that I might not believe him.
“Was this recently?”
“Not recently, no. It was over twenty years ago that they first came here. And nearly ten years since they left. What on earth happened to Ralph?”
“He drowned in the sea off Pacific Point.”
Sperling’s face lost its color. “Are you from the police?”
“I’m a private detective.”
“Was it suicide?”
“I doubt it. Would you say Ralph was suicidal?”
“He talked about it sometimes, especially when he was drinking. Ralph was bitterly disappointed in his life—it hadn’t worked out the way he hoped. I don’t mean to insult the memory of a dead man, but Ralph did a lot of drinking in his day. He and his wife, Martha, used to drink and fight, fight and drink. Sometimes when I was sewing in the back”—he waved his hand toward an area behind a hanging green curtain—“I could hear them through two thicknesses of wall.”
“I’d like to talk to his wife. Have you seen her recently?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t. I haven’t seen either of them in years. Anyway, I heard they went their separate ways.”
“Divorced?”
“So I heard. Still, Martha will have to be told about this. I’d rather you told her than have to do it myself. Or does she know?”
“I doubt it. It just happened last night or early this morning. I pulled him out of the water myself.”
He gave me a sympathetic look. “I noticed you were a little blue around the gills. Why don’t you sit down? I’ll see if I can find her number for you.”
He pulled out a chair for me and left the room. The green curtain fell into place behind him. I sat and listened to the whisper and whir and stutter and roar of the boulevard.
Sperling came back after a while with a memo pad in his hand. He tore off the top sheet and handed it to me.
“Martha’s phone isn’t listed, and neither is Ralph’s. But I got his number and address from a mutual friend in the realestatebusiness. Ralph lives in Beverly Hills now—I mean he did live there. It looks as if he finally made it, after all.”
I doubted it. The little old hairless man in Blanche’s Restaurant had looked as if he had never made it anywhere. But the address on the slip of paper was Bottlebrush Drive, an expensive street in a very expensive city.
“I suppose you could call his house,” Sperling said. “There may be somebody there who should be told. For all I know, Ralph may have married again. Some of us do and some of us don’t. But Ralph was the type who would, if you want my opinion.”
Still I hesitated to place the phone call. I had the feeling that I had made a mistake, or was about to make one.
“Can you tell me a little more about Ralph, Mr. Sperling?”
“What sort of thing do you mean?”
“Well, you made him a suit in 1955.”
“That’s right, I did. He couldn’t really afford it, but I gave it to him at cost for a birthday present.” He fell silent, and his sensitive eyes registered the implications of what I had said. “Was he wearing my suit when you found him?”
“Yes, he was.”
“He must have lost weight. The last time I set eyes on him, he was much too large in the waistline to get into that suit. We had a little joke about it at the time. He was too fat for his own good, but he still was a fine-looking man.”
“Fine-looking?”
“I always thought so. So did Mrs. Sperling, when she was alive.”
“How did he get the burns on his face and head?”
“Burns?”
“Yes. He was pretty badly disfigured.”
“That must have happened since I saw him.”
“How long ago was that?”
“A couple of years at least, more like three. I ran into him in Century Plaza. He was in a hurry, and we didn’t spend muchtime together. But he certainly had no burn marks on his head. I noticed what a fine head of hair he still had.”
“Can you describe him for me, Mr. Sperling?”
“Well, he’s—he was middle-aged—he’d be about fifty or so, with a tendency to stoutness, but Ralph
“Was this recently?”
“Not recently, no. It was over twenty years ago that they first came here. And nearly ten years since they left. What on earth happened to Ralph?”
“He drowned in the sea off Pacific Point.”
Sperling’s face lost its color. “Are you from the police?”
“I’m a private detective.”
“Was it suicide?”
“I doubt it. Would you say Ralph was suicidal?”
“He talked about it sometimes, especially when he was drinking. Ralph was bitterly disappointed in his life—it hadn’t worked out the way he hoped. I don’t mean to insult the memory of a dead man, but Ralph did a lot of drinking in his day. He and his wife, Martha, used to drink and fight, fight and drink. Sometimes when I was sewing in the back”—he waved his hand toward an area behind a hanging green curtain—“I could hear them through two thicknesses of wall.”
“I’d like to talk to his wife. Have you seen her recently?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t. I haven’t seen either of them in years. Anyway, I heard they went their separate ways.”
“Divorced?”
“So I heard. Still, Martha will have to be told about this. I’d rather you told her than have to do it myself. Or does she know?”
“I doubt it. It just happened last night or early this morning. I pulled him out of the water myself.”
He gave me a sympathetic look. “I noticed you were a little blue around the gills. Why don’t you sit down? I’ll see if I can find her number for you.”
He pulled out a chair for me and left the room. The green curtain fell into place behind him. I sat and listened to the whisper and whir and stutter and roar of the boulevard.
Sperling came back after a while with a memo pad in his hand. He tore off the top sheet and handed it to me.
“Martha’s phone isn’t listed, and neither is Ralph’s. But I got his number and address from a mutual friend in the realestatebusiness. Ralph lives in Beverly Hills now—I mean he did live there. It looks as if he finally made it, after all.”
I doubted it. The little old hairless man in Blanche’s Restaurant had looked as if he had never made it anywhere. But the address on the slip of paper was Bottlebrush Drive, an expensive street in a very expensive city.
“I suppose you could call his house,” Sperling said. “There may be somebody there who should be told. For all I know, Ralph may have married again. Some of us do and some of us don’t. But Ralph was the type who would, if you want my opinion.”
Still I hesitated to place the phone call. I had the feeling that I had made a mistake, or was about to make one.
“Can you tell me a little more about Ralph, Mr. Sperling?”
“What sort of thing do you mean?”
“Well, you made him a suit in 1955.”
“That’s right, I did. He couldn’t really afford it, but I gave it to him at cost for a birthday present.” He fell silent, and his sensitive eyes registered the implications of what I had said. “Was he wearing my suit when you found him?”
“Yes, he was.”
“He must have lost weight. The last time I set eyes on him, he was much too large in the waistline to get into that suit. We had a little joke about it at the time. He was too fat for his own good, but he still was a fine-looking man.”
“Fine-looking?”
“I always thought so. So did Mrs. Sperling, when she was alive.”
“How did he get the burns on his face and head?”
“Burns?”
“Yes. He was pretty badly disfigured.”
“That must have happened since I saw him.”
“How long ago was that?”
“A couple of years at least, more like three. I ran into him in Century Plaza. He was in a hurry, and we didn’t spend muchtime together. But he certainly had no burn marks on his head. I noticed what a fine head of hair he still had.”
“Can you describe him for me, Mr. Sperling?”
“Well, he’s—he was middle-aged—he’d be about fifty or so, with a tendency to stoutness, but Ralph
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