SILENT (a psychological thriller, combining mystery, crime and suspense)

by D. M. Mitchell

  He squinted. Nah, they had to be cops. They wore casuals, good quality, but that didn’t fool Frank Macey, no sir. They were asking one of the two mechanics he employed a few questions. The mechanic was stooped under the hood of a car. He stood up and wiped his hands on a rag while he talked to them. Then he pointed over in his direction and the two men sauntered across to Frank’s office.

  Shit, what kind of trouble was heading in his direction now, he thought? He’d come to California to escape trouble, set up Frank Macey’s Auto Repair Yard and thought he’d found a sunshine-lit corner of the country where he could live an easier life. But he discovered Los Angeles was as bad a place as anywhere else.

  The glass-panelled door to his office swung open and the two men stepped inside.

  ‘Hi,’ one of them said, whipping his hat off and wiping a sleeve over his forehead. ‘You Frank Macey?’

  ‘Depends who’s asking.’

  The man grinned. His face was red, like he’d been caught out in the Sun too long.

  ‘We just wanna ask you a few questions.’

  ‘You the law?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe I want to see some ID,’ said Frank.

  He flashed ID, stuffed it back into his pocket. ‘Do you know anyone by the name of Peter Harvey?’ said the other guy. He was younger, hard-faced, had all his sense of humour surgically removed, thought Frank.

  ‘Don’t know anyone called Peter Harvey,’ he said truthfully.

  The man took a photograph out of his pocket, showed it to Frank.

  It was a police mugshot. A young kid captured in the glare of the flash, like a scared rabbit in headlights. He looked over the photo.

  ‘Have you seen him?’ said the first man, slapping his hat back on. ‘This is the only photo we’ve got of him, when he was a kid arrested for petty larceny. He’s a lot older now. Take a close look; does it jog your memory?’

  Frank Macey looked hard at the crumpled photo, shook his scraggy head. ‘Sorry, guys, I’ve never seen this kid before.’

  ‘He’s older now…’

  ‘Whatever, never seen him. What’s he done?’

  ‘You ever heard of the Louisiana playwright John Saunders?’

  Frank’s eyes remained glazed. ‘Do I look like I ever heard of any playwright?’ he said. ‘Hell, I don’t even know what a playwright does.’

  ‘He writes plays,’ said Mr Hard Face scratching at his balls. ‘He’s a dead writer of plays, to be more exact,’ he added. He took the photo from Frank. ‘This guy Peter Harvey shot him dead. Three bullets to the chest, another to his head at close range when he was already stiff on the floor. Harvey sometimes used to get work as a grease monkey. We got wind he was in this area and we’re checking out all the repair yards he might try to find work.’

  ‘Well I’m sorry I can’t help you there, fellas; I ain’t ever seen this guy Harvey before. There’s just me an’ Billy an’ Jo-Jo there.’ He nodded towards the yard. The mechanic was back under the hood again.

  ‘You see him you let us know, OK?’ said the first man, handing him a card with a pencil-written number on it. ‘He’s a dangerous son-of-a-bitch.’

  ‘Sure will,’ he said. The two men left the yard, getting into an automobile and driving away. He waited five minutes or so and then went out to the mechanic. ‘Billy, what did you say to those fellas?’

  ‘Nothing, boss,’ said Billy. ‘They just asked for the owner and I pointed you out. What they want?’

  ‘They showed me a picture. A man they’re after.’ He paused. ‘It was Davey.’

  ‘Davey? What they want Davey for?’

  ‘They say he murdered some fancy writer in Louisiana.’

  ‘Jeez! Davey?’ He shook his head. ‘Our Davey?’

  ‘You heard from him at all?’

  ‘Not for weeks, boss. He just disappeared.’

  ‘Well make sure he stays disappeared. I don’t want anyone finding out I take on people who don’t pay their taxes, let alone people who also take to murdering fancy writers, you understand? You get into big trouble avoiding tax and things, Billy. If anyone else comes sniffing around asking for Davey, or anyone called Peter Harvey, you never heard of any of them.’

  ‘Peter Harvey? They looking for him, too?’

  ‘Davey and Peter Harvey, they’re the same, you moron. You never heard of him, got that?’

  ‘Yeah, boss, I never heard of either of them.’

  ‘We don’t want to get mixed up with the law; I need to avoid that kind of nosing around. You get the picture?’

  ‘Yeah, boss, my mouth’s all buttoned-up. Davey shot a man, you say?’

  ‘Sure did. Then shot him some more for good measure.’

  ‘Jeez! Our Davey?’

  ‘He ain’t our Davey no more, OK, Billy?’

  ‘OK, boss.’

  * * * *

  Part Three

  The Devil Rises

  21

  Long-Time Friends

  Pale, watery moonlight filtered through the slender arched window, casting its spectral shape upon the steps of the spiral staircase. Almost total darkness lay around this single pool of unearthly-looking light. A man’s foot stepped into it, the light bouncing off polished knee-high boots of black leather. Slowly he descended the stairs, the patch of light travelling up his thighs to his midriff, rising to his chest, and then he stopped, his face immersed in shadow.

  ‘You cannot leave,’ he said, his voice deep, his Hungarian accent as heavy as the cloying air. ‘You know you can never leave.’

  The woman turned around, her eyes circles of fear, her spidery dark lashes unblinking, lips painted with thick lipstick parting as if to form words, or release a scream. She raised a crooked arm in terror, to try to shield herself from him. Then she desperately tried the door again; it was locked, would not budge.

  He glided slowly down the stairs, padded purposefully and unrushed across the tiled floor towards her. She struggled with the door, scratched at it with her long nails as if trying to claw her way through the wood, her head flicking back to look at him. He loomed closer, his shadow falling over her like a chilling black blanket of death. She turned to face him, her back rigid against the unyielding door, her features contorted by abject fear and yet so mesmerised she could not tear her eyes from him.

  The eye behind the porcelain mask widened, showing a large part of the eyeball and she had to put her hand to her mouth, cowering before the man as he folded gloved fingers around her slender white throat. She screamed and lashed out with her hand, knocking the statuesque mask from his face. It fell and shattered into a hundred tiny pieces on the unyielding tiled floor.

  She looked up slowly, into the face – that monstrous, vile face of corruption and evil, and she screamed like she’d never screamed before, as if her very soul depended upon it…

  A number of women in the audience screamed with her. One woman fainted outright and had to be carried from the theatre on a stretcher.

  That’s when Rick Mason knew they were onto a winner. That’s when Conrad Jefferson leant across to his seat and shook his hand.

  ‘We’ve cracked it, Rick!’ he said, puffing on a huge cigar, grinning so broadly Mason thought he’d cut his face clean in two with it.

  When the end credits rolled and the theatre lights went up, the entire auditorium was deathly quiet, then erupted spontaneously into a firestorm of applause. Mason and Betsy stood up, took a bow. A spotlight found them and the applause grew to deafening, thunderous proportions. Newspaper reporters, invited along to the premiere and not really expecting that much from the latest Metropolitan Studios movie, swarmed around them like wasps around jam.

  ‘Who devised your makeup, Mr Mason?’

  ‘I did. I invented it. I’m a fan of Lon Chaney…’

  ‘They tried to ban this movie, that right?’

  ‘Sure they tried,’ said Jefferson. ‘We beat the censors.’

  ‘Is it true that Dragutin’s Bride is a movie based on the life
of your own father, Rick?’

  ‘Never knew my father,’ he said evasively.

  ‘Listen, guys,’ said Jefferson, wafting them away, ‘another time, huh? You’ll all get your shot.’

  ‘Miss Bellamy! Betsy!’ someone hollered. ‘Did he frighten you in that makeup?’

  She smiled. ‘I wasn’t frightened at all,’ she said. ‘I’m hardly going to be frightened of a man I’ve just married!’ She laughed, clutching Mason’s arm tightly as the crowd of people pressed closer.

  Jefferson bent close to Mason’s ear and spoke quietly into it. ‘Enjoy it, Rick, you’ve earned it. I know box-office gold when I see it, and I’m seeing it good and strong now. Trust me, life ain’t going to be the same for you and Betsy from now on.’ He slapped Mason firmly on the back.

  Someone from Jefferson’s large entourage was fending off hungry reporters, who complained they had more questions to ask. A few bulbs flashed on cameras, as if lightning burst into the auditorium. Jefferson took Mason by the arm, tried to lead him away.

  ‘We’ve got to speak to them…’ Mason complained.

  ‘First rule of publicity, leave them gagging for more. Don’t worry, there’s a press conference been arranged. For now let’s get you both out of here, crack open a few bottles of champagne to celebrate at my place. Leave this to our press agent.’

  ‘Did you see that?’ Mason enthused breathlessly as Betsy and he tumbled into a waiting car. ‘They loved it! They loved us! Betsy, you were brilliant up there. The screen was made for you! I’ll bet Jefferson’s thanking his lucky stars he listened to me.’

  She was waving to disappointed reporters who were hammering on the car’s windows as it drove away. She blew them a kiss. ‘He was right, though, that reporter,’ she said.

  ‘About what?’

  He asked me if you’d frightened me during filming. You did frighten me, remember? Keeping the makeup secret till we filmed the scene.’

  He waved it away. ‘But it was all worth it, Betsy. This is beyond my wildest dreams. Hell, they loved us, Betsy! We’re going to be famous!’

  ‘Now that’s scary,’ she said.

  ‘You know what, it couldn’t get any better,’ he said, relaxing into the car’s plush leather seat and placing his hands behind his head. What a swell day!’

  ‘That depends. Maybe it can get better.’ She opened her handbag and checked her makeup in a compact.

  ‘Yeah? In what way?’ He was smiling like a kid who’s got the keys to a candy store.

  ‘Well that depends if you ever saw yourself as a father…’

  His eyes narrowed, then realisation seeped in. ‘Are you trying to tell me what I think you’re trying to tell me, Betsy?’

  ‘I’m pregnant, Rick,’ she said guardedly.

  ‘With a baby?’ he burst.

  ‘What else, a horse? Of course it’s a baby, you fool! You’re going to be a father.’

  He threw himself against her, smothering her face with kisses. ‘Jeez, Betsy, we’re having a baby!’ He shouted to the driver up front. ‘You hear that? We’re going to have a baby!’ The driver waved back at him in acknowledgement. Mason wound down the car’s window and put his head out and shouted at the top of his voice: ‘We’re having a baby!’

  She dragged him back inside. ‘I take it you’re pleased, then?’ she said, smiling nervously at him. ‘I was a little concerned about telling you. Now might not be the right time to have kids…’

  ‘You bet I’m pleased! This has to be one of the most amazing, beautiful nights I’ve ever had!’ They held each other close, their heads touching. ‘I reckon it’s a boy, or a girl,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘Baron Dragutin is going to be a father!’ he said theatrically.

  She pulled away from him, her expression suddenly very stony. ‘No, Rick, Baron Dragutin is not going to be a father; Rick Mason, husband of Betsy Bellamy is going to be a father.’

  ‘Sure, honey, I know that. I was just joking, is all.’

  ‘Some things are not that funny, Rick,’ she said.

  ‘Come here,’ he said, taking hold of her again. ‘Don’t spoil it. It’s marvellous. The best news ever.’

  ‘Don’t you go letting Conrad Jefferson know about this, or anyone else for that matter,’ she warned. ‘At least, not until Victor Wallace manoeuvres a better deal on my contract with Metropolitan. You’re OK, they gave you three years; me, I’ve got this one movie so far. The news that I have a kid on the way won’t go down well. I know that guy.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry on that score, Betsy. Things are going to work out just dandy. I heard him telling Hal Bremner about a follow-up movie. They want to speak to me about it in a few days. It’s just as much yours as mine.’ He saw how glum she looked. ‘You’re the heroine, remember? You defeated Baron Dragutin. Any movie has to have you back in there.’ She avoided looking at him. ‘Are you OK, about the baby, I mean?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Rick. Things are just starting to take off for me and now I’m going to start growing a bump. You know as well as I do that the studios don’t like their actresses growing bumps and becoming mothers. If they really do push ahead with another movie I might not be in a position to…’

  He put a finger to her lips. ‘You’ll be fine. Don’t look so down. It’s supposed to be a happy time for us.’

  ‘Sure, for you maybe. But things aren’t that simple for a woman in Hollywood. If being pregnant screws up my big break…’

  ‘It won’t!’ he said, clasping her hand.

