by Frank Kane
“I haven’t seen her yet. I came right here from the airport.”
Richards nodded, pulled an oversized handkerchief from his pocket, blew his nose noisily. “Maybe I better fill you in on the background. The kid’s father was Wally Reilly. Remember him?”
“The Robert Taylor of his day. Piled his car into a canyon. Big scandal at the time, the coroner saying he had a snootful, forgot to make the turn.”
“That’s him. Biggest star ever to hit Hollywood.” The fat man puffed out his overripe lips, shook his head sadly. “Nobody ever dragged the women to the box office like he did. No one ever will.” He sighed again, poured two drinks from the bottle. “Anyway, that’s the kid. Wally’s. Name’s Shad Reilly. And I’ve been taking care of him ever since Wally was killed. And believe me, it hasn’t been easy.”
“Running wild?”
Richards shrugged. “He’s got too much of his old man’s blood in him. Wild and a chaser, he’ll take anything that’ll stand still long enough.” He pushed one glass to the edge for Liddell, picked one up. “I did my best to keep him under control, but maybe it wasn’t good enough. Anyway, he’s missing. And this time I’m worried.”
“Happened before?”
“A couple of times. But never for more than a day or two.”
Liddell leaned over, took his glass, sipped at it critically, approved. “Could be a cutie, a coupé, and a cabin, eh?” He took a deep slug out of the glass, set it back. “You don’t need me for that. Any local private eye could do that kind of a job for you. Why flag me?”
“I told you. No publicity. There’s not an op in town that don’t make a daily report to Lulu Barry. With that radio program of hers and that gossip column, anything she knows the whole world knows the next day.” He leaned forward, slapped the edge of the desk with a pudgy hand. “You’ve got to turn him up before she gets word he’s missing.”
“Why the fever? He wouldn’t be the first kid to parlay a blonde and a bottle into a cabin. I’d be more worried about him if he didn’t make the try.”
Richards leaned back, touched the tips of his fingers across his belly. “It’s not that simple, Liddell. If Shad gets jammed up before he’s twenty-one, he don’t get a cent from Wally’s estate. He won’t be twenty-one for almost a year.”
“What happens to the money?”
“It goes to the Actors’ Fund.” The fat man scowled heavily, snagged his glass, took another drink, wiped the wet smear of his lips with the back of his hand. “Walt was a funny guy, Liddell. Not too smart.”
“Sure sounds it. Why should a guy fix his will to freeze out his own kid for a lot of broken-down old characters he never even knew?”
“That wasn’t the intention.” Richards settled back, blew out his lips into a pout. “He was married to Barby Carter. You know that?”
Liddell nodded.
“Wally was nuts about her, but he’d been around too long not to know that he had to keep his eye on her. There wasn’t a wolf in these parts that didn’t have his teeth sharpened for her. What a doll!” The fat man sighed, shook his head. “Anyway, Wally gets it into his head that Barby’ll get out of line if anything happens to him, so he gets oversmart and fixes it so she won’t. He draws up a will tying up the bulk of his estate until the kid is twenty-one, and providing that if the beneficiary gets into any kind of a jam, the estate goes to the Fund.”
“But Barby Carter died before Reilly did, didn’t she?”
“That’s right. She got on the junk and tried to take the cure. It killed her.” The fat man sighed deeply. “It broke Walt all to hell and he started to hit the bottle.” He shrugged ponderously. “He died without ever fixing up the will.”
“So now the no-scandal clause hits the kid as beneficiary?”
“Right. And nothing would give that Barry bitch a bigger bang than to cut Barby’s kid out of Wally’s will. She never got over Wally giving her the go-by for Barby.” He swabbed at the dampness of his face with the handkerchief. “Now you see why it can’t be a local op?”
Liddell nodded. “Who’s executor? You?”
“That’s why I’m in such a spot. I want the dough for the kid. But if this story ever hits the newspapers, my hands are tied.”
“He’s a chaser, you say?” The fat man nodded. “Any particular babe or strictly the field?”
