The Hollywood Starlet Caper

by Robert Muccigrosso

  A furious pounding on the door roused me. I hoped that it was Scarlett but grabbed my Smith & Wesson just in case. The growler was the geezer, grumpier than usual. The sight of my rod put him in a more friendly mood. “I apologize for waking you in the middle of the night, sir, but you have a phone call waiting for you in the office. If I can make you a cup of cocoa and look for a few cookies, I'd be mighty pleased to do so.”

  I told him to stop trembling and that I was not going to shoot him, at least if he behaved himself. That didn't end his tremors but it made me feel real good.

  I threw my coat on over my pajamas and followed the geezer to the office. It was chilly outside and I felt chills inside and feared that the chills would soon become chillier. I took a deep breath and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?…Did I hear what Jews?”

  I got the caller to repeat himself a few times and figured out that it was Mumbles asking if I had heard the news.

  “What news, Marty? I'm stuck out here in a place called Moro Bay waiting for Scarlett. I last saw her more than twenty-four hours ago…What do you mean that's the last I'm ever going to see her?…She's what?

  I couldn't believe it. It hadn't yet made the papers, but word was out that a good-looking starlet had been found dead in her apartment in the Garden of Allah. Mumbles had placed a few calls and had learned that it looked like a murder. She was found strangled with a rope around her neck.

  It looked like murder to me, too. I didn't think Scarlett would have had enough strength to strangle herself. But then you never know. But if it wasn't Scarlett doing herself in, who was it? And how did she get to LA? And why? If someone snuffed her, why not do it here in Morro Bay? Or did someone do it here and then chauffeur the corpse home? My mind was racing faster than Man o' War In any case, Scarlett, though hardly an angel herself, had returned to the City of Angels.

  “Who'd want to bump off a good kid like her?” I asked.

  “Well, let me see. There's Sheldon Blatt, there's Harry Hardnut, there's maybe the guy you said was following you from time to time, there's maybe some other mugs she was blackmailing, and then…”

  “And then what?”

  “And then there's you, my friend.”

  “What do you mean 'and then there's you'?” I exploded. “Why would I have wanted to knock her off? Sure, she bugged the hell out of me at times. But she was going to pay me for services rendered, and, don't forget, she was my meal ticket with Blatt. Why would I want to bite off the hand that fed me?” I had worked up a lather and wasn't even ready to shave.

  “Hold it a minute, my friend. I didn't say you wanted to kill her. The thought never crossed my mind. But look at it from the police's point of view. Maybe Scarlett was going to tell Blatt or Hardnut or both of them about your relationship with her, and that she was blackmailing you, too. Ever think of that?”

  I had to admit that I had never thought of that. I also had to admit that playing with fire had brought me to the portholes of Hell.

  “Well at least you gave some fake name where you were staying with Scarlett.”

  When I said that I had given my true name, Mumbles said that what a lot of people back home had called me—Dick Dimwit—wasn't far off the mark, and maybe had scored a bull's-eye. I felt like telling him what people thought of his mangling of the King's English. But I didn't. If ever I needed a friend, it was now. And though Mumbles had never been a close friend, he'd have to do. So I swallowed my pride and a couple of Chicklets that I had been chewing.

  I told him that maybe the police wouldn't get as far as Moro Bay to investigate what had happened. Why would they?

  “I'll tell you why they would and will. Scarlett was a client of Blatt's, a fact that they'll find out sooner or later. And Blatt knows that you and she were headed for Morro Bay. You get it?”

  Yeah, I got it all right, right in the pit of my stomach.

  “Oh, and don't forget, Dick, that as soon as he learns what has happened to Scarlett, which he probably already has, King Kong will come gunning for you.”

  I didn't like the way Mumbles had put it but didn't doubt that he had hit the nail right on the head. Come to think of it, I didn't like the way I was putting it, either.

  “So what do you suggest I do, Marty?”

