Dead Pigeon by William Campbell Gault Page B

way?”
    “Not so far.”
    He smiled again. “I’ll bet you think that blackmail theory of mine was dumb. My wife claims I read too many mystery novels.”
    “It wasn’t dumb, now that I’ve learned more about Mike. I still hope to do a little more digging on Bay. But that could cost you a wealthy client, couldn’t it?”
    He shook his head. “Not really. If he goes to jail the account would still be mine.”
    I frowned.
    “That was cynical, wasn’t it?” he asked. “My wife also claims I have a macabre sense of humor.”
    “I agree with your wife,” I told him.
    He left before our dessert arrived. He explained that he had a ticket for a Springsteen concert.
    He went to the concert. I went up to my room. What had I learned today? I had learned that young Clauss hated his father, Turhan Bay was lecturing on world peace tonight, and Nolan was back in AA. I consoled myself with the thought that Sunday was not supposed to be a working day.
    Lars had settled on Clauss as his target. But all of them—Nolan, Bay, Crystal, Gillete, and Tucker—could be involved, one way or another, with the death of Mike Gregory.
    Clauss was the logical choice at the moment. But how were the others involved? Tucker could be a logical suspect, or any hit man Gillete could hire.
    It might have been Clauss who had conked me in that rooming house. My choice would be Tucker. Tucker was the muscle man. Luplow hadn’t been shot; he had been beaten to death.
    There was, of course, a possibility it was both the muscle and the hit man. He was mean enough. And the sound of a shot in that second-story room was bound to alert the tenants. If there had been any roomers on the first floor, they could have identified the killer when he came clattering down the stairs.
    The noise of a rumpus on the floor above would probably sound to them like just another family dispute.
    There were too many “ifs” and too many “maybes” in this case. It was after midnight when I finally fell asleep.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    T HE MORNING TIMES REPORTED that the man who had killed Barney Luplow was now in jail. Lars would not learn from Luplow where Clauss was hiding.
    I thought of phoning him to tell him what young Clauss had told me yesterday, but decided not to. I was still angry about what Crystal had told me. Lars claimed he hated crooked cops. Sexual favors, apparently, did not qualify as extortion to a fornicator.
    I phoned Dennis Sadler and suggested we ride together today.
    “Okay,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at the hotel in an hour.”
    I had finished breakfast and was out in front of the hotel when he drove up the driveway in a dark-yellow Chevrolet two-door sedan. The town was loaded with that model. It was the kind of inconspicuous car the smart investigators favored for shadowing or surveillance.
    “How was Palm Springs?” I asked.
    “Perfect! Domestic harmony has returned to our house.”
    “And your mother-in-law?”
    “Hopeless. Where first?”
    “The Valley. Studio City.”
    Traffic heading into downtown Los Angeles was heavy. It was light on our trip to the Valley. The Bentley and the yellow pickup truck were parked in front of the Gillete garage.
    We drove past, made a U-turn at the nearest intersection, and parked on the far side of the road across from the house. We had a clear view of it from here, parked behind a hedge.
    Dennis asked, “What makes you think Gillete could be involved in your friend’s murder?”
    “Tim Tucker, Bay’s cousin. I met him first when I came here to check on Bay. But the second time I ran into him was in a small bar in Venice, a long way from here. I don’t know if he was looking for me or if it was only a coincidence. My guess is that he followed me. Then Gillete phoned me to apologize for the fuss Tim and I had at the bar. I wondered why.”
    “Maybe Tucker followed you on his own because he learned you were investigating his cousin.”
    I shook my head. “They’re not that close.”
    “That’s