My Name is Death

by Dell Shannon

Genres: Mystery; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Raymond Austin, a neat, discreet banker, was Jesse Falkenstein's client. Jesse should only have been concerned with Austin's wife, Tamar, because she was being sued for divorce. But then Tamar is found dead, so Jesse has to find out a lot more about her and her friends: Lee Davenport, the golden haired tenor, Grafton, Eddie, O'Riordan - and a lot of other men, stretching back into her past and around her so recently in her spotlit present. And some women, too. 'My favourite American crime-writer' New York Herald Tribune

Release date: July 28, 2014

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

Miss Williams half-opened the door and said in a conspiratorial tone, “The new client’s here, Mr. Falkenstein—that Mr. Austin.”

Jesse looked up from a copy of Mr. Godfrey’s new will with a sigh. “All right, shoot him in.” He had once cherished hope that Miss Williams might some day be turned into a
halfway professional legal secretary, but hope was dimming; and, damn it, he hadn’t the moral courage to fire her—a nice woman, and sole support of an aged mother. He stood up as the
new client came in from the anteroom. “Mr. Austin? Sit down, won’t you? What can I do for you?”

Mr. Raymond Austin advanced a little hesitantly. Jesse put him down as not much over twenty-six or -seven; he was a very neat young man, pressed dark suit, white shirt, discreet dark tie. Office
job, thought Jesse. He wasn’t much over medium height, but stocky; he had a thin sallow face, not bad looking, with dark eyes, and the shadow of a heavy beard showed on his jaw, at this end
of the day.

“Well,” he said, and sat down abruptly in the chair beside the desk. “Well, it’s—I want a divorce from my wife.”

“I see.” Jesse concealed surprise; usually it was the woman who applied for divorce. But it did happen the other way round. Austin was nervous; he sat balancing a well-bred-looking
Homburg on his knees, licking his lips. “Well, suppose you just tell me the circumstances, Mr. Austin. What grounds did you—”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Austin blankly. “I don’t know much about what grounds there are here, I thought you could suggest—Lord,” he added suddenly
then, and passed a manicured hand over his thick dark hair in absent gesture, “what a mess! I never thought I’d get into a situation like this, but there it is. And I don’t know
if you could do anything about the rest of it either, but I’ve heard of—of lawyers getting injunctions, is that the word, to prevent a husband or wife from annoying— I mean, you
know, the bank doesn’t like it, Mr. Falkenstein.” He was earnest on that.

“Let’s just start from the beginning,” said Jesse gently. “O.K.? Your wife’s been annoying you—how? You work in a bank?”

“The Security-First National, branch on Olympic Boulevard,” said Austin promptly. “I—you see, I did most of my military service here, and I like California—my
mother’s married again, I should say I come from Pennsylvania—Reading, Pennsylvania—and I like Bruce all right, but—well, you know how it is. So I stayed out here and got
the job with the bank. I’ve been there nearly six years, I just got promoted to the trust department, that’s what I’m really most interested in, and I was— Well, never mind
that. Mr. Raglan’s been very patient about it, but a few times Tamar’s come in and made a little scene, and all the phone calls—”

“I see,” said Jesse, suppressing a grin. Austin very obviously the typical young of the banker species; on the way to being a stuffed shirt. He sounded a nice guy for all that, and
Jesse felt sorry for him. These females.

“It’s—you see, it’s a good job, a secure job, and I’m working up in it, but it doesn’t pay all that high a salary. Since I—left her, I’ve given
her a set sum every week, after all I’m still responsible, you could say, but she wants more, she doesn’t understand—”

“Let’s have it from the beginning, Mr. Austin. How long have you been married?”

“A little under six months,” said Austin. He sounded ashamed on that. “Damn it, I never thought I’d— I don’t want to sound like a—a prude, Mr.
Falkenstein, but when I married Tamar I expected to stay married. Start a home. You know? I suppose I’m just one like that, way I was brought up and so on. But I guess I expected too much of
her. She’s only twenty-one, and she likes—oh, going out every night and all that. She did quit her job for a while, but she got bored—that’s how she put it—she
doesn’t have any idea of housekeeping, she hardly lifted a hand—about meals and so on, you know. She’d never had to—and then I guess she hasn’t got all that out of her
system, dancing or something every night, all the—excitement.” He stuck there. But he’d drawn the picture, and a familiar and sad one it was.

