My words fell on deaf ears. Andy was eager enough to come with me, but in the end I didn’t want a sidekick. I wanted to divide and conquer the leads. I wanted to split the legwork with these two, but they were decided.
“We’ll let you know if she shows,” said Gene. “And if you find anything, you’ll clue us in?”
I frowned but agreed all the same. “This doesn’t change anything about the drinks you two owe me.”
I needed to find a collection of phone directories and wasn’t sure any of the local library branches would fit the bill. Refusing to let my new friends’ lack of initiative stand in my way, I consulted my trusty Thomas guide and took Beverly Boulevard all the way to downtown Los Angeles. I found out later that the freeway would have saved me a little time, but my guide was a few years out of date. I managed to find parking a few blocks away from the library. Striding through the drizzle, holding my coat tight around my neck, I endured catcalls from hungry, wet construction workers. All around me, as far as I could see, old buildings were being demolished to make way for future development. The library, however, intended to stay. It loomed before me like an Egyptian Art Deco castle, capped by a magnificent mosaic-tiled pyramid.
A librarian on the main floor directed me to some carrels opposite a bank of telephone booths. There I settled in with a map of Southern California at a long table. One by one, I pulled phone directories off the shelves and searched for the Charlie Horse Diner. Working in a clockwise direction starting in Santa Barbara, I pored over dozens of phone books, any city or town I could recognize on my map. Each directory took several minutes, depending on how many municipalities were included. I felt my eyes begin to cross after two hours. Then the librarian told me the place was going to close in fifteen minutes. I hadn’t seen one Charlie Horse, if you didn’t count a subscriber in Oxnard named Chas. Horce. I needed to change my strategy or be kicked out no closer to finding April Kincaid and Tony Eberle.
I stared at my map, looking for the larger cities in the area that I hadn’t yet searched. Ventura, Bakersfield, and Barstow. I fetched the phone books and dumped them on the table. Nothing in Ventura, nothing in Bakersfield. To tell the truth, I expected nothing in Barstow either. That was why the librarian shushed me when I let out a yelp as my finger ran down the page and hit pay dirt on “Charlie Horse Diner, Route 15.” I jotted down the number just as the lights overhead dimmed.
“Time to go, miss,” said the librarian. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
I beamed a bright smile at her. “Yes, thank you.”
I don’t believe she noticed the Barstow telephone directory stuffed in my purse as I walked out.
“We’ve been expecting to hear from you, Miss Stone.”
Dorothy Fetterman and Archie Stemple were waiting for me in the darkened lobby of the McCadden Hotel. It was after six.
“You gave me a start,” I said.
“Where’s Eberle?” demanded Stemple.
“Is there someplace private where we can talk?” asked Dorothy, ignoring her companion. “In your room, perhaps?”
I wasn’t at all sure I liked that idea. Dorothy seemed harmless enough, but who knew? She did throw off a spooky air, after all. And Stemple might well douse me with scalding-hot coffee, throw his sweaty cap at me, or simply punch me in the face if the mood struck him.
“Are these people bothering you, Miss Stone?” The bellhop.
“It’s all right, Marty,” I said. “They’re friends.”
Pushing my doubts aside, I tipped Marty a quarter for his trouble and invited my visitors to follow me to the second floor.
“Can’t we take the elevator?” asked Stemple as we started up the stairs.
“There is no elevator, Archie,” said Dorothy. “You can wait in the lobby if you like.”
Stemple closed his trap and climbed to the second floor without another word.
“I can’t tell you where Tony is yet,” I said once we were inside my room with the door locked.
“You don’t know where he is, do you?” asked Dorothy.
“Yes, I do. I’m planning on seeing him tomorrow.”
She studied me for a long moment in the low light of my warm room. Then she slipped a hand into her purse and retrieved a cigarette. Leaning against the nearby desk, Stemple sprung into action, almost tripping over the wastepaper basket to offer her a light. Dorothy inhaled, sat down in the chair, the only one in the room—I was seated on the edge of the bed—and stared me in the eye.
