Clandestine

I opened the last one, and stopped and trembled at what I'd found: a pink, silk-lined dresser drawer. Black lace brassieres and panties were folded neatly in one corner. In the middle was a cigarbox filled with marijuana. Underneath it were black-and-white photographs of Marcella DeVries Harris, nude, her hair braided, lying on a bed. Her sensual mouth beckoned with a come-hither look that was both the ultimate come-hither look and a parody of all come-hither looks.

I stared, and felt my tremors go internal. There was the hardest, most knowing, most mocking intelligence in Marcella Harris's eyes that I had ever seen. Her body was a lush invitation to great pleasure, but I couldn't take my eyes off those eyes.

I must have stared at that face for minutes before I came back to earth. When I finally realized where I was, I replaced the cigar box, closed the silk-lined drawer, turned off the light, and got out of the little garage apartment before Marcella Harris weaved the same spell on me that she had on Henry Hart.

18

I came prepared for William "Doc" Harris, stopping by a printer's shop and getting a hundred phony business cards made up before I went to brace him. The cards read: "Frederick Walker, Prudential Insurance." Prudential's rock insignia was there in the middle, and underneath in official-looking italics was the single word, "investigator." A phony telephone number completed the pretense. The ink on the cards was hardly dry when I shoved them into my pocket and drove to 4968 Beverly Boulevard.

". . . And so you see, Mr. Harris, it's just a case of going through the past of your late wife so that I'll be able to tell the payment department conclusively that this claim is fraudulent. I think it is, and I've been a claims investigator for eight years. Nevertheless, the legwork has to be done."

Doc Harris nodded pensively, flicking my bogus calling card with his thumbnail and never taking his eyes from mine. Sitting across the battered coffee table from me he was one of the most impressive-looking men I had ever seen: six feet tall, close to sixty, with a full head of white hair, the body of an athlete and a chiseled face that was a cross between the finer elements of stern rectitude and rough humor. I could see what Marcella had seen in him.

He smiled broadly, and his features relaxed into infectious warmth. "Well, Mr. Walker," Doc Harris said, "Marcella had a knack for attracting lonely people and making them ridiculous promises that she had no intention of keeping. Be frank with me, please, Mr. Walker. What have you discovered about my ex-wife so far?"

"To be candid, Mr. Harris, that she was promiscuous and an alcoholic."

"No man has to lie when he talks to me," Harris declared. "I give and expect complete candor. So how can I assist you?"

I leaned back and folded my arms. It was an intimidation gesture, and it didn't work. "Mr. Harris—" I started.

"Call me Doc."

"All right, Doc. I need names, names, and more names. All the friends and acquaintances you can recall."

Harris shook his head. "Mr. Walker—"

"Call me Fred."

"Fred, Marcella picked up her lovers and her entourage of friends, if you can call them that, in bars. Bars were the sole focus of her social life. Period. Although you might try the people at Packard-Bell, where she worked."

"I have. They were evasive."

Harris smiled bitterly. "For good reason, Fred. They didn't want to speak badly of the dead. Marcella hit bars all over L.A. She didn't want to become familiar in any one place. She had a tremendous fear of winding up as a slatternly bar regular, so she moved around a lot. She had, I think, several arrests for drunk driving. What's the name of this phony claimant?"

"Alma Jacobsen."

"Well, Fred, let me tell you what I think happened: Marcella met this woman at some gin mill, drunk. She bowled her over with her personality and her nurse's uniform, and showed the woman, who was probably also half-gassed, some official-looking papers. Marcella then told the woman how desperately alone she was, and how she needed someone to carry on her anti-vivisectionist work in ease of her death. Marcella was a big animal lover. Marcella, in her alcoholic effusion, then probably made a big show of getting the woman's name and address and made a big show of signing the papers. Marcella was a superb actress, and the woman undoubtedly went for it. When Marcella's death made the papers, Alma thought she had herself a gravy train. Sound plausible, Fred?"

"Completely, Doc. Lonely people will do strange things."

Harris laughed. "Indeed they do. What do you usually do, Fred?"

I made my laughter match Harris's perfectly. "I look for women. You?"

"I've been known to," Doc laughed.

I got serious again. "Doc, could I talk to your son about this? I think your theory is valid, but I want to touch all bases in the report I file. Maybe your son can tell me something that will disprove this Jacobsen woman conclusively. I'll be gentle with him."