“Mmh,” said Jesse, taking notes. “She go out with other men if you wouldn’t take her?”

“I—she might have,” muttered Austin, “and I didn’t know. A lot of times she’d just say she was going to see one of her girl friends, and— But I
don’t know. I never thought I’d get to this point. But I—it got so I couldn’t take it. It got on my nerves, so they even noticed at the bank. I couldn’t concentrate
properly. A man wants some peace at home—a decent place to live, you know. Half the time when I came home she wasn’t there, and the place in a mess—dirty dishes all over, those
trashy magazines— And then again she’d invite a lot of her friends in, they’d be there until two or three in the morning, and the manager complaining—”

Mr. Austin had got himself into something, reflected Jesse. And not the first one. And now the poor devil would be paying alimony set by some unrealistic judge. “You left her.
When?”

Austin licked his lips. “About a month ago. I’d tried, I talked to her and tried to make her see how she ought to settle down, but it was no go. I guess she just hasn’t grown
up yet. Some people don’t, do they? I guess I got myself hooked all right—” He laughed unhappily. “By the pretty face and all. How many of us do? And find out
afterward— Hell. But there it is. She’s—she’s quite something to look at. Different. And I suppose you’ve heard all this from other clients before.”

Jesse smiled at him encouragingly. “You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last, Mr. Austin. Is your wife still living in the same apartment where you left her?”

“Oh, I think so. Probably. It’s an old place on Francis Street.” He added the address. “I know I got her there last week when I phoned to ask her to stop bothering me.
I’ve been giving her twenty-five a week, it’s about all I can afford what with the car payments and my own rent. . . . Oh, I moved to a hotel on Sixth Street. Not very fancy, but I
couldn’t afford—”

“Yes. You’re a California resident. Is she?”

“I don’t know, I suppose so. Yes, I think so because she said she’d come here about two years ago. She was—is, I suppose I should say—a kind of amateur singer.
That’s how I met her, and, well she is something, you know. But damn it, I never thought I’d get in a mess like this.” Austin looked at him, rueful, angry. “Just
another fool, and old enough to know better too. I should have seen what she was like. And I suppose I’ll have to pay her alimony now. Have I any grounds to get a divorce?”

“California judges are pretty lenient,” said Jesse with a shrug. “She refused to keep a home for you, technically—did she ever refuse you, mmh, conjugal
rights?”

“Oh, well, yes, of course,” said Austin rapidly, looking embarrassed. “She’s—just as fed up with me, you see. I guess I knew it’d never work a month after we
were married. I think she married me, actually, because I was different from all the other men she knew—a—a square, maybe she’d say. You know? And then pretty soon she got fed up.
No, she’d hardly be likely to contest a divorce, but if I know Tamar she’ll try for all the alimony she can get.” One hand clenched suddenly on the arm of his chair. “Silly,
shallow little fool,” he said under his breath. “Why I couldn’t see her for what she was at the start—sit around drinking beer and singing with those oddball characters at
The Cygnet, and— I was a square all right, thinking it was all so damned—fascinating. ‘Oh, careless love—’ My God, yes . . . Nothing,” to Jesse’s raised
brows. “But you can get me a divorce?”

“Not much trouble, I don’t think. And yes, we can try to stop her bothering you at your work. Now, I need a little more information, Mr. Austin—”

Austin answered questions dully, precisely. No, not the first man to get himself into such a situation, but Jesse supposed it must always feel like a unique situation. . . . “Well,
I’ll do my best for you, Mr. Austin,” he said when they’d settled the retainer and he had all the facts he needed.

Austin stood up. “Thanks very much.” And he added to himself, “Why in God’s name did I go with Elliott that night? I could have turned him down— I could have
said—and I’d never have met her. Do you believe in fate, Mr. Falkenstein?”

“All things come alike to all: there is one event to the righteous and to the wicked. . . . Or does Holy Writ have all the answers? I don’t know,” said Jesse absently.
And on that one, he was suddenly thinking that if he’d just ignored Vic’s telegram, or been tied up on another case, seventeen months back, he’d never have met Nell. Destiny?
“I don’t know.”

“Well—” said Austin. “Well, thanks. You’ll be in touch with me, then.” He went out.

