Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  Allen did not answer at once. I decided that he wasn’t going to. Then he said, “It was my fault, Ted. You know the type of dames I’d known. I didn’t realize that Stella was different. She wasn’t a star then, you know. She was the ingénue in ‘Happiness Moon.’ Last year she clicked in Brainard’s ‘Ransom,’ and Evans brought her out here. This Max Gordon had a swell front. His family had stolen the land from the Indians in sixteen something or other. No one knew that he was broke, which wouldn’t have mattered to Stella then and doesn’t now, but he’s a cheap heel. He doesn’t play the game with any one, and it’s up to me to do something about it.”

  “Have you seen Stella?” I asked.

  Allen’s eyes flashed to my face and darkened. “Only on the lot. And don’t get it into your head that she’s squawked. She didn’t. She’s not the kind that bellyaches to any one, but she doesn’t need to with me.” He rose and took a slow step toward the door. “I didn’t come in here to spill my sob story, Ted; I came in to ask about a lawyer. This is my job, and I don’t need help.”

  I CAUGHT his slender shoulders and forced him into the desk chair. “Now listen, you. I’m going to talk for a minute. I’ll admit everything that you say. I don’t want any part of Gordon. I’ve seen plenty of chiselers in Hollywood, but he wins without an argument. I’m not thinking of him, or of you, you bum. I’m thinking of Stella. She’s nothing to me, but she is on the level. She plays the game, and without marked cards.

  “Have you figured what the publicity will do to her? She’s just getting started out here. I happen to know that Evans thinks she’s one of the best finds in years. She hasn’t let it go to her head. In other words, she hasn’t gone Hollywood. You’ve thought about this until it’s burned its way into you. Forget it for a couple of days. Let me go out and talk to her. Let me see what has to be done.”

  I saw Allen’s lips forming into a no, and put my hand across his mouth. “Now listen, punk. Give me a chance to try. You can always kill him if I fail.”

  Allen stared up at me. “You won’t tell her what I’m planning. You won’t—”

  I said, harshly, “Do you think that I’m dumb? You can’t stay in this business as long as I have without learning something about women. I won’t even admit that I know you. I’ll tell her that I’ve got the dope on Gordon, and that I’ll help her shake him. Now get the hell out of here, and don’t come back for three days.”

  II.

  I REACHED for the phone as the door closed. “Charley,” I said when the connection was made, “Is Stella Darlow working to-day? She isn’t? O.K. Find out when I can see her.” I hung up and turned back to my desk. At three thirty that afternoon I got out of my cab before the Beverly Hills house which the girl had leased, and went up the winding walk.

  A trim maid in black and white admitted me into a square, tile-paved hall, and led the way through an arched door into a sunlighted room. “Miss Darlow will see you in a few minutes.”

  I watched her disappear, then looked around. The room was long, a wing projecting from the side of the house, with windows on three sides. The window at the back looked out on a small stone-paved patio, with a fishpool in the center, fed from a fountain. French doors opened into the patio, and one stood slightly ajar. I walked aimlessly about the room, my hands thrust deep in my trouser pockets. I hated the job ahead; hated talking to this girl about her worthless husband. But Allen was worth saving. I had respect for the gang-bred writer, something greater than respect.

  I paused beside the French door and stared unseeingly at the patio, my mind on other things, not grasping what my eyes transported to my brain. Gradually the objects before me took shape: the fishpool rimmed with rock, perhaps two feet above the patio floor; the stone and concrete fountain, water trickling down its side. Then I stiffened, for from behind the rim of the pool a man’s foot showed, a sport shoe of black-and-white, the leg above incased in striped flannel.

  Startled, I pulled my hands from my pockets and pushed the door wide. I crossed the patio in a dozen steps and rounded the end of the fishpond. Max Gordon lay on his back, one leg extended, one doubled under him. He wore a brown-and-yellow, slip-over sweater over a white shirt, and there was an ugly stain spread across the breast of the sweater from a. little hole directly above the heart.

