The Prince of Beverly Hills

by Stuart Woods

  “All right. Do you know if she’s said who she was with?”

  “No, I don’t. Her conversations with the psychiatrist are confidential, of course, and anything he tells me with regard to her treatment has to be held in confidence, as well.”

  “The same with Miss Kane, I suppose.”

  “Yes, the same. When they’re both ready to talk, you can put your questions directly to them.” Judson picked up a pad on the reception desk, jotted something on it and handed it to Rick. “In future, if you should encounter another situation like this, you might contact this doctor. He’s a good man who does this work as a matter of conscience as much as for the money, and he won’t butcher the girls the way this fellow in Pasadena did.”

  Rick looked at the paper. It was the same doctor who had performed the abortion on his former girlfriend, Kathleen. “Thank you, Jim. Do you know this fellow in Pasadena? Dr. Paul Smith?”

  “I’ve never heard of him, and he’s not listed in the California medical register. It’s probably an alias, and he may not even be a doctor.”

  “Thank you, Jim. May I use your phone?”

  “Of course. Use the one by the chair.”

  Rick called his office and told Jenny that he wouldn’t be in for a couple of hours. He got into his car and drove out to Pasadena, to the house where Dr. Paul Smith was plying his trade.

  He parked out front, walked up the steps and rang the doorbell. He could hear the chime inside. No one answered. He tried the front door, but it was locked, so he walked around to the rear of the house and began looking in windows. He found an open window in the dining room, and it took only a moment to remove the screen and get inside. There were a couple of straight chairs in the living room and no other furniture in sight. He walked through a kitchen strewn with used paper plates and dirty utensils, down a hallway and into a rear bedroom. A doctor’s examining table occupied the middle of the room, complete with stirrups. A single cabinet stood against a wall, holding some bottles and stacks of gauze pads. A number of bloody instruments were scattered on a tabletop.

  He opened the steel wastebasket with his foot and found a mass of bloody gauze, covered in flies. There was a phone on the wall, and he got a dial tone. He called the operator and asked to be connected with the police.

  “Pasadena Police Department,” a woman’s voice said.

  “Let me speak to the chief of detectives,” Rick said.

  “Just a moment.”

  There was a click and a ring. “Lieutenant Henderson,” a man said.

  “There’s an abortionist working in your town,” Rick said.

  “Who is this?”

  “That doesn’t matter. The man calls himself Dr. Paul Smith, but that name is not on the medical register, and he may not even be a doctor.”

  “Who is this?”

  “A girl was butchered here yesterday. She had to have emergency surgery at a hospital to save her life.”

  “We don’t take anonymous tips,” Henderson said.

  “Then you’re a lousy police officer and a fool,” Rick said. He read out the address. “If you take the trouble to look, you’ll find a lot of evidence. If you put a watch on the place, you’ll catch him before he kills somebody.”

  “I told you, I don’t listen to this kind of anonymous crap.”

  “Then Smith must be paying you off,” Rick said. “I’m going to watch the papers. If I don’t read of the arrest of this man and the closing of his butcher shop, I’m going to go to your city council and expose you as corrupt.”

  “Do anything you like,” Henderson said.

  “I’ll give you forty-eight hours to roll him up, and then I’ll start spreading the word to the newspapers, too.” He hung up and left the house the way he had entered it.

  RICK DROVE BACK TO THE studio and went up to Eddie Harris’s office, but he was told that Eddie was somewhere on the back lot. He drove out there and found Eddie watching the shooting of a gunfight scene on a Western street set.

  Eddie came over when the director had cut. “What’s up?”

  Rick told him about his morning.

  “You did the right thing,” Eddie said. “You think Henderson will act on this?”

  “My guess is that if he does, ‘Dr. Smith’ will be long gone. You know anybody in the Pasadena city government?”

  “No, but I know someone who does.”

  “Somebody needs to make a call to get a fire built under Henderson.”

  “I’ll see that it gets done.”

  “In the meantime, Jim Judson gave me the name of another doctor, one I happen to know is good at his work.”

  “Fine.”

  “Eddie, where did you get Smith’s name?”

  “From your predecessor, John Kean,” Eddie said. “I’m sorry to have sent that girl to someone like Smith.”

  Rick nodded. “Judson says it will be two to four weeks before she can work.”

  “She’ll be on the payroll. You see that the bill at Cedars is paid, and look in on her when she’s up to talking to you.”

  “I intend to.”

  30

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Rick stopped at a newsstand and picked up a Pasadena paper. The story was on page twelve, and small:

  Pasadena police raided a local house which, police say, was being used as an abortion mill. Evidence of past “operations” was discovered, but the abortionist, who sources say is a Dr. Paul Smith, had fled the scene and is being sought by Pasadena police. They were uncertain as to whether this name is an alias, since there is no Paul Smith on the California medical registry.

  Well, Rick thought, somebody got to Lieutenant Henderson, probably Eddie Harris’s friend of a friend. He had the feeling that “Dr. Paul Smith” would never be found—at least, not by the Pasadena Police Department.

