Downstairs, he put the keys in his pocket, then took them out again—one for the room, one for the back. No mailbox key. But why would Danny get any mail? An apartment registered to another name. Just a place where they changed the sheets. Still, they must have given him one, if only to clean out the catalogues and restaurant flyers. He turned back to the clerk.
“I don’t have a mail key,” he said. “For 5C.”
“You’d better find it. We’ll have to charge. We can’t keep making keys.”
Ben looked at the mailman. “He get mail here? Collins? 5C?”
“Mister, you think I keep track? If it’s U.S. Mail, we deliver it.”
“But you might notice—if it piled up. Or if someone never got any.”
“Never? I’d buy him a beer.” He waved his hand toward the boxes. “Everybody gets mail.”
“Did you check his desk?” the clerk said. “Sometimes people keep it there.”
But it wasn’t in his desk or in the desk at home, at least not in any of the shallow paperclip trays in the top drawer, where it logically should be. And not in any of the boxes on top. Ben began taking papers out of the drawer, not rummaging through as he had that first day, but systematically putting them in piles—canceled checks, bill receipts. He started with the address book, as if somehow a number would leap out at him, but none did. Who would put his girlfriend in a book? An odd scrap of paper that no one would see, even a matchbook cover, but not in a book.
The checks were more interesting, like shards of pottery you piece together to reveal a whole society: tree surgeons and pool tilers, land-scapers and caterers, an account at Magnin’s, a life so far removed from Ben’s that it seemed to be otherworldly. Like the thick terry robes by the pool, the drawers of cashmere. He thought of Howard Stein, looking around. And this was only someone with a B series about detectives. Mayer was the highest paid man in America. Still, nobody had killed him because Liesl kept a running account at Magnin’s. He flipped through the stubs. No checks to the Cherokee Arms, presumably a cash expense, discreet. The appointment book was even less revealing: no coded notes, M 5:30, just straightforward studio meetings and doctors and dentists.
No wallet, either. But he must have had one. Maybe in his dresser, with the tie clips and cuff links. He crossed the hall to the dressing room and opened the door that covered the built-in shelves, the inside panel a mirror to check your tie. He reached for the top drawer then stopped, standing motionless. The mirror, some optical trick, reflected the mirror on the partly opened bathroom door. A leg, resting on the rim of the tub, just one, her hands moving up it slowly, as if she were putting on nylons, moving together toward her thigh, then out of the mirror. The hands again, the same smooth drawing up, rubbing. Not nylons, some kind of cream, maybe suntan oil. He stood there, unable to move, his eyes fixed on the mirror. A perfect leg, arched. He imagined his hands moving along it instead of hers, slick with oil, an image that came like a pulse beat, fast, involuntary. Now the leg leaned farther in, more thigh showing, the hands moving. Close the door. Instead he held his breath, mesmerized, wanting the hands to go farther. He could feel himself fill with blood. Unexpected, just like that, without thought. He wanted to see more, where the leg met the body. But it dropped and the other one came up, the same hand motion, just for him, even more exciting because she was unaware.
What could he say if she saw him? Find the wallet and get out. But he stayed, still not breathing. The other thigh now, an almost unbearable second, her sex just beyond the edge of the mirror, and then it moved forward, not hair, a wedge of bathing suit, then more, her whole body bent over, moving into the mirror, her head turning, looking toward her door. He closed the cabinet, a snap reflex, and crossed back to the office, his body flushed, slightly shaky. Had she seen him? The mirrors had to reflect each other, didn’t they? What would she have seen? Standing there, mouth half-open, looking where he shouldn’t, eyes fixed, caught in a kind of trance.
He picked up the checkbook again, pretending he could read the stub notes, listening for footsteps.
“What are you doing?”
He looked up, startled, feeling caught. She was pinning her hair, on her way to the pool.
“I was just—going through his things. I should have asked.”
