The Hollywood Starlet Caper

by Robert Muccigrosso

Didn't Blatt say “books” rather than “book,” I kept asking myself? Had Scarlett let it slip to him that she possessed more than one such book filled with damning information? If not, how did he know? Or was my hearing getting bad? Deafness had been a persistent concern ever since my ex-wife had insisted that I was deaf as well as dumb. “Book” or “books,” I knew that I was in up to my neck in hot water, or something dirtier and smellier.

  The hot water rose to my eyeballs the next morning. Mumbles and I were dissecting yesterday's events over coffee, when we heard someone pounding on the door, followed by “Open up. It's the police.” Now the city and county of Los Angeles had oodles of policemen. Odds were that I had never encountered the one who was warping the door with his fists. But whenever I played the odds, particularly with my bookie in New York. I lost. Badly. This proved no exception to that unfortunate rule.

  Mumbles opened the door. “Cover him, John, while I frisk the bastard.” The endearing words came from none other than Harry Hardnut, aka King Kong, aka the man I'd least like to meet in a dark alley or anywhere else, for that matter. Hardnut walked over to the breakfast table, lifted me from the chair by my pajama lapels, and patted me down in search of a concealed weapon. That tickled and I told him so. He began to pummel me and told me to shut up, which I did. I could take a hint, particularly when his uniformed companion was pointing a mean-looking revolver at me. There is a time to protest, and a time to keep quiet, I told myself. Unfortunately, that nice line from Ecclesiastes—“A time to be born, and a time to die”—also came to mind. And since I had been born shortly after the turn of the century…

  Mumbles sputtered something about me, innocence, the Constitution, his apartment, nice guys, etc. But from the look on their puzzled faces, I could tell that they were having a normal stranger's difficulty in interpreting words coming from an alien from outer space. I feared that by the time they became more or less able to interpret the Mumbler, either Kong would restructure most of my body to resemble San Francisco after the great earthquake, or his companion would use me for target practice. Either way I lose.

  “Cuff him, John, and we'll haul his sorry ass to the station,” Kong snarled.

  I held out a dim hope that by “station” he had meant Union Station, where I could buy a one-way ticket home. I asked if I could pack my suitcase before we left. He said that the tailor at the station would measure me for a custom-made striped suit. I told him that it wouldn't be necessary. That's when he began readjusting my body again, until his partner told him that it was enough. I figured that John simply wanted a piece of me for himself and feared that there wouldn't be enough left if Kong didn't cease and desist forthwith or immediately. Kong stopped after one last punch to my left kidney. Before I could beg John to spare my other kidney, reminding him that one kidney was better than none, he told me to turn around and then put the cuffs on me. I guess that this was his version of “good cop, bad cop.”

  Mumbles had been protesting all the while that Kong was knocking the stuffing out of me, like I was a Thanksgiving turkey. But he was articulating it in a less articulate manner than usual. I supposed that he feared the cops would start on him next. Some pal!

  The boys said that they were taking me for a nice friendly chat. I told them that we could have that chat here rather than at the Union Station. Kong raised his big paw to slug me, but his partner interceded, saying that the sooner we got down there the better for all concerned. I disagreed but decided not to mention it.

  We passed Union Station on the way to the police precinct, which from the outside provided an improvement upon those that I had seen in my city. Inside, it was the same old story: dismal and depressing. The desk sergeant booked me, and the two coppers led me to a small room where they made me, still cuffed, sit at a table. I asked for a drink. Kong told John to run out to Death Valley and get some water for me. John refused to budge. I guess that he was sore at being told what to do. I didn't blame him.

  A well-dressed young man entered the room and introduced himself as an assistant district attorney. He spoke quietly and told the officers to uncuff me. Kong protested, but one hard glance from the ADA reduced him to obedience. He took the cuffs off, managing to dig into my wrists while he did.

  The ADA—Samuel Wellman was his name—leafed through a bunch of papers before looking up. “Mr. DeWitt,” he asked “do you know why these gentlemen have brought you here?”

  I knew that they weren't especially fond of my company, and I knew that they must have had a good reason for not taking me to Union Station, so I clarified matters by saying no. Wellman tried not to look surprised. He wrote something down on a paper tablet before asking me if I knew anything about the death of a certain Scarlett Snitchbottom.

