The Con Man

by Gerald Verner

  Lefty started, and his small eyes became slits.

  “Who told you?” he demanded loudly. “I’m in the film trade? What do I know about films?”

  “I never thought you knew anything,” said Mr Spearman. “I don’t suppose you could tell a two-reel comedy from a super-picture, could you, Lefty?”

  “Say, what are you getting at?” said Lefty Guinan suspiciously. “What’s all this talk about films?”

  “What else can you talk about in Hollywood?” said Mr Spearman innocently. “Everybody talks about films in this city, Lefty. If you don’t talk about films here you might just as well have been born dumb. Why shouldn’t they talk about films? Look at the money they’ve made out of them. There’s that fellow, Levenstein — somebody pointed him out to me yesterday, he’s a millionaire several times over, and all his money was made out of films.”

  Lefty Guinan felt the colour leave his face.

  “I don’t know anything about this what’s-his-name Levenstein,” he said quickly, “and I don’t know anything about films. Spike and I just came here for a bit of a rest and a look round. We’re going back to Chicago today.”

  “Feeling all the better for your rest, I hope,” said Spearman politely, “It must have cost you a bit, Lefty; you’ve been spending money pretty freely while you’ve been here.”

  “You seem to know a lot about me,” growled Lefty a little uncomfortably. “Takin’ a mighty big interest in my business, ain’t you?”

  “I’m interested in everybody’s business but my own,” confessed Mr Spearman. “I’m built that way. Everything interests me — even that murder at Mammoth Pictures’ place. You’ve no idea how interested I was in that. Were you interested too?”

  “Sure,” said Guinan. “I heard about it, of course, but I guess I’m not fond of murders.”

  “Who is?” said Mr Spearman. “Well, let’s stop talking shop. So you’ve finished your holiday and you’re going back to Chicago, are you? Taking anything with you?”

  “Say, what should I be taking?” demanded Lefty violently. He was feeling more than a little uneasy. There was a hidden meaning behind Mr Spearman’s words that he did not like at all. This cool, well-dressed man knew something, and Lefty Guinan was not quite sure how much.

  “A picture postcard or two of Hollywood, or some little souvenir of your visit,” said Mr Spearman. “But perhaps you don’t like souvenirs? Well, some of them can be very unpleasant.”

  He smiled broadly and turned away.

  “I must be going, Lefty. I’ve got my film business to look after. Perhaps I’ll see you sometime. Give my love to Spike, and tell him to cut out the gum habit. Vice in any form is revolting.”

  He waved his hand and walked away, leaving Lefty Guinan to make his arrangements for his car in a very thoughtful mood. When he got back to Macks he found Mr Munro waiting impatiently.

  “You’ve been a long time,” he greeted. “I was wondering what had happened.”

  Lefty Guinan poured out himself a drink and gulped it down.

  “Say, who do you think I met at the filling-station,” he said.

  “I guess I’m not good at riddles,” grunted Spike. “Go easy with that stuff. It’s all we’ve got, and I’d like some. Who did you see?”

  “Tommy Spearman,” said Lefty, splashing some whisky into Spike’s glass.

  “Is that guy here?” said Mr Munro. “I thought Hollywood was select!”

  “Sure he’s here,” Lefty nodded. “Very much here. He was talking a lot of stuff that I can’t get the hang of.”

  “What do you mean?” Mr Munro drank half his drink and began to unwrap a new packet of gum. “What sort of stuff?”

  “It may be a lot of bunk, and it may not,” said Lefty Guinan, lighting a cigarette. “But he seems to know a lot too much for my liking.”

  “About what?” asked Spike sharply.

  “About us,” answered Guinan.

  “Why — what did he say?” the little man’s voice was anxious.

  “I guess it wasn’t so much what he actually said,” replied Lefty thoughtfully, blowing a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. “It was what he hinted.”

  So far as he could remember he repeated his conversation with Mr Spearman.

  “I don’t like it,” said Spike, shaking his head. “That fellow’s hot! He’s so hot that when he sits down at the table all the butter melts! It looks to me as though he knows what we’ve been doing.”

