Snowball in Hell

Whitey Whitlock greeted him with the usual inquiry as to whether he could explain why they were paying him such an exorbitant salary to sit on his duff and drink martinis at the High Hat all day.
Doyle assured Whitlock he had no idea, but he personally felt he was worth every penny. Then he sat down and typed
up some malarkey, handed it in to Whitlock, who scowled as he skimmed the crisply typed pages from beneath white and beetling brows, and shook his head.
«Doesn't anyone in this town know anything?»
«If they do they're not talking to the press.»
Whitlock didn't say the obvious: that it had taken Nathan all goddamned day to file a story that any cub reporter could have turned in his first day on the job. In the old days Nathan would have had his ass canned for that kind of omission, but with the manpower shortage, and the war effort dominating every front page, he had a little room to operate. And, while he wouldn't have previously thought to trade on it, his bloodstained resume gave him a certain amount of clout at the Tribune-Herald.
He told Whitlock that that since every paper in town was covering the story he was hoping to get the human interest angle. Whitlock looked skeptical, and rightly so. Nathan hadn't given any previous indication of anything so unwholesome as an interest in humans, but he contented himself with shaking his head and muttering how he'd always known it was a mistake to hire Doyle.
And then, very off-handedly, he mentioned that the police had been there looking for him-twice.
Nathan stood still for a moment. Then he realized that Whitlock was watching him, and he raised his brows. «I can't uncover all their leads for them,» he said.
Whitlock hrrmphfed. «Next time meet them at your other office. They bring down the tone of the place.» He retreated,
muttering, to his lair, and Nathan went to the men's room and splashed cold water on his face.
He needed to eat something. That was the first priority. And then he needed to see what the cops wanted. But, of course, he knew what they wanted. They wanted to know why he hadn't mentioned he was one of the last people to see Phil Arlen alive. They would have found that out right after they visited the Las Palmas Club.
There had never been any question he was going to have to have this conversation with Lt. Spain, but it was better to go into it prepared, so he drank some water and headed downstairs to the newspaper morgue where he looked up everything he could find on Lt. Mathew Spain.
There wasn't a lot. He learned that Spain was thirty-five-a few years older than himself-and had been a cop for ten years before he enlisted in the marines, had been hit by sniper fire on Guadalcanal, and he returned to the Los Angeles police force, who were, apparently, so delighted to have him back they'd promoted him to lieutenant.
Mathew. Matt.
It suited him. Nathan stared down at the black and white photo. It was a tough face, but an intelligent one. Keen eyes-you could see it even in black and white. A stubborn chin, a full-but grim-mouth. Not a guy who gave up easily– if at all. It was a mouth that looked like it had learned the hard way not to smile too easily. It was an attractive face and it was hard to remember that this was the face of an adversary.
The hungry, restless feeling was on him again. For a few months in hospital he'd hoped-prayed-he was cured, but it was worse since he'd returned to Los Angeles. Much worse. Need was like a fever burning him up, burning up his inhibitions, his common sense, his instinct for self-preservation. Ironically, the war had kept him reasonably sane, reasonably steady. But now he was back to where he'd started.
He needed to give Lt. Mathew Spain a call.
But first-he decided to go down to the Biltmore for a couple of drinks.
   
 Chapter Three  
«What have you got for me on the Arlen kid?»
Doc Mason shoved a file cabinet closed and locked it. «Straightforward, as far as it goes. There's a bruise on his jaw like someone socked him, but that's the only sign of a struggle. He was shot from the front from about six feet away. Hands were down at his side when he was hit. That might be significant or not; I leave it to you boys to decide. The bullet lodged in the heart. Didn't exit the body. Here's the interesting part.» The coroner moved to the long counter and waved a long pair of tweezers holding a misshapen slug of lead in front of Matt's nose.
Matt's eyes narrowed. «What the hell's that?»
Mason smiled. «That, Lieutenant, is a .17, 4,3mm ball.»
«A homemade bullet?»
«Possibly. But I think it's the real McCoy.»
Matt said slowly, «You think the Arlen kid was shot with an antique pistol?»
«I'm guessing a derringer.»
Matt thought it over. A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. «Swell.»
«I knew you'd appreciate it.»
«When was he killed?»
«Ah.» Mason dropped the bullet into a small cardboard container. «Monday evening. I'd say after midnight.»
«After the ransom was delivered.»
«That's the way it adds up.»
«Or doesn't,» said Matt.
«They haven't seen Doyle at the Tribune-Herald since this morning,» Jonesy informed Matt when he entered Matt's office later that afternoon. «He showed up long enough to turn in a story about the Arlen kid floating in the Brea Pit, and they haven't seen him since. I get the impression he comes and goes as he pleases.»
Matt raised his eyebrows. «Must be nice.»
«They like him over there,» Jonesy admitted. «I gave them plenty of opportunity to say otherwise.»
Matt said, «What do you think of Sid Szabo?»
«I've heard things, but nobody ever suggested he ran a crooked joint. That counts for something in this town.»
«How reliable a witness do you think Nora Noonan is?»
«On the stand or from my perspective?»
«From your perspective.»
Jonesy studied him. «I think Arlen left the Las Palmas Club with Doyle on Saturday night.»
«Yeah.» Matt sighed. «He lied by omission. I can't think of a good reason for him not to mention he was with the Arlen kid on Saturday night.»
«What do you think he was doing out at the Arlen estate this morning?»
Matt had been wondering about that himself. People got skittish in murder investigations-and not always for the obvious reasons. But Doyle didn't strike him as the skittish type. The opposite, in fact, which he thought was proved by Doyle's visit to the Arlen estate.
«That's what I plan on asking him the first chance I get.» He smiled at Jonesy's suspicious expression. «What do you know about Nora Noonan?»
Jonesy said, «She came to LA in '37. Partnered up with Szabo. They started the Las Palmas Club together and it was a hit from the night it opened.»
«She's from Denver originally,» Matt said. «Used to sing in the supper clubs. She was married to a card sharp by the name of Stephen Reilly. The story is Reilly used to get drunk and slap Noreen, as she was called then, around, and one night she had enough of it, and used a Remington Springfield on him. Claimed she thought he was a burglar. There was a trial, but Noreen was a popular lady, and she was acquitted due to insufficient evidence. She changed her first name to Nora, went back to using her maiden name, and came out west where she hooked up with Szabo.»
«Cripes,» said Jonesy. «The things you pick up. You ever think of joining the police force?»
«Ha.»
«Can't see she had much reason for getting rid of Arlen, Loot. Especially when he owed forty thousand in gambling debts.»
«Yeah, but did you get a look at how old those notes were?»
Jonsey shook his head.
«A couple of them were nearly a year old. Why did Szabo and Noonan keep extending him credit when he wasn't paying up?»
«I don't see how he could have paid up,» Jonesy said. «From what I can make out he never worked a day in that big office his father gave him at Arlen Industries. And according to the brother, the old man had cut the kid off to try and put some backbone into him.»