The Pitiful Player (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 14)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  I nodded. "Yes. You must be Humphries."

  "Indeed, sir. Won't you come inside?"

  I walked in. The floor of the entryway was beautiful. The tile was a dark blue with a yellow border.

  "May I take your hat?"

  I handed it over and said, "Thanks."

  "You're quite welcome, sir." He put the hat on a hook by the door and said, "Follow me, please."

  I noticed that Humphries was dressed in the style of butlers in the movies. His perfectly pressed white shirt had a high, starched collar with a black silk ribbon tie arranged in a way that dated back to the early 1920s. He wore a black vest under a black jacket along with black trousers. The cut was at least thirty years out of date but perfect and the material looked new. He was bald except for a bit of white hair that surrounded his head like a horseshoe. As he walked, his footsteps made no sound unlike my own, which squeaked with each step. The house was perfectly quiet and that made my own footsteps that much more noticeable.

  Having passed by several closed doors, we finally emerged into a solarium. One wall was made of windows that reached from the floor up to the ceiling and then were part of the ceiling for about twenty feet. A tropical garden was growing inside while the windows looked out at even more lush foliage outside. A man of ordinary build in a white jacket and wearing white trousers was carefully wiping the individual broad leaves of a very large plant.

  As we entered the room, he turned and smiled at me. He was handsome, whoever he was. I figured he was about 30. He was blond, had blue eyes, and sported a very full mustache that reminded me of Kaiser Wilhelm. Humphries bowed and then left the room.

  The blond man put down his small cloth on a ladder and walked over. "You must be Nick."

  I nodded and shook his offered hand. It was perfectly soft and perfectly smooth. His grip was solid but not overpowering.

  "I'm John William Taylor. I'm a friend of Mr. Rogers." He took my arm as if we were going to the dance floor. It was oddly reassuring and comforting, as if he was the only thing from the middle part of the twentieth century that lived in the house. Everything else looked and felt like a relic from 1920. "He's so looking forward to meeting you. We've both been following your exploits since 1953 and, I have to say, you're certainly much more handsome than your photographs would suggest. And where is Mr. Jones?"

  "He's in the car, waiting for me."

  "Is that so?" He let go of my arm and walked over to a long cord hanging by the arch that led back to the long hall. He pulled it and smiled at me. "We'll send Humphries out to fetch him. I'm sure someone must have told you that Bernie, that's my pet name for Mr. Rogers, doesn't like tall men. I have no idea where that story started."

  Humphries appeared in the archway. "Yes, Mr. Taylor?"

  "Would you be so kind to go out and ask Mr. Jones to join us? I'm afraid he's been left out in the car and we don't want him missing out on all the fun, do we?"

  Humphries offered an odd little smile and said, "Very good. Miss Vargas is preparing the tea and it should be ready shortly."

  "Thank you, Humphries. As soon as Mr. Jones is here, we'll go upstairs."

  Humphries nodded, turned, and silently walked down the hall towards the front door.

  Mr. Taylor walked over to me and put his hand on my arm. "I do hope we'll become such good friends. You just can't imagine how much we both admire you."

  I smiled as much as I could. There was something off that I couldn't put my finger on. "Thank you, Mr. Taylor. I'm sure we will."

  "Oh, you simply must call me John. No one calls me Mr. Taylor in this house except for the staff. It makes me feel so old when they do."

  "I'll be happy to, John. I'm Nick."

  "Thank you, Nick. Now, how do you like Bernie's little place? Isn't it just a scream how old it is?"

  I nodded. "It's certainly interesting. The tile in the hallway is striking." I was glad that Carter wasn't there yet. I was using my high-hat voice.

  "It was all hand-painted somewhere in Spain. Most of the house was made of materials from Spain, as a matter of fact. Bernie wanted it to be as authentic as possible." He looked around the room in awe. It didn't seem to be an act but it sure felt like one. "And it's in marvelous condition. He finished it in 1920. That was right as he was becoming so very popular. Have you seen his films? He was so handsome. He still is, of course. But in those days, all he had to do was smile and your heart would just melt. And, of course, I'm sure you know what a scamp he was. Trying to lay anything in trousers." He leaned in and whispered, "And he still does, so be careful."