It was six o’clock. Get Austin’s business started bright and early tomorrow. Jesse unfolded his lank seventy-four inches and stretched; reached for his hat. In the anteroom, Miss
Williams was agitatedly sorting through papers from a file folder. “Oh, dear, Mr. Falkenstein, I don’t know how it came to slip my mind, but I completely forgot about that
Bergstrom contract, and, oh, dear, you wanted it for tomorrow—”

Jesse sighed. “Yes, well, if you wouldn’t mind doing some overtime, or coming in early—the appointment’s at eleven.”

“Oh, I know, I’ll just slip out for a tiny bite and start it right away, I’m so sorry, Mr. Falkenstein—”

“That’s O.K.,” said Jesse. Maybe he was a fool to keep the woman, but who else would hire her? Quite a nice woman, and oddly enough an efficient typist at least; and then there
was the fact that he needn’t pay her the astronomical salary a really good legal secretary would demand.

He went home, to the house on Rockledge Road above Hollywood Boulevard, which they’d bought instead of the one in View Park they’d considered. It was a nice house, of Nell’s
favorite Mediterranean design, and its generous yard was enclosed by a chain-link fence, which was half the reason they’d bought it. Jesse slid his Ford into the garage beside her baby
Renault, and Athelstane whuffled loudly at him through the fence. Jesse opened the gate and braced himself, and Athelstane rose up lovingly, front paws on Jesse’s shoulders, and washed his
face. “So you’re glad to see me,” said Jesse, getting out his handkerchief. “All right, all right. And on second thought, if I hadn’t met her I’d never have got
saddled with you. A mastiff, for God’s sake. Three pounds of meat a day.”

Athelstane followed him into the service porch eagerly. After the February-evening chill outside, the house was pleasantly warm, and there was a succulent smell—Jesse sniffed
hopefully—of baked ham and candied yams.

Poor Austin.

“Is that you, darling?”

“In person. And on third thought,” said Jesse, kissing her and holding her away for a fond look, his lovely Nell with her long gray eyes and neat dark-brown chignon and slender
roundness, “in spite of your saddling us with the monster, I’m not sorry I did meet you. Who is rich? He who has a wife beautiful in deeds.”

“Oh really?” said Nell. “Beautiful in deeds. A left-handed compliment if I ever heard one. And if you want a drink before dinner you’ve just got time.”

At approximately the same moment, Sergeant Andrew Clock of Headquarters Homicide was replacing the outside phone and doing some swearing.

“Why the hell,” he demanded of his desk blotter, “didn’t I go to work in a bank or somewhere I’d have regular hours?”

“Well, why didn’t you?” asked Detective Peter Petrovsky reasonably.

“Because I’m a damned fool,” said Clock, “obviously. Go get Dale or whoever’s at loose ends. We’ll have to go look at this.” He picked up the outside
phone again, a gloomy expression on his craggy Neanderthal face with its jutting brow and jaw, and dialed the number of Miss Frances Falkenstein. . . .

“Well, really,” said Fran crossly. “There isn’t a thing in the place but breakfast food and a couple of eggs—I was going to shop tomorrow—and I’m
starving. I see you can’t help it, Andy—”

“Don’t call me—”

“—but it is a nuisance. Why on earth I condescend to go out with a cop—”

Clock, who often wondered about it himself with a kind of prayerful awe—Fran, West Coast editor for a fashion magazine, looked more like one of its models—clutched the phone tighter
in one big fist and said desperately, “I’m sorry, but—these things come up, after all—”

“Oh, I know, I know—duty before pleasure, and you the stern dedicated puritan you are—”

“Listen,” said Clock, “I—”

“I know, I’ll go wish myself on Jesse and Nell for dinner,” said Fran. “Nell won’t mind. And in a cab, so you can come and take me home when you’ve looked at
your new corpse, darling.”

“And don’t call me that either, damn it. When you don’t mean anything—” These career women, thought Clock gloomily. Everything happened to him. Why the hell he had
to fall for—

Fran laughed, sweet and high. “Puritan. Have fun with your corpse, Andy. See you.”

Putting down the phone, Clock swore again. That little harpy. Red nail polish and spike heels. He didn’t like that kind of girl. But Fran—well, Fran seemed to be the one. If he could
ever get her to take him seriously, which was doubtful.

Dale and Petrovsky came into the office. With an effort Clock shoved Fran to the back of his mind. Somebody had to look at the corpses as they turned up, and the L.A.P.D. was always undermanned.
In spite of being the top force anywhere.