  This was the moment of truth. My instinct was to lie, but, as the boy scout leader used to tell me as he gently patted my backside, honesty is the best policy unless you're told not to tell the truth. Then he patted my backside for several minutes more before telling me that this was our little secret and that he would take away my merit badges if I ever told a soul. But I digress. I fessed up to knowing the lady—slightly.

  Wellman's eyebrows shot up higher than a ball hit by Babe Ruth. “Is that so, Mr. DeWitt? Then how come we found a note in the deceased's apartment saying that she was going to Morro Bay with you?”

  I was in a sour pickle and knew that I had to come up with something fast before I drowned in brine. Fortunately, my years of experience paid off.

  “You got it all wrong, Mr. Wellman,” I protested. “The note promised to kill her if she blabbed.”

  His mouth yawned open wider than the Mississippi. “What?” he finally asked. “What are you talking about? The police searched the girl's apartment thoroughly and the only note they found was the one referring to Morro Bay. Why are you telling us about another note? Sounds like you're trying to cover for yourself and throw us off the track.”

  The genial Kong agreed. He pleaded with Wellman to let him have a few private minutes with me before tossing me into the slammer and throwing away the key.

  Wellman ignored him and asked if I had an alibi. I can't tell you how much I regretted not having brought along from home the long list of alibis that I had been concocting, and using, for all my years as a gumshoe. Most of them held as much truth as an oversized sieve. Now I realized that I had to rely on what I had infrequently used: the truth.

  I told the ADA that I had gone with Scarlett to Morro Bay at her request but had not left any note in her place that said such. And then I hit him with the silly qua non of my alibi: I was at Morro Bay when Scarlett was done in. And if he didn't believe me, he could call the place where we were staying.

  Wellman asked for the name of the lodging and told me to sit tight while he made his inquiry. I sat tight as suggested but was sweating like a pig, although, come to think of it, I'd never actually seen a pig sweat. The two coppers smoked a lot of cigarettes during his absence. John asked me if I wanted one, but I declined. Kong gave me some nasty looks and said that he'd like to beat the hell out of me. I declined that, too. I sensed that Hardnut was about to take my no for a yes, when Wellman came back into the room.

  “It looks like you're in the clear for now, Mr. DeWitt. The old guy backed up your claim that, as far as he could tell, you were there pretty much the whole day asking for Scarlett's whereabouts, and that you didn't leave the lodging until the middle of the night.” He paused and looked quizzically at me. “But why the deceased signed in as Greta Garbo stumps me, although I don't see any connection between that and her death. Still, there are a few things that keep you on my shortlist of suspects at least until the coroner's report is complete. That will tell us approximately when the victim died, and that, in turn, will determine where she was murdered, at Moro Bay or elsewhere.” He looked hard at me. “In addition to these questions, I'd like to know first, why you asked the old man not to tell anyone that you had been there, and also why he said that you menaced him with a gun. Anything to say
about that?”

  I had plenty to say. First, I didn't want my name connected with that of Greta Garbo, and second, I didn't menace the miserable geezer with a gun: I bribed him. And, I further told Wellman, no one was lower than a man who wouldn't stay bribed. Neither of my objections seemed to overwhelm him, but he said that I was free to go but not to try skipping town. If the authorities need to do so, they'd put out an APB alert.

  I didn't know what an APB was but thanked him anyway.

  Kong seemed disgruntled by my new freedom but, along with his partner, saw me to the door of the precinct. “I know you did it, DeWitt, and I'm going to pin it on you and see you fry,” he whispered, his bad breath frightening me almost as much as his words. He looked to make sure that no one other than his partner was watching, and then he slammed me in the kidney that he had previously left untouched. Then he cursed me and went back inside. As I was massaging my kidney and considering whether to retch right there on the precinct's front step or wait until I reached the sidewalk, John slipped a piece of paper into my trouser pocket and said, “So long, chump.”

  I retched on his wing-tipped shoes, but, surprisingly, he didn't slug me. Maybe the vomit had made the shoes look better. After he left, I read the note: “I'll be in touch.” That's just what I need, I told myself as I walked away and retched again.