Nervous, waiting for her to say something. But she seemed not to have seen him in the mirror.
“No, please. Somebody has to. I’ve been putting it off. I’ve been a coward a little bit. In case I found—you know, if it’s somebody I know,” she said, turning to go now, anxious, her movements as darting as they’d been that first day at Union Station.
A new idea. “Did he leave a will?”
“The lawyer has it. Everything comes to me, so that part’s easy. Oh,” she said, a hand-to-mouth gesture. “I never thought. Is there anything you would like? I’m sure he—”
Ben shook his head. “I don’t need anything. Anyway, you’re his wife.”
She smiled a little, trying to be light. “It’s lucky we’re living now. Not like in the old days. Bible times. You would have to take care of me. The brother’s wife. Like a sheep or a goat. I’d belong to you.”
He looked up at her, thrown off balance, then passed it off by smiling back.
“I couldn’t afford it.” He motioned to the check stubs. “Magnin’s alone.”
“You think I’m extravagant. Really, it was Daniel. He liked going out. He liked me to dress. And now how much is left? I haven’t thought.” She stopped and came over to the desk for a cigarette, her hands nervous. “I haven’t thought about anything, really. What I’m going to do. Since you won’t take me,” she said, smiling again, blowing out smoke. “I should sell the house. My father’s already asking, come live with me, but it’s enough the way it is. Milton’s daughter. An apartment somewhere, I guess. But I’d miss the pool.” All said quickly, as if she were filling time, avoiding something else.
“You don’t have to stay here.”
“I couldn’t leave my father. Anyway, I like it here. Maybe I’m lazy. Everyone complains, so ugly, so boring, but I like it.” She started to put on her bathing cap, then stopped. “I know why you’re looking,” she said suddenly, nodding to the desk. “You want to know who it was. The other one. But what does it matter now?”
He took a breath. “Because we need to know. I don’t think he killed himself. I don’t think he tripped.”
She said nothing for a minute, staring back, her body almost weaving. “You’re not serious,” she said finally, her voice faint.
“There was someone else in the room.”
“How can you know that?”
“It’s the only way it makes sense.”
“Sense,” she said, still trying to collect herself. “To think that. Things like that don’t happen, not in real life. Do you think he was a gangster?”
“That’s not the only reason—”
“Why then? She was so jealous? He was leaving her? Maybe it was the wife. Maybe you think that. Isn’t it always the wife?” she said, her voice rushed, flighty.
“Not always,” he said calmly.
She took up the cap again, fidgeting. “It’s not true. Think what it means.”
“It means he didn’t kill himself.”
Her shoulders moved, an actual shiver. “It changes everything, to think this. Why would anyone kill him?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“And you think it’s her? She’s so strong? To push a man like Daniel? Ouf.” She shook her head, dismissive.
“She’s a lead. He got the apartment for her.”
She nodded at the desk. “What do you expect to find?”
“A number, maybe.”
“Clues, like his detectives,” she said. “Ben.”
“You think I’m imagining this.”
“No,” she said, her face softer. “I think you want it to be true. It’s easier for you.” She frowned. “But how could it be true?” she said, not really talking, thinking. “To make
someone do that. Kill you. He wasn’t like that.” She looked back at him. “It’s so hard for you to accept this? What he did?”
“He didn’t.”
“The police think so.”
“The police made a mistake.”
“But not you. Just like him. You get some idea and then you won’t let go.”
“It’s not some idea.”
“Because it’s better this way. He didn’t do it.”
“Isn’t it?”
She said nothing, at a loss, then turned to go. “There’s more,” she said, flicking her hand toward the piles on the desk. “Boxes from his office. In the screening room. The next installment of Partners. Maybe it’ll give you an idea.”
“You think I’m crazy.”
“Not crazy. Something. I don’t know what. Like him. So sure.”
“You don’t want to believe it.”
