Beverly Hills Dead

by Stuart Woods

  “Do you think she did this out of guilt over Susan’s murder?”

  “No. There was a note in her handbag. She claimed she was innocent and her life was being ruined: lost her job, hounded by the press, et cetera. She left a list of phone numbers: her parents, a funeral home where she had made arrangements and her lawyer. It was all very well thought out and orderly.”

  “Was she your only suspect, Ben?”

  “Yes, she was. I remain pretty confident that she killed Susan Stafford.”

  “Then it’s over?”

  “It is, unless some sort of exculpatory evidence comes to light, and that seems unlikely. I’ll put her in my final report as the sole suspect.”

  “Ben, thank you for letting me know, and if anything else comes up, I’d like to hear about it.”

  “Of course, Rick.”

  Rick hung up the phone. He told Eddie about the note.

  “I don’t get it,” Eddie said. “If she murdered Susie, why would she leave a note saying she didn’t? Why not confess and save everybody a lot of trouble?”

  “In my experience, some murderers have difficulty admitting their guilt even to themselves. I suppose it’s natural to want to be remembered as innocent.”

  “Yeah. I guess so,” Eddie said. “Well, it’s a relief to know that this saga is over.”

  “I guess it is,” Rick said.

  As soon as Tom Terry got Morrison’s message, he called him back and got the news.

  “Tommy,” Ben said, “I’ve got to ask you this: where were you from midnight last night until ten this morning?”

  “Jesus, Ben. You think I killed her?”

  “If it’s not a suicide, then only a cop—or an ex-cop—could make it look that good.”

  “Well, I…I didn’t kill her.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I went to bed at eleven last night, overslept, got to the studio a little before nine. My secretary will confirm that I was already here when she arrived.”

  “Were you in bed alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tommy, I have to tell you, if any evidence turns up that this wasn’t a suicide, you’re going to be my first suspect.”

  “Aw, come on, Ben.”

  “You knew where she was staying, didn’t you?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Her friend says she left in the middle of the night to avoid the press and that she was heading for Santa Barbara. She would have taken Mulholland to Malibu, then gone on up the coast. You could have had her staked, followed her up there and pulled her over. You got a red light in your car, Tom?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “You’re my boy, Tommy.”

  Tom was starting to sweat, now. “Look, Ben, I swear to you that I didn’t…”

  Morrison burst out laughing. “Had you going, didn’t I?”

  “You bastard!”

  “She left a note, Tommy. It was suicide; you’re off the hook.”

  Tom loosened his tie and wiped his brow. “Did she own up to the murder?”

  “No. In fact, she said she was innocent.”

  “Shit!”

  “Don’t you hate it when they won’t confess, even if they’re gonna off themselves?”

  “Well, she did it. I don’t care what she says in the note. What else did she say?”

  “Just a list of people to contact. It was all very neat.”

  “Well, we can close the books on that one, I guess.”

  “I guess. Take care, Tommy.” Morrison hung up.

  Tom hung up, too. He had thought of killing her himself, but somehow he found it more disturbing that he might have hounded her into taking her own life.

  The following morning, Vance Calder left his house, taking his mail and the morning paper with him. He drove to the studio to his bungalow and greeted his secretary.

  “Good morning, Vance,” she said.

  “Anything that needs my attention?”

  “No.”

  He dropped his mail on her desk. “Here are some bills for you to pay.” He walked back to his dressing room, where his costume for the first day’s shooting of Greenwich Village Girl was hanging, waiting for him. He got into the shirt, trousers and shoes, then sat down in the living room with the newspaper, to await the arrival of his makeup artist. He had learned that, although he wore almost no makeup, it was better to let her do something to him, just to keep her happy. After all, she wanted to get paid, just like everybody else, and who was he to deny her the work?

  She arrived a moment later, and, taking the paper with him, he walked into the makeup room and sat in the plushly upholstered barber’s chair. He glanced at the front page while the makeup girl did her work.

  His secretary walked into the room. “Shirley,” she said to the makeup girl, “Will you excuse us for a moment?”

  “Sure, Connie,” the woman replied. “I’ll be outside.”

  “What’s up, Connie?” Vance asked. She had a funny look on her face.

  She held out a letter. “This was with your mail,” she said.

  55

  Sid Brooks left his Washington hotel with an hour to spare before the hearing. He thought that, since he was early, he’d take a look around the Capitol. The only time he had been there before was for the first hearing.

  It was rush hour in Washington, and cabs were scarce. There was a line of people waiting for the doorman to get taxis, so Sid walked up to Pennsylvania Avenue to look for his own cab. He did not notice that two men were following him.

  He stopped at the corner and put a nickel into a newspaper vending machine for a Washington Post, and as he straightened up, something hit him on the side of his head, behind the ear. The blow staggered him, but he kept his feet and managed to square off against his attackers. They were both bigger than he and wearing business suits and hats, and both had clenched fists as they came at him again. He threw his newspaper in the face of one of them, and that gave him time to kick the other man in the knee, effectively taking him out of the fight. The other man recovered and came at him. He caught Sid high on the cheek, but Sid counterpunched with a straight left to the man’s nose, hoping to draw blood. He had been taught at the settlement house as a boy that an attacker’s sight of his own blood would discourage him, and it worked. The man ran, one hand over his face.

  He turned back to the other man, who was struggling to his feet and hobbling away. He looked back at Sid and shouted, “Fink!” Sid did not pursue them. He gathered his paper together and got lucky finding a cab. By the time he arrived at the Capitol he had stopped trembling, and his breathing was normal. He walked slowly around the rotunda for a while, looking at the pictures and the sculptures, then he found the hearing room, and a guard checked his name off a list and admitted him.

  The hearing room was smaller than the last one he had visited. There were few people in attendance and only one photographer, who took his picture as he seated himself in the front row.

  Shortly, the committee members filed in, and, after discussing some procedural matters, the chairman instructed a guard to call the first witness.

  “Sidney Brooks!” the man intoned.

  Sid stood, walked to the table before the committee and sat down.

  “Mr. Brooks,” the chairman said, “are you represented by counsel?”

  “No, Mr. Chairman.”

  “Do you wish to be represented by counsel?”

  “No, Mr. Chairman.”

  “Then be sworn.”

  Sid took the oath, then addressed the committee. “Mr. Chairman, I would be grateful if I could make a short statement before questioning begins.”

  “All right, Mr. Brooks, proceed.”

  Sid took a deep breath. “Mr. Chairman, some time ago I appeared briefly before this committee as what was known as an unfriendly witness. Since that time I have had an opportunity to reflect at length on my situation, and a number of life-altering events have occurred that have helped me in my thinking: I became
unemployable, my wife left me, many people I had looked upon as friends stopped speaking to me and I was twice physically attacked, most recently when I was on the way to this hearing this morning.

  “Perhaps if I were a more stubborn person, these events would have only increased my resolve; instead, they have made me see that, if I am to choose sides in this matter, I initially chose the wrong one. I am here today to rectify that.

  “In 1935, when, like millions of Americans, I was depressed over the state of the country, I joined the Communist Party, because I thought that, based on their written statements, they might do something to improve things. I was wrong about that, of course; they have improved nothing and have been the cause of the disruption of a great many American lives. I am happy to say that, during the ensuing years, I have been a very bad Communist. Now, starting today, I am going to try to be a better American.

  “Finally, let me say that I have not changed my mind that this committee has no constitutional right to question any American on his political views or to punish him for not answering. However, I have decided to freely volunteer to answer all of your questions today. I do so in the knowledge that having alienated half the people in my life, I will now alienate the other half, but I can live with that. Please ask your questions.”

  The chairman designated a man to his left as the first questioner.

  “Mr. Brooks, you’ve already told us that you are a Communist, is that right?”

  “I’m sorry, Congressman. I neglected to mention that I recently resigned from the party, so I am no longer a Communist.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Sir, do you regret having joined the Communist Party when you did so?”

  “I certainly do, Congressman. The experience over the years has given me much pain and little joy.”

  “You said that you were impressed by the written statements of the party and that caused you to join. Which statements impressed you?”

  “Congressman, I have discovered that the party is very good at co-opting those things about this country that are good, like free speech and free association. I have also discovered that none of the things they advocate in this country would ever be allowed in the Soviet Union or any other Communist country. All the party has achieved in those places is to make its ordinary citizens more miserable than ever, and I am sure that, given the opportunity, they would do exactly the same here.”

  Sid was then asked to name names, and he dutifully recited those that he had been given.

  “Are you aware, sir, that all those names were previously known to this committee?”

  “I am.”

  “Is that why you chose to name them?”

  “The names were proposed to me by committee staff.”

  “All right. Let’s talk a minute about a name that was not included in your recitation, that of Alan James, the movie actor.”

  “The late movie actor.”

  “Yes, the late movie actor. Was Mr. James, to your knowledge, a member of the Communist Party?”

  “Yes, sir. He joined on the same day that I did.”

  “Do you have any knowledge that he, in any of the films he made, voiced Communist propaganda?”

  “No, sir, I do not. And may I point out that actors do not make up the words they speak in films; they read the scripts that are written by people like me.”

  “And have you ever voiced Communist propaganda in writing your scripts?”

  “No, sir, I have not.”

  “Have you ever been asked to by other Communists?”

  “On two occasions, sir, I was asked to include rather innocuous statements about the good life in the Soviet Union, and I declined to do so on both occasions, because I knew these statements were lies.”

  “Who asked you to do this?”

  Sid paused for a moment. “I’m afraid I don’t recall; it was a very long time ago, when I first began writing for pictures. I don’t even remember if it happened at the studio or at some party function.”

  “Mr. Brooks, by testifying here today, do you hope to regain your former position in Hollywood?”

