Come Hell or Highball

by Maia Chance

“Only temporarily.”

  “Oh, okay. He became a gangster to pay for—what? His mother’s operation?”

  “He wishes to buy back the family farm. In Missouri. They were swindled out of it.”

  “He told you that because he knew it would impress you, and then he’d have a better chance of getting to second base.”

  “Good heavens, what a terrible thing to say. Apologize at once.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. I glanced in the rearview mirror again. The Cadillac was stuck behind the delivery hack. I pressed still harder on the gas. In another minute, we would lose them.

  But suddenly, the delivery hack turned off the highway. The Cadillac roared up on our tail. Bullets clanged against our fender.

  Berta sighed. “I had so hoped I would not have to do this.” She unfastened her black handbag. She pulled out her Colt, rolled the window down, and leaned out. “Do try to stay within the lines, Mrs. Woodby,” she said. She spiraled her torso halfway out the window and squirted metal.

  I guess I hadn’t believed Berta would actually shoot. Not really. I white-knuckled the wheel and concentrated on staying on the road. The speedometer quivered as it crept past sixty, then on to seventy.…

  Berta fired again. I heard squealing tires. “Gotcha,” she muttered.

  “You shot a gangster?” I yelled.

  “Indeed not. I shot his tire.”

  We burst around a bend in the highway, out into a sweep of road with a meadow along one side. A low stone guardrail lined the other side of the road. Below the guardrail crashed a rocky surf, about two stories down. Straight down.

  We soared around the curves, mile after mile. I was getting the hang of it, and I realized we were within half a mile of Dune House.

  Without warning, Berta unloaded the Colt’s last three bullets in quick succession. My nerves frizzled. I lost control of the motorcar. The curve of the road was too sharp, and I didn’t turn the wheel in time.

  With yawning horror, I saw the guardrail hurtling toward us and the blue glitter of water beyond.

  “Jump!” I screamed. I somehow unlatched the door and hurled myself out. I landed with a painful thud on the edge of the road and rolled into a ditch. As I rolled, I hit my hip, hard, and then my head, and my elbow and my ribs, and crumpled to a stop in a puddle at the bottom.

  A stretched-out, metallic groan was followed by a moment of eerie silence. Then a series of bangs, screeches, and clatters as the motorcar smashed into the rocky surf below the wall.

  I had the shakes. I turned my head. Berta, a few yards away in the ditch, lay in a tangle of raincoat.

  Relief surged through me and I felt tears in my eyes. “Are you okay?”

  “I believe so.”

  How Berta had managed to keep a grip on her handbag through all that, I’ll never know. On the other hand, I still had a camera stuck down my bodice, so I suppose I was not one to judge.

  I crawled to the top of the ditch. The Cadillac was stopped by the guardrail with a flat tire. Mr. Highpants and Frankenstein’s Monster stood with their backs to us, staring over the guardrail where the Model T had plunged to its final parking lot.

  “Hurry,” Berta whispered. She was scrambling up a narrow ravine that led from the ditch into the meadow above.

  I followed.

  Up in the meadow, the wild grass and flowers were tall enough to conceal us, as long as we kept low. We crawled all the way across the field. By the time we stopped at a fence, my stockings were shredded and my hands smarted with grass cuts. My shoulder throbbed where I’d landed on it when I jumped out of the car. Something sticky-warm was trickling down my face, too, and my scalp was oddly numb.

  When we climbed over the fence, we saw the gates of Dune House across the road.

  “Almost there,” I said.

  “Good, because I fancy I broke my wrist.”

  When the gatekeeper saw us, his mouth fell open. Probably thought we were a couple of swamp monsters. I racked my brain, trying to remember his name. Slink? Strump? Oh yes—

  “Mr. Strom!” I said airily, shoving the Brownie more snugly down my front. I smeared my face with my palm. “How good to see you!”

  He blinked.

  “I’m here to see Olive—she’s expecting me, you know.”

  He blinked again.

  In the distance, I heard the purr of an engine.

  “It’s me,” I said. “Lola Woodby.”

  “Mrs. Woodby? That you? Why, what in tarnation’s happened to you? You’re bleeding.”

  I looked down at the palm I’d touched to my face. Bright blood glistened.