“I want it to be over. It’s something you learn, when you leave. You can’t look back. Not if you want to keep going. He’s gone,” she said.
“And if I’m right? We just walk away?”
She held his gaze for a second, her eyes troubled, then turned again and started for the pool.
He looked at the piles on the desk. Check stubs and an address book. Receipts. The life you could trace. Not the one that rented a room. In cash. He reached for his wallet and took out Tim Kelly’s card. Someone interested in the other one.
Kelly answered on the second ring.
“Heard you had a talk with Joel. The day guy at the Arms.”
“Heard from who?”
“Himself. I told him to let me know if anyone came around wanting to have a chat. And there you were.” The same breezy tilt to his voice, like a hat pushed back on his head.
“And he did this for free,” Ben said, curious.
There was a snort on the other end.
“Since you bring it up, if we’re going to help each other out, I could use a little contribution to the tip box. I can’t put everything on the paper.”
“He didn’t know anything.”
“Joel? Not much. But you have to go through him to get to the others. The maid, say. So it’s worth something. Spread the wealth.”
“How much?”
“I’m not keeping books. Buy me a drink some night and throw a twenty on the bar and I’m a happy guy.”
“Okay,” Ben said, sitting back, interested. “So what did the maid say?”
“Her favorite tenant. Hardly ever there. She doesn’t even have to make the bed.”
“So he doesn’t sleep over. We knew that.”
“Or do much of anything else. Not exactly a hot affair. Neat, though. No stains.”
“Oh,” Ben said. A peephole world he’d never imagined, not in detail. “What about the usual night clerk? Joel said he was just filling in.”
“Check. Night guy knew him. Saw him a few times. Never saw the playmate.”
“So she used the back.”
“Or they arrived different times. Or she said she was going to some other room and didn’t. There’re all kinds of ways to do this.” None of which so far had occurred to Ben.
“But if she didn’t want to be seen—I thought that was the idea.”
“That was the hope. A face they’d know. Which is still the way it looks to me.”
“Why?”
“This careful? Their own place, back doors, nobody sees them together—you go to this kind of trouble for who? Some dentist’s wife?”
“You still have any credit left with Joel?”
“It wouldn’t take much. What?”
“Could you get a list of the tenants?”
“Why? You think she’s living there? Where’s the sense in that?”
“Nowhere. But maybe somebody she knows. Joel says he just sticks a sign in the window when a room comes up, but how many times would Danny be walking on Cherokee? So how did he know about the room?”
For a second there was silence on the other end.
“Okay. It’s an idea. Somebody she knows. A helper, like.”
“Juliet’s nurse.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Let’s see who’s there. I don’t know what else to do. I can’t find anything here.”
“Forget there. You got better places to look. When do you start work?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, while you’re wasting time making Joel nervous I spent a little time downtown. Always pays. Boys keep their ears open and like a drink after work.”
“And?”
“And it’s just like I thought,” he said, almost a grin over the wire. “He’s a jumper, then he trips. And who gets the report changed? Didn’t I say?”
“Studios. But why would Republic want to change it?”
“That’s the beauty part. They didn’t. The favor was for Continental.”
HE FIRST had to report to his commanding officer in Culver City, but that took less than an hour. His reassignment had been waiting for days, and the film he’d shipped from the Signal Corps already sent over to Continental, along with Hal Jasper to cut it. Colonel Hill, in fact, seemed eager to hurry him out, too. Now that the war was over, Fort Roach had the feel of a camp waiting for orders to pull out, an uncertain mix of khaki uniforms and open-necked Hawaiian shirts. No one bothered to salute. He was at the Continental gate before noon.
This time there were pickets, a handful with signs walking slowly back and forth, more a polite show of force than a threat. No shouting or heckling. They let him pass through without a word.
“You go to Mr. Jenkins,” the guard said, checking his clipboard. “Admin, room two hundred and one.” He pointed to an office building with Florida jalousie windows that faced Gower. “Park over there in Visitors till they get you a slot.”