“He did seem to be concentrating on one babe lately.”
Liddell dug into his pocket, came up with a notebook and a stub of pencil. “What’s her name?”
“Terry Devine. Did a few bits for me, but when I warned her off the kid she got tough, so I ruled her out of the shop. No great loss. Plenty of chassis but not enough up here to go places.” He tapped at his head. “Well stacked but featherbrained.”
“Know where to reach her?”
The fat man nodded. “She’s been working over at Mammoth the past couple of days.” He sipped at his glass, replaced it on the corner of his desk. “I think it’s something worse than petticoat fever this time, Liddell. A lot worse.”
Liddell replaced the notebook in his pocket, leaned back. “Just a hunch or do you know something?”
“A little bit of each. Saturday night, which is two days before the kid did the fade, he comes home all banged up. Says he’s been in an accident.”
“But?”
Richards shrugged. “But there’s not a mark on the car. That’s what I know. The rest is hunch.”
“A beating?”
“It figures.”
Liddell nodded, scowled at his glass. “You think he’s in something over his head so he’s holing out until it cools off, eh?”
“Could be. Anyway, I want him found before he gets in any deeper. And without any publicity.”
“Still sounds like you’re making a big deal out of nothing, but as long as I’m here I might as well make carfare. What’s he look like?”
The fat man sighed at the necessity for movement, made the effort with a lugubrious grunt, and turned a picture on the desk around so Liddell could see it. “That’s him.” The picture showed a good-looking youngster with large, liquid, black eyes, and a friendly grin spoiled only by the weakness of his chin. He wore his hair in a high wave, the sides plastered against his temples. “Make him from that?”
“Good enough,” Liddell agreed. He pulled himself out of the armchair. “I’ll check you in a day or so. In the meantime, if you want me I’ll be at the Marlowe.”
The fat man nodded, let his heavy lids veil his eyes. “Make your report direct to me — nobody else.” He stared at Liddell for a moment. “If you want anything, ask Margy. She’ll give you anything you want — within reason.”
The blonde in the outer office was polishing her nails when Liddell came out. She raised her eyes as he walked over to her desk, dropped them again to her nails.
“Have fun?” she asked.
“Loads of it.” Liddell grinned. He pulled a fresh pack of cigarettes from his pocket, stripped the cellophane off it, tore open the tin foil. “Smoke?”
The blonde shook her head.
“Richards told me anything I wanted, all I had to do was ask you.”
“How nice for you. And what was it you had on your mind?”
“A telephone number.”
The blonde raised her eyebrows, pursed her lips, shook her head. “Sorry, Liddell. I’m not in the habit of — ”
“Terry Devine’s telephone number.”
“Oh.” What had started out to be a grin faded from the blonde’s face. She shrugged. “No accounting for tastes, I guess.” She pulled the telephone over to her, started to dial. After a second, she handed the phone to Liddell. “She’s all yours, mister.”
Liddell grinned, put the receiver to his ear.
“Who is this, please?” she wanted to know, a trifle testily.
“Is this Terry Devine?” Liddell countered. The voice admitted it. “My name is Johnny Liddell. I’m at Eddie Richards’s office. I’d like to see you for a few minutes.”
&n
bsp; “What about?”
“I’m a private detective. I’m doing a job for Mr. Richards and I think you might be able to help.”
“What is this? If he thinks he can strong-arm me into — ”
“Just conversation is all I want.”
She snorted. “I don’t want any conversation about Eddie Richards. And you can tell him — ”
“The conversation is about Shad Reilly.”
There was a slight pause, then: “What about Shad? Has anything happened to him?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out, Miss Devine. You can help me. Do I get the few minutes?”
“Well, I don’t usually have visitors here. I — ” The voice hesitated for a moment, then: “But I do want to help. If you’ll be here in about an hour or so, I’ll be glad to tell you anything I can.”
“I’ll be there. What’s the address?”
“Denton Apartments. Figueroa at Fifteenth.”