  I simply stood there, staring at my hand. My teeth began to chatter.

  The engine purr grew louder. Louder.

  “Mr. Strom,” Berta said, “we have been in a motorcar crash. Please allow us through the gates this instant so we may telephone a doctor.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Strom unlocked the gates and let us through.

  The engine pulsated to a roar behind us.

  “Close the gates, Mr. Strom!” I shouted.

  Berta and I ran up the drive toward the house. The iron gates clanged shut. Yelling. Gunfire.

  I prayed that the gangsters hadn’t shot Mr. Strom.

  * * *

  When Dune House came into view, I noticed in a blur lots of motorcars and trucks scattered around the drive, and people milling around.

  I dug the Brownie from my bodice and handed it off to Berta. I burst through the front door. I stood, wheezing and trembling, in the foyer, and screamed at the top of my lungs, “Eloise! Eloise Wright, come here this instant!”

  My voice bounced off marble.

  Hibbers materialized. “Mrs. Woodby. Good heavens. What has happened to you?”

  “Where is she?”

  “I presume you mean Mrs. Wright? I am not quite certain. I last saw her at luncheon. Perhaps she has gone for a lie-down. Shall I telephone an ambulance for you?”

  “Maybe I can help,” someone said in a treble clef voice.

  I spun around. Bruno Luciano lounged in the doorway, wearing an old-fashioned frock coat, knee breeches, tall boots, a cravat, and side whiskers.

  “Oh,” I said. “Mr. Rochester. You’re filming today.”

  “Yes.” Bruno came closer and wrapped an arm around me.

  I went limp. I stared up into Mr. Rochester’s face, and he, with his smoldering dark eyes, his haunted slash of eyebrow, his gritted jaw, his tortured soul, stared back into my—

  “I saw Eloise,” he squeaked.

  Daydream shattered.

  “Upstairs,” he said. “Allow me to escort you to her.”

  “All right,” I said.

  But Bruno did not, at the top of the grand staircase, turn toward the guest wing. Instead, he turned toward a wing of the house that I’d never entered before.

  We passed a room crowded with costume racks and babbling people. The next room was cluttered up with girls applying actors’ makeup. I saw Sadie Street, in her Jane Eyre wig and a nightgown, having rouge brushed onto her cheeks.

  “We’re filming in the bedchamber,” Bruno said. “The scene where Jane is awakened by a fire set by the madwoman in the attic.”

  “Oh,” I said. It was tough to focus my eyes. Warm blood dripped into my ear.

  Bruno led me past another open door. I made out, in a muddle, a four-poster bed, a movie camera on a tripod, a clutch of murmuring men, and George Zucker. George glanced up as we passed, and Bruno gave him the slightest head-tilt of acknowledgment.

  “Where’s Eloise?” I asked.

  “I think she was watching the filming,” Bruno said. “But we’re taking a break, and I saw that she came up here.” He opened a door. A narrow flight of stairs led, ladderlike, upward “Come on.”

  “To the attic?”

  “Not exactly.” Bruno gave me a nudge.

  I started climbing. Bruno was right behind me. “What on earth is Eloise doing all the way up here?” I asked.

  “She wanted
a little peace and quiet. To smoke a cigarette.”

  “But she doesn’t smoke.” I’d reached the top. We were inside a gable, facing another door. I twisted the doorknob.

  “Oh, she’s started up smoking again,” Bruno said. “Because of her divorce.”

  I pushed the door open and fresh air gusted in.

  “Go on, then,” Bruno said.

  I stepped outside onto a narrow walkway that ran along the roofline, with iron railings at hip height.

  I heard the door shut. I turned. Bruno leaned on the door and smiled. It was a rakish, Mr. Rochester smile. But his gaze was a cold abyss.

  “I don’t see Eloise,” I said.

  “No? Silly me. I could’ve sworn this is where she’d gone.” He took a step toward me.

  Instinctively, I backed up a step. Steep roofs slanted down on either side of the walkway. On the far end, the walkway simply ended. Down below, the Arbuckles’ green lawn, gravel drive, hedge maze, tennis court, and swimming pool sprawled like a map in a hotel brochure.

  Bruno took another step toward me. He grabbed the rail to steady himself.