  I did not trouble to stoop over. It was evident that the man was dead. I looked around, noted the wall almost shoulder-high, which divided the patio from the vacant lot next door, heard a noise behind me, and turned. Stella Darlow stood in the French door, watching me. I’d seen the actress before, had met her in Evans’ office, but I hadn’t realized how attractive she was.

  Her face, without heavy make-up, had something childlike about it, something trusting. She said, “Hello, Mr. Cayton. How do you like my patio?”

  I said, automatically, “Fine, very nice.” My mind was raving, trying to plan. Something in my face must have warned her, or—I did not let myself think of that. She came a step forward.

  “Why, what’s the matter?” Her eyes were larger now, questioning. I knew that I should stop her before she reached the fountain, but I wanted to see her reaction. She came across the irregular stones with easy grace, her tiny slippers hardly seeming to touch the rough surface.

  “Oh!” One hand was at her throat, the other clenching suddenly at her side. There was no grief in the voice, only surprise, shock. I couldn’t judge whether or not it was real. It might be feigned. I realized that she was a finished actress, that she had something which no amount of training can give—natural ability.

  “Is—is he dead?”

  III.

  COLLINS was young, too young for the job. I knew him slightly, knew that he was fair, knew little else about him. I wished that the death had happened in Los Angeles, where Louman would have been in charge. It hadn’t. It had happened in Beverly Hills. The detective turned away from the phone and looked up at me. “So you found him in the patio, and no one had heard the shot?”

  I shrugged, “I found him in the patio. I don’t know whether or not any one heard the shot.”

  Collins’ eyes looked at me, through me. “May I ask what you were doing here?”

  Again my shoulders moved. “I came out to see Miss Darlow on business. She’s under contract to R.K.B. I handle stuff for them.” The detective nodded. “And, of course, you’ll do everything to protect her. She’s valuable.”

  I reddened slowly. “Are you cracking that Miss Darlow shot her husband?”

  It was Collins’ turn to shrug. “From what I hear, she had plenty of reason.” He was silent for a moment. “By the way, just how well do you know Miss Darlow?”

  I laughed suddenly. “I’m glad I’m only a private cop. It must be hell to be suspicious all the time. So you’re trying to build me up for an outside love interest, are you? Well, pal, you’ve picked the wrong play. It happens that I’ve met her once before. I saw her for exactly three minutes in Evans’ office. Any other questions?”

  “Several.” Collins sounded angry. “Just what was your business out here this afternoon?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, but it isn’t for publication.”

  “Oh! So you won’t answer?”

  My voice tightened. “Suppose you let me tell you something. I’m not on the witness stand. I’m not suppressing evidence in this killing. I don’t know a thing. If you think that I go around telling studio business you’re screwy.”

  For seconds we stared at each other. Collins’ eyes were the first to drop. “O.K. But you don’t need to get hard about it.”

  My face was bland. “I thought you were the one that was getting hard.” I picked up my hat and moved toward the door. “If you want me, you know where I am. And, Collins, just a tip: go easy what you feed to the papers. They’ll make you look like a monkey when this is straightened out.”

  IN THE HALL the trim maid touched my arm, looked both ways hastily, and slipped a folded note into my palm. I did not open it until I was in the cab, speeding toward the
studio. When I did, I swore softly as I read:

  Cayton: Don’t let Clipper Allen come to see me. S.D.

  I tore it into small pieces and let them float through the half-lowered window, then lighted a cigarette and slumped back in the seat. At the studio I went directly to Evans’ office, and found the head of R.K.B. pacing the thick rug with short, excited strides. Boyce, head of the publicity department, stood beside the window. Both turned sharply as I came through the door.

  “More trouble!” Evans’ voice was accusing. “Why is it, I ask you, that actresses must have husbands?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not married. You should be able to answer that one.”

  Evans spread his hands. “Why should I know about such people? Positively, Ted, I am through, washed up. The money we spend building this girl up on publicity, and now she kills her husband.”

  “I don’t think that she did,” I said.

  Evans stared at me. “You don’t think—What has that got to do with it? People will read it in the papers. Do you think they want their children to see a killer in pictures?”

