The Monet Murders: A Mystery

by Terry Mort

  Well, none of this seemed to say much for Manny’s prospects, even assuming I could track her down, which seemed likely enough. It made me wonder, though, how sincere Manny’s passion could be. A man who seemed so overthrown by love would not have tried to get by with fake diamonds and store-bought evening gowns, would he? Then again, maybe he would. Maybe in the back of his mind, he was saying “The schtupping is fantastic, and what’s more, the price is right.” But why hadn’t he used the producer’s standard hole card—a screen test? That could have bought him another year or so. Maybe he thought the girl was too dumb to catch on. If so, he was being naïve: no girl is that dumb. But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like the answer was really very simple. He didn’t want to turn her into an actress and expose her to all the temptations Hollywood could offer. He was in love with her and wanted to keep her all to himself.

  “Do you happen to know which ship she went to?”

  “No. She didn’t know herself when she left. She asked me not to tell anyone about this, because she didn’t want Mr. Unsimpatico to follow her. I didn’t make any promises, though.”

  “Instead, you made ten bucks.”

  “Yes. We weren’t really that close. We traveled in different circles.”

  That I could believe.

  I went back to the elevator, pressed the button, and summoned the old guy in the old uniform.

  I don’t know why it happens, but it does. Something triggers it. Hard to believe it was an encounter with a homely secretary or a broken-down elevator operator. Maybe that didn’t have anything to do with my mood, although the thought of what their lives must have been like was certainly a little depressing. Or maybe it was the thought of Manny Stairs aching for this woman who was willing to pass on a potential gravy train because Manny was not simpatico, which boiled down to the fact that the sight of him in his shorts, or worse, was not worth any number of diamond bracelets, even if they’d been real.

  Anyway, when I got back to the Garden I felt a rush of sadness for Lily and for that lost opportunity, though I knew she wasn’t really worth it. No, that’s probably wrong. She was worth it. In fairness to her, she hadn’t really had many options.

  What’s worse, I missed Myrtle. I’d hated the thought of turning her over to the studio hacks. It was turning her back on her authenticity. And most of all, I didn’t like not being able to sleep with her. I missed her talking Croatian in her sleep. As well as everything else.

  Well, whatever their reasons, Lily and Myrtle had made their choices, and I was without either of them. It was time to do some serious drinking. As usual, there was plenty of company around the pool to join in when I got back to the Garden, but I didn’t need any company, because serious drinking is what you do alone. Otherwise you run the risk of making a fool of yourself. When you’re alone, no one counts the number of drinks you’ve had, and there’s no one to fight with. And there’s no one to tell you that you’re a pathetic loser. You can tell yourself that, but you won’t believe it in the morning and you won’t have made any enemies. And if you want to get maudlin, there’s no one to laugh at you. No, the best way is to put some sentimental music on the victrola, pull the blinds, and settle into a comfy chair with plenty of ice in the ice bucket. In the morning, you may have a wicked hangover, but you won’t have any apologies to make—or any scores to settle.

  I missed Myrtle, though. The bungalow seemed especially empty now. Can you be in love with two women at the same time? Sure. Why not? After the second drink, it seemed that Myrtle was also a lost opportunity. At which point I told myself I really was a pathetic loser. Luckily, no one was there to confirm that judgment, and in the morning I decided I’d been wrong about that. Myrtle was only a few beach miles away, and I decided I’d drive out there that evening. She had called my office the day she moved out and left the Malibu address with Della. I did have a bad hangover, but time heals all hangovers. That and Goody’s Powder.

  I telephoned Manny Stairs from my apartment and told him I had a small lead and asked if he wanted me to stop by and give him a situation report.

  “No, I’m busy. Just spill it over the phone.” He sounded more peevish than I appreciated, and it changed my mind about how to break the news to him. I was going to try to let him down easy, but now I figured what the hell.

  “Well, first of all, the information I have is second-hand, but I think it’s accurate.”

