palace hotel. What’s he doing in a dump like this?’
Beigler had been looking through the drawers of a chest that stood against one of the walls. He found a pigskin wallet. In it he found a Diner Club card, a driving licence and a chequebook. They were all in the name of Johnnie Williams. From the chequebook, Beigler learned that Williams had a cash balance at the bank of 3,756 dollars.
‘I guess he lives here,’ he said. ‘Take a squint at the room opposite.’
While Lepski was in the other room, Beigler continued to search the smaller bedroom. He found a closet full of Williams’ clothes.
Lepski came back.
‘A knocking shop,’ he said. ‘Who’s the woman?’
‘Calls herself Muriel Marsh Devon. She killed herself by an overdose of heroin at La Coquille restaurant tonight. She left a suicide note, admitting she knocked off our handsome lump of beef.’
Lepski wandered over to the dead man and peered at his chest. He grunted and moved back.
‘She certainly made sure of him. Cut his heart to pieces from the look of it.’
Beigler suddenly stooped and reached under the bed. He carefully drew into sight a .38 automatic. Taking out his handkerchief, he dropped it over the gun and picked it up.
‘Nice open and shut case,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if I don’t get an hour or two of sleep even now.’
A car pulled up outside the bungalow and Lepski went to the door. He returned with Dr. Lowis.
‘He’s all yours,’ Beigler said and waved to the dead man.
‘Thanks for nothing!’ Lowis snapped. ‘Now I have two reports to make.’
Beigler winked at Lepski and pushed him towards the door.
‘Never mind, doc,’ he said. ‘You’re not the only one.’ To Lepski, he said, ‘Let’s get some fresh air.’
The two men went down the passage and opened the front door. They moved into the garden and both lit cigarettes.
‘Funny no one reported the shooting,’ Lepski said, nodding to the bungalow opposite.
‘Could be they are on vacation,’ Beigler returned. ‘Besides, this end of Seacombe keeps to itself. Know something? I’ve been on the force ten years now, never had a squeal out of Seacombe yet.’
‘I wonder why she gave it to Johnnie. I wonder why he bothered with a two-dollar whore.’
‘She was a lot better than that. I’ve seen her. Well dressed; took care of herself. Most men who chase prostitutes like to perform in shabby surroundings. Don’t ask me why.’
‘I won’t then.’ Lepski stilled a yawn. ‘I wish the Chief hadn’t yanked me out of bed.’
‘Here they come now,’ Beigler said as two cars came racing down the broad boulevard, their headlights lighting up the row of bungalows as the cars swept past.
Half an hour later Dr. Lowis came out of the bungalow and joined Chief of Police Terrell who was sitting in his car, smoking a pipe, patiently waiting for his men’s reports.
‘I’d say he was shot around ten o’clock,’ Lowis said. ‘Five slugs in the heart. Good shooting, but she really couldn’t have missed. She fired from the foot of the bed. I’ll have a report for you by eleven. That all right?’
Terrell nodded.
‘It’ll have to be, doc. Okay, you get off and catch up with some sleep.’