  I staggered around at curbside trying to hail a cab. Thinking that I was two sheets to the wind or an escapee from the local booby hatch, the heartless hackies floored their gas pedals and sped off. Finally, a Good Samaritan pulled over, got out, helped me into his cab, and asked if he could take me to a doctor or a hospital. I appreciated his concern. The tears I shed while he was driving to the Bunker Hill apartment resulted from more than just the beating I had taken at the hands of Kong. For his part, the cabbie appreciated the good tip that I was about to add to the fare, that is, until he held out his hand and—you guessed it—my stomach again went a.w.o.l.

  The rest of the day saw less vomiting. I wasn't hungry, but I did have some sugar-coated nuts and a couple of slabs of Spam chopped up with some anchovies. But mostly I slept and moaned that it had been a day I wouldn't wish on many people, except maybe Kong, Blatt, Blatt's secretary, the Black Llama, Louise's husband, and a dozen or so other worthies I had encountered along life's dingy way.

  Chapter 21

  Death comes in threes, I had long heard. First was Louie, next came Scarlett, and now…I usually put such dark thoughts out of my mind and immerse myself in the activities of the living. But it took me a few days to find myself back to the land of the living after Kong had manhandled me. During those days I lay around the apartment reading, listening to the radio, eating, boozing, and sleeping. My Smith & Wesson never lay far from my aching side since a possible visit from Kong, his partner, John, or one of Blatt's paid head-bashers hung in the air like a bad smell.

  But slowly my kidneys began to recuperate and John Philip Sousa ceased to conduct his liveliest marches in my head. The shiner my right eye had received was still doing a pretty good imitation of Hoagy Carmichael's “Deep Purple,” but the eye itself was opening more and more. My reflection in the mirror convinced me that John Barrymore had nothing to worry about but also that I was on the mend.

  And now that I was on the mend, I had to move quickly, and that meant finding Scarlett's killer or clearing out of town pronto. Disappearing seemed like the path of least resistance, but I hated to leave loose ends, particularly if those ends were still attached to me. Return home or go elsewhere? With the murder unsolved, the finger of suspicion would continue to point straight at me, and certain interested parties would come gunning—oops!—for me, either to cover their own guilty tracks or notch another miscarriage of justice. No, I resolved to stay here and sleuth. My pride was at stake, maybe also my life.

  There are, I admit, some fairly good private eyes populating today's world. Charlie Chan, for instance, isn't bad, certainly not for a Chink, and Mr. Moto is okay, especially for a Nip. Sam Spade? Boston Blackie? Nero Wolfe? Maybe. But only one private detective stands out in the crowd. I admire him, I worship him, and I would run to him for advice, except…he died before I was born. He was a hero to others as well, as I could tell by the various movie actors, especially Basil Ratbone, who have played out his cases on the silver screen. Even my ditzy secretary, Dotty, who reads like it's going out of style, has told me time and again how brilliant this man was, as, for instance, when he brought the hound and the bastard villains to their just desserts. Yep. You guessed it. Sherlock Holmes is my man.

  I didn't have a deerstalker like Holmes's, but I put on my green fedora to put me in the proper mood for solving the brutal crime that was absorbing me. I remembered his observation that when you eliminate the impossible, what's left has to be the truth. So I had to begin by tossing out what was impossible. The impossible was that I didn't commit the crime. What was left was the truth: someone else did. Now I was getting somewhere. I took a couple more aspirins for the remnants of my headache and washed them down with some vodka that Mumbles had on hand. Then I thought long and hard as to what person or persons had committed the dastardly deed.

  Harry Hardnut headed the list. A violent man, as my sore body vouched for, he would not have hesitated to do in Scarlett if he thought that she was going to rat him out, even if the possibility seemed remote. His partner? Probably not, but maybe. I hadn't seen his name in Scarlett's book, but the late damsel, who was now one step—and a big one at that—removed from distress–could have had writer's cramp just writing down all the goodies that Kong had offered.

  Sheldon Blatt? Another real possibility. Blatt had as much to lose as Kong. If what he told Scarlett ever leaked out, he would need more than his own goons for protection. It would be jail or Forest Lawn Cemetery for his fat carcass. Personally, I'd make book on the permanent resting place.