  “And? I haven’t got all day.”

  “Well, for starters she isn’t married.”

  “Good!”

  “That was just a story she made up. She quit her job as a secretary to go out on one of the gambling ships to work as a cigarette girl.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Why would she do that?” he said after a long pause. His tone was decidedly less abrasive. It was as if he was asking himself that question. I let him answer it to himself. If he hadn’t been so peevish, I would have covered him.

  “Better money, I suppose,” I said, finally, after a pause.

  “Why would she need better money?” He sounded genuinely puzzled. “She must have understood that I was serious about her. I bought her things.”

  I hesitated for a moment, trying to decide what and how much to tell him.

  “I don’t know.” I let him down easy after all. “But I can find out if you want me to. I don’t know which ship she’s on, but it shouldn’t take too long to find her.”

  “Do it.” He hung up.

  I drove over to the office. It was another of those perfect California days. The sun was out, the sky was blue, the air was fresh—all in all, a set of lyrics for a bad song.

  Della was typing and smoking when I walked in.

  “Morning, chief,” she said. She got a kick out of calling me “chief,” since she was old enough to be my mother. The color of her lipstick matched the color of her hair. Magenta, I think they call it.

  “Good morning, loyal employee. What’s new?”

  “Bugger all,” she said. She had spent some time in England before the last war and had picked up a few Limey expressions. “Nobody’s called, and no checks have come in.”

  “What are you working on?”

  “A novel about a smart-aleck detective.”

  I almost believed her.

  “What’s Perry up to these days? Still in the water-taxi business?”

  “That and other things best left unsaid.”

  “I’d like to talk to him. Where does he spend his days?”

  “I’ve often wondered. But right around seven tonight you can find him in Santa Monica, in his boat at the pier. He’ll be the only one not wearing a tux or an evening gown.”

  Promptly at seven I showed up at the pier. The gambling ships were open twenty-four hours a day, every day, but the evening trade was the more upwardly mobile. Anyone gambling during the morning or afternoon hours was likely to be a degenerate with little or no money to be spared for tips, so the evening hours were more desirable for the employees and contract workers, like Perry. The clientele was of a higher class; and when they won, they were happy to spread the wealth around.

  I had met Perry before, so I didn’t need to rely on Della’s wisecracks about him. He was a former bosun’s mate and looked the part—heavyset, with thick forearms tattooed with anchors, mermaids, and a woman not named Della. He had a close-shaved head and a no-nonsense expression. His boat was a sleek, fast inboard, about thirty feet long, and it could make the three-mile trip in no time flat. There was a canvas cover to protect the sports, while he stood at the wheel dressed in his navy pea coat. He made five bucks an hour plus tips, which meant his daily take was roughly twice mine. The fare was twenty-five cents. That went to the gambling ship and was earmarked for kickbacks to the various politicians and city officials who knew a good thing when they saw it.

  Perry was getting his boat ready for the evening trade when I walked up.

  “Hi, Perry. Got a minute?”

  He smile
d pleasantly, showing a broken incisor. “Well, if it ain’t the private gumshoe. What’s up? Need some more booze?”

  “Not yet. I’m on a case.”

  “Good. That means you’ll be able to pay my old lady again this week.”

  “Yes. Barely.”

  “Barely’s better than rarely. What can I do for you?”

  “You stop at all the gambling ships, don’t you?”

  “Yep. Some customers like one, some another, so I make all the stops.”

  “I’m looking for a girl who’s working on one of them, but I don’t know which. She’s a new cigarette girl. What do you suppose is the best way to find out which one she’s on?”

  “Got a picture?”

  I showed him the snapshot.

  “Wow. A looker. Who’s the midget?”

  “He’s the client.”

  “I get it. Well, it wouldn’t be any trouble for me to show the picture to the greeters. They’re always stationed right at the companionway to smile at the suckers. They generally know everything that’s going on. And I know all of them.”