“I like you, Miss Stone. And I want to believe you. But you’ve had two days to bring us Mr. Eberle. I’m growing impatient.”
Their interest in Tony’s whereabouts might have made sense while Bertram Wallis was still missing. But now he’d been found dead. Why would a “studio fixer” and a contract director from the far end of the dugout care where he was now? I lit a cigarette of my own as I screwed up the nerve to find out.
“Tell me again why I should help you.”
That took her by surprise, and I fancied I could hear Archie Stemple grinding his teeth. Dorothy moistened her lips and tapped her cigarette ash into the tray on the desk.
“I thought you wanted to help us,” she said.
“But why?”
She had no answer.
“I’m more concerned with Tony’s wellbeing right now,” I continued. “Especially after what happened to Bertram Wallis.”
“Are you saying there was foul play in his death? Are the police saying that?”
“I’ll tell you what the police think in a couple of hours. I’m having dinner with the lead investigator this evening.”
She smiled and gave the subtlest nod of approval. “You’re quite the gal reporter, aren’t you? I may have underestimated you, Miss Stone.”
“Quit stalling and tell us where Eberle is,” barked Stemple, startling both Dorothy and me.
Dorothy turned in her seat and aimed some kind of a look at him. I couldn’t see her face. But he backed off and assumed a position against the window. Dorothy swiveled back to me.
“You asked me why you should want to help us. What do you want?”
“For starters, you could tell me why you need Tony. Wallis has been found, so Tony can’t help you there.”
Dorothy exchanged a glance with Stemple, drew a sigh, and smoothed her skirt over her knees.
“Tony Eberle visited Bertram Wallis shortly before he died,” she began in a slow, measured tone. “We’ve spoken to witnesses who saw him at the party there. And they tell us that Tony and Bertie argued over something. What exactly, they didn’t know. So we are trying to locate Mr. Eberle to find out what happened and if, somehow, it had something to do with Bertie’s death.”
I took a drag from my cigarette. “You’re still underestimating me. You don’t appear to suspect anything untoward about Wallis’s fall. And if that’s the case, why would you want to find Tony? He’s just a nobody you fired from your picture. You said so yourself. There’s something else you’re not telling me.”
She stubbed out her cigarette, rose from her chair, and approached the window. Stemple sidled away to give her wide berth. Her back to me, Dorothy peered through the glass at the Selma Hardware ad. I waited.
“We’re worried that something was stolen from Bertie’s home that night,” she said, still gazing out the window. “And we think Tony may know something about that.”
“What was it?” I asked. Dorothy turned back to face me.
“A script.”
Now I rose and snuffed out my cigarette. I circled around the desk to look out the window. Dorothy followed my lead, and, shoulder to shoulder, we both stared at a brick wall.
“If I bring Tony Eberle to you, and if it turns out he’s innocent of stealing this script you say is missing, will you give him his job back on Twistin’ on the Beach?”
“Never,” said Stemple.
“Yes, of course,” said Dorothy.
Stemple fumed in silence.
“What can you te
ll me about this script?” I asked.
Dorothy explained that Bertram Wallis had been planning a new project at the time of his death. I asked what was so important about another beach bash movie, and she said that this was no teenage romp. It was a serious film, and the studio was prepared to invest a million dollars to make it.
“Don’t tell me Wallis ran out of carbon paper and there’s no copy,” I said.
Dorothy cracked a sardonic smile. “Funny. Perhaps you should write dialogue for our movies.”
“What was it about?”
“Nothing that would interest you. Or me for that matter.”
“Try me,” I said.
She drew a sigh before continuing, as if the subject were so dull it pained her to discuss it. Or maybe she was stalling for time while she thought up another lie.
“It’s an art picture. Mr. Balaban believes it’s one that will finally show what a misunderstood genius Bertram Wallis is. Was.”