  I said, “Let’s not cross that bridge until we come to it. We don’t know who killed Gordon. Personally, I don’t care. There are a hundred people in this town who had plenty of cause. Why should we jump to the idea that Stella Darlow is a killer?”

  Boyce detached himself from the window. “I think that you don’t understand, Ted. The publicity on Darlow’s latest picture is just ready for release. We can’t very well send it out—”

  “Hold it,” I said, “until you see how things break. The trouble with this business is that you jump into things pell-mell. Let’s look around.”

  Boyce said thoughtfully, “If we were to find the murderer—that is, assuming that Stella didn’t—”

  “What do you think that the cops are doing? Playing anagrams?” I asked him.

  “Ted, listen.” Evans swung about. “That isn’t such a bad idea. Supposing you look around. Maybe you can find out who killed him.”

  “Sure.”

  Evans was getting enthusiastic. “When you find the killer we can use the publicity to put over Darlow’s next picture.” He walked to the big desk and drew an enormous cigar from the humidor. “Honestly, I don’t know what this studio would do without me to think of things.”

  IV.

  I WENT DOWNTOWN to my own office. I’d been handling work for several of the studios for almost three years, but this was the toughest job I’d had handed me. I sat down at my desk to think it over, then picked up the phone and called four different numbers. “Sid? Ted Cayton.”

  Blanchard’s voice, slightly blurred with alcohol, reached me. “Hi, pal? Tough break R.K.B. got on that Gordon killing.”

  I said, sharply, “Where’d you hear it? The papers hadn’t got it when I left.”

  Blanchard chuckled. “Grapevine,” he replied, referring to the mysterious channel through which news flows about the movie capital. “You should know that a thing like that can’t be covered.”

  “Listen, sir. You knew this heel pretty well—” I started.

  “Thank you.” Blanchard cut in.

  “Don’t get high hat with me, you bum,” I came back. “What I want is the dope on his latest girl friend. Who is she? Who does she run with, and where can I find her?”

  The gossip writer’s tone sharpened. “What’s the idea, Ted? Didn’t Stella shoot him?”

  “When I know I’ll tell you. Now give me the dope, and if you let it leak in your column that I’m interested I’ll see that you never get on any lot again.”

  “Will you put that promise in writing?”

  “Sober up, you ape. This is important.”

  “O.K., O.K. Keep your hair on while I think. Gordon had so many dames hanging around that I’ll have to sort them. You might try Myra Terrel. She’s got an apartment on Fountain. Wait till I look up the number.” He was silent for a moment, then gave me the address. “Apartment Fourteen,” he said, “and you’d better take your own liquor. Hers is lousy.”

  “Who’s the other one?”

  “Honey Blake. She dances at the Corn Cob Club, on Sunset. I don’t know a thing about her, but Gordon has been giving the joint a play, and Honey’s the only reason that I can think of.”

  The door behind me opened as I said into the phone, “Keep this under your hat, Sid,” and hung up.

  Polly Haines, my secretary, said, “Any time that tramp can keep anything under his hat. He tells things before his column gets into print.”

  I SWUNG AROUND and stared at her. “Heard the news?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “What news?”

  I shook my head. “This is important. I found Max Gordon dead in his own patio, shot.”

  She said, “You mean his wife’s patio.”

  My voice got irritated. “You don’t sound surprised?”

  She moved her shoulders in a negative shrug. “I’m not. The only wonder is that some one didn’t get him sooner. I suppose it’s up to you to clean up the mess, since Stella works for R.K.B.”

  “To hell with R.K.B. I’m thinking about Clipper Allen,” I said.

  Her eyes got suddenly wide and her voice had a certain dry breathlessness. “Like that?” She was staring at me.

  “Like that.” I returned the stare. “Clipper plays square with me!”

  “Maybe he won’t be dragged in.” Her voice was thoughtful. Her gloved fingers played with the catch of her purse.

  “And maybe he will. You didn’t inquire how I happened to be at Stella’s. You’re not as bright as the cops. They asked me that.”