  Hardnut or Blatt were odds-on favorites for the murder, with John an also-ran. Blatt's secretary was a long shot. She was mean enough to commit the foul deed, and I would have liked her to get the juice from the electric chair. In fact, I disliked her so much that I would be glad to apply for the job of chief electrician in charge of pulling the switch. Still, she was an unlikely candidate, I had to admit. With disappointment.

  Who else? Mumbles? That gave me a laugh. I could just see him as a criminal. “Your money or your life,” he'd tell some potential holdup victim, only it would come out as “Your money or your wife,” and the guy would tell him to take his wife. Come to think of it, that would make a great line for some comedian.

  I was in the act of pondering these ponderables when the phone rang.

  “Is that you, Dewitt? Are you alone?” asked the vaguely familiar voice at the other end of the line.

  “Yes and yes,” I answered smartly.

  “This is Harry Hardnut's partner. Remember me? Now listen carefully. I have something important to tell you. Meet me this afternoon at the Rialto movie theater at Broadway and Ord in Chinatown. It's not far from you. Meet me at 3:30. I'll be sitting in the last row of the balcony. There shouldn't be many people there at that time of day.”

  I was no fool. I wasn't going to take orders blindly from some caller, especially one as dangerous as this one.

  “Before I agree to this,” I said, “let me know what's playing. You're not going to sucker me into buying a ticket for some lousy film that I've probably already seen.”

  There was a pause. “Listen, wiseass, show up and don't be late.”

  I told him no, not until he told me what was playing and if there'd be a Pathé newsreel, movie previews, and a cartoon or two.

  John swore a lot but ended by saying that the film was about a French crook named Arsenic Lupin. I told him that I didn't particularly like Frenchies and that I liked arsenic even less. But I supposed that I should learn what these foreigners were up to, though I figured that they were up to no good. I pressed him on the news, previews, and cartoons, but got nowhere. Reluctantly, I agreed to meet him.


  It was past lunchtime when the call ended. I scrambled a couple of eggs and cut up an old wiener that was cowering in the fridge. Then I fixed a cup of java. I would have preferred a drink but needed a clear head to deal with the afternoon. Afterall, supposing the movie was in French?

  I checked my .38 to make sure it was loaded, put it into my coat pocket, donned my fedora, and got into my galoshes, although it didn't much look like rain. As I strolled to the Rialto, I wondered what Kong's partner had to tell me that was so hush-hush.

  I tried to convince the old bag selling tickets that she should give me a discount since I was a stranger to her fair city. She told me to pay up or get lost. I told her how easy it was for a stranger to get lost in this big city. She asked if I'd like her to call a cop. I was sorely tempted to tell her that I was going to meet one inside in less than five minutes. Another argument lost. She sold me the ticket at full price. Once inside, I had to act quickly. Should I buy a bag of popcorn, some Bazzini peanuts, a box of Good & Plenty candy, or some combination of the three? And should I offer Kong's partner some or should I wait to hear what he had to say? These questions were gnawing at me as I trudged up to the balcony. The sound of Frenchies speaking French in the movie muddled my thoughts even more. I realized that I should have found out whether the movie was in English or not before agreeing to see it. In hindsight, I should have picked a movie that I was sure to enjoy, and if John didn't like it…tough!

  I used my skill as a private eye and admirer of Sherlock Holmes to deduce that it was John sitting in the last row of the balcony. It helped that the balcony contained no one else. I stumbled over a step and nearly lost my popcorn—I figured that I could buy the sugar-coated nuts and Good and Plenty after our discussion, which I hoped wouldn't take too long because I wanted to see the movie, even if I couldn't understand a blasted word in it.

  John was sitting stiffly a few seats in from the end of the row. I suddenly felt generous, walked over to him, and asked if he'd like some popcorn. He didn't say a word. It was then that I noticed something sticking out from the area of his heart. Egad! Stiffly-seated John was a stiff! Further inspection led me to conclude that it was some sort of knife, although I could not be sure if it was a dagger, stiletto, or ice pick. I then did what any other public-spirited citizen would have done: I fled the coop, or in this case, the theater. I didn't stop to demand a ticket refund or to buy more