  That was what I figured, to begin with. Perry could get better and faster answers than I could.

  “That’d be great. There’s ten bucks in it for your trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble, but I’ll take the ten anyway. What’s the broad’s name?”

  “Catherine Moore, but it’s possible she’s sailing under false colors.”

  “Yeah, it’s possible. I once knew a cocktail waitress named Bubbles O’Toole. And do you know what her real name was?”

  “Can’t imagine.”

  “Bubbles O’Toole. Who but a Mick would name their kid Bubbles? But sometimes these broads do prefer an alias, especially if they have any ideas about selling more than just cigarettes. I’ll show the picture around.”

  I took the snapshot and tore it in two and put the half with the grinning Manny in my pocket. I assumed he’d want to remain anonymous rather than risk the dreaded horselaugh. I gave the other half to Perry, along with the ten bucks.

  “I’ll check back with you in a couple of days. Okay?”

  “Same time, same station. I should have your answer by then.”

  I went back to the car and took the coast road north, toward Malibu.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next morning, I felt a lot better. First, I didn’t have a hangover; and second, I’d spent the night with Myrtle at her new digs on the beach. It was a small house, but cozy, with lots of glass doors that faced the ocean and let in the sea air. The house was really only one room so that everything was open. There were sea-grass rugs and rattan chairs and couches with flower-patterned cushions and a stone fireplace with some sort of still life over the mantel and views of the coastline with lights shining off the water. The bedroom was separated by a half wall, and the only interior door in the house was the bathroom. Myrtle was delighted with the place and excited about her first day at the studio. She had spent most of the day with the publicity department, getting her life story explained to her.

  “My real name is Yvonne Adorova but we shortened it to Adore to sound more American. I am a White Russian princess, and my family and I escaped from Russia during the Revolution. I was just a child then but old enough to remember and feel sad about it.”

  “Did you escape in a sleigh drawn by a troika while a pack of ravenous wolves was chasing you across the snow-covered steppes, gaining all the while as the horses grew tired until finally you barely made it to a peasant village and the wolves were afraid to come any closer?”

  “I don’t think so. They didn’t say anything about that.”

  “Too bad. You might suggest it to them.”

  “Yes, that would be exciting.”

  “What happened to your family?”

  “They’re still working on that part. They’re dead, of course, but they haven’t decided how it happened. They say they are leaning toward assassination by a Communist hip squad.”

  “They probably said ‘hit squad.’”

  “Oh. Yes, I think you’re right about that.”

  “My condolences anyway.”

  “Yes.” She became suddenly thoughtful. “You know, my real parents are also dead. It was an influenza epidemic. It came through my village and killed almost everyone. I don’t know how or why I survived. It was a very poor village in the mountains. Sanitation was a problem. And now, here I am in California where everything is beautiful and safe. All because of you.”

  “It may be beautiful, but I’m not sure it’s all that safe. Of course, the sanitation is good. And remember, all I did was give you a ride and introduce you to Ethel. You did the rest.”

  “So you say. But I know better. Would you like some wine?”

  “Shouldn’t you be drinking vodka, princess?”

  She made a face. “Vodka is nasty.”

  We had a wonderful evening. We grilled some fresh fish on the beach and drank a lot of wine and went for a naked moonlight swim and then to bed only slightly drunk, not drunk enough to take the edge off desire, and in the morning it was just like old times again, only better, and I began to think that half-in-love stuff might not be true after all, at least where I was concerned. Not that I was looking for it, but sometimes it finds you whether you’re looking or not. Only twenty-four hours before, I’d been mixing bourbon with self-pity, in equal measures. Now, things looked decidedly rosier. For a minute, I wondered if this feeling of contentment meant that I was being disloyal to Lily. But how can you be disloyal to someone else’s wife? No, that fresh morning in Malibu was a turning point, the end of something and maybe the beginning of something else. Whether that something else would involve Myrtle/Yvonne remained to be seen, but it was suddenly very clear that the time with Lily was well and truly over. And it was about time I found out about it.