  And then I saw it. A glint of gold on his hand. A signet ring with a flat round face.

  I’d seen a ring like that before. On a hand like his.

  36

  For a long moment, I was speechless. “It was you,” I finally said to Bruno. “On the film.”

  From somewhere in the distance came muffled screams and yelling. I smelled the faintest whiff of smoke.

  “You got me, Lola. Yes. It was me. I ended up on the cutting room floor in that one. Not good enough to be in a pork and beans advertisement, they said. My smile was too cheesy, the director said.” Bruno laughed. “I’ll bet that director’s kicking himself. Passed over Bruno Luciano! What a fool.” His lip curled. “But that’s all in the past. Before I became a star.”

  “Then you saw the bootleg, too. In the warehouse. You were there with Ruby and Vera.” I edged back. “You did blackmail Arbuckle. That money wasn’t from Fitzpatrick, like you told me last night. It couldn’t have been.”

  That’s what had seemed off: Bruno and Sadie’s feud was only a few weeks old, but Bruno had said he received money—because of the feud—from Fitzpatrick way back in August.

  “Arbuckle had bucks to spare,” Bruno said.

  “But he didn’t need to die. Why did you kill him?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Where’s Cedric?”

  “I don’t know a Cedric.”

  “What about Ruby Simpkin?”

  “Haven’t seen her in ages.”

  “Stop lying! What about Vera Potter?”

  “She knew too much. Way too much. Might as well tell you, since now we’re going to have to get rid of you.”

  We? I backed up some more.

  “I tried to keep that shrew Vera quiet,” Bruno said. “I knew that if the gangsters found out what we actors knew about that warehouse, they’d kill us, see. But Vera refused to take any of the blackmail money, out of some prudish idea she’d got in her head. Ruby was different. Ruby knew how to keep her trap shut. Sure, she was kind of crooked—I mean, what kind of girl goes and nicks a film reel from a studio in the first place? She was always looking ahead for the next opportunity. With Vera, I kept her happy by getting her that job as a nurserymaid. She wanted out of acting, see, and it was easy enough for me to make Arbuckle hire her. All it took was one more anonymous letter. I shouldn’t have told Vera that reel had wound up in the Arbuckle house, but I lost my head when Ruby told me Arbuckle had bought it.”

  “And Vera was the one who stole the reel from the safe that night.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  But I did. Vera Potter had overheard me reciting the safe’s combination out loud. Once Horace had been killed, she jumped at the chance to get rid of the reel—which was evidence that she’d gotten the job in the Arbuckle household through shady means. Then, when the cops had come, she must’ve panicked and dropped the reel in Sadie Street’s bag to get rid of it. I remembered seeing her herding Billy and Theo through the drive the morning after Horace’s murder.

  The screaming was growing louder. Acrid smoke hit the back of my throat.

  The door behind Bruno opened. Smoke billowed out. I coughed, and tears pooled in my eyes. Yet I was able to make out, through the smoke and the tears, George Zucker. He emerged from the churning smoke like a sorcerer.

  “Thank God!” I coughed. “Mr. Zucker, Bruno has cornered me. He’s—he’s dangerous!”

  “Auntie Arbuckle has set fire to the house,” George said. He placed a hand on Bruno’s shoulder. “Darling. Please. Allow me. You’ve got your career ahead of you, your glorious, glorious career. Go. Don’t forget, whatever comes of this, that I’ve done everything for you. That I love you, and I always will.”

  In a flash I recalled the head-tilt Bruno had sent to George when we passed the doorway downstairs. It had been a signal. Bruno had brought me up here so George could … what?

  Bruno disappeared.

  I doubled over, coughing.

  Two shoes appeared in my line of vision. I covered my mouth and nose with my cardigan and looked up.

  George smiled, a little sadly, down at me. “Sorry it’s gotta be this way, Mrs. Woodby.”

  “You? Why?”

  “For Bruno. The love of my life.”

  Oh. George and Bruno were gentlemen who preferred not blondes, but other gentlemen.

  “Does Bruno know what you’ve done?” I asked.

  “Of course. Killing Arbuckle and Vera Potter was my gift to him. My sacrifice.”

  “But was it worth it?” I asked, bargaining for time.

