Yours truly.
Elworth T. Rodd,
Branch Manager.
Mr Myers read the letter again slowly for the third time, laid it down and chewed thoughtfully at the end of his cigar. So the fact that the film had been stolen had leaked out. It was, of course, bound to have happened, but Mr Myers hoped that it would not have happened quite so soon. The question was: What was he going to say to this man who was calling on him in about three hours’ time?
If he admitted the fact that the film had been stolen he might as well cut his own throat. On the other hand, it would be very difficult to stall Rodd convincingly. He was a shrewd man of business, and would take a lot of bluffing. For a quarter of an hour Mr Myers thought hard, then picking up the letter he rose to his feet and went into the house. In the hall he found a maid and stopped her just as she was mounting the staircase.
“Mr Rivington up yet?” he asked.
“I don’t know, sir,” answered the girl. “You gave instructions that Mr Rivington wasn’t to be disturbed until he rang.”
“Yes, I remember,” Elmer Myers nodded absently.
The girl looked at him and waited. Seeing that Mr Myers had apparently forgotten her existence, she rather awkwardly turned and continued her way upstairs. He stood for a moment or two in the middle of the hall, pinching his lower lip, and then suddenly coming to a decision he walked over to the staircase and began to ascend the stairs in the wake of the girl.
Reaching Paul’s door, he knocked, but there was no sound from within, and after a second or two he knocked again and louder. Still getting no reply, he turned the handle softly and opened the door. A glance showed him that the room was empty, and he frowned as he saw the bed had not even been slept in. He closed the door and paused irresolutely in the passage, then he went along to Bob’s room and knocked there. The result was the same as Paul’s. No answer. He opened this door, too, and peered in; as in the other case the room was empty and the bed smooth and undisturbed.
Mr Myers reluctantly made his way downstairs again. Both Paul Rivington and his brother had obviously been out all night. Where had they been? Where were they at the present moment? A tiny spark of hope began to glow in Mr Myers’ breast. Perhaps Rivington had found something. Perhaps he was even now on the track of the stolen film. The stout managing director of Mammoth Pictures fervently hoped so.
Making his way to his study, he sat down at his desk and pulled the telephone towards him. Two seconds later he was talking to Frank Leyland. The young film director heard the news regarding the letter from the bank with genuine concern.
“What are you going to do about it?” he asked.
“What can I do?” said Mr Myers helplessly. “All I can hope to do is to put up a bluff. If I can talk to this guy, Rodd, convincingly enough, I may be able to satisfy him for the time being, and so be able to gain a respite. I don’t know what Rivington’s doing at the moment, but neither he nor his brother has been home all night, and there’s just a chance they might be on to something. Anyhow, Frank, we can’t hold out much longer. It’s a question of hours now, not days. Unless we can get that film back there’s going to be the biggest crash that Hollywood’s ever seen.”
“What time’s this fellow coming?” asked Leyland.
“Who — Rodd?” said Mr Myers, “He’s made the appointment for eleven at the office.”
“Would you like me to be there?” said Frank.
“I guess that I’d like you to be in the building,” answered Elmer Myers, “so that I can call you if necessary. But I think I’d better see this fellow alone first. If I could only feel that things were all right I could talk all right. The trouble is, I can’t. I know that Rivington’s doing his best — everybody’s doing his best — but that isn’t going to cut any ice with Rodd. I’ve got to be precious careful how I deal with him, Frank. I daren’t tell him definitely that we’ve got the film, because if anything should happen and we don’t get it, it’s going to make it very awkward for me. On the other hand, I can’t tell him that we haven’t, because that would be like putting a match to a barrel of gunpowder.”
“It’s a pretty nasty position for you,” said Leyland.
“Nasty,” said Mr Myers feelingly. “I’ll say there ain’t a word in the dictionary strong enough to describe it! I guess I’m dreading this interview more than I ever dreaded anything in my life.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Leyland sympathetically. “Well, anything I can do, Elmer, you know I will.”
“That’s swell of you, Frank,” replied Elmer Myers gratefully. “But I don’t think there’s much you can do. Anyhow, I’ll see you down at the office.”
He rang off and sat sucking his half-smoked cigar, which had gone out. He was completely unaware that it was no longer alight, and this, more than anything else, testified to the chaotic state of his mind. Presently he made a desultory effort to force his brain along other channels, and turned his attention to some other business which should have been occupying his full time. It was a feeble effort, but it served to partially fill the short period before it was time to order his car to drive him down to the building which housed the Mammoth Pictures Corporation Inc.
The timekeeper greeted him with cheery good morning, and smiled, for everybody liked Mr Myers, and none better than those who worked for him. He forced himself to reply as cheerfully as possible, and then made his way along to his office. It was a little after eleven when Mr Elworth T. Rodd was announced.
“Shoot him in,” said Mr Myers, and sat back with a heavy heart to await the coming interview.