  “Sir, I have no real hope of ever regaining my former position; too many people will hate me for what I say here today, no matter what I say. But I hope to be able, once again, to earn a living by writing for pictures, the theater and television under my own name. That is all I know how to do.”

  Sid was questioned for another half hour along the lines of the agreed script, then he was dismissed.

  The chairman spoke the magic words. “Mr. Brooks, you are excused, with the sincere thanks of this committee.”

  Back outside, on the steps of the Capitol, Sid discovered that his shirt, under his jacket, was soaked through with sweat. He found a cab and began the long trip back to Los Angeles, not knowing what awaited him there.

  56

  Tom Terry was at his desk when Ben Morrison called.

  “Good morning, Ben.”

  “Morning, Tom. I have some news, of a sort. I don’t know if it means anything.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “You remember that when we took prints from Susan Stafford’s car, we came up with hers and one other set?”

  “Right.”

  “And when we finally got to fingerprint Hank Harmon, the other prints didn’t match hers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I sent the unknown prints to the FBI, and I finally heard from them in this morning’s mail. They were a match to a P. J. O’Toole, no photograph available. He’s six-one, two hundred pounds, brown hair. He has a record of two arrests for rape in Arizona, no convictions. We came up dry on his last known address, in Phoenix.”

  “What hope do we have of finding this guy, Ben?”

  “On the assumption that, since his fingerprints were found here, he now resides in the L.A. area, we’ve checked the phone books and we’ve found eight P. J. O’Tooles within a twenty-five-mile radius of Los Angeles. I’m short-handed, but I’m going to check them out as fast as I can.”

  “Do you want me and my people to help?”

  “No. I don’t want your people to be seen to be doing our job. I hope we can whittle down the number with telephone calls before we start interviewing them in person.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “We’ve already started, but we’ve only found one Mr. O’Toole at home, and he’s a man in his eighties who’s in a wheelchair. We’ll give the others time to get home from work, then make the calls again.”

  “Don’t tell them you’re the cops. Tell them you’re looking for somebody who’s won the Irish Sweepstakes or something.”

  “Right,” Ben said drily. “We thought of that.”

  “You’ve got my home number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call me if you get anything good, no matter what time.”

  “Will do.”

  “And thanks, Ben. This is good news.”

  “That remains to be seen. He could be some guy in a gas station who worked on her car. Who knows? I wouldn’t get my hopes up just yet.”

  “Okay. I’ll stay depressed until I hear from you.”

  Tom hung up and noticed that his heart was beating very fast.

  Eddie Harris answered the telephone in his suite at the Plaza Hotel, in New York. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Harris, there’s a Mr. Harvey at the front desk, asking to see you.”

  “Thank you, please send him up.” Eddie hung up the phone and pushed the room service tray out into the hall, then sat down to wait for the man from Red Targets, a publication that was a primary tool of the blacklist in New York. There was a knock on the door, and Eddie went to open it. “Mr. Harvey?”

  “Mr. Harris?”

  “Yes, please come in. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Don’t mind if I do. Black, please.” Harvey sat down and placed his briefcase next to him.

  Eddie poured two cups from the pot on the coffee table and sat down.

  “Well, Mr. Harris, what can we do
for you?”

  “There’s a writer from Los Angeles that I want to get cleared.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “His name is Sidney Brooks.”

  Harvey set his briefcase on his lap, opened it and took out a thick document in a ring binder. “Let’s see,” he said, leafing through the pages. “Ah, here we are: Sidney Brooks, born New York 1901, a Jew, joined the Communist Party 1935 in New York, was an unfriendly witness before the House Un-American Activities Committee earlier this year, cited for contempt of Congress, sentenced to a year in a federal prison, sentence stayed pending appeal. That the one?”

  “That’s the one. What your book doesn’t say is that Mr. Brooks recently resigned from the party and that yesterday he appeared again before the committee as a friendly witness and purged himself.”

  “We read the papers, too, Mr. Harris.”

  “What hasn’t been in the papers yet is that Congress will lift his citation for contempt in session today, or so I am reliably informed.”

  “Well, good for Mr. Brooks. Sounds like he’s taken the first step toward cleansing himself.”

  “First step? What else could he possibly do?”

  “Well, before we clear somebody, we like to have some time to watch his behavior and recheck his associations. Besides, we’re just getting together our resources and working out our procedures; we haven’t cleared a lot of people yet. Have you spoken to any other organizations?”

  “I’ve had conversations with people at the Motion Picture Alliance,” Eddie said, “and I’ve been assured that they have no problem with Mr. Brooks’s clearance. I’ve had informal discussions with the American Legion as well, and they seem inclined to agree, although….”

  “Although they want to see what we think?”

  “Your publication was mentioned.”

  “Yes, well, we’re in the midst of a fund-raising campaign that should help us move things along with a bit more dispatch.”

  “I see,” Eddie said. He picked up his own briefcase, which was sitting next to the coffee table, opened it, took a stack of hundred-dollar bills secured with a paper binder and placed it on the table.