  There was a pause. “You could grab the next train or bus and get the hell out of here, I suppose, but that would seem like you were guilty for sure, and unless you want to spend the rest of your life on the lam, the authorities will sooner or later catch up with you. Scarlett may not have been a big movie star, but she was a starlet, and people knew about her. Don't think that Hedda and Louella won't play up her murder for all its worth, and that will mean the police will have to keep chasing you or look bad. And speaking of newshounds, did Scarlett get around to mentioning those dynamite little black books she was keeping?”

  Mumbles was a lot smarter than I had ever given him credit for. He might have had a big load of cases back East, but all those rumors…Even Polish Phil had given him high grades for corruption, and the Polack was one who knew.

  I decided to say nothing about Scarlett's books for the time being. I'd get paid, and nicely, for turning the one over to Blatt, but a little inner voice gurgled “Beware!”. Read the wrong way, its last sentences could implicate me in the killing. As for the book about Kong, I was concerned that it was a boomerang like those Austrians play with. In my case, I'd throw it and it would come back, hit me in the kisser, and knock out a few teeth for good measure. No, I would deny the existence of the books for the time being, even to Mumbles, with whom I would trust my life.

  “She didn't say a word about where they are. So what should I do, Marty?”

  “You should get back here on the double and we'll figure something out. After all, what are friends for? Now grab your things and hers—and I mean all of them—and clear out. I've got to take care of some business in the morning, but I'll be back in the apartment by noon.”

  What Mumbles had said made sense, or at least as much sense as could be found in this dark mystery. I banged on the bell in the office. The geezer had gone back to sleep and looked fit to be tied when he stumbled out. Once the cobwebs of sleep had cleared, however, he became pleasant, doubtlessly remembering his acquaintance with my close friends, Mr. Smith & Wesson.

  I had to think fast and make it clever. I told him that the call had come from Miss Garbo's third cousin in Kalamazoo. Miss Garbo, she explained, had had to leave in such a hurry because she had to see a man about a horse in Albuquerque. The cousin said I was to pack her belongings and take them with me.

  Hesitant at first, the geezer bought the story after I said that I would pay the bill for both cabins. It would have been a lot more to my liking to plug him full of holes right there on the spot, but being in the glare of one murder investigation was more than enough. He gave me the key to Scarlett's cabin, and I paid him in full. I also tipped him a George Washington and mentioned the old proverb of silence being golden. As a way of illustrating my point, I mentioned that .38 revolvers are said to have been one of the leading causes of death over the years. Not as much as heart attacks, TB, or cancer, but right up there alongside them. The geezer said that he appreciated my knowledge of worldly matters and that he would take it to heart.

  First I packed my things and then went to Scarlett's cabin to pack hers. By this time it was daybreak and I was ready to return to LA and face the consequences of my madness of having come West. Scarlett, I silently moaned, if only I had known.

  Chapter 19

  The return trip of about 150 miles was uneventful, unless you count the severe heart palpitations, fluttering of the pulse, entwining of the intestines, and ice cold sweat that dripped down from my head to toe every time I spotted a state trooper or local police car. I was in a hurry to get back but, fearful of being hauled over for speeding, drove back at a snail's pace. I'm sure that I would have lost some hearing from all the drivers who honked their horns if I had not kept the car windows c
losed. Giving these highway bums the bird only seemed to have added to their annoyance.

  Signs continuously pointed the way to LA. They seemed to be saying that I had no recourse but to follow them, which I did. When I arrived at Bunker Hill I parked the car well away from the apartment and reviewed the situation. I didn't see any police or their vehicles, but that didn't mean that they weren't inside munching on their donuts, helping themselves to my Jack Daniel's, and waiting for me. Maybe they were grilling Mumbles with billy clubs, knuckle dusters, chains, whips, and boiling water. Maybe they were forcing him to eat some of the food that had been rotting in the fridge. Worse, maybe he was confessing and telling them all about his gumshoe friend—his involvement in the Scarlett caper and his current whereabouts. Would Mumbles break under pressure? I turned on the ignition, but before I could leave a cop was banging on my window with his fist. Should I shoot him and later claim that it was an accident? It was a close call, but I decided not to do so, at least until he showed his hand.

