Snowball in Hell - lanyon Josh (книги бесплатно без регистрации .TXT) 📗
Nathan decided to take his own car to Griffith Park. He kept it garaged and rarely used it as gas was tightly rationed-and tires were even harder to get-but he was thinking he might take a run down to San Diego. Pearl had family there, and anything was worth a try at this point.
Including revisiting the scene of the crime-or one of the scenes.
Nathan didn't expect to discover anything significant at the Griffith Park Observatory and Planetarium, and he was not disappointed. It had changed some since the last time he had visited as a school boy on a field trip. Now soldiers were garrisoned in the park, and a large air raid siren had been set up adjacent to the observatory. Class was being held inside the planetarium for a new crop of navy fliers who needed to learn to navigate by the stars.
Nathan ran upstairs to the east terrace, poking around and finding nothing. He stood for a moment staring across the
wild hills at the old Hollywood sign, and then he returned downstairs.
Out of ideas, he returned to Pearl's Hill Street rooming house in time to see Sid Szabo leaving it. Szabo carried what appeared to be one of those small women's overnight suitcases. Nathan watched him get into his car-he was alone-and as Szabo pulled away from the curb, Nathan pulled out after him.
Szabo drove slowly, carefully, clearly having no idea he was being followed. Nathan had no problem tailing him even in the rainy weather. He kept a safe distance, leaving two cars between his Chrysler Highlander and the bright green Oldsmobile.
Szabo turned off onto South Spring Street, pulling into the two-level underground garage of the enormous old Alexandria Hotel. Nathan parked on the street and went inside.
The Alexandria had been built back in 1906, and in its heyday it was the center of Los Angeles social life and the city's crown jewel. But the glory days were gone now, and despite the crystal chandeliers, marble columns and «million dollar carpet» it had a sad, haunted quality to it. It was hard to picture someone like Szabo living there. Nathan would have pegged him for the swankiest, flashiest hotel in town.
The front desk clerk eventually stopped shuffling through mail, and greeted him without enthusiasm.
«Sid Szabo?» Nathan inquired.
The clerk sighed, as one much put-upon. «I'll ring him for you, sir.»
«Don't bother,» said Nathan. «I'll just run up and say hello. Third floor?»
«Second floor,» the clerk said. «If you think it's really alright…»
He was speaking to the wrought iron gate of the closing elevator.
Nathan stood in the peeling red velvet hallway outside Szabo's door listening for a few minutes. There wasn't a lot to hear. The murmur of voices, male and female, but that could have been the radio-or another skirt with Szabo.
He knocked and the voices stopped. Footsteps approached, the door opened and Szabo peered out suspiciously.
«What the hell are you doing here?» he said.
Doyle looked down at the brown alligator overnight bag sitting on the floor a few feet from the door. «I was hoping for an interview.»
«Some other time.» Szabo tried to close the door, and Doyle's foot shot out.
«Just a couple of quick questions.»
«I don't have time. And if I did have time, I wouldn't have the inclination.» Szabo's eyes narrowed dangerously. «Move your foot or I'll crush it. Don't think I won't.»
Nathan withdrew his foot. «You can talk to me or you can talk to the cops.»
Szabo sneered, «About what?»
«Among other things, about where Pearl Jarvis is hiding out.»
Szabo laughed. «I guess I'll talk to the cops then,» he said, and slammed shut the door.
After a moment, Nathan knocked on the door. It flew open.
«What the hell now?»
«If you should see Pearl, would you ask her to get in touch with me?» He handed Szabo his press card, but the other man made no move to take it.
«She's allergic to reporters,» Szabo said.
«It must be catching.»
He shook his head disbelievingly. «Why do you want to talk to her?»
«A little bird told me she's got a story worth telling.»
Szabo's blue eyes narrowed. «What's it worth?»
«It depends on the story.»
Szabo studied him. «Well, if I see her-if I see her-I'll let her know.»
Doyle went downstairs and parked himself in his car, waiting.
* * * *
Two rumors persisted about Carl Winters. The prevailing rumor was that the majority of his income came from his romancing of rich widows. Seeing him, Matt had no trouble believing this. Winters was a walking illustration for Esquire magazine, from the soles of his black blucher town shoes to the velvet collar of his chesterfield. But the rumor that most interested Matt, the rumor that was little more than a whisper, was that Winters faked a number of the rare and valuable old books he sold. So far no one had been willing to actually come forward and press charges, but that was
because many of Winters' clients were the kind of collectors willing not to look too closely at a valuable antique's sales history.
«So against your better judgment you allowed your sister to persuade you to drive her to the Las Palmas Club?» Matt asked, continuing their interview.
«Claire is a headstrong girl,» Winters said. «She was going to confront Phil with or without me. I thought that my presence would help to keep their encounter … civil.»
«And was it a civil encounter?»
«No. Perhaps if that girl had not been there, it might have been different. Perhaps.»
«Pearl Jarvis?»
«Yes. Phil had become entangled with this creature. She doesn't sing at the club on weekends, so I'd imagined it was relatively safe allowing Claire to go there. Unfortunately the girl was with a group of her cronies when we arrived. Although they weren't together, I believe her presence egged Phil on.»
«Egged him on to do what?»
«To … behave badly.»
Matt made a couple of notes, although he knew all this, had heard from a number of witnesses just how badly Phil Arlen had behaved towards his wife. He'd heard plenty also about how Pearl Jarvis had sat at her own table with her own circle of friends smirking and smiling and making little asides until Sid Szabo had taken her by the arm and gently but firmly removed her from the domestic limelight.
«So your brother-in-law declined to accompany your sister home. What happened then?»
«I saw Claire home.»
«Just like that?»
«When she realized that the situation was hopeless, that she was playing to a crowd of spectators, Claire naturally wanted to leave. She felt humiliated.»
«You're a man of the world. Do you think your brother-in-law was having an affair with the Jarvis woman?»
«Yes.»
«Does your sister own a gun?»
«No, of course not. Claire is terrified of guns.»
«Did Arlen own a gun?»
«I don't believe so. I don't believe Claire would have permitted a gun in their home.»
It seemed to Matt that Claire had had to put up with a number of things from Arlen that she might not have been expected to permit.
«Do you own a gun, Mr. Winters?»
Winters hesitated. «I'm a member of the North Valley Hunt Club. I own a rifle.»
Matt had heard a few things about the North Valley Hunt Club. Fox hunting in Los Angeles. During war time no less. Christ almighty. «No hand guns?» Matt asked politely.
«No.»
«Any antique or replica weapons?»
«No.» Winters looked puzzled. «I own a pair of Civil War sabers.»
«Were you fond of your late brother-in-law?»
Carl Winters sighed, as though he had known this question was inevitable. «Not particularly. I didn't kill him, though.»
The phone on Matt's desk rang. He picked it up. Jonesy said, «Is Winters still with you? I think we found the murder weapon. A Remington Rider Single Shot Derringer pistol. It was hidden in a large Ming vase in the back of his shop.»
