“Nothing yet.”
“O.K.,” he said. “Say, Shell, how about the yellow suit in the pool?”
I laughed, told him I'd see him later, and hung up.
Then, not laughing, I headed for Fanny. Her office was one of four in the building, and apparently consisted of two or three rooms. Inside the first frosted glass door I found a guy at a typewriter and asked him, “Fanny Hillman around?”
“Yeah, she's here.”
“This ‘Eye at the Keyhole’ thing. When's the Crier's deadline for it?”
He glanced up at me and said, “Depends what edition. Eleven P.M. for the morning edition. What's—” He broke it off, started a smirk, then killed it as I felt my jaw muscles bulge. Maybe I didn't know him, but he knew me. He jerked a thumb toward another frosted glass door behind him. “You'll find dear Miss Hillman right back there.” I didn't wait to ask him if that “dear” was an expression of admiration or contempt, but followed his thumb to Fanny's door. I couldn't help noticing a couple of glances directed my way from the two gals who were also in the room. I could feel my face burning. Fanny, being a Fearsome Filmland Power, had an office all to herself. I took a deep breath in front of the door, told myself, Take it easy, Scott, and went in.
The old bat looked up and gave me a blank stare as I came in. She wasn't as fat as Bondhelm, but give her a few more years past forty and she'd make it. Her pale eyes looked at me from a round, vacuous face. She'd been reading something on the stained-walnut desk behind which she sat, and I'd have given eight to five right then that it was either her own column, Tillie the Toiler, or Dotty Dripple.
She was really a galloping horror. She had hands of the type generally called “dishpan hands,” but the same thing might have been said of her face. She looked like a woman who would disappear every Halloween and turn up dancing around a bubbling pot; give her a broom and you'd lose her.
Still giving me the blank stare, she said, “Yes?” going up. She had a voice like Howdy Doody's.
I decided to play it light. Maybe this hag had really believed her own words. The least I could do was give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Good morning, Miss Hillman,” I said pleasantly. “My name's Scott. I, uh"—I give her the nicest smile I could find—"crawled out of my shell to correct a misapprehension. About your item in this morning's Crier.”
She sucked at something in one of her teeth. Or maybe one of Dr. Cowen's teeth. She knew who I was, all right. “I'm very busy,” she said shortly. “Can't you get to the point?”
“Yeah, lady, I'll get to the point.” Just like that she'd popped me. Here I was all sweetness and light and damn near ready to tickle her under the chin, and she was giving me this old routine. I slammed the door behind me and walked up to her desk. I came at her so fast that she scooted backward three inches in her swivel chair.
I said deliberately, “The point is pretty damn obvious, don't you think? In the first place, I don't like my name in your sticky column. In the second place, I resent libel and slander. Specifically I object to the implied accusation that a local ape man made me crawl, which he didn't, and the further implication that I could be scared off a case. Maybe I could be, but it hasn't happened yet.”
She said sweetly, “What case, Mr. Scott? What are you talking about? And I'm certain your name isn't in the column ... the sticky column, I believe you said?”
I'd had a death grip on the Crier, opened to this dear girl's word; now I slid it across the desk at her and started to point out my name. Then I stopped. Actually, my name wasn't in there.
She had noticed my hesitation and was smiling at me, happy as a clam, and I said, “Isn't it obvious who you were talking about?”
“Whom, Mr. Scott. About whom I was talking, you mean.”
“You know bloody well what I mean!”
Grammar lessons she was giving me. Pretty soon old sweetness-and-light Scott's brain arteries were going to open up and start squirting at each other. I sprayed air through my teeth and said more slowly, and more quietly, “Look, you know that's me who—whom—whom—well, godalmightydamn.”
Oh, she was happy now. She was having a ball. Only once in about a year do I get as griped at anybody as I now was at this quivering monstrosity, and a guy never builds toward peaceful relations feeling that way.