  Rick had been in his office for half an hour when Jenny buzzed him.

  “There’s a woman on the phone who says she works at Cedars-Sinai—something about a Martha Werner.”

  “I’ll take it.” Rick picked up the phone. “This is Rick Barron.”

  “Mr. Barron, I’m a nurse at Cedars-Sinai,” a woman’s voice said. “Martha Werner is a patient here. She says you know her.”

  “Yes, I do. How is she?”

  “She’s doing all right, now, and she asked me to call you. She wants you to come and see her.”

  “Certainly, I will,” Rick replied.

  “You can visit between two and four this afternoon,” the woman said. “Goodbye.” She hung up.

  AFTER LUNCH IN THE STUDIO commissary, Rick drove to Cedars-Sinai and presented himself at the front desk.

  “I’d like to see Miss Martha Werner,” he said to the woman at the desk.

  The woman flipped through a patient list. “Are you a relative?” she asked.

  “I represent her employer,” Rick replied. “I’m here at her request.”

  “And who is her employer?” the woman asked, looking suspicious.

  Rick handed her his card.

  “Oh,” she said. “You’ll have to have her doctor’s permission to see her.”

  “I already have it. You may telephone Dr. James Judson, and he will confirm it. Would you like his number?”

  The woman shrugged. “I guess it’s all right. Room 211, second floor. The elevators are to your left.”

  Rick went upstairs and found the room. He knocked softly, and a nurse came to the door.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Barron. Miss Werner asked me to come and see her.”

  “Just a minute.” She closed the door. A moment passed, then she opened the door again. “She’s very tired; don’t be long.”

  “I won’t.” The nurse left, and Rick stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Martha Werner/Barbara Kane looked smaller than he remembered, and paler. He pulled up a chair to the bed and sat down. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  She regarded him with sleepy eyes. “I could be worse,” she said. “They told me the
sulfa saved my life.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through this,” Rick said, aware that he and the studio were responsible for taking her to the abortionist. “I should have found a way to check out this guy.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she said. “I got myself into this.”

  “You had help,” Rick pointed out. “Do you want me to contact the father?”

  She managed a little smile. “I’m afraid there’s more than one candidate,” she said. “I haven’t been as careful as I should have been.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “I just want to tell you about Louise—Glenna, I mean.”

  “She’s doing very well, I hear. She’ll be back at work soon.”

  “She came to see me at Dr. Judson’s place, and we had a talk. She doesn’t know what happened to her.”

  “Do you?”

  “I know more than I told you. At least, I suspect more. She’d been seeing a man named Chick Stampano.”

  “Do you think he’s the one who hurt her?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s the kind of guy who would do it.”

  “Did you see him in the cottage?”

  “Not that night, but he’d been there before.” She blinked rapidly and turned her face toward the window. “He would be one of my candidates for fatherhood, though. I mean . . .”

  “I understand. How did you get involved with him?”

  “Oh, you know, you meet people. He was nice, at first, until after he screwed me. Then he didn’t want to know me.”

  Rick nodded. “He’s that kind, I hear.” Rick had a thought: “Did you ever know a man named John Kean?”

  She screwed up her forehead, looking comical. “That’s a familiar name, but I can’t place it.”

  “He had my job before I did,” Rick explained.

  She shook her head. “Doesn’t mean anything to me. Chick Stampano does, though. Is there anything you can do to keep him away from Louise and me?”

  “I’ll see what can be done.”

  “I would appreciate that, and I’m sure Louise would, too.”

  Rick wrote his home number on the back of his card and pressed it into her hand. “If either of you hears from him or sees him again, please call me, day or night.”

  “All right.”

  “Eddie Harris sends his best wishes. He told me to tell you you’re on the Centurion payroll, and the hospital bill will be taken care of. He’s looking forward to having you back at work.”

  She brightened a little. “That’s nice of him.”

  “Is there anything you need me to do for you?”

  She shook her head, and her eyelids were drooping.

  He patted her hand. “You get some rest. I’ll come and see you again.”

  “No, don’t,” she said. “I don’t want the studio involved any more than this.”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “Thank you for coming to see me.”

  He left her and went downstairs, where he found a florist’s shop. He ordered a large bouquet to be sent to her room, then he left the hospital and got into his car.

  Stampano’s bloody paw prints were everywhere, all over everything and everybody, he thought. Maybe it was time to use that phone number Eddie Harris had given him.

  31

  RICK WENT BACK TO HIS OFFICE and dug the slip of paper out of a little business card file in his desk drawer. Al was only a phone call away, and he was angry enough to make the call.

  Still, he had never killed anybody, not even as a cop, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to start now. He thought about it, then he dug out another business card and made the call.

  “Ben Siegel,” the voice said.

  “This is Rick Barron.”

  “Well, hello, pal,” Siegel said smoothly, as if they were old friends.

  “Can I buy you a drink later today?”

  “I’ll buy you one.”

  “Okay, someplace quiet, where we can talk.”

  “And we’ve got a lot to talk about, huh?”

