The Case of the Carroltons’ Cartier - Part 6

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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 took about fifteen minutes for Driscoll to show up. While I was waiting, I spotted a photo of Sumner in a cheap frame. He was sitting behind a typewriter looking very serious. I am sure whatever he was writing was the great American novel. Or screenplay. Or a hell of a grocery list. I popped the picture out of the frame and shoved it in my jacket pocket.

When Driscoll arrived, he ducked under the police tape and fixed me with a look. “So, you want to tell me what you are doing at my crime scene, Lumley?”

“You didn’t bring a uni with you?”

Driscoll smiled under his iron-gray mustache. “Am I going to need back-up to deal with you?”

“Probably not.”

“Good. Okay, Lumley, spill it. What are you doing here?”

I ran through most of the important parts of the story. I didn’t connect the dots between Cynthia and Sumner, but otherwise, I gave him the skeleton of the thing.

Driscoll took it in. “You’re holding back on me, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am. But I’ve given you a hell of a lot more than you had. And that should be enough for now. If one of us can figure out who the guy is I ran into here, I think we’ll have it all wrapped up.”

“We?”

“Yeah, yeah. I still have a necklace to recover.”

Driscoll nodded. “I’ll respect your relationship with your clients, Lumley. If we find this character and he has the necklace, I’ll clue you in. I appreciate your information.”

“Can I get something from you, Driscoll?”

“Maybe.”

“How did Sumner buy it?”

“I’ll tell you, but keep it mum. We haven’t released it for public consumption.”

I nodded. Driscoll knew I would keep my word. More or less.

“Easy enough. Whoever killed him cracked him on the back of the head with some kind of award statue. A fake Oscar..”

I wanted to comment on the irony of that, but felt it was not necessary.

I thanked Driscoll as he ushered me out the back door, locking it behind me. I got in my Chevy and headed back towards the office. Assuming Cynthia Carrolton knew this character that bowled me over and decided to call me with that information, I really only had one lead, and that was the Cup of Truth. It was only a couple of blocks from Sumner’s apartment. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside. The harsh sunlight made it look more run down than it probably did at night, and even then it wasn’t going to win any awards. The sign out front confirmed that the joint didn’t open until 5 p.m. It probably didn’t have a crowd until much later. I suspected the earlier I could get in the better off I’d be.

I went to my office and took care of some of the unglamorous tasks my job requires. I had a couple of reports to do. Insurance companies love reports. I love getting paid, so I guess it works out. I could fill a book with the details of the paperwork and office chores I have to do, but you wouldn’t want to read it and I wouldn’t want to write it. Sometimes things work out for everyone.

As I was working, my mind wandered to the Carrolton case. If I could find the wild-haired man, this should be an open and shut case for both me and the LAPD. But there was something gnawing at the back of my brain. I knew something didn’t make sense.

The Cup of Truth was, as predicted, not overflowing with customers when I strolled in a few minutes past five. It was a small, dingy place. Around ten tables were arranged on a plain wooden floor in front of a platform that could pass for a stage. A stool with a tattered black cushion sat in the middle of the stage. None of the lights were on.

An old man sat at one table clutching a white porcelain mug. He looked up at me and sneered before actively ignoring me. At the back of the room was a bar. A rail thin 40-something year old man in a black sweater stood there pretending not to notice I had walked in.

I walked up to him and greeted him. “Nice sweater.”

“Keeps the chills off, man.”

“This looks like a nice place. You seem nice,” I said.

“You look like a cop,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“You sure ain’t a regular.”

“Oh, come on. I’m probably the most regular guy you’ll see today.”

The man pretending to intently clean one spot on the bar. “You want something?”

“I just need some help finding someone.”

“Is that a specific or a general quest?”

I pulled Sumner’s picture and a five dollar bill out of my pocket.

“You know this guy?” I asked.

“Any reason I should even talk to you?”

“A few. First, if you talk to me, you probably won’t need to talk to the cops. Also, honest Abe here says a cup of truth will do us both some good. You don’t want to disappoint the Great Emancipator, do you?”

“You sure you aren’t a cop?”

“Fairly.”

The guy picked up the picture. “Yeah, I know that guy. At least I’ve seen him in here a few times.”

“By himself?”

The bartender tossed the picture on the counter.

“No. Seen him in here with one of our regulars. He’s a writer. Does the open mic every now and then.”

“You know his name?”

“Yeah.”

“You want to tell it to me?”

“Is he in trouble?”

“Maybe.”

“Let me guess. Guy’s a beatnik type. Beard, no mustache. Long hair that doesn’t even have a passing acquaintance with a brush?”

I could see in his eyes that the bartender knew who I was talking about. He bartender nodded and looked around. “Look, I run a decent place. But, you know, not everything is strictly legal, man.”

I nodded, and remained quiet. I could tell this character was about to start yammering.

“So, look, every now and then someone’s going to a little grass, you know?”

I assumed every now and then was a a euphemism for every night, but I didn’t see the need to add my clarification.

“What about your regular and his friend? Did they enjoy that particular pastime.”

“Yeah, man. They did. But sometimes they had this young girl with them. A rich tourist, you know? And I saw them smoking with her a couple of times. I had to tell them to cool out. I don’t care what adults do here, but that girl was jailbait in more than one sense, right? I overheard them say they would go to Pe…the regular’s house…to maybe score more. And I hope that’s all they did.”

“So was the girl in here with them more than once?”

“Oh yeah. Four, maybe five times before I told them they couldn’t bring her in anymore. Like I said, I may not be strictly legal, but I try to be decent, dig?”

“Yeah. I dig,” I said, realizing how ridiculous I sounded trying to adopt the lingo. “Just give me the beat’s name and I’ll be out of here. Believe me, he’s got some serious problems that you don’t want spilling over into your fine establishment.”

“You promise to keep me out of this?”

I told him that I did. He looked around again and wrote a name on a piece of paper. “Pete Forrey”.

I asked if he knew where Forrey lived, and the bartender said he didn’t, but knew he was somewhere fairly nearby. I thanked him and started to head out. “Hey, maybe next time I’ll try the coffee. That guy seems to like it,” I said pointing at the old man who was still doing his darnedest to will me out of existence.

The bartender nodded and went back to cleaning that one spot on the counter that was actually clean.

There was a phone booth on the corner, and miracle of miracles, the Pacific Telephone and Telegraph phone book was intact. I found two Pete Forreys, but only one was nearby. I jotted down the address.

So, Cynthia was in a little deeper with this Forrey clown than it appeared. And, then, it hit me. The thing that didn’t make sense.

I picked up the receiver and called the Carroltons’ house. The butler answered and I asked to speak to Mrs. Carrolton.

A couple of minutes later she came to the phone.

“Mr. Lumley, I am glad you called. I’m afraid I was a little rude this morning. I, well, it’s been stressful, you know.”

“Sure, sure. Don’t sweat it. Listen, I just wanted to let you know that I have a lead and I think I’ll get this wrapped up tonight.”

There was a pause. “Well, that’s wonderful news. Is that all?”

“Yeah, just wanted to keep you informed. I don’t mind telling you this. I’m going over to question the suspect, Pete Forrey at his house. I should be there in a couple of hours. I have to wrap up something here at the office first. After that I’ll give you a call.”

“That, well that sounds fine, Mr. Lumley. I look forward to your call.”

She hung up.

I knew it would take me less than five minutes to get to the address. And, I also knew that if someone were to make the drive from Holmby Hills to the address it would take about a half hour.”

I got in my car and drove to the Forrey address. It was an okay neghborhood, but no great shakes. I spotted Forrey’s address. It looked a little more run down than some of the other houses on the block. I drove about five houses past his and turned around, parking so I could face the house.

I turned off the engine and waited. Unless I was missing my guess, Mr. Forrey would be getting another visitor within the next half hour.

The next installment should be the conclusion. Solve it before Lumley, if you can.

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