“And maybe the studio is counting on the murder to sell more tickets.”
Dorothy stared straight ahead into the window’s glass. “You might be better suited to the publicity department. But back to Bertie’s script, it’s the story of an old widow, the last of her line, slowly losing her wits as she reminisces about her long life and the world that she used to know. A world that’s long since disappeared.”
“That actually sounds interesting,” I said. “Is that The Colonel’s Widow?”
Dorothy’s right eyebrow inched up her forehead ever so slightly. “You know about The Colonel’s Widow?”
“I do my research.”
“Well, that’s the script we’re trying to find. Mr. Balaban is quite keen on making the movie. That’s why we must find Tony Eberle. And why I would appreciate your help.”
“And there really is no other copy of the script?”
“None that we can find.”
It all rang false to me. Her story made no sense. For starters, did she not realize that a copy of the script was registered with the Writers Guild? And if the project had been signed with Wallis, why did the studio not have its own copy?
I wanted to get to the bottom of their interest in Tony, which was why I didn’t mention the Writers Guild. Dorothy Fetterman was a sharp woman. I was sure she knew how to get her hands on that script. And so I figured she was after something else altogether.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“You look real nice,” said Sergeant John L. Millard.
He took his time ogling me in the lobby of the McCadden Hotel as I wriggled into my coat. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to decide which article of my clothing he would like to remove first or whether there was a loose thread that, if pulled, would cause every stitch I was wearing to fall magically to the ground. Christmas morning for him, and I was the present under the tree.
“Where are we dining this evening?” I asked, trying to ignore his unabashed stare.
“Norm’s,” he said. “It’s a regular haunt of mine.”
I wasn’t familiar with the place, but fifteen minutes later, when we pulled into the parking lot of a space-age diner on La Cienega Boulevard, the penny dropped. Fine with me, I thought. I liked simple fare, and I wasn’t a snob about fancy restaurants. Still, if I were trying to impress a young lady, I wouldn’t treat her to all-you-can-eat spare ribs and onion rings.
“Order anything you want,” he told me once we were seated in a booth with red Naugahyde bench seats.
A middle-aged waitress in a uniform arrived to take our order. Millard acted as if he knew her and addressed her as Myrna. She corrected him, Moira. He brushed off his gaffe and unloaded a couple of stale jokes on her. Then he tried to engage her in some banter that was as uncomfortable and unwelcome as a sneeze on your neck. Every so often, he threw a glance at me to make sure I wasn’t missing any of his performance. At length, Moira said she had other tables to attend to if we weren’t ready to order. Millard cleared his throat, his smile hanging on by its fingernails, and ordered the Surf and Turf special. I selected the Norm’s cheeseburger and asked the wine steward for a glass of Coke to wash it down.
Millard smiled at me from the other side of the table. He’d taken care to shave, and his wiry black hair had been oiled up and pasted down onto his flat head. I’d nearly choked on his cloying musky cologne, as thick as soup, on the drive over. He continued to stare at me, his lips stretched tight and thin over his white teeth. The skin around his dry eyes wrinkled into a squint, but I didn’t detect mirth or amity in his gaze. Rather I saw a hunger, a wolfish desire hiding behind a rapacious smile.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said.
“I’m my least favorite topic. I’m much more interested in what you do. Why did you want to become a cop?”
That bought me ten minutes as he treated me to his life story. I thought he should have become a pearl diver instead, since he didn’t stop to take a breath as he regaled me with his feats of bravery and tales of his successes.
“What about the Wallis case?” I asked when our drinks arrived. “Have you determined how he managed to fall off the terrace?”
“Oh, he didn’t fall,” he said. “We knew that the moment we found him.”
“How so?”
“Easy. The railing is too high to fall over by accident. It’s forty-eight inches. Wallis probably built it that high for just that reason. We found the body about three hundred feet down in the ravine. It’s a long way to the bottom.”