“O.K., let’s go and see what it looks like,” he said abruptly.

L.A. was growing fast these days, splitting its seams; to keep up, a lot of tearing down and rebuilding was going on. One of the many current downtown projects was the
enlarging of one entrance to the Harbor freeway. A whole block of ramshackle old houses on narrow little Holland Street was being knocked down to make room for the new lead-in. And near quitting
time this chill Wednesday afternoon, the foreman of the city crew working its bulldozers at one end of Holland Street had called in excitedly to report the body.

So Clock went to look it it, with Dale and Petrovsky, and said, “What the hell do they expect us to do with a thing like this?” But there it was, a homicide; they had to start work
on it.

It had been buried under the earth floor of a garage: the tumbledown old garage belonging to 2808 Holland Street. It hadn’t been turned up by the bulldozers until both frame houses on the
property had been demolished—2808 and 2808½. The foreman said, typical cheap old shabby houses.

It was the body of a man, and at a guess the body was anywhere from a year to two years old. This was sandy soil, which helped in preserving bodies; maybe the surgeon could tell them more than
what was obvious at a first glance at the skull, that the body had had a severe bang on the head which had probably been the cause of death: the skull was cracked deeply. There were clothes:
remnants of gabardine slacks; a once-white shirt; what might be a sleeveless sweater, gray or beige; the wreckage of a pair of brown moccasin-type shoes and a corduroy jacket, gray or beige.

Fortunately, the bulldozer hadn’t inflicted any new injuries: just turned it up.

There were, in the pockets, a bunch of anonymous keys on a dime-store key chain (not even, damn it, an initial); an anonymous cheap plain white handkerchief; a half-empty packet of matches from
The Brass Hat in Florence, Arizona; three pennies, a dime and a nickel; a packet of matches, with two left in it, from The Keg Inn, Santa Rosa, New Mexico; a half-full pack of king-size
Chesterfield cigarettes; an unopened purse-size package of Kleenex; a paper-backed Spanish-English dictionary and two cheap ball-point pens.

“I ask you,” said Clock bitterly. “I just ask you. My God.”

“All right, Sergeant,” said Petrovsky soothingly. Clock was always pessimistic at the start of a case. “We’ve got to look. And routine might turn up something. Ask
Missing Persons and so forth.”

“And so forth!” said Clock. “I know, I know.” He looked at the corpse again. That savage dent in the skull—a spade, something like that?—something fairly
sharp anyway. Pretty obviously murder, and in his territory, so he had to start the hunt. He sighed. What a hope. They’d be lucky to get an ident on the corpse after all this time.
“O.K.,” he said heavily. “Let’s get moving on it. Get a full description from the surgeon—contact Missing Persons—I wonder if we’ve got a hope of prints
off him. The lab can work miracles sometimes. . . . And you boys,” he added to the foreman of the crew, who was hanging around interestedly, “can go knock down houses somewhere else.
We’ll be busy sifting through every square inch around where he was. And, my God, how can we pin it down, anyway? I’d guess anywhere from eighteen months to two years back—and I
know these areas, all rented places and people drifting in and out.”

“Well, we’ve got to look,” said Dale through a yawn. “It’s our job.”

“And what a job,” said Clock, thinking of Fran.

That was always the toughest kind of case there was, the anonymous corpse. The age of this one just made it that much tougher. There were a lot of things to do on it, a lot of
routine to set working, but Clock didn’t think they’d turn up much.

He couldn’t get the routine started until he had something definite from the surgeon. It looked a little silly to ask priority on a corpse that old, but he did; Dr. De Villa had a look at
it on Thursday morning, and had quite a bit to tell him about it, but would any of it help?

The body wasn’t reduced to bare bones—that was the sandy soil—and it told this and that even yet. It was the body of a Caucasian male probably between twenty-two and
twenty-five years old; the right leg had been broken below the knee some years before it became a body, and there were still traces of an old appendectomy scar. The teeth were good, a full set
barring one missing molar; there were three fillings. The man had been six feet one inch tall and judging from the apparent size of the clothes, about normal in weight, maybe one-seventy to
one-eighty. He had had brown hair and probably (not certainly) brown eyes.

The probable cause of death was a skull-smashing blow delivered from in front, with some fairly sharp and probably heavy weapon. The surgeon suggested a shovel or the edge of a two-by-four.

The lab men were very pessimistic about the possibility of getti. . .