  “Hey Mac, you can't park here. Didn't you see the fire hydrant? Now show me your license and be quick about it.”

  I was tempted to tell him that only dogs paid attention to hydrants but thought better of it. I handed over my driver's license, which, fortunately, I had kept up-to-date, although I hadn't owned a car in the East.

  “I see you're from the Big City. Come a long way, haven't you?” He snorted and proceeded to tell me how he hated wise guys who came from the Big City and thought they could park wherever they pleased. “That, my friend, is going to cost you extra. Now here's your ticket, and if you try to skip town without paying it, your license tells me where to look for you. Now scram before I cite you for vagrancy and you spend a couple of days and nights in the slammer.”

  I peeled out of the parking spot and drove around the corner, where I parked, making sure that no hydrant was in sight. Part of me wished that I had shot the cop, or at least grabbed his book of traffic citations, before speeding away. I was sure that he had inflated the fine. Worse, I was depressed that he had my home address in case the police ever went searching for me on a more serious matter than a traffic violation, way back when I was a dopey optimist who thought, “another day, another dollar,” “let the sun shine in.” Now I was thinking, “another nail in my coffin,” “another day closer to the grave.”

  Mumbles was on the phone when I walked in. His facial expression changed from a frown to a big smile as he waved to me and told whomever he was speaking with that he had to get off the line.

  “Am I ever glad to see you, my friend!” I was moved by Mumbles's concern. And I was moved even more to be in the apartment with no coppers jumping out from the closet.

  “Likewise, Marty,” I said as I began taking off my galoshes.

  “Mix yourself a stiff one, Dick, have a seat, and tell me what happened.”

  Mumbles motioned for me to sit in his accustomed easy chair. Once again his concern moved me, although my gratitude diminished as I sensed a loose coil about to spring up my derriere. I wondered if sitting there so many times could account for Mumbles's speech problems.

  I related the whole hundred yards to my roomie, starting with the most important happenings, namely my meals and what sights I saw as I drove both to and from Moro Bay. I minutely described the cabin I had stayed in and was in the process of relating the punishment my galoshes and feet took from promenading on the beach when the phone rang. I thought that Mumbles would be real sore at the interruption, but, oddly enough, he seemed relieved, almost pleased.

  “No, Mr. Blatt, I haven't heard a thing from him.” Mumbles motioned for me to remain silent. “Of course I realize the seriousness of the matter…As I told you before, Mr. Blatt, I'll have him contact you the minute he walks in, if he walks in…Well, I know that he has been living here, but maybe he figures that this might be the first place the cops would look for him. He's no fool…No, really, he's not as dumb as he looks…I know that he sometimes can sound like a jerk,” Mumbles shrugged and looked at me as if to say, 'He said it, not me.' “Yes, Mr. Blatt, I promise to keep you informed. You can count on that.”

  I was beginning to dislike Sheldon Blatt more and more, if that was possible. I was sore as hell that he had interrupted my story and only a little less put out that he had made some comments that seemed unflattering to me. I couldn't imagine why he would harbor such negative thoughts unless his secretary had been doing her best to poison his mind. I reminded myself to have a few choice words with the bitch, that is, if I ever contacted Blatt again.

  Discussing the matter with Mumbles convinced me that I had no alternative. The fat Hollywood agent had paid for my services, and I felt committed to living up to my code of professional ethics, especially as the thought of what his goons might do to me raced through my mind like the notorious brushfires that southern California was famous for. If Fatboy chose not to have my cojones fricasseed and fed to his piranha, he might simply open his trap to the police and play innocent. Did he ask me to take Scarlett out of town? Did he ask me to murder her? No and no. I was on the hot seat with him and fearful that I might be soon frying on the hot seat provided free of charge by some charitable resort, say, Alcatraz or San Quentin.