  I nodded and smiled.

  Right then, Humphries appeared with Carter. "Mr. Jones." Humphries bowed and left.

  John walked forward and offered his hand. "Mr. Jones, welcome. My name is John William Taylor and I'm a friend of Mr. Rogers's. Now that you're here, let's all go upstairs and see Bernie."

  Walking to the far side of the room, he opened a door that revealed a set of stairs. We followed him up a flight of about fifteen steps. There was a landing at the top and another door. John opened that door and called out, "Darling, Nick and Carter are here to see you." In a lower voice, he asked, "You don't mind if I call you Carter, do you?"

  Carter shook his head and said, "That's fine."

  "And you must call me John."

  We followed him down a long hallway covered in a plush wall-to-wall carpet. Large stained-glass skylights overhead illuminated the hallway in splashes of color that criss-crossed the carpet. As we passed several closed doors, our footsteps made no noise at all except for a light swoosh. At the end of the hall were two dark-brown double doors. Like all the hardware I'd seen, the doorknobs were made of black wrought iron with either glass or quartz inset. I wasn't sure which. John knocked on the door and asked, "Bernie? Are you decent?"

  "Come in, John." The voice on the other side of the door was deep and sonorous.

  John opened the door and led us into a vast and immense bedroom, the likes of which I had only ever seen in the movies.

  At the far end of the room was a big oak bed, with four big posts. It was much larger than our bed at home and looked heavier. The posts were draped in a gauzy white fabric that was arranged like bunting.

  A huge window in the wall to our right overlooked the gardens, but from a different vantage point than what I'd seen down in the solarium. There were no drapes. And it didn't look like any were needed because the garden was surrounded by a very high wall with thick trees reaching up above that.

  The room had a dark wood floor which was covered with a variety of Persian, or maybe Turkish, rugs. Furniture that looked vaguely Spanish was scattered all over the room. The walls were painted a light blue, which made the dark floors appear to be even darker. I felt like I was in a room where the clock had stopped at some point in the early 20s.

  To our left, and in the corner of the room, stood an immense rock garden and fountain. Succulent plants were peeking out of different crannies scattered around the rock formations. The grotto appeared to be alive and growing through the wall. It was as if the house had been built around it.

  The bubbling and cascading water made a relaxing sound. Just below it, loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to overwhelm the fountain, a recording of Ravel's "Bolero" was being piped in on speakers connected to a hi-fi somewhere.

  The walls were covered with art, all of which were in the same style. They all showed the countryside or ruins of Greek temples and things like that.

  A man, seated on a low divan, stood and walked towards us. He was Juan Zane, in the flesh. He was about 6'2" and lean. He walked proudly, erect, and with purpose. His black wavy hair was a little too long but very attractive. His black eyes flashed as he smiled at me with perfectly white teeth. He was wearing black pants that looked like they might have come from Istanbul or Baghdad. His white shirt was frilly at the collar and along the buttons. It reminded me of what a pirate might wear, but it was also tight and only buttoned up to about the middle of his chest
. His perfectly smooth, perfectly tan skin was visible underneath. As he got closer, I noticed how clear and taught the skin on his face was. I knew he was about 60 or so. But he looked like he was in his 30s, easily. The difference between his youthful appearance and how haggard Errol Flynn had been was remarkable.

  He looked at me with the intense gaze I'd seen in the movies and said, "Mr. Williams. A pleasure." I offered my hand, intending to shake his, but he turned it and gently kissed the back. He held his face there and looked up at me. His black eyes seemed to reach down into the depths of my soul and stir something I'd forgotten about or never knew I even had.

  Suddenly, Carter seemed like a big inflated balloon. This man, this perfect man, this was the one I had been waiting for and didn't even know it. As he stood up straight, he covered my hand with his free one and began to gently rub my fingers and my palm. "I cannot tell you how long I have been looking forward to this moment." With an unexpected strength, he turned and pulled me to his side. I walked with him back towards the divan. He released my arm and then waved at the cushions. "Please, have a seat."

  I sat and looked up at Carter, who was somewhere between amused and annoyed. I said, "May I introduce my husband, Mr. Carter Jones?"

  Juan Zane turned and looked at Carter. He offered his hand and they shook. Turning back to me, he sat down on the divan, very close, and said, "Congratulations on your wonderful fundraising efforts last night. I am told you were quite successful." As he spoke, he put his left arm behind my shoulder and leaned in. I suddenly realized he was covered in the aroma of something exotic. It reminded me faintly of the aftershave that Ed used. It was sweet in a wonderful way but also earthy. I breathed it in as he leaned in closer. "Tell me, Nicholas, do you find Los Angeles"—he pronounced it with the hard "g" like the natives did—"as boring a town as I do?"

  I nodded, unable not to look into his deep black eyes. "Yes."

  "Yes, San Francisco is the only true city we have in America, don't you agree?"

  I nodded. "I do."

  "You do. Yes. Well, perhaps some day I might fly up to see you. Would you take me around your city and show me its secrets?"

  There was really nothing more that I wanted to do than that, right at that moment. I wanted to tell Carter to get a plane down to Burbank and that Juan Zane and I would be flying up. He and John Taylor could drive up. And they wouldn't need to be too quick about it, either.

  As we sat there, I could feel his left hand rubbing my neck. It wasn't forceful and brutish like Carter usually did. It was soothing and relaxing. As I looked into his eyes, I could suddenly remember all of the things I had always wanted and never got. Money didn't mean much and love was great, but romance, the thrill of romance, that was missing in my life and always had been. The man looking at me was the only one who could fulfill all my fantasies.

  He leaned in a little closer. His whispered, "You and I, we have so much in common, do we not?"

  I closed my eyes. I almost couldn't stand it any longer. I wanted him to take me, to carry me, over to the big bed and have his way with me. I felt the brush of his lips against my ear. Every nerve in my body came alive as much as it ever had.

  And then Carter quietly said, "Son," and the spell was broken. I opened my eyes. Carter was looking at me like I'd never seen before. He was the sun and Juan Zane was the moon. The moon might be mysterious and intriguing but the sun was bright and it loved me. He loved me. Carter loved me. I couldn't believe I had forgotten that. Even for five minutes.

  I turned and looked at Juan Zane. Suddenly, I could see the ways that his skin had been bronzed by some sort of liquid. His teeth were artificially white and there were tiny bits of gray at the roots of his longish hair. Suddenly, the air was close and cloying. His perfume or cologne or whatever it was had gotten in my nose and I didn't like it. I stood, suddenly, and said, "Mr. Rogers—"

  He stood and said, "Please, call me Juan."

  I nodded without thinking. "And I'm Nick and this is Carter."

  Juan Zane smiled thinly. "Yes."

  "It's been a real pleasure to get to meet you, but we have to be on our way."

  Juan Zane looked around the room. "But we haven't had our tea yet."

  John Taylor stood. "Oh, Nick. You really mustn't pay any attention to Bernie's tricks." He extended his arm. "Do come along. Miss Vargas makes the must scrumptious little tea cakes. I really hope you'll at least try the chocolate ones. They're so yummy."

  Carter put his arm around me and said, "We really do have to go."

  A chilly silence fell across the room. Finally, Juan Zane said, "Perhaps that is best." He walked over to the cord hanging by his bed and pulled on it. Without saying anything, he disappeared through a door which hadn't been visible until he'd opened it. With that, he was gone.

  . . .

  Once we were back in the car, I said, "Let's drive. Let's go back up to Mulholland, park the car, and walk around. Just get me the hell out of this town."

  Carter put the car in gear and did just that. We didn't talk during the drive up. We had the windows down and the higher we went, the more I wanted to stick my head out the window so I could get the stench of Juan Zane out of my nose.

  Finally, we made it to Mulholland. Carter said, "I was looking at the map earlier. How about we go over to the Hollywood sign? I know how to get there."

  "Fine."

  . . .

  Once we were parked, we walked up to the backside of the sign and looked out. The smog was thick below and the air was orange. I said, "God, I hate this town."

  "Do you wanna go home?" asked Carter.

  "Yes, but we can't. Martinelli's in jail and we have to get him out."

  As we turned and walked along a path, Carter asked, "Did you notice anything in that house that would help?"

  "John Taylor has got to be the cover. Also, that property is huge. We should stake it out tonight and see if we find anyone coming and going. And, I guess I should call Walter and have him see if he can figure out what Baldwin 2602 became once the phone company added a number to the exchange. And whether it's still working like that."

  "You never did call Mike, did you?"

  "No. We should probably head back down so I can do that."

  We walked back to the car in silence. As Carter pulled back onto Mulholland, he asked, "What happened back there?"

  "It was like something out of an old silent movie. As soon as I saw him, I felt like he was hypnotizing me. I had all these crazy thoughts about..." I couldn't finish the sentence.

  Carter put his hand on my thigh. "You looked like you were about to let him make love to you."

  I nodded. "As soon as I heard your voice, I realized you were the sun."

  "How's that?"

  "You know. He was the moon but you're the sun."

  Carter didn't say anything.

  After a minute, I said, "When we get to the house, I'm going to call Mike, talk to Walter, and then you and I..." I listed a few things that I wanted him to do and they were very specific. Once I'd finished making my request, in the form of a demand, Carter said, "Anything you say, son," and accelerated the car a little too fast. As dangerous as it was, we got down the side of that hill in record time.

  . . .

  "You got all that?" I asked.

  "Sure." That was Mike.

  "I know I stepped out of bounds hiring Tom, but—"

  "No. You did good, Nick. I can come down there if you need me to."

  "Not yet. I'll let you know if I do. Are Greg and Micky done with their job?"

  "As a matter of fact, tonight's the last night. We have just about everything we need."

  "Can you spare one of them tonight?"

  "No. It really is a two-man job. But, what did you have in mind?"

  "I just wanna trace the places William Fraser was going when he was getting high."

  "What do you think you'll find if you do?"

  "I dunno. I just want to get out there and do something. I don't like thinking abou
t Martinelli sitting in jail."

  Mike sighed. "I know what you mean. They can go with you tomorrow. I'll tell Greg to stay down there until you don't need him."

  "Thanks, Mike. That'll work. Meanwhile, I have a job for Walter."

  "He's out right now. But he should be back soon. Give me the details and I'll have him start on it in the morning."

  "Better have him start tonight."

  "OK. Waddaya got?"

  . . .

  "I'm hungry." That was Carter.

  "Uh huh." That was the best I could do. The bedroom window looked out at the pool. I had no idea what time it was but the sun was setting and the light in the room was fading.

  Carter shifted underneath me and sighed. "When you make up your mind about certain things, son, it sure can be fun."

  I shifted to get closer to his warm body. I was hot, even sweating, but I didn't care.

  He said, "This is one of those times when a Camel would come in handy."

  I said, "I think I may be cured."

  "I didn't know you were sick."

  I laughed. "What I mean is that watching Errol Flynn smoke one after another made me a little sick to my stomach. Now that I think about it, he smelled like booze. Amazing what I can smell these days. I had no idea cigarettes did that."

  Carter rubbed the back of my head. "I could've told you that."

  I nodded. "Yeah. But the best thing you ever did for me..." I paused. "One of the many best things you ever did was to lay off your 'Nick Isn't Gonna Smoke Campaign' of 1948."

  Carter laughed. "I don't like getting sucker-punched."

  "That wasn't the reason I gave you my famous right hook."

  "I know." He began to massage my neck. "It's 'cause I told you I loved you."

  I nodded and sighed. "And I do."

  "And I love you, too."

  . . .

  We were just getting out of the shower when the phone rang. I dried off my hands and walked into the bedroom. Picking up the receiver, I said, "Yeah?"

  "Uh, Mr. Williams?"

  I immediately recognized the voice. "Hello, Walter. How are you?"

  "Um, I'm fine. Thanks. Uh, how are you?"

  "Fine. What do you have for me?"