  ‘It’s what I’ve always wanted, Rick. My dream. I don’t want this to ruin things.’ She frowned. ‘Maybe this just isn’t the right time for me to be having a baby…’

  ‘Hold on there – what are you saying here?’

  ‘We can have kids any time. We’re young…’

  He shook his head emphatically. ‘No, absolutely not; whatever you have in that head of yours you can scrub it out once and for all. We’re having a baby – our baby, Betsy. I promise you that you’ll have your career, too.’

  ‘You promise me that?’

  ‘Absolutely! I love you, Betsy.’ He placed a hand softly on her stomach. ‘I love you both, you and the horse.’ He laughed, put a finger under her chin and raised it. ‘Smile, in heaven’s name. Things can’t be going any better for us. I inherit a fortune, we get married, we made a hit movie…’

  ‘Let’s not count our chickens, eh, Rick?’ she warned. ‘One premier doesn’t a hit movie make.’

  ‘We made a hit movie,’ he emphasised, ‘and we’re going to be parents. Life is on the up, Betsy, and you and me deserve a piece of that. Lord knows, we’ve struggled hard enough in the past. Don’t knock good luck when it comes knocking.’ He fell thoughtful for a moment. ‘Shame Davey couldn’t have been there to see it tonight. If anyone deserves plaudits it’s him and that screenplay he came up with. It bowled over Metropolitan’s executives like they were ninepins. Why the hell does he want to keep such a low profile? I thought as a writer he’d be up for it.’

  ‘He’s got his reasons,’ she said, glancing in the direction of the driver.

  ‘But to refuse to even be credited on the movie…’

  ‘Like I say,’ she said stiffly. ‘Look, can we discuss this some other time?’

  ‘We’re here,’ said the driver, pulling up outside the front of Conrad Jefferson’s mansion. Lights were burning brightly, people were standing on the lawn outside, dressed in fancy tuxedos and dresses. A party was already in full swing. A number of other limos were spilling guests. The driver went round to the passenger door, opened it for Mason and Betsy and the pair stepped out into the fine Californian evening. A knot of guests started to applaud, their cufflinks and tie studs, bracelets and rings glinting in the lights. ‘Congratulations,’ sir, said the driver as Mason passed him.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mason, momentarily lost for words at the attention they were receiving.

  The pair was sucked into the g
litzy maelstrom, and suddenly it was as if everyone had been long-time friends and wanted to get up close to touch them.

  * * * *

  22

  You Can Never Escape

  Such a turnaround of fortune like this can only happen in Hollywood.

  Movie aficionados might remember it wasn’t so long ago that Rick Mason’s star seemed to be going out following, quite frankly, a couple of stinkers he starred in for Prima Motion Picture Company. The now infamous “timber” quote about his so-called (and undeserving) wooden acting appeared to be the final nail in his acting coffin. But as many a movie-goer knows, all that is far behind the new ‘King of Terror’.

  And not a moment too soon for ailing studio Metropolitan. Shares in the company had sunk to an all-time low, with internal wrangling threatening to tear the organisation apart and Conrad Jefferson fighting to keep the creaking ship afloat. Many argued it was a risk investing in a new genre for the studio, a cast of relative unknowns for the leads and by producing a talkie. But it looks like they knew something we didn’t, because it all paid off for them. Mason was a revelation as Baron Dragutin, and Betsy Bellamy as Dorottya, a newcomer with star potential. Nice move, boys!

  The distributors have been busy, too, milking the cash-cow while they can. Since the premier, Dragutin’s Bride opened simultaneously in hundreds of theatres across the country, and we’ve been reliably informed that the motion picture has grossed ten-times its original production costs and it’s still climbing.

  So what is it about this picture that’s driving people nuts? Terror, sheer terror. You’ve got to give Rick Mason and the entire production team credit here. Against a lavish backdrop (reports have it that it’s based on a real European castle) Rick Mason has given us one of the most chilling, nightmarish creations in Baron Dragutin since Chaney’s Phantom. Some say it’s more frightening. I can’t argue with that. Chaney, though, true to his generous character, was seen exchanging a few makeup tips with Mason, so no bad feeling there (Metropolitan’s press agent would have you believe). But makeup aside, Mason’s heavy European accent pays dividends in the sound sequences, sending shivers up the male spine and weakening feminine ones.