Clandestine

Walking back to my car, Dudley let out a big whoop. "Freddy, lad, you were brilliant! As was I, of course. And we got solid evidence—handsome Eddie was living two blocks away when that tragic young woman was croaked in '48. Just think, lad!"

"Yeah. Are we going to put someone on that?"

"We can't, lad. Mike and Dick are tailing Engels twenty-four hours a day. There's just the four of us on this investigation, and besides, the trail's too cold—three and a half years cold. But don't worry, lad. When we pop Eddie for Margaret Cadwallader, he'll confess to all his sins, don't you fear."

"Where to now?"

"This Janet Valupeyk bimbo. She lives in the Valley. She was the other credit reference for handsome Eddie. We can mix business with pleasure, lad; I know a great place on Ventura Boulevard—corned beef that melts in your mouth. I'm buying, lad, in honor of your stellar performance."

With our guts full of corned beef and cabbage, Dudley and I drove to Janet Valupeyk's house in Sherman Oaks.

"Let's just hope old queer Larry didn't call her ahead. Kid gloves with this one, lad," he said, pointing at the large, white, one-story ranch-style house. "She's obviously got dough and she's got no record at all. It's no crime being charmed by a lounge lizard like charming Eddie."

We knocked and a handsome, full-bodied woman in her late thirties threw open the door. She was blurry eyed and wearing a wrinkled yellow summer dress.

"Yes?" she said, slurring slightly.

"We're police officers, ma'am," Dudley said, showing her his badge. "I'm Lieutenant Smith, this is Officer Underhill."

The woman nodded at us, her eyes not quite focusing. "Yes?" She hesitated, then said, "Come in . . . please."

We took seats uninvited, in the large air-conditioned living room. The woman plopped down in a comfortable armchair, looked at us and seemed to draw on hidden resources in an effort to correctly modulate her voice: "I'm Janet Valupeyk," she said. "How can I help you?"

"By answering a few questions," Dudley said, smiling. "This is an absolutely charming home, by the way. Are you an interior decorator?"

"No, I sell real estate. What is it?"

"Ahhh, yes. Ma'am, do you know a man named Eddie Engels?"

Janet Valupeyk gave a little tremor, cleared her throat and said calmly, "Yes, I knew Eddie. Why?"

"Ahhh, yes. You said 'knew.' You haven't seen him recently, then?"

"No, I haven't. Why?" Her voice was steady, but her composure seemed to be faltering.

"Miss Valupeyk, are you all right?" I asked.

"Shut up," Dudley snapped.

I went on, "Miss Valupeyk, the purpose of our—"

"I said, shut up!" Dudley roared, his high-pitched brogue almost breaking.

Janet Valupeyk looked like she was about to break into tears.

Dudley whispered, "Wait for me in the car. I won't be long."

I walked outside and waited, sitting on the hood of my car and wondering what I had done to irk Dudley.

He came out half an hour later. His tone was conciliatory, but firm; his voice very low and patient, as if explaining something to an idiot child. "Lad, when I tell you to shut up, do it. Follow my lead. I had to play that woman very slowly. She was on dope, lad, and too confused to follow the questions of two men."

"All right, Dudley," I said, letting the slightest edge of pride go into my voice. "It won't happen again."

"Good, lad. I got more confirmation, lad. She lived with handsome Eddie for two years. She paid the bills for that no-good gigolo. He used to beat her up. Once he tried to choke her, but came to his senses. He's a longtime cunt-hound, lad. He used to pick up girls even when he was living with lonely Janet. She was in love with him, lad, and he treated her like dirt. He bought whores and paid them to stand abuse. And he's queer, lad. Queer as a three-dollar bill. Boys are his passion, and women his victims."

I was amazed. "How did you get that out of her?"

Dudley laughed. "When I realized she was on dope, rather than booze, I checked out her medicine cabinet. There was a doctor's prescription bottle of codeine pills. A hophead, lad, but a legal one. So I played on her fear of losing that prescription, and it all came out: Eddie jilted her for some muscle boy. She loves Eddie and she hates him and she loves codeine most of all. A tragedy, lad."

Without being told, I took the long way back to downtown L.A. Laurel Canyon Boulevard, with its rustic, twisting streets would give me plenty of time to probe the man who was growing before my eyes in several different directions.

Dudley Smith was a wonder broker, but a brutal one, and I felt a very strange ambivalence about him. He was too sharp for elliptical games, so I came right out with it: "Tell me about the Dahlia," I said.

Dudley feigned surprise. "The Dahlia? What Dahlia?"

"Very funny. The Dahlia."

"Oh. Ahhh, yes. The Dahlia. What precisely was it you wanted to know, lad?"