The Case of the Carroltons’ Cartier - Part 5

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I’m doing something a tad different for this one. I’m going to do a serialized noir story. If you read my stuff on the regular, you may recognize Jack Lumley from an earlier tale. I hope this turns out to be worthwhile for all concerned.

It was too early in the day to check out The Truth Cup. A joint like that wouldn’t be open until much later in the day when all the regulars managed to haul themselves out of bed to begin another night of fun.

I decided to cruise by Richard Sumner’s apartment in the Palisades. The place was probably a fancy hotel three decades ago, but now it was showing its age like a silent movie star going to seed. The yellow paint on the converted exterior was chipped and fading from the unrelenting power of the California sun.

I scoped the people walking in and out for few minutes. I wasn’t surprised to see this looked more like a working class clientele as opposed to Hollywood elite.

Sumner’s apartment was on the second floor, and the complex was still set up like a hotel. I just had to hike up a set of stairs and make my way to his apartment door next to the cracked and dirty concrete walkway. The front door of the apartment had a criss-cross of yellow police tape on it, as if the homicide dicks still had work to do. They probably did have more to do, but I wouldn’t have bet a plug nickel that that work was being done in the near future. On a lark, I tried to open the door. It was locked.

Opening this lock would not take the skills of a master thief. I was pretty confident I could do it myself in a few minutes, but it being the middle of the morning, it struck me as a bad call.

I was about to leave the front door to see if there was a back entrance when the door to the apartment a couple of units down opened. An older woman looked out and sauntered towards me. I thought about running, but decided that would be weird and unnecessary. I doubt she was going to fight me, and if she did, I was pretty sure I could take her.

“You with the police?” the woman said, in a thick German accent.

“No ma’am,” I answered. A lot of Germans had found their way to California to escape from the plague that overtook their country. Still, it’s an accent that always gave me a little pause.

She stood looking at me like a hungry bird waiting to be fed. What the hell, maybe she knew something.

“I’m a private investigator. Did you know Mr. Sumner?” I handed her my card, which she diligently studied. Apparently satisfied that no con man could possibly have a fake business card she stuffed it into her purse and introduced herself as Elise Klyce.

“Terrible what happened to him. Do they know who did it?” Mrs. Klyce asked, shaking her head.

“Not yet. I’m trying to figure that one out.”

The old woman looked around conspiratorially, and then looked back at me. “You know he had a girlfriend, don’t you?”

I asked the old lady to tell me about her.

“She was too young for him, I know that. I think she is not even out of high school. It is disgraceful.”

I nodded solemnly, prodding her to continue.

“She was here several nights a week sometimes. But she never stayed all night. I’d see him bring her in and then leave an hour or so later. The morality of this man is - was - shameful.”

“Welcome to our modern age. Did you ever see anyone else visit Mr. Sumner.”

“No,” the woman said lost in thought. “Well, that’s not right, is it? A couple of times I saw another man come over. And, I think once I saw the girl leave here with both of them.”

Thank goodness for nosey old ladies.

“What did the man look like?”

“I didn’t get too good a look at his face. He was kind of short, but it was dark, so I couldn’t get too many details, I’m afraid.”

“Anything else?”

“The night the young man was killed I did hear what I thought sounded like fight going on, but I am a little too far down to have heard much. It just sounded like yelling.”

“What about the next door neighbor? Think they saw anything?”

“That apartment has been empty for a few weeks. Of course, I’ have told all of this to the police. Detective Driscoll was very nice.”

I nodded. “Yeah, he’s a solid guy. Well, Mrs. Klyce, thank you for your time. If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”

She said she would and walked past me towards the stairs. I started to look around, hoping somehow a key would materialize. It didn’t.

“Oh, Mr. Lumley,” Mrs. Klyce said from the stairway. “I don’t know if this helps, but the man who was with Richard and the girl had long hair that was very bushy and out of control. Like he didn’t own brush or comb.”

I thanked the old lady, and she went on her merry way.

I was turning from the door when I heard the unmistakable sound of glass breaking from inside Sumner’s apartment. I peeked in to see a shadowy figure pass through the kitchen and out of sight.

I darted for the stairs and recklessly ran down them, almost knocking poor Mrs. Klyce over.

I ran to the other side of the apartments and spotted the stairway leading up to the back doors on the second floor. I hurled myself up the concrete steps and spotted the open back door with shattered glass. I quietly made my way into the door that led into a dirty, small kitchen with wallpaper old enough to be in a museum. I heard noises coming from my right. It sounded like someone was throwing open drawers.

I slipped my .38 out of its shoulder holster and slowly crept through the kitchen until my shoe crunched on some window glass. The noise from the other room stopped, and so did my breathing. I stood stock still for what felt like a full minute.

I didn’t hear anything.

I started to creep through the kitchen and into a small hallway. A bathroom door was open at one end, and a bedroom door was open on the other.

I advanced towards the bedroom door, my right hand holding tight to the black handle of the revolver.

As I reached the door, a man lurched from beside the entrance and barreled towards me. Before I could react, his head speared into my stomach, knocking the wind out of me. I dropped to my knees, and the man ran past me into the kitchen.

By the time I recovered my breath and headed to the back door, the man was nowhere to be seen. The guy had clearly been spooked when he charged me; I could tell by his wild eyes. But his eyes weren’t the main thing that stood out. That would have been his chin beard without a mustache, and his head full of frizzy, out of control hair.

I went back to Sumner’s bedroom, and the place was a mess. The guy had ripped open drawers and dumped the contents on the floor. There was nothing that interesting with one exception. Next to the bed on the floor was a hollowed out copy of Ben Hur. More than chariot stories had been taken out of the book. The hollowed section was empty.

I walked into the living room by the apartment’s front door. A chalk outline with a hint of red at the top of the head predominated the room. As decor goes, it wasn’t the best. I picked up the receiver of the black Bakelite phone sitting on a table by the green sofa that had seen better days, and dialed up Detective Driscoll. I told him where I was and the basics of what had happened. He told me he’d be right over, and that I wasn’t to go anywhere. I had expected as much, but I knew I’d be in hot water that was a little less deep if I brought Driscoll in now. Mrs. Klyce had my card, after all, and I knew I needed to stay square on this.

I unlocked the front door and opened it. My next call was to Henry Nance. He promised that he had not heard from the seller, and promised that if the wild-haired guy showed back up, he’d call me and the cops and try to stall him out.

I sat on the couch and lit up a cigarette, and, as I had done countless times in the past, sat back and waited for the cops to show up.

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