Liddell copied the instructions down in his notebook, nodded. “In about an hour or so.” He held the receiver out to the blonde, grinned when she slammed it down. “She sounds nice.”
“If you like the type.”
“What is the type?”
“All drool, and a yard wide.”
Liddell grinned. “Shad Reilly apparently liked it.”
“That junior-grade wolf! She wore skirts, didn’t she? Say, what’s this all about? The kid in another jam?”
Liddell shrugged. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. He hasn’t been home in a couple of days.”
The blonde wrinkled her nose curiously. “So what? He’s stayed away before and Richards never needed a private eye. All he had to do was wait.” She chewed on the end of her fingernail. “What’s so special about this time?”
Liddell shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. Maybe the divine Terry can tell me.”
“She probably can, at that,” the blonde snorted. “He probably went in hiding to get away from her. The way she’s been trying to latch onto him these past few months I don’t blame him.”
Liddell consulted his watch. “You make her sound so fascinating I can hardly wait to meet her.”
“I hope your eyes aren’t bigger than your stomach.” She pulled over a pad, scribbled another notation on it. “Here’s another telephone number you might find handy.”
“What is it?”
“The Red Cross. Maybe they’ll be able to spare you a pint of blood!”
CHAPTER THREE
JERRY’S PREVIEW was a little hole in the wall stuck between a novelty shop and a camera store run by a big Hollywood star on Hollywood Boulevard just off Vine. Muggsy Kiely was on her second cup of coffee and her fourth fingernail when Johnny Liddell finally appeared in the doorway. He stood there until his eyes became adjusted to the sudden darkness, squinted along the row of booths that were separated with high partitions.
Muggsy waved to him from one of the end booths, rushed down to meet him. “You dog!” She jumped into his arms. “You haven’t changed a bit. I’ve been waiting here like a jilted bride for hours.”
“Don’t you talk about me not changing. You’re still suckering me into bad deals. Do you know what this job is that you brought me high-tailing from Frisco to handle?”
Muggsy giggled. “A job’s a job.” She put her hands against his chest, pushed herself out to arm’s length, looking him over critically. “You’ve been putting on weight since I left. Just because I wasn’t there to heckle you!”
“That’s muscle.” He cocked his head appraisingly, ran his eyes from the perky poodle cut to the ballet shoes with appropriate stops on the way. “I hope you can’t say the same?”
She made a face at him, caught him by the hand, led him to the back booth. The seats were hard, the high partitions on either side gave reasonable privacy.
“I ought to be good and mad at you.” Muggsy pouted. “In Frisco and you weren’t even going to stop by and say hello on your way back.”
“I came running, didn’t I?”
“I’ll say. I called you last night at six and you get here today at four. Some running. You could have walked faster. Why didn’t you take the Lark or an early plane?”
“Business, baby. I had some unfinished business.”
“Blonde or brunette?”
Liddell grinned, leaned back while a patently annoyed waitress shoved a stained menu in front of him. “I’ll just have coffee. How about you, Muggs?”
Muggsy groaned, nodded. “Sure. Why should one more make any difference? I’ve had two already waiting for you.” The waitress sniffed audibly, scooped up the menus, shuffled back to the kitchen.
“What’s with her?” Liddell wanted to know.
“She’s run out of ideas on how to get me out of here. She played ‘Shrimp Boats’ on that damn juke box so many times I got seasick. I guess she just ran out of nickels.” She leaned her elbows on the edge of the table. “You’re going to take the case, aren’t you, Johnny?”
“It’s not much of a case, Muggs. Just playing nursemaid for some spoiled movie brat and getting him cleaned up for the press.”
“So what? It’ll give you an excuse to stay around for a couple of days. It’ll be like old times.” She reached over, covered his hand with hers. “I know a couple of nice spots down south, where — ”
“If I take the case I’ll be a workingman, baby,” Liddell chided her. “Still want me to take it?”
Muggsy nodded.
“Okay. In that case I’ll have to be running along. I’ve got a date at five-thirty.” He looked at his watch, scowled. “Just about make it.”