  “Sure, that’s what I think,” agreed Guinan, “and I was wondering what he knows.”

  “Lots of people have wondered that.” Answered Spike. “Look at Lew Conner. He and his boys planned a bust on the Chicago Federal Bank and got away with ten thousand bucks. The night after Mr bloomin’ Spearman lifted the lot, though nobody knew how he knew anything about it. Conner was like a ragin’ bull for weeks — ”

  Lefty Guinan uttered an exclamation and his face set.

  “Sure, Spike, you’ve hit it!” he exclaimed. “That’s where the film went to!”

  “Eh?” Mr Munro looked up, startled at the vehemence of his companion.

  “Spearman pinched it!” cried Lefty excitedly. “I guess that’s what he meant by going into the film business and all that guff. It wasn’t Levenstein at all, it was Spearman.”

  Spike Munro frowned and slipped the chunk of chewing gum he had been extracting from its wrappings into his mouth.

  “It’s just the sort of thing he would do,” he said. “I wish I’d thought of that while I was talkin’ to him,” snarled Lefty, his face dark with anger. “But I’ll bet I’m right. He must have been spyin’ on us and found out. The dirty crook, I’d like — ”

  “Why get all lit up?” said Mr Munro calmly. “What does it matter, anyhow? Let him keep the film; we’ve got the money, ain’t we, and that’s all that matters.”

  “Sure, we’ve got the money all right,” said Lefty.

  “Talkin’ of money,” said Mr Munro cautiously, “what about sharin’ out now? You never know what might happen; we might have to separate or anythin’.”

  “All right, I’ll divide up,” said Guinan, but his voice did not sound too eager. “Two-thirds to me, and a third to you — ”

  “Fifty-fifty,” broke in Mr Munro gently. “Fifty-fifty, Lefty. Don’t you go tryin’ no funny stuff.”

  “Two-thirds was what we agreed,” began Lefty argumentatively, and put his hand in his breast pocket where he had put the roll of bills he had taken from the dead body of the unfortunate Levenstein. “I guess I planned the whole business, didn’t I?” He broke off and his jaw dropped. “It’s gone!” he shouted. “I put it in my pocket, and it’s gone!”

  Mr, Munro stopped in the middle of chewing, and his thin face looked very unpleasant.

  “Say, don’t try and work that old stuff on me, Lefty,” he said angrily. “I heard that gag when I was a baby.”

  “Don’t be a fool!” cried Lefty Guinan frantically searching his pockets. “I’m not trying to work any gag on you. The money’s gone, I tell you!”

  The light of understanding came into Spike’s eyes.

  “Did you have it with you when you were talking to Tommy Spearman?” he asked.

  “Sure, I did,” snapped Lefty. “In my breast-pocket — ”

  “Then I guess it’s in his pocket now,” said Spike. “That fellow’s the cleverest ‘dip’ that was ever born.”

  Lefty Guinan’s face was not pretty as he looked at his companion. “By the time I’ve finished with him,” he muttered harshly, “he’ll wish he never had been born!”

  Chapter 10

  MR SPEARMAN IS SYMPATHETIC

  Mr Thomas Spearman alias Captain Garvin Chase, left the filling-station after his meeting with Lefty Guinan and walked happily along Sunset Boulevard to his lunch. He hummed a tune below his breath as he walked — a gay little tune that reflected the state of Mr Spearman’s mind. His morning’s walk had been very profitable, and not before it was time, for his funds were gettin
g very low indeed.

  The two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars that he had taken so dexterously from Lefty Guinan’s pocket would prove very useful. He had never expected to reap such a harvest, and when he had taken the wallet he had taken it more for a joke than anything else. Well, it had proved a very good joke, and he wondered if Mr Guinan was laughing, and smiled. He could picture the crook’s face when he discovered his loss — and Spike Munro’s. What a lot of chewing gum it would take to soften that disappointment.

  He strolled on, basking in the sunshine and feeling at peace with the world. There was still the film deal to pull off, but now he could wait until the time was riper. The longer he kept it the more valuable it would become as a source of revenue, for it was his experience that the more anxious people got, the more they were prepared to pay to relieve their anxiety.