  “I dunno,” George said. “He never did say thanks. People as beautiful as Bruno don’t learn to really love. Don’t need to. But that’s something that you and I, Mrs. Woodby, are never gonna have the luxury of understanding.”

  “Where’s Cedric? What have you done with him?”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about the pooch. He’s at the film studio. In Queens. He’s gonna be a star.”

  “You’re a loon!”

  “No, really. The Spratt’s Puppy Biscuits people saw his screen test and want him for their advertisements. He’s just gotta lose a little weight.”

  “You pushed that gargoyle, didn’t you,” I said. “And sent those poisoned chocolates, and wrecked my apartment.”

  “If you’d only eaten a chocolate, it woulda been a wrap.”

  “Why did you try to kill me? Why did you kidnap Cedric?”

  “Because you’re a meddler, Mrs. Woodby. It’s a rotten habit. I almost think I’m doing the world a favor by getting rid of you.”

  I tried to lunge past George to the door, but he made a neat sidestep and blocked my path.

  “You killed Arbuckle,” I said.

  “Bruno had got himself into an awful mess, blackmailing Arbuckle. Anonymously, see. He told me all about it. Needed to get it off his chest, I guess. Then Arbuckle got his hands on the one remaining copy of the film that was at the root of the blackmail shenanigans. Got it from your husband, as a matter of fact.”

  Alfie. That bastard. Lousing up my life even from beyond the grave.

  “Arbuckle was going to figure out, sooner or later, that Bruno had been filming in the warehouse, too, as soon as he got around to watching that film,” George said. “That Bruno had seen the bootleg operation. And then Arbuckle would know that Bruno was his blackmailer. I don’t know whose idiot idea it was to film that reel at the bootleg warehouse. I guess Arbuckle didn’t want any filming at his actual factories. Said it would slow down production. Anyway, I had to protect Bruno. He’s gonna be the biggest movie star the world has ever seen, don’t you understand? I can’t let that go to waste. Even if it means sacrificing myself.”

  “And Vera Potter?”

  “She knew what Bruno was up to. She was going to tattletale. You know that. I had to stop her. And she went and took the film reel out of Arbu
ckle’s safe, the little fool.”

  Neither Bruno nor George seemed to know that I had found the film reel again, and that it was now with Ralph.

  “But how did you know Vera was going to meet me in the dunes?” I asked.

  “I overheard her setting up her meeting with you on the telephone. Course, I’d been keeping my eye on her. I knew she was a weak link.”

  “And you planted Sadie Street’s lipstick?”

  “Sure. Thought I’d kill two birds with one stone: Get rid of Vera Potter and, by pinning the murder on that wretched little biscuit Sadie, get rid of her, too.”

  “The police laughed in my face when I told them that was Sadie Street’s lipstick.”

  “Well, you win some, you lose some.”

  “Did you kill Ruby Simpkin?”

  “I would like to, don’t get me wrong. She’s a loose end. But she took off before I had the chance. I’ll find her, though.” George’s eyes were red. He hunched to cough.

  “How come you’re such a crack shot?”

  “I shoot game on the weekends. Makes me feel happy.”

  My instincts screamed at me to back away. But I knew that the walkway ended. Dodging around George had failed. I had one option left, short of shoving the little creep over: Climb over the railing and go around him on the roof, monkey-style, to get to the door.

  I hitched up my dress (exposing, alas, my knickers and the bottom half of my white rubber girdle) and climbed over the railing.

  “Hey!” someone yelled far, far below. “Some crazy lady’s on the roof! In her underpants! Hey, lady! Don’t you know the house is burning down?”

  I inched along, clinging to the railing. Smoke, gritty and hot, swirled around me.

  “Gee, Mrs. Woodby,” George said. “You’re making it too easy.” He grabbed my right hand and peeled my fingers away from the railing.

  I screamed. My left hand still clung to the railing, but my feet skittered on the slippery roof tiles.

  From down below came cries and shouts.

  I gained a foothold by edging the toes of my shoes between the tiles, but I couldn’t quite reach the railing again with my right hand. All I could do was clench my left fingers tight.

  “Everyone down there is watching,” I snarled at George. “You’ll go to the electric chair for murder.”