“That can wait. Who’s it with, anyhow?”
“Terry Devine. I’m supposed to meet her at her place.”
“That man-eater? If you’re going, I’m going.”
Liddell grinned. “Nothing doing. If she’s as good as you all say she is, I don’t want any audience. It makes me nervous.”
“I’ll just lay chickee for you. I understand the traffic is pretty heavy.” The waitress sloshed two coffees in front of them, retreated a few steps where she made a flourish of adding up the bill. She stuck it in front of Liddell, face up, showing a total of $3.30.
“Say, with the price of coffee what it is in this town, it’s a good thing I have got a case.” He reached into his pocket, brought out a roll of bills, covered the bill with a five.
“You pay the cashier.” The waitress exposed buck teeth in an acid smile. “I only get the tip.” She looked at Muggsy. “We’re not allowed to charge rent.” She took the single Liddell peeled off, shuffled to the kitchen.
“Friendly little town, isn’t it?” Liddell nodded. “I’ve got a feeling I’m going to feel right at home unless I get poisoned first.”
“Don’t change the subject. Do I go with you when you talk to Terry Devine or not?” Muggsy demanded.
“Not to give you a short answer — no! But it won’t take long. You can wait here for me if you like.”
“That’s all I’d need.” Muggsy grinned. “And while it doesn’t take some people as long as others, nonetheless I’m coming along. I’ll wait in the cab. Maybe the click of the meter will keep your mind on business.”
Liddell sipped at his coffee, burning his tongue, and swore under his breath. “I’m beginning to think you don’t trust me.”
“I hope not.” The blonde checked her watch. “If you really do have a date with Devine for five-thirty, we’d better be on our way.”
The Denton Apartments was a huge, square pile of bricks perched on a ledge overlooking Hollywood, and boasting the usual doorman dripping braid in the naval manner, and a receptionist. The elevator operator looked more like movie juveniles than most movie juveniles do.
Terry Devine answered his knock on the door herself. She had thick black hair caught just above the ears with a blue ribbon, then cascading down over her shoulders. A pink angora sweater made no attempt to disguise her shapeliness, and the carefully tailored slacks gave good evidence o
f being well filled.
“Mr. Liddell?” Her voice was rich, deep, gave evidence of some training. “Won’t you come in?”
Liddell followed her through a small hall into the living-room, accepted an invitation to sit down. The girl selected a bottle of bourbon and a bottle of Scotch from a liquor cabinet, placed them on the table at the head of the couch. Then she dropped down beside Liddell.
“Now what’s all this about Shad?” She turned the full impact of a pair of violet eyes on Liddell. “What’s he gotten himself into this time?”
“I don’t know that he’s gotten himself into anything. He’s disappeared. I thought you might have some ideas.”
“Disappeared? Why, I saw him only a few days ago.” She caught her full lower lip between her teeth, ridged her head in concentration. “It was, now let me see — I think it was Monday he dropped by to drive me to the studio.”
“Heard from him since?”
The girl shook her head. “I’ve been working day and night on a new picture. But that was only four days ago. How long since he’s been missing?”
“Since Monday. Richards doesn’t want any publicity on it, and since he’s pretty sure the kid isn’t off on a long week-end, he asked me to have a look around.” He reached over, poured some bourbon into a glass, looked at the girl inquiringly, got an absent nod. He handed her the glass, and poured himself a short drink. “At least we don’t think it was a long week-end. Richards tells me the kid was concentrating on you lately.”
The girl nodded. “Shad was a little wild, but that was because he never knew anybody who really understood him.”
“And you do.”
The violet eyes crinkled at him from over the rim of her glass. “I try to.”
“Then it wasn’t a brawl over a woman last Saturday night?”
The girl dropped her eyes, leaned over to replace her glass on the end table. “What do you mean?”
“Shad ran into some trouble last Saturday night. He told Richards he got banged up in an accident, but there wasn’t a mark on the car. What happened?”
The girl shook her head, got up, walked to the window facing out over the city. “I don’t know if Shad would want me to discuss it.”