Elworth T. Rodd was a tall man, and his height was accentuated by his extreme leanness. There were more visible bones in Mr Rodd than were decent for a living human being. In fact he was nearly all bones. His skin was drawn tightly across his face, and his lips were so thin and bloodless that they scarcely existed at all. His hair was sparse and dry, and of a colour that was neither white nor grey, but a combination of both with a tinge of yellow. His eyes, sunk deep in his head, peered short-sightedly through a pair of enormous horn-rimmed spectacles, and his voice when he spoke was like the pattering of peas on tightly stretched parchment. He bowed to Mr Myers and extended a thin hand.
“Good morning,” he said. “Sorry I’m a little late.”
Mr Myers waved him to a chair.
“Sit down,” he said, forcing himself to smile affably. “Now, then, what’s all this about, Rodd?”
Mr Rodd coughed dryly and hitched up the knees of his trousers.
“I thought my letter was perfectly clear,” he answered, “without any further explanation. Alarming rumours have reached me that there’s something wrong with this film you’ve been making; that it has, to put it bluntly, been stolen.”
“How did these rumours reach you?” asked Mr Myers non-committedly.
The banker shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands.
“How do rumours usually reach people?” he asked. “We’ve heard it from various sources. I cannot tell you where it originated, but you’ll realise that if it’s true the position is a very serious one for us. We have sunk a considerable amount of money to finance the production of this picture, and from what you told me at the time the transaction was mooted, we had very little doubt of getting our money back. The film was a good commercial proposition, but if the negative has been stolen it means that our money has been lost, and we dislike losing money, Myers.”
“Who doesn’t?” said Mr Myers jovially. “I think, Rodd, that the murder of Perry Lamont has led to a great deal of exaggeration. We have, I’ll agree, held up the cutting of the picture, but we are negotiating with another editor, and I hope the delay will prove only a temporary one.”
“Then there’s no truth in these rumours?” asked Mr Rodd.
“So far as I’m aware,” said Elmer Myers, smiling blandly, “the film is perfectly safe.”
“I’m very glad to hear that,” answered the banker, and he made a strange grimace which wa
s his way of smiling. “I must say you’ve relieved my mind. You can assure me, then, that the film is still in your possession?”
“I can assure you,” said Mr Myers carefully, “that we shall have the film ready for its premier presentation on the date stipulated.”
“That is three weeks from now,” said the banker, and there was a pause, “The vice-president of the bank,” he went on, “is arriving from New York at two o’clock. I have been instructed to ask you to have the film ready for his inspection at four.”
Mr Myers’ inside felt as if he had suddenly consumed a large draught of lead. It was next door to impossible unless a miracle happened that he could recover possession of the film by then.
“I don’t see how that can be done,” he answered, shaking his head. “Lamont was in the middle of the picture when he was killed, and it’s all in bits and pieces. Sequences don’t run consecutively.”
“That won’t make any difference at all, Myers,” broke in Elworth Rodd. “All the president wishes is to see for himself that these rumours are unfounded.”
“Well, I’ve told you — ” began Mr Myers.
“Sure, I don’t doubt your word,” the other interrupted him again, “and the president doesn’t either, but — ” he made a deprecating gesture “ — it would be much more satisfactory to all concerned if some concrete proof were shown.”
“Surely,” said Mr Myers a little indignantly, “this is very unusual.”
“It is,” admitted the banker, “but you will be the first to realise that this is an unusual position. You understand, Myers, the film is our security. I guess if we had advanced you money on shares we should be entitled to hold those shares, or at least to have proof of their existence. As a business man, you will be the first to appreciate this.”
“Sure, I see your point.” Mr Myers could think of nothing else to say. After all, the bank was acting within its rights. It had advanced him a considerable sum of money, and the profits of the film had been the only security he had had to offer. The studio, the plant, and even his own house, The Ronda, were already heavily mortgaged. The bank had made little demur in advancing the money he required, but the banks in America are used to this kind of speculation, and regard it as part of their legitimate business. The greater part of the shares in Hollywood’s enormous film industry are held by the banks. If the negative of the million dollar film had been in his possession Elmer Myers would have agreed to the demand without hesitation. But in the circumstances — he racked his brains to think of a convincing reply.
Elworth Rodd saw his hesitation, and leaned forward.
“I’d advise you,” he said, speaking slowly and clearly, “to have that film ready. I guess if it’s not here for the president to see at four o’clock this afternoon the bank will demand an immediate repayment of the amount advanced to you.”
Mr Myers moistened his lips.
“I — ” he began, and at that moment the telephone bell rang.
With something like relief at the respite, Mr Myers reached out and lifted the receiver. With a word of apology to the banker he placed it to his ear and called into the mouthpiece.
“Hello!” he said. “Yes, sure, this is Myers this end. Who’s that? Rivington? Yes? Oh, yes.”
There was a long pause while his caller spoke rapidly over the wire, and the watchful Mr Rodd saw an astonishing change come over the face of the managing director of Mammoth Pictures.
“Say, that’s fine!” said Mr Myers enthusiastically. “Sure, I’ll be right along — in about half an hour. Right, Rivington!”