  “Where and what time, Ben?”

  “Come to the Trocadero at six. We’ll have the place to ourselves.”

  “See you then.” Rick hung up. Well, he thought, it was worth a try. He called Eddie Harris’s secretary and made an appointment.

  EDDIE WAS LOOKING AT A model for a set design—a sort of Art Deco battleship with guns pointing upstage and tiers for dozens of girls to tap-dance on. “Look at this,” Eddie said proudly. “I think I like the models more than the sets themselves.”

  “It’s beautiful, Eddie,” Rick said admiringly.

  “Take a seat,” Eddie said, waving him to a sofa. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a date for a drink with Ben Siegel at six,” Rick said.

  Eddie looked surprised. “What for?”

  “Chick Stampano may be the father of Martha Werner’s child.”

  “You mean Barbara Kane.”

  “Yes, I have to get used to that.”

  “Did she tell you this?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she said he may be the father?”

  “She isn’t sure.”

  “Oh, it’s like that.”

  “Yes. And there’s more: Jim Judson tells me that somebody injected, ah, Glenna Gleason with morphine before her wrists were slashed.”

  “She didn’t do it herself?”

  “No, there were no drugs in her cottage.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “Stampano again? Jesus!”

  “I can’t prove it, because Glenna doesn’t remember anything, but he’s the leading candidate.”

  “Is this why you’re seeing Ben Siegel?”

  “Yes. I thought it might be worth one more try to get Siegel and Jack Dragna to do something about Stampano.”

  “Do what—kill him?”

  “Quarantine him from anything to do with Centurion girls.”

  “You might as well include Metro and the others, too; they’d appreciate the favor.”

  “All right, I will. I have your permission to do this, then?”

  “If you think it’s the right thing to do.”

  “It’s all I can think of, short of calling Al, and that might have repercussions.”

  Eddie leaned back and put his feet on the coffee table. “It occurs to me that warning Siegel first might increase the possibility of repercussions, should we later have to bring Al into it.”

  “I’m doing my best not to bring Al into it.”

  “But you understand, if you meet with Siegel and ask him to ‘quarantine’ Stampano, as you put it, and later, you have to call Al, then Siegel’s going to know where the bullet came from.”

  “I understand.”

  “I mean, all you can tell Siegel is that if Stampano isn’t reined in, there will be serious consequences. Then when the consequences occur, he’ll know their origin.”

  “I suppose he will.”

  “I don’t think you’re getting it, Rick.”

  “Sure I am.”

  “I mean, he might fixate on you as the source of the problem, and you might end up offshore somewhere, wearing cement shoes.”

  Rick blinked. “You’re right, I wasn’t getting you. I was thinking more along the lines of Siegel taking out some sort of retribution against Centurion or the other studios.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like an extras strike.”

  “Could happen. I would be equally unhappy if there were retribution against the studios or against you, personally.”

  “Thank you. Either of those outcomes would make me unhappy, too, though not equally.”

  “Let’s think this through: Is there some other way to deal with Stampano less drastically, but equally effectively?”

  “The nice thing would be to get him convicted of the attempted murder of Glenna Gleason and send him up to San Quentin for twenty years or so, but we don’t have the evidence for that.”<
br />
  “I like the idea of a conviction,” Eddie said, “and I don’t care what it’s for. Surely Stampano, given his line of work, is guilty of all sorts of things.”

  “Very probably. I have a friend in the LAPD who works on organized crime cases. He’s overworked and understaffed, but . . .”

  “I would be happy to offer him some sort of, ah, motivation, if you think it would help.”

  “It might. Probably half the force is taking a bribe for something.”

  “Is it a bribe when you pay a cop to do his job?”

  Rick laughed. “I don’t think you would get convicted of that. Anyway, it’s possible that my friend already has enough on Stampano for a conviction, but that he’s holding out in the hope of catching bigger fish.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “What’s more likely is that he knows Stampano has dirt all over him but that he can’t make a case.”

  “Then maybe what your friend needs to do is to create a case that can be made.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” Rick admitted.

  “I’ll bet it would be the first time he got paid for it.”

  “Probably.”

  “Go ahead and keep your appointment with Siegel, but assume it’s not going to work. Then see your friend and see what can be worked out.”

  Rick looked at his watch and stood up. “I’m on my way.”

  DRIVING OUT THE MAIN GATE, Rick felt relieved that he had an alternative to out-and-out murder.

  32

  THE FRONT DOOR to the Trocadero was locked, and Rick knocked loudly on it. Then he saw a doorbell to one side and rang that.

  Ben Siegel opened the door. “Hello, Rick,” he said, shaking hands. “Come on in.”

  The place was strangely empty. The tables were set for dinner, and there was a slight scent of disinfectant.

  Siegel walked him to the bar, offered him a stool, then let himself behind the bar. “What’ll it be?”

  “Bourbon. Old Crow is good, over ice, no water.”

  Siegel filled a glass with ice, then with bourbon, then poured himself a scotch. He set Rick’s drink on the bar and raised his own. “What’ll we drink to?”