  She said, slowly, “So you went out there for Clipper?”

  I shrugged, and in a dozen words told her of the writer’s threat. “Now you see why I’m interested.”

  She was silent for a moment, then came forward and put a small gloved hand on my shoulder. “Listen, Ted, I don’t like it. I don’t like your getting mixed up with this mess.”

  I shrugged, “Clipper’s a friend of mine.”

  “Half the people in this lousy town are friends of yours, when they get into a jam. I wish—” she started.

  I stared at her. “What do you wish?”

  She turned away and moved toward the window. “Hell!” Her laugh had a half-choked sound. “It doesn’t matter what I wish. Go ahead. Clear this up. If I can help you—”

  “You hear things. Tell me about Gordon.”

  She made a little sign of distaste. “I’m particular whom I hear about. I didn’t like him.”

  I watched her with narrow eyes—her trim shoulders beneath the fur-collared coat, the perky hat which did not conceal her shining hair; then I reached for the phone and called the Hollywood Athletic Club. I asked for Allen, then hung up, swearing softly to myself.

  Polly Haines had turned from the window. “What’s the matter, Ted?”

  I shoved the phone away from me, found a loose cigarette in my pocket, and rolled it between my fingers. “Clipper checked out of the club two hours ago, without leaving a forwarding address.”

  V.

  I DISMISSED MY CAB, and looked at the brick-faced apartment house. It was six stories, built in two wings, with a tiled lobby in the center roofed by a skylight. The girl at the switchboard was blonde, with a trace of brown showing at the roots of her hair. She smiled at me around the gum which filled her cheek.

  “Is Miss Terrel, Apartment Fourteen, in?” I asked her.

  Her eyes changed, appraised me. “Just a minute.” She plugged into the board. “What’s the name?”

  “Cayton. Tell her that it’s important.”

  “I’ll bet that it is,” she said, knowingly. Into the phone, “Miss Terrel? A Mr. Cayton to see you.” Then, to me, “You can go on back, last apartment on the right.”

  She seemed to expect something. I didn’t give her anything.

  I went back along the heavy runner which covered the composite floor, and pressed the buzzer of Apartment Fourteen. After a moment the door came op
en to expose a little girl with hard, brown eyes, and a too-long blond bob.

  She inspected me in silence, then stepped aside for me to enter. In the front room, littered and stuffy, she said, “What’s on your mind, brother?”

  “You worked on the ‘Princess Helene’ picture at R.K.B. three years ago.”

  Her plucked brows arched. “My Heaven! My public! Mind telling me why you remembered me?”

  I said, without grinning, “Because you were so lousy. I don’t think I ever saw any one else quite so lousy.”

  She laughed suddenly, too loudly, and dropped onto the divan. She wore brown slacks. “You’ve got a new slant at that. Say, it’s kind of good after the usual hooey that the boulevard cowboys pass out. What the hell do you want, anyway?”

  I said, softly, “Ever hear of Max Gordon?”

  Her eyes were narrow. “What if I did?”

  “When did you see him last?” She rose slowly. “Say, who are you?”

  I shrugged. “Just some one who doesn’t want to see you in a jam.”

  “Yeah? Big-hearted?”

  “That’s it. When did you see Gordon last?

  She said slowly, distinctly, “Go to hell.”

  I caught her shoulders. “Come on, babe, I like them hard, and I’m easier to talk to than the cops.”

  Her body, which had been tense, relaxed. “The cops?” There was no fear in the voice, only a question.

  I nodded. “Some one killed Gordon in his own patio this afternoon. Now will you talk to me, or must I send for the boys in blue?”

  Her eyes were on mine. “This is straight? You’re not trying to be funny?”

  “It doesn’t sound funny, even to me, and I didn’t like Gordon. Come on, sister. Spill it.”

  “You’re not a dick?”

  “I’m from R.K.B. Gordon’s wife is under contract to us.”

  Her face changed, and a slow smile showed small, extremely white teeth. “I’ve been trying to remember where I’d seen you. You’re Ted Cayton. Want a drink?”