“Then you’re saying he was pushed.”
Millard took a swig of his Coke and nodded. “Can’t see any other explanation.”
That was news he hadn’t shared with the boys of the press. I wondered what else he might tell me.
“Then you must have some suspects,” I said, trying to flatter him.
“We’ve got some ideas. What you have to realize about these degenerates is that there’s no shortage of lowlifes who’ll rat them out for a pint of rye or a hot meal.”
“So what have you learned so far?”
“First, Wallis was known for his wild lifestyle. We knew all about his limp-wristed pajama parties and broke them up regularly.”
Andy had mentioned that the police often extracted bribes to leave people like Wallis in peace. I wondered how much black money Millard had stuffed into his own pockets.
“Was Wallis ever arrested for his parties?” I asked.
“No. He had smart lawyers. As long as you’re rich, you’ll never go to jail. But back to your question. We’re putting together a list of people who were seen at the party that night. If I told you some of the names who attended his flings, you’d spit your Coke in my face and call me a liar.”
I wanted to ask, of course, but I was pacing myself with this cop. His ego needed constant stroking, and I didn’t want him to think I was only interested in him for his information.
“You seem to be quite well known around here,” I said, referring to his familiarity with the waitress and the lukewarm wave he’d received from the manager when we entered. “You must be a big deal.”
Lucky for me his buttons didn’t burst off his shirt and ping off my forehead. He glowed and aw-shucked for about thirty seconds before brushing aside my observation with the humble excuse that he was a regular.
Okay, I thought. That ought to hold him for a while. I prepared to ask some questions.
“You must know what kind of things went on at those parties,” I said. “Can you tell me?”
He joked that I was awfully curious about the perversions Bertram Wallis had been up to. Not much I could say to that except that I wanted to know for my story.
“You can’t quote me on that,” he said, suddenly serious. “This is off the record. I’m only telling you this because you’re my favorite reporter.”
“Off the record, then.” How would he ever know if I quoted him in the New Holland Republic three thousand miles away?
“This Wallis fellow and his friends were deviants. Real pervs. Sorry. The chief wants u
s to say homosexuals when we talk to the press. Fag, fairy, fruit, pansy. Call ’em what you want. They turn my stomach.”
“I heard he took photos of young men in compromising positions.”
“You’re going to ruin my supper with this talk,” he said with a grin. “If we ever found dirty pictures or movies, he’d have gone up for obscenity.”
“What about indecency or sodomy? You couldn’t arrest him for that?”
“I suppose we’d have to catch him in the act. Anyway, he was always careful not to cross certain lines. We’d break up his parties if we got a tip or if the neighbors complained about the noise. Not much more than harassment, really. We never had anything we could make stick.”
He then reflected for a few minutes on the variety of perversions people got up to, and I asked him if he could tell me the name that would make me spit my Coke in his face and call him a liar. He balked, saying he could get in trouble for naming names.
“In this town there are some people you can’t cross,” he explained. “The studios, the big stars, and, of course, the Jews. They run everything.”
I wanted to throw—not spit—my Coke in his face, but I held back.
“You know I’m Jewish,” I said.
Millard took the information in stride. “I didn’t mean anything by it, hon. I got nothing against Jews myself. And certainly nothing against you.”
“On the record,” I said, swallowing my disgust, “can you tell me anything about the condition of the body when you found it in the ravine?”
“About what you’d expect after tumbling down three hundred feet of rough canyon. There’s all kinds of trees, brush, and sharp rocks on the way down. He was pretty beat up by the time he stopped rolling. Vomit on his shirt, and all muddy and waterlogged, too. Remember it started raining on Tuesday, and he wasn’t found till Thursday morning.”
“Vomit on his shirt?”
“Yeah. The cleaning lady said he puked in the parlor at some point after the party. She found it Thursday morning and had to clean it up.”
“Anything else you can tell me?”
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