  It had been his first intention to play Levenstein and Myers off against each other: the one who offered the most getting the film. But in the meanwhile he had made one or two inquiries, and the result had made him change his plan. In spite of the fact that his honesty would not bear a very close inspection, Mr Spearman was something of a sentimentalist. Being a sentimentalist, his sympathies were with the underdog. He had no intention of handing the film back to Myers with his blessing, but he was determined that nobody else should be in the market for it.

  He had planned the whole thing carefully. That night he was sending Myers a neat little letter, telling him that if he was prepared to pay a hundred thousand dollars he could have the film back. Mr Myers was to bring the money himself in dollar bills and stop his car half-way along Sunset Boulevard at two o’clock in the morning. At that hour the most beautiful thoroughfare in the world would be as still and empty as the Sahara desert. There he would be met, and in exchange for the money the film would be handed over.

  If he brought anybody with him the deal would be off. Mr Spearman, after much consideration, had decided that this was quite a good idea. He was not the least afraid that Myers would inform the police; he had learned enough at the interview he had overheard between Guinan and Levenstein to know that that was the last thing that Myers dare do.

  He would be only too pleased at the chance of getting his picture back without any publicity to risk a hitch. The hundred thousand dollars was, Mr Spearman concluded, already in his pocket, and added to what by a stroke of luck he had already, would represent quite a respectable sum.

  His thoughts changed from such mundane things to the girl he had seen that day on Sunset Boulevard. He had seen her several times since, and almost felt that he knew her, although they had never spoken.

  It was just about here that he had first met her, and experienced for the first time in his adventurous life an unaccountable quickening of the pulse. Twice after he had seen her with the same good-looking young fellow who had been with her that day, and once alone. On the last occasion he had almost spoken, and in passing she had half smiled, and then evidently remembering that he was a stranger, the smile had broken off short, to become replaced by a look of stony indifference.

  Mr Spearman sighed. He would have liked to have talked to that girl just for the pleasure of watching her smile — really smile. Well, it was very doubtful if he would ever do that, and it was pretty obvious that she was booked. Engaged to the fellow he had seen her with, perhaps, or married maybe.

  On the third occasion he had seen her he had looked for the ring, but her hand had been gloved. He walked on, still thinking of the girl, and then as he reached the beginning of the Wilshire Boulevard and came in sight of his hotel he saw her.

  She was walking slowly towards him. As she passed him he saw that her face was white and drawn, and with a little tug at his heart, that she had been crying. Acting on a sudden impulse, he swung round, and in four strides had reached her side.

  “Excuse me,” he said diffidently, lifting his hat, “is there anything the matter? You look — ill.”

  Mary Henley stopped and raised her eyes. Her first inclination was to make a sharp retort and pass on. Then she saw who it was and the concern in his eyes.

  “Thank you,” she said, and her voice shook in spite of all her efforts to keep it steady. “I am — I am quite all right.”

  “You look far from all right,” he answered gravely. “You look really all in. Won’t you come along to the Beverley Wilshire and sit down for a few minutes?”

  She hesitated.

  “You’re thinking that I’m trying to be fresh, aren’t you?” he said quickly. “But really I’m not. I’ve seen you so often that although I don’t know you I feel as if you were an old friend — if you can understand that.”

  She could and did understand that. Strangely enough, she felt the same way about this man. He was not a stranger in the true sense of the word.

  “I think it’s terribly kind of you,” she said. “I would like a rest for a moment. I — I’ve had rather a shock.”

  “We’ll have some coffee,” said Mr Spearman. “Everybody will be at lunch, and the lounge will be almost empty.”

  “What about your lunch?” she asked as they turned and walked towards the Beverley Wilshire.

  “I never eat lunch,” he said hastily and untruthfully.