As a boy he’d loved the surrealism of the Babelsberg lot, the street fronts and women in Marie Antoinette wigs, and sailing ships beached against a wall at the end of a street. Now what struck him was the blur of activity. Outside, in the dusty orange groves and parking lots, things moved at a desert pace. Here everyone seemed to be running late—grips pushing flats and carpenters and extras filing out of wardrobe, everyone hurrying while the sunny oasis over the wall stretched out for a nap.
The look was utilitarian—no country club flower beds or Moorish towers. Lasner hadn’t even bothered with the Spanish touches the other studios couldn’t resist, the arcades and fake adobe walls. Here buildings were whitewashed or painted a cheap industrial green. The only visible trees were the bottle brush palms up in the hills and a few live oaks behind one of the sound stages, probably the western set.
Inside things were sleeker—modern offices with metal trim and secretaries with bright nails and good clothes. He thought of the offices in Frankfurt, the piles of unsorted papers and drip pails and girls with hungry, pinched faces. This was the other side of the world, untouched, not even a shortage of nail polish. The war had only made it richer. Everyone in the hall smiled at him.
Room 200 was the corner, presumably Lasner’s office, and Jenkins was next door. Ben was shown in and announced without even a preliminary buzz, clearly expected. Or had the guard called up from the gate?
Jenkins was slight, with a boyish unlined face, sharp eyes, and hair so thinned that he was nearly bald. He came out from behind the desk with the easy grace of a cat, as smooth as his camel hair sport jacket.
“I’m Bunny Jenkins. Mr. L asked me to get you settled. He’s on the phone with New York,” he said, implying a daily ordeal.
Ben looked at him more closely. “Brian Jenkins?” he said.
“Yes, that Brian Jenkins,” he said wearily. “Which dates you. The kids on the lot haven’t the faintest. Not exactly a comfort.”
“But—”
“Well, we all change,” he said, a put-on archness. “I’ll bet you used to look younger, too.”
Just the voice, still English, would have placed him. Faces wrinkle but voices never change. He was still the bo
y in The Orphan, then the reworking of Oliver Twist and the other fancy dress adventures that had followed. Ruffled shirts and wide liquid eyes, everybody’s waif.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Never mind. It has been a while. They don’t know Freddie, either. Funny, isn’t it? They brought me over to keep Jackie in line and then they brought Freddie to keep me in line. I mean, really. Freddie. They could have saved a ton and just let the hair do it.” He touched his head.
“Freddie Batholomew?”
“Mm,” he said, glancing up, as if Ben hadn’t been following. “With all his wavy curls. Still, I hear. And much good it did him. They don’t know him, either,” he said, nodding toward the window and the anonymous kids on the lot. “Well, let’s get you started. I’m the tour guide. He wants me to show you Japan, which means the serious tour. I gather you’re here to give us some class.”
“He said that?”
“I’ve seen your budget. You might want to explain the project to me a little. I’ve already had Polly Marks on the horn. I said, ‘Darling, if you don’t know, how would I? He hasn’t even arrived yet.’ But she’ll be back. Walk with me. Oh, and you’re expected for dinner. Saturday. That must have been some chat the two of you had on the train. He never has line producers to the house—not this soon anyway.”
“That’s what I am, a line producer?”
“Well, you have your own budget and nobody seems to be in charge of you.”
“Not you?”
“Me? Oh, I’m a glorified assistant. Technically, vice-president, Operations, which is a nice way of saying I do whatever he needs me to do. You know, you grow up on a set, there’s not much you don’t learn. About the business, I mean.”
“In other words, you run the place.”
Bunny looked at him. “No. Mr. L runs the place. Every nook. You wouldn’t want to make a mistake about that.”
They were almost in the hall when the phone rang. Bunny stopped, glancing over at his secretary. She covered the receiver, mouthing a name at him.
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