I could hear him clearing his throat and then I could hear him trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.
"That would come under the heading of police business," he said.
"If they did, it had three empty shells in it."
"How the hell did you know that?" Ohls asked quietly.
"Come over to 7244 Laverne Terrace, off Laurel Canyon Boulevard.
I'll show you where the slugs went."
"Just like that, huh?"
"Just like that."
Ohls said: "Look out the window and you'll see me coming round the corner. I thought you acted a little cagey on that one."
"Cagey is no word for it," I said.
18
Ohls stood looking down at the boy. The boy sat on the couch leaning sideways against the wall.
Ohls looked at him silently, his pale eyebrows bristling and stiff and round like the little vegetable brushes the Fuller Brush man gives away. He asked the boy: "Do you admit shooting Brody?"
The boy said his favorite three words in a muffled voice.
Ohls sighed and looked at me.
I said: "He doesn't have to admit that. I have his gun."
Ohls said: "I wish to Christ I had a dollar for every time I've had that said to me.
What's funny about it?"
"It's not meant to be funny," I said.
"Well, that's something," Ohls said. He turned away. "I've called Wilde.
We'll go over and see him and take this punk.
He can ride with me and you can follow on behind in case he tries to kick me in the face."
"How do you like what's in the bedroom?"
"I like it fine," Ohls said. "I'm kind of glad that Taylor kid went off the pier.
I'd hate to have to help send him to the deathhouse for rubbing that skunk."
I went back into the small bedroom and blew out the black candles and let them smoke.
When I got back to the living room Ohls had the boy up on his feet.
The boy stood glaring at him with sharp black eyes in a face as hard and white as cold mutton fat.
"Let's go," Ohls said and took him by the arm as if he didn't like touching him.
I put the lamps out and followed them out of the house.
We got into our cars and I followed Ohls' twin tail-lights down the long curving hill.
I hoped this would be my last trip to Laverne Terrace.
Taggart Wilde, the District Attorney, lived at the corner of Fourth and Lafayette Park, in a white frame house the size of a carbarn, with a red sandstone porte-cochere built on to one side and a couple of acres of soft rolling lawn in front.
It was one of those solid old-fashioned houses which it used to be the thing to move bodily to new locations as the city grew westward.
Wilde came of an old Los Angeles family and had probably been born in the house when it was on West Adams or Figueroa or St. James Park.
There were two cars in the driveway already, a big private sedan and a police car with a uniformed chauffeur who leaned smoking against his rear fender and admired the moon.
Ohls went over and spoke to him and the chauffeur looked in at the boy in Ohls' car.
We went up to the house and rang the bell.
A slick-haired blond man opened the door and led us down the hall and through a huge sunken living room crowded with heavy dark furniture and along another hall on the far side of it.
He knocked at a door and stepped inside, then held the door wide and we went into a paneled study with an open French door at the end and a view of dark garden and mysterious trees.
A smell of wet earth and flowers came in at the window.
There were large dim oils on the walls, easy chairs, books, a smell of good cigar smoke which blended with the smell of wet earth and flowers.
Taggart Wilde sat behind a desk, a middle-aged plump man with clear blue eyes that managed to have a friendly expression without really having any expression at all.
He had a cup of black coffee in front of him and he held a dappled thin cigar between the neat careful fingers of his left hand.
Another man sat at the corner of the desk in a blue leather chair, a cold-eyed hatchet-faced man, as lean as a rake and as hard as the manager of a loan office.
His neat well-kept face looked as if it had been shaved within the hour.
He wore a well-pressed brown suit and there was a black pearl in his tie.
He had the long nervous fingers of a man with a quick brain.
He looked ready for a fight.
Ohls pulled a chair up and sat down and said: