“You’ve been working on a case?” Drew Furness asked Fergus.
“Yes,” said Fergus shortly.
“Should I deduce from your preoccupation and terseness that you are at a loss?”
“You can deduce what you damned well please.”
“Go on,” Maureen urged. “Tell us about it. It’ll make you feel better. I’ve just been hanging around on the edges. I’d like to know the real dirt on Rupert Carruthers.”
“I feel,” said Fergus, “like obeying the advice our father always used to give us: when in doubt, give ’em an evasive answer; tell ’em to go to hell.”
“But at least,” Norman urged, “tell us how you located Sarah. That’s not part of … of the rest of it.” Under the table Sarah’s hand pressed his.
“Sorry. But that’s Miss Plunk’s business—or my sister’s. Worm the dire secret out of them if you can, Watson. It’s up to you.”
Norman besought the girls in turn. “Maureen—Mata darling—shed some light on all this damned huggermugger.” His plea met with two resolute headshakes and another squeeze of the hand.
“Some other time,” Sarah whispered. “Tonight is beer and waltzes.”
“Is it?” said Fergus heavily.
Betsy let out a delighted squeal. “Look! It’s Paul Jackson! Really this time and not that Lieutenant only he’s nice too and anybody can make a mistake but this is really Paul and who’s that blonde with him? and ooooo! they’re coming to this table!”
“Hiya, Maureen!” said Paul Jackson broadly. “Andy told me I’d find you all out here. Nice people, this is Judith. She’s really Andy’s girl, but he lent her to me for an evening’s town painting.”
“Why?” asked Fergus. “I mean, what’s all the celebration?”
“Didn’t Maureen tell you? They’ve turned me loose from Rita. No more romance on order. Go out with whoever I damned well please. So this is a start. Yoicks and away!” He casually lifted Norman’s stein and downed what little was left. “Life, my good people, is good. A wide-open social evening and no Rita!”
“No Rita?” Sarah repeated. Her voice had changed subtly, grown richer and deeper.
Paul Jackson stared at her, rubbed his eyes, hastily grabbed Judith and kissed her for reassurance, and looked back again at Sarah. Then he whirled on Maureen, extended a dramatically quivering forefinger, and cried, “Traitress!” with all the ringing vigor of his well-trained voice.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” said Maureen apologetically.
“And besides, Paul darling,” Sarah objected, “do you think you’re the only one? Can’t I want my own life too? And I think I’ve found it.”
She smiled at Norman. But the smile was wasted. He simply sat there in goggle-eyed petrifaction.
“There it is,” said Fergus. “There’s your big surprise. Mr. Harker, may I present Miss La Marr? All this hullabaloo, all this huggermugger, all this confusion of a nice clean case because my beloved sister wanted to pull off a big publicity stunt for Polly.”
“It wasn’t just publicity,” Maureen protested. “It was to help Rita get straightened out—break her away from being a glamour girl and get her some real parts.”
“Noble. But why in hell you had to pick Rupert Carruthers to work your trick with—”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were investigating him?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were playing games with him?”
Paul Jackson turned his most charming smile on Professor Drew Furness. “Do you know what they’re talking about?”
“Heavens no!” Furness gasped. “Do you?”
Fergus turned to Norman. “There you are. Now it all works out to a happy ending. I’ve earned my biggest fee to date, you’ve found your Sarah, Mark Andrews has a theater, Hilary and Fran have their revenge, and everything ends up with song and laughter. While Lewis Jordan … God in heaven!” he burst out. “Why did I become a detective?”
“Let you know later,” said Norman. “Come on, Mata. We’re dancing.”
To the background of Roses from the South she told her story. It had seemed a bright idea to start with. Deglamorize her appearance entirely—wash all make-up from her face, let her hair go, wear an overtight bra and unsmart clothes … “All there is to Rita is the glamour,” she explained. “Take that away and I’m just me—just Sarah Plunk—and that is my real name too, you know.” Then put her in a little theater and let her be discovered purely on acting ability. “We picked the Carruthers Theater because it was small and obscure—all the more effective, we thought. He didn’t know who I was, of course; thought I was just a new discovery that Polly was testing out under wraps. Maureen gave him to understand that they weren’t too sure about me and wanted absolutely no publicity to go out as yet.”
And what a story it would have been! “‘Acting is my true love,’ said Miss La Marr. ‘I owed it to myself and to my art to prove that I could succeed without glamour’ …” And then maybe A. K. and the other big-shot executives at Polly would cast her in something decent, perhaps even a role that would be a stepping stone to an Oscar.
“And Herr Erich Moser?” Norman asked.
“That was Maureen’s inspiration. He was Vernon Crews, of course. He was to meet people around Hollywood in his role of European genius and tell them about this wonderful Plunk girl he’d seen in a little theater. Then they’d come to scout me and the bomb would burst. But it burst too soon and in the wrong way. With Carruthers dead and Fergus building up such an atmosphere of mystery, Maureen got panicky. To have me mixed up in a scandal would ruin everything. So I pretended to come home from Honolulu as Rita. Sarah was supposed to vanish forever. Only I had to see you again.”
“I understand Miss Garston now,” said Norman. “Rita La Marr had interceded to get me the job, so she thought I must know Rita. But what about that bit in the gossip column?”
“You guessed that was why I ran out on you that night? I saw that in the paper—remember you left it open at the theater page?—and I had to get in touch with Maureen. I don’t know how that leaked out; sometimes I think Vernon picks up a little cash from the columnists. But it did almost spoil things; and it was touching to hear how worried Paul was. You know, I think he’d like me if Maureen hadn’t thrown me at him. And a girl could do worse than Paul Jackson.”
They made one round of the small floor in silence. “Would you have seen me again after the beach,” Norman asked, “if Fergus hadn’t tracked you down?”
“Heavens,” she laughed, “how does a girl know what she might have—”
“Please. No act. You remember that room?”
“I remember.”
“Everything we said, everything we did. I still mean it. Every word. And I’m not going to go noble. You may be a bigtime star while I’m trying to land a research job; but that doesn’t stop me. I love you, Mata.”
The orchestra had reached that wonderfully languorous slow theme, as nobly amorous a tune as there is in all Strauss.
“You’ll get that research job if Maureen and I have any influence left at Polly. But better than that: when Mark Andrews does your play, I’ll have every producer on the lot there. If you’ve got anything on the ball, darling, you’re set.”
They made another round of three-four silence.
“I don’t know Hollywood’s caste system well,” said Norman. “But if a promising young writer has a successful play, is there anything against his marrying a glamour girl?”
“I think it could be arranged.” The waltz turned fast again, and they whirled happily. “If only,” she added as an afterthought, “we can keep Maureen from making a publicity stunt of it.”
Turn the page to continue reading from the Fergus O’Breen Mysteries
Chapter 1
Fergus said, “I’ve got a license, and I’d just as soon keep it.”
The red-faced man sliced the tip off a fresh cigar. “There are other private detectives,” he observed.
“Sure. And you’ve b
een turned down by them first or you wouldn’t be here. This office isn’t used to that good a cigar.”
The red-faced man puffed calmly. “I’m not asking anything illegal. I’m simply trying to hire you to investigate a murder. That’s your job, isn’t it?”
“A twenty-five-year-old murder.”
“Which is still on the books as unsolved.”
“I repeat,” said Fergus, “if you’ve got some new angle on the case, why not go to the D. A.?”
“Shall we say political reasons? Or perhaps personal distrust?”
“Could be. But why stipulate that I can’t?”
“I want to hire your services. Naturally I prefer that your reports should be confidential and addressed exclusively to me.”
“Murder’s not a private matter. If I turn up a murderer, hand him over directly to you, and keep my mouth shut, I could wind up as an accessory. I like my little license, I do.”
“Hang your license, sir! Haven’t you guts enough for a little well-paid irregularity?”