  My blood was running ice cold, which reminded me that my drink needed refreshing and another cube or two. Mumbles said that he would join me. I guess he figured that two private eyes imbibing some sauce could produce clearer thoughts. But of course we weren't drinking beer, where two heads are certainly better than one.

  We finished our libations and had another. Mumbles offered to drive me in his car to Blatt's since the cops might already be looking for the black sedan. He also suggested that I change my outfit in order not to be recognized. Smart thinking, I thought. I put on a different tie and resisted the urge to wear my galoshes, although I noticed a cloud in the sky. It was too late to grow a beard, even though I hadn't shaved since yesterday morning. But the quick-thinking gumshoe took care of that by giving me a Frankenstein fright mask to wear, the one he had worn at a party last Halloween. Mask and all, I insisted that I lay on the floor of the car as we went to Blatt's office. This wasn't easy or comfortable by any means, especially since the car was a coupe. But I was taking no chances with having a flatfoot spy me.

  When we arrived we found Blatt's secretary unusually sympathetic. “How did it feel to brutally strangle Scarlett?” she asked. “Did it make you feel more of a man or more of mouse? Oh, excuse me. I meant to say 'rat.' ”

  “I'd like to give you 'rat,' you old bat. Tell your boss that I'm here.”

  Miss Sweetness flicked on the intercom. “Mr. Blatt, the killer, is here.”

  I wondered what had happened to the silly notion that a person was innocent until proven guilty. Never having believed it for anyone else, I would have liked to have made an exception for myself.

  Ma Barker and I kept exchanging tender words and weren't far from trading punches. I had smacked my fair share of dames in my day, but few deserved it more than this one. I was about to land a haymaker on her jaw, when I saw Blatt's fat body filling the doorway to his office.

  I drew back my fist and let down my guard. The broad got me a good one in the pit of the stomach. She could hit a lot harder than I imagined. I made a note to use my blackjack next time we squared off.

  “Sit down, DeWho,” Blatt ordered. “I want to know two things. First, did you kill the little pain in the ass? And second, did you find those books?” He put down his cigar and took a sip of something. “And let me be frank. I'm more interested in learning the answer to the second question.”

  I was slow to answer because I was giving serious thought as to which “Frank” he wanted to be. Was it some actor? A director or producer? Another agent? I resolved to ask Blatt more about his desire to be someone else but figured I'd answer his questions first. I told him that of course I didn't know who had killed Scarlett. Then I asked him what books he had in mind. That's when he blew his casket.

  “The li
ttle black ones, you numbskull, you pitiful excuse for a private detective, you imbecile!”

  I guessed that his secretary had poisoned him against me more than I had assumed. I knew which books he meant, but I wasn't going to let on at this point. Needing some kind of leverage for what he might have in store for me, I was holding back. As the saying goes, my mother didn't raise a foolish child, although she has always insisted otherwise. Good old Mom.

  I decided to muddy the waters and suggest that maybe the books were still in Scarlett's apartment. Blatt's eyes narrowed to mean squints. “Don't you think I've thought of it, DeWho? I was ready to send my man over there, but then I heard that someone had already ransacked the place. It was probably the police, but they're not saying. I do have some contacts in the Department, however, and they're looking into the matter. Anything to say about that?”

  I said that it would be a shame if whoever tore apart the deceased's apartment didn't put it back in shape. Leaving it a mess was no way to pay respects to the stiff.

  Blatt seemed on the verge of blowing another casket, although I'm not sure if anyone possesses more than one. He settled for ordering me out of his office. “Don't even think of skipping town,” he instructed. He said that he'd be in touch and that I'd better do the same once I heard anything. Under such circumstances, I found it hard to disagree with him.

  It was coming down like a flood when we left the building. Naturally, I wasn't wearing my galoshes.

  Chapter 20