He slammed down the telephone and turned to the banker. His face, which had looked so grey and lined, seemed suddenly to have filled out and become youthful.
“I guess you said four o’clock, Rodd, didn’t you?” he remarked briskly.
Mr Rodd nodded.
“O.K.!” said Elmer Myers. “Bring the president of the bank along here at four o’clock, and I will have the film ready for you!”
Chapter 22
AN UNPLEASANT SHOCK
It was dawn before Captain Willington and Paul Rivington succeeded in getting Lefty and the now tearful Spike back to Los Angeles and safely locked up in a cell. After the death of Tommy Spearman they had secured them both and released the girl. While Paul and Bob waited at the empty house, Willing went back to where they had left the police car, carrying with him a can of petrol which he had found in the disabled car belonging to Lefty Guinan. By the time he came back with the car, Bob, who had recovered consciousness just before he had left and had been a little groggy, was feeling better. Except for a lump that was nearly as big as an apple, where Guinan had hit him, and a racking headache, he was not very much hurt, and insisted on accompanying them back to Los Angeles, instead of being dropped on the way at Elmer Myers house, which Paul suggested.
Mary Henley, rather white and shaken with the effects of the ordeal which she had undergone, and the tragedy which had been so recently enacted in front of her eyes, accompanied them as far as her apartment, and when the sun rose over Beverley Hills, crimsoning the little white houses that nestled on their slopes, the house that had witnessed tragedy twice during its existence was left once more deserted save for the still figure that lay — Paul’s handkerchief over its face — in the kitchen to await the coming of the ambulance.
“I’m glad we got ’em,” said Captain Benson when he had been routed out of his bed and told the news. “Plucky of that guy, Spearman. Shows there’s some good even in the worst of us.”
Paul agreed. He felt disinclined to discuss the passing of Tommy Spearman with Captain Benson at any great length. The ambulance was dispatched on its melancholy journey, and then a shorthand typist was sent for, and Paul’s and Bob’s statements were taken down, read over to them, and signed. This, together with the routine work in which they had to take part, occupied them for the best part of the morning. At a quarter past eleven, when they had come back from the cell with Benson, where they had unsuccessfully questioned the sullen Lefty Guinan, Paul put through a call to Elmer Myers’ house.
He discovered that Myers had already left for his offices, and it was not until a quarter to twelve that he was able to find another opportunity of ringing that gentleman up. Mr Myers, when he arrived at the detective bureau, was a different being from the harassed, gloomy-faced man whom Paul had dined with on the previous night. He shook hands with the detective eagerly and listened with interest while Rivington told him of what had occurred at the empty house on the hillside.
“Gee!” he exclaimed when the story was ended. “It was darned brave of that fellow Spearman. So he had the picture all the time, did he?”
“Apparently,” answered Paul, “and somehow or other he must have got it to the post office.”
“Let’s go round and get it,” said Mr Myers. “I shan’t feel completely comfortable until I’ve got the thing back in my hands.”
They left Bob at the police headquarters and drove round to the Central Post Office.
“I’ve come,” said Paul to the girl who came forward enquiringly, “for a parcel addressed to John Clayton, which I believe was sent here to be called for.”
The girl pointed across the big room to a counter on the opposite side.
“Poste restante over there,” she said briefly.
Paul went ‘over there’, and repeated his enquiry. The clerk in charge, a platinum blonde, replaced the lipstick with which she had been adorning her appearance in her bag and condescended to give them her attention.
“What name did you say?” she asked.
“John Clayton,” repeated Paul.
She strolled over to a large rack and inspected a selection of parcels. In a few minutes she came back shaking her head.
“Nothing here for anyone of that name,” she said.
Rivington frowned.
“You’re sure you haven’t made a mistake?” he persisted.
The girl apparently took this as a personal affront, for her
lips tightened and she said in a slightly louder tone:
“There ain’t nothin’ here for anyone with the name of Clayton.”
Paul felt a little nonplussed. Spearman had distinctly said Los Angeles Post Office, and he had concluded it was the Central one. There were others, of course, and the only thing to do was to try them all, since this had drawn a blank. He turned to Mr Myers, whose face had assumed an anxious expression.
“Which is the next nearest from here?” he said.
“Maple Street,” answered Elmer Myers.
“Come on, then,” said Paul, “we’ll try there.”
They drove to Maple Street, but to their enquiry received the same answer as they got at the Central Post Office. Nothing had been received in the name of John Clayton. Beverley Avenue was equally as insistent. They came back to the waiting car, worried and anxious. The lines which had smoothed themselves out of Mr Elmer Myers’ fat face had come back.
“Say,” he said as they once more climbed into the car, “I suppose this guy Spearman knew what he was talking about? He wasn’t delirious or anything?”
Rivington shook his head.
“No, he knew what he was talking about,” he said. “I can’t understand it.”
“He wouldn’t have been stringing you?” suggested the other.
“No, he was speaking the truth,” declared Paul emphatically, “I’m certain of that.”
“Well, I guess we’ve tried every post office in the city,” said Elmer Myers, “so what are we going to do now?”
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