“Very well, sir; and haven’t you guts enough to tell your name? The Mysterious Stranger’s a most attractive role in the theater; but I’m damned if I like it as a client.”
“You can always reach me at that number I gave you. And if you wish, I will pay for a bond guaranteeing your salary.”
There was silence in the unpretentious little office. The red-faced man sat puffing his cigar with the calm and stolid expectancy of one who never fails to get what he has demanded. Fergus matched the silence and tried, not too successfully, to match the stolidity. Abruptly he glanced at his wrist-watch and spoke. “Excuse me a moment, will you? A report I promised to put in this morning.”
“Certainly.” And another confident puff.
Shielding the telephone with his body, Fergus dialed the number penciled on the slip of paper before him. He listened to the vain ringing and hung up. “Clients don’t stay put,” he said.
The red-faced man smiled sardonically. “No use, O’Breen. That number is a private unlisted phone in my study. No one will ever answer it but myself.”
“Confidence goes two ways,” said Fergus.
“Not with me. That’s why I can afford such cigars. And such a fee.”
“If I can lay my nose successfully to a twenty-five-year-old scent, I’ll have earned that fee and more.” There was silence again. Then a sudden flash of light glinted in Fergus’ green eyes, and he added, “But are you sure it’s twenty-five years old?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you sure it isn’t maybe a week old? Or a day? What’s the life expectancy on a cat nowadays?”
The red-faced man’s bulk seemed to tighten. “If you undertake this case, I shall give you whatever facts you may find useful. Otherwise …”
“O. K.,” said Fergus. “I’ll take it. On two conditions: One, that I deliver all my findings to you direct, but reserve the privilege of turning them over to the D. A. if need be.”
The red-faced man rose and turned to the door. “We have already discussed that,” he said coldly. “And your other condition?”
“That you tell me your name.”
The red-faced man snorted, “Out of the question!” and opened the door.
A trim dark girl in the outer office rose to her feet as she saw him. “Why, Mr. Quincy!” she exclaimed. “But how nice of you to patronize my poor struggling brother!”
The red-faced man slammed out without a word.
Maureen perched on the desk in the inner office. “You can buy me a good lunch,” she purred, “if you’re getting clients like that.”
“I’m not,” Fergus grunted.
His sister stared. “Look, darling. I know the O’Breens have never been noted for an acute money sense, but you simply can’t go around turning down Lucas Quincy.”
“Can’t I just? Though if I’d known … No, no use conjuring up imaginary temptations.”
“But Lucas Quincy, Fergus. That man owns a slice of everything, even that lovely sweatshop I slave in.”
“So that’s how you recognized him? Didn’t know he was tied up with pictures too. The good old mystery man. The Zaharoff tradition. The financial genius who never makes public appearances. The Man Nobody Knows. And when I do run into him, I damned near throw him out of the office.”
“No but seriously, Fergus. What goes? What did he want you for?”
Fergus grinned. “Professional ethics …” he began pompously.
“But he’s not your client if you threw him out. What was it?”
Fergus shook his head despairingly and began to pace about the office. “Damned if I know what he wanted. It doesn’t add up to sense. And there’s a tricky smell about it. Anonymous clients are out for no good. And why in God’s name anybody should pay out solid cash for the solution to a twenty-five-year-old murder …”
His sister’s eyes lit up. “Murder? Oh, Fergus, are you going to find out who killed William Desmond Taylor?”
“Hardly. And I am not going to find out. No, this is earlier and more obscure. The Stanhope case. You wouldn’t know it.”
“But what was it?”
“Pretty little business up near Santa Eulalia in 1915. Party of young people fresh from a wedding where they’d all been bridesmaids and stuff. Scream in the night and lo! one of the maidens has her throat slit. No motives pointing to anybody, no material clues, nothing. Police write it off as a prowler interrupted in raiding the girl’s jewel box.”
Maureen frowned. “That’s no good of a murder. Not up to your standard, Fergus. Too common-or-garden.”
“Sure. All but one touch. The baby flower-girl at this wedding had a kitten. The murdered girl owned a fine pedigreed Maltese tom. In the week before the wedding both those cats had their throats slit too. And the police still decided it was a prowler.”
Maureen’s blue eyes widened. “That’s not nice,” she said in a small shocked voice. “What you’re implying there. It’s got a nasty ring to it. You mean?”
“I just mean it’s too damned much of a coincidence. Sure, people do go around killing cats random-like. Aelurophobia, if you want a ten-dollar word. But when at the same time, in the same group, by the same method, a girl is killed … Hell, a prowler’s the lazy way out.”
“And that’s what Lucas Quincy wants you to investigate?”
“After twenty-five years. Everybody scattered over the landscape and not remembering a damned thing even if you found them.”
Maureen mooched a cigarette from the pack on the desk. “There’s one way I bet you could do it. If you got all those people together—I don’t mean a criminal round-up, just all together so you could watch them—see how they act with each other and how they must have acted in 1915 … I’ll bet you could figure it out from that.”
“Fancy stuff, huh? Kind of arty for a working detective, but I can see it’d have its points. Still, how the hell do you get them together?”
“I don’t know. It was just an idea. Why don’t you smoke good cigarettes?”
“Why don’t you buy your own? But even supposing I could do that, I still want to know why. Why should the great financier suddenly want a solution to this ancient mess, and anonymous at that?”
“Maybe,” Maureen suggested, “he wants you to ghost an article for him in True Detective.”
“Nothing like a sister’s loving help, my sweeting.” He patted her cheek and finished off with a sharp slap. “And this hush-hush stuff about withholding evidence from the D. A. For all I know, Quincy might be the original authentic murderer himself and trying to use me to blackmail some poor dope with planted evidence.”
“But he couldn’t be a murderer. A man in his position!”
“Temptation, my pet, is not class-conscious. Uh uh. This is one monkey leaves Mr. Quincy’s chestnuts right there in the fire. And that soft thud you just heard was the subject being dropped. How’s for lunch now?”
“I’ve got to dash. I just came really to tell you I wasn’t comi
ng. Too busy with this reception this afternoon. But Fergus …”
“Uh huh?”
“Do you think Mr. Quincy was in that wedding party?”
“Look, sweeting. When you get home tonight, you go in my room and find a black-and-red bound book called Persons Unknown by Lester Ferguson. There’s a firstrate essay in there on this business. Read that and stop pestering me. It contains everything anybody knows or ever will know about the murder of Martha Stanhope.”
“But Mr. Quincy,” Maureen insisted, “is so rich.”
“So he buys him a shamus to play with some funny business and the poor dope gets it in the neck. Uh uh.” His voice changed a little. “Anything in the headlines?”
“The Commons gave Chamberlain a vote of confidence.”
“It’s nice somebody has confidence in him. Nothing happening on the Western Front?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Our grandchildren,” Fergus mused, “will probably still be sitting up nights wondering how the Maginot Line could be cracked. Military perfection means a war of deadlocks nowadays.”
“Look,” said Maureen. “I know I don’t know about military things the way you do, but I just had an idea. Supposing you can’t go through a solid wall. Couldn’t you just walk around it?”
Fergus laughed. “A woman has a lovesome mind, God wot! Some time, darling, in the long winter evenings, I’ll explain just how absurd that idea is. Now run along, if you must, and I’ll catch up on odds and ends. See you at the reception, maybe.”
ii
Those who know Fergus O’Breen at all know that he is Irish, curious, brash, cocksure, and colorful; and many of them know that his sister Maureen is head of publicity at Metropolis Pictures and one of the smartest career women in Hollywood. A few add the knowledge that he is an acute, perceptive, and moderately successful private investigator; and a very few indeed know that of that handful of obvious qualities only the Irishness and the curiosity are genuine. The brashness, the cocksureness, the color are the instinctive camouflage, sometimes too garishly painted, of a man who might in another age have been a bard, a crusader, or conceivably a prophet.
The Case of the Solid Key Page 21