Dead Pigeon by William Campbell Gault

THE morning to tell me that all he had learned about Clauss so far was that he had a son named Emil. The word he had on him was that they had never got along since Clause’s wife had divorced him.
    “Is she still in town?”
    “No. She moved to Bakersfield right after the divorce.”
    “No other children?”
    “None. And there’s no listing for young Clauss in the phone book. The only other word I got was from a doubtful source. I was told he used to live in the Brentwood area. At that time he was driving a red Porsche with wire wheels.”
    Clauss, who couldn’t pay his rent, had a son who lived in Brentwood and drove a Porsche. I could understand why young Emil had no listing in the phone book.
    I ate breakfast at the hotel and came out into a sunny day for a Sunday tour of Brentwood. Back and forth I drove, on the main streets and the lateral streets, hoping against hope I would spot a red Porsche with wire wheels.
    On one of the lateral streets off Wilshire, about three blocks from Bay’s house, my luck held. A car of that description was parked in front of a two-story stucco apartment house.
    There were five names on the mailboxes in the vestibule. There was one blank space. I pressed the button next to that one. There was no answering buzz on the locked door nor any answer on the vestibule phone.
    I went out to sit in the car. I sat and sat and sat and wished I hadn’t given up smoking.
    A few minutes before I had decided to leave, a stocky young man in tennis shorts and carrying a racquet came out of the building and headed for the Porsche.
    I walked across the street as he was about to get into the car. “Are you Emil Clauss?” I asked.
    He nodded and smiled. “And I know who you are. I grew up watching you perform at the Coliseum. Are you the man who rang my bell?”
    I nodded.
    “If I had known it was you, I would have answered. But too damned many cops have been ringing my bell lately.”
    “Looking for your father?”
    “Right.” He frowned. “Wait—didn’t you work as a private detective after you left the Rams?”
    “I did. I’m retired now. I live in San Valdesto. But a very good friend of mine was killed and I came down to investigate it.”
    “And that’s why you’re looking for my father. He could have done it. Jesus, he put my mother into intensive care.”
    “So far,” I said, “he is only a suspect. We have to remember he could be innocent.”
    “Not of beating up my mother. The last I heard about him, he was boarding in some house in Venice with a former hooker.”
    “He’s left there. And stiffed the lady for room and board. If you get any information on him, please phone the police.”
    “No way! I’ve had a belly full of cops. I’ll phone you. This friend you mentioned, was that Mike Gregory?”
    I nodded.
    “That damned fool.”
    “Did you know him?”
    “No, but I watched him on the tube that day he beat Cal. And he winds up a dead derelict on the beach. What a waste!”
    “Drugs,” I said.
    He nodded. “Drugs and dumb jocks. But not in tennis, not yet.”
    “Not yet,” I said, and told him where I was staying.
    Clauss, so far, was only a suspect. We were running out of those. Gorman’s innocence had been certified. The Fresno police had established Carlo Minatti’s. If Clauss made that an unholy trinity, we were out of suspects, the end of the road.
    There were old friends in town I probably should have visited, but I had been in the car too long. Crystal was the closest.
    She was out on her small front lawn, in shorts and halter, digging up dandelions.
    She stood up and stared at me. “Twice in two days? I’m beginning to think you’ve got the hots for me.”
    “Not in any vulgar way. I am only a worn-out traveler seeking pleasant company.”
    “The Sunday blues,” she said. “I get ’em, too. Maybe we should go to church.”
    “I’d prefer the beach.”
    “So would I,” she said. “We can walk there from here. I could use the