I took a couple of deep breaths and said, “Miss Hillman, I don't know where you got your information—though I've got an idea—but the item's as phony as house dice. For your information, I'm the boy who called the cops—and when I did it I hadn't promised to be good. Also, I have a client for whom I'm now investigating the murder of Zoe Townsend. Tooth and nail. There's an item for your column. For free.”
“I'm afraid it isn't very newsworthy, Mr. Scott.”
“Yeah? Well, it's true. Does that eliminate it?”
She didn't say anything. I said, “I came in here to ask you, pleasantly, if you'd correct the erroneous impression you gave in this column. I say quiet seriously that it could be damaging to me. Now, how about it?”
“That's absurd. If that's all...”
“It's not all. Where did you get your information? From King? It had to be from somebody involved. Somebody who most likely phoned you.”
No answer. She sucked at something in her teeth again. This time she got it.
I leaned forward on her desk, the palms of my hands moist on its smooth surface. “Tell me this,” I said. “Do you print anything that anybody tells you? Is a phone call all you need? I'll give you some hot items: Ava Gardner just shot Anthony Eden; Eisenhower confesses; the Pope has switched to Calvert's; Arthur Godfrey—”
“Please, Mr. Scott!” Her face wasn't pale white any more; it was getting as red as mine. “Get out of here!” she screeched. “I won't listen to any more of this...”
That was all. No use kidding myself, Fanny and I would never see eye to eye at that keyhole. I turned and started to leave, and now that she'd apparently survived the battle she gave the knife one more ladylike twist: “If it had been you in my column, Mr. Scott, what would you have done about it?”
I yanked my head back toward her. “What would you say to my hauling Zoe's killer in here and plopping him in your lap tomorrow? With instructions to brush up on his technique?”
Her round face got very mean-looking all of a sudden, then went back to normal, which was worse. She said icily, “Oh? Then you already know who the killer is. Why, that's just wonderful, Mr. Scott. Maybe I do have an item.”
“Now wait a minute—” I choked it off. This was a losing game and I'd had it. I left the door open as I went out. Fanny and I hadn't been engaged before, but we were sure as hell quits now.
I got some more eyeballing as I left and I gave out glares indiscriminately. In the Cad, I made a highly illegal U-turn in the middle of the street, buzzed back to Lyle's and had cardboard toast and two cups of brown water, then leaped back into the Cad, angrily ground the gears, and jerked away from the curb like a madman.
Just as I shifted out of low, something went plunk against the car somewhere and I wondered if I'd sprung something in the Cad's innards, or maybe hit a pedestrian. If a pedestrian, I hoped it was one of Fanny's faithful followers. But the rear-view mirror showed the road clear behind me and the motor purred sweetly.
Twenty minutes later when I parked in front of Genova's studio I was back to what would pass for normal. I was a little irritated with myself for getting so worked up in the first place, but even before I'd read today's Crier I'd had enough of Fanny Hillman to last me for several years. Now it was for life.
I got out of the Cad, slammed the door, and stared at the gleaming black side of the car for a few seconds while my throat got slightly drier. Now I know what that plunk I'd heard back at Lyle's meant.
There was a neat round hole—obviously a bullet hole—in the metal of the car just back of where I'd been sitting when I erupted so violently away from Lyle's. Apparently I could thank Fanny for one thing: She'd got me mad enough to
save my life.
Chapter Seven
I POKED my finger into the hole in the Cad's side, remembering I hadn't heard a shot. I could have missed it as I ground the gears. A lot of things were puzzling me. First of all, why anybody would be after me already. Within the last half hour somebody had tried to kill me, murder me, and they'd come so close that I could feel the muscles tightening involuntarily in my back and I looked around me nervously. But I didn't know beans about who had killed Zoe, and that was the only case I had any connection with now. And why hadn't I been shot when I stepped out of Lyle's? There was an explanation for that, though, which made sense. If a man wanted to shoot me and be far away before the kill was noticed, his best bet would be to wait till I was in the car, where I might not be spotted for a while, rather than drop me in plain view on the sidewalk.