  She sank gratefully into one of the padded chairs with which the lounge was furnished and Mr Spearman ordered coffee. He gave her a cigarette, which she accepted, and when the waiter had brought the coffee and gone away, he said:

  “Now you can talk or not, just as you like. I don’t want to pry into your private affairs, but if I can do anything to help I’d be only too pleased.”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m afraid you couldn’t do anything,” she said, and was silent for such a long time that Mr Spearman was beginning to fear that he had offended her.

  He had just opened his mouth to apologise, when she spoke.

  “I may as well tell you what’s worrying me,” she said. “It will be in all the papers this evening, I expect, anyway. You remember the murder of Perry Lamont at the Mammoth Picture Studios, don’t you?”

  Mr Spearman started guiltily, but he managed to keep the shock he felt from appearing in his face as he answered quietly:

  “Yes, but what has that got to do with you?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with me personally,” answered Mary, “but the police have arrested my fiancé for the murder.”

  Mr Spearman’s face expressed his amazement.

  “Is that the man I’ve seen you about with?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Mr Rennit — yes,” she replied. “It’s — it’s dreadful, isn’t it?”

  “It sounds pretty bad,” said Mr Spearman. “Why should they have arrested him? What evidence have they got?”

  “They found out that Dick quarrelled with Mr Lamont,” she said, “before the murder. And also — on the night that Mr Lamont was killed — somebody saw him hanging round the Mammoth Studios.”

  Tommy Spearman pursed up his lips.

  “But that’s not the worst of it,” she went on. “Dick has — confessed that he killed Mr Lamont.” Her eyes filled with tears and Mr Spearman stared at her aghast.

  This was the most amazing thing he had ever heard, for he was convinced in his own mind that Lefty Guinan was responsible for the death of Lamont. And now here was this girl telling him that her fiancé — what was his name? — Dick Rennit — had been arrested and had actually confessed to the crime. It was seldom that he was so completely taken aback.

  “But why should this fellow have killed Lamont?” he said. “What was his motive?”

  “I am — I am afraid that it was over me,” whispered Mary in a low voice, and she told him.

  He listened sympathetically, but all the while his brain was working rapidly. There was something wrong here. In spite of Rennit’s confession he felt that there was something wrong, and when she had finished he said:

  “I’m terribly interested in this Miss — ” he paused helplessly and looked at her.


  “Henley,” she supplied.

  “Miss Henley,” he went on. “And if it’s possible to do anything I’d like to do it. Suppose we have some lunch and see if anything can be done.”

  She smiled through her tears.

  “Thank you, I’d like to,” she said simply, “but I thought you didn’t eat lunch?”

  “I’ll break my rule for once,” said Mr Spearman unselfishly. “Let’s go across to the Brown Derby.”

  Chapter 11

  RIVINGTON RECOGNISES AN OLD FRIEND

  Captain Willing’s announcement came as something in the nature of a bombshell. Elmer Myers’ jaw dropped and he remained staring at the police official with an expression of amazement that was really comic. Paul Rivington, although he showed it less, was every bit as astonished. Here were complications with a vengeance! There was a silence that was eventually broken by the managing director of Mammoth Pictures.

  “Well, what you say beats everything!” he exclaimed, shaking his head.

  “All the same, it’s the truth,” answered Willing. “We took Rennit this morning and he made no resistance.”

  “And he actually confessed to the murder?” asked Paul frowning.

  “Sure he did, sir.” Captain Willing allowed a small note of triumph to creep into his voice. “He confessed, and his confession was taken down in writing and he signed the statement. It was all voluntary; there was no third degree or anything like that.”

  “What first put you on to Rennit?” asked Paul.

  “When the murder was first made public,” replied Willing, “a man came to the bureau and laid certain information. He said that he had seen two men quarrelling on Sunset Boulevard, and that he had recognised them. One was Perry Lamont and the other was this fellow Rennit. Rennit had knocked Lamont down and uttered a threat against his life. We made further inquiries, and discovered that there was a woman at the bottom of it — a girl called Mary Henley. She’s a film extra, and apparently Lamont had been getting rather sweet on her. Offered to get her work under certain conditions. You know the usual guff. Well, Rennit was sweet on this girl, too, and there was bad feeling between the two men.”