  The studio sent a car for Myrtle around nine o’clock. I went for a swim and then got dressed and drove to the office. It was Della’s day off, so I left the door between the reception room and my office open. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but strange things sometimes happened in this business.

  My office was nothing to brag about—an oak desk and a matching oak office chair that swiveled and rocked, if you wanted it to. There was a black telephone on the desk and nothing else. I kept a spare thirty-eight in the top right-hand drawer, along with the pens and pencils and paper clips. On the wall was a copy of a Winslow Homer seascape that I’d bought at a garage sale for fifty cents, and a calendar advertising Barbasol that they’d sent me for nothing. There were two wooden chairs facing the desk for clients, although usually they came one at a time, that being the nature of the business. The only window looked out onto Hollywood Boulevard. I spent a few minutes staring out at the traffic, thinking about last night and feeling good about it. I didn’t have any reason to be there, in the office I mean, but I didn’t have any reason to be anywhere else just then. And you never know when someone is going to walk in. Like now.

  My back was to the outer door and I did not hear it opening, so the first indication I had that there was a visitor was the smell of her perfume. It was an expensive smell. And she wore too much of it.

  I swiveled around and saw her standing in my doorway.

  “Mr. Feldspar?” she asked.

  I hesitated a moment—I never could get used to that name. I got up then and held out my hand. She took it firmly. She was wearing gloves, expensive gloves.

  “Yes. Please come in.”

  In Hollywood, there are three basic categories of women—the beautiful ones, the ones you don’t notice, and the ones who were somewhere in between. This one fell somewhere in between. She was tall and slim and dressed in a gray tailored suit. She had long blond hair parted on the side and allowed to cascade carelessly to her shoulders in a manner that said she’d spent plenty at the hairdressers. Her face reminded me of Amelia Earhart—pleasant and attractive but not particularly beautiful, with just a suggestion of horsiness. She didn’t wear a hat, which is s
omething I approved of—not wearing them, that is. Women’s hats just then must have been designed by men who hated women. She was somewhere around forty, I would guess. The sort of age when women hire private detectives.

  “Won’t you sit down?”

  She sat down.

  “My name is Watson. Mrs. Emily Watson. You were recommended to me by Ethel Welkin.” Good old Ethel strikes again. “I gather you know her well.”

  “Fairly well, yes.”

  Emily Watson stared at me for a few moments, waiting, I think, to see if I’d make some sort of smirking gesture to reveal just how well I did know Ethel. If I did, that would indicate I was basically untrustworthy. I knew that game. So I put on my choirboy expression and simply waited for her to tell me why she was here. I noticed that she had very pretty gray eyes, though there were some dark circles that could have meant anything from tearfulness to sleepless nights to vitamin deficiency. Finally she seemed satisfied that I was discreet enough.

  “I have a problem,” she said.

  I nodded reassuringly, not even tempted to make a wisecrack that the only people who came to this office were people with problems. I’ve always believed that one key to making yourself agreeable is not saying the obvious.

  She opened her Vuitton purse and rummaged around in it. I noticed she was carrying a small-caliber automatic with a pearl handle. Probably a twenty-two. I would have thought she was too classy for a pearl handle, but then you never know where these wealthy ladies get their guns or whether they think they’re fashion accessories and therefore need some sort of accent.

  She found a snapshot and handed it across the desk. It was a picture of a young man, maybe twenty-five or so, dressed in a kind of yachting costume—white ducks, white bucks, dark blazer, silk scarf. He was strikingly good-looking with a slightly effeminate expression, obviously pleased with himself as though he were the reincarnation of Gatsby, with better taste in clothes. He was standing in front of an elaborate fireplace, above which hung an oil painting in a fancy gilded frame.