I opened the car door again and hunted around inside. I was lucky enough to find the mangled slug—if you can call that lucky—and now even if I didn't know the why, I knew two other things: one, that some guy had shot at me; two, he knew he'd missed. With one more glance all around me, I headed for the entrance to Louis Genova Productions.
The studio stretched a couple of city blocks on La Brea and was actually named Arcade Studios; Genova was merely renting space here till “Jungle Girl” was completed. I walked across the sidewalk and through the gate, and picked up the pass that Bondhelm had said he'd have ready for me. The guard waved me in after telling me where the offices were. Inside the Administration Building, at an information desk, I asked another guard where Genova was.
“Well, either in his office"—he pointed—"down the hall there and to the right, or maybe on the sound stage yonder.” He pointed again, in another direction.
“They shooting ‘Jungle Girl'?”
“Yep. Won't let you in if they're shooting. They's on Stage Three.”
“Where would I find the writers? They in this building?” He nodded and I asked, “How about Oscar Swallow?”
“Down the hall and round to the right. Numbers on the doors. He's in Seven.”
I thanked him, went down the hall and right to number seven. The door was ajar so I poked my head inside and said, “Hello.”
I got more out of that hello than I usually do, and I had only a brief glimpse of the luscious Lola Sherrard before she fell down. She was sitting behind a desk at the right of the door, her eyes closed and dark brows furrowed in obvious concentration. She was wearing a blue skirt and white blouse, and a little frilly handkerchief was tucked into the V of the blouse, in the hollow between her breasts. From where I stood it looked as though she could have stuffed a Turkish bath towel down there.
A pencil was crossways between her white teeth, but that wasn't important. She was tilted far back in a swivel chair, with her feet propped on the edge of the near side of the desk, and as I stuck my head inside, Sherry's head jerked up and she opened her eyes wide. She let out a startled “Oh!” and yanked her feet off the desk, and her swivel chair started scooting out from under her. In a flash of white, blue skirt, and waving pink arms, she went down as her chair slid back against the wall behind her.
I threw the door open and jumped to help her. She was sitting on the floor behind her desk with her mouth open wide, looking appealing as sin. She lifted her face up to me and said, “Golly!” Then she held her hands toward me so I could help her up.
I grabbed her hands and pulled. “I'm sorry,” I said. “Are you hurt?”
“I don't ... think so.”
She came to her feet, standing close to me, and put both hands behind her and rubbed herself gently where she'd landed. If she'd planned it, she couldn't have struck a more appealing pose.
She looked even better than she had during the brief time she'd been at last night's party. The soft red lips were in a small pout as she blinked her clear blue eyes at me, then suddenly she laughed. “Wasn't that silly? Hello. Guess I should lock the door if I'm going to sit like that.”
“My fault,” I said. “I shouldn't have popped in the way I did. I thought maybe Swallow would be here. But I am glad to see you again, Sherry.”
When I said Swallow's name she frowned once more and the amusement went out of her lovely face. “Him,” she said, contemptuously, I thought. “He should be in before long. I think he's on the set. Oh, sit down.” She nodded toward another chair and pulled her own chair back under her. She sat down gingerly, then bounced a couple of times and beamed at me. “All well,” she said. I thought my teeth were going to start chattering.
When I got settled she asked me, “What are you doing here at the studio, Shell?”
“I told you last night that I'm a detective. Well, now I'm working. On what happened at Raul's after you left.”
She pressed her lips together. “Zoe?”
“Uh-huh. Sherry, didn't you report her missing?”
She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Yes. She's— We lived together. I liked her a lot.”
“I'm sorry, Sherry. If you don't want to talk about it—”
“I do, though. Is that what you're doing, Shell? Looking for...”
“For whoever killed her,” I said. I thought about everything that had happened in the last few hours and added, “I've got some very good reasons of my own for wanting to find the one that did it.”
“I know who did it,” she said flatly.
I stared at her. That one had jarred me. “What? What do you mean?”
She sighed. “I've already told the police,” she said. “They told me I don't have any proof.” She sighed and fell silent.
I didn't want her to stop now. “Maybe I could help,” I said. “Anything at all might help, Sherry. Can you tell me?”
She was quiet for a while longer, then she looked at me. “I think I'd like to,” she said. “Shell, Zoe left our house Thursday night—you know there was another bunch at Raul's that night?” I nodded and she went on, “Zoe hated Oscar Swallow, and I don't blame her a bit.” Her face looked angry now. “She told me weeks ago that she'd ruin him any way she could, and that's why she went to Raul's. She was going to do something to get even with him in front of all the people who were there, all the people who knew him and worked with him. She left about eight o'clock and never came back. Finally I told the police she hadn't come home. Then just this morning they talked to me again and I told them why she went to Raul's. I don't think the police have even said anything to him—and I thought they'd arrest him.” She stopped, staring at the corner of her desk.
Now I was getting something I could sink my teeth into. “What was she going to do?”
Sherry shook her head. “I don't know. She just said she was going to ‘get’ him. She'd found out something about him she said would run him out of town. I don't know what it was.” She looked at me and said defiantly, “But it's perfectly obvious what happened. Before she even got inside Raul's, Oscar Swallow murdered her. I just—”
She broke it off in midsentence, because right then Oscar Swallow walked into his office.
“Well, hello there,” he said brightly to me, each word enunciated with how-now-brown-cow clarity, and he gave me a smile. It was a tight smile, though, and a poor one, and it seemed evident that he'd heard Sherry's last remark. He could hardly have missed it. Perhaps he'd even been standing out in the hall listening; there was no way to tell.
“Morning, Swallow,” I said. Then I pushed it a little. “We were just talking about you.”
“Oh? Well, by Jove. Nothing foul, I hope.”
I grinned at him. “I'm not sure. You been on the set?”
“Yes, I have. I have been there all morning watching the temple scenes. It's still quite a thrill seeing one's ideas come to life, so to speak.” He took out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling deeply and squirting the smoke out his long, straight nose. “What brings you here, Mr. Scott?”
I was wondering if he'd mentioned being on the set all morning so I'd feel he hadn't been playing target practice with me, or if it was only casual conve
rsation. I said, “The Townsend murder. I've got a client who wants me to try finding her killer.”
He was slightly contemptuous. “Do you expect to find him here? Or her, as the case may be?”
“Seems logical.”
He shrugged. Sherry had been sitting quietly up till now. She said to Swallow, “Don't you feel anything? Now that she's dead?”
“Sherry, dear, I'm naturally terribly sorry. Zoe was a lovely thing, and she was my secretary for a long time. But there's nothing we can do now.”
Sherry didn't answer, but she was making a visible effort to control herself. She got up and walked out.
Swallow slid up on a corner of his desk and hiked up the carefully creased leg of his trousers. “Did you want to see me, Mr. Scott?”
“Yeah, I thought I'd drop in. I'd like to talk to all the people who were at Raul's Thursday night. Just to get the picture.”
“This is part of your investigation, I take it?”
“You could call it that.”
He smiled. “I won't be much help. I remember little of that Thursday night. Mr. Genova insists that there be no late parties, or, oh, carousing when we're shooting the following day—but I'm not in the movie. At any rate, I fear I drank to excess. I passed out and slept on the floor most of the evening. I really don't remember quite how I got home.”
“When was this?”
“Quite early Thursday night. Shortly after seven, I believe.” He chuckled. “That's what they tell me. But my point is, Mr. Scott, that I could hardly have had anything to do with Zoe's death—assuming that she was killed at Raul's home. I'm simply trying to make things easier for you, you understand. You see, you can eliminate me immediately.”
“Sure,” I said. “I just eliminated you.” I got up. “Thanks, Swallow. Everybody else on the set?”
“Everybody you'll want to see, I imagine. Except Genova; he's in his office. Number one.”
I walked to the door and turned. “Oh, Swallow, one more thing. When the police pulled her from the pool last night you said something to the effect that she'd killed herself. It struck me as a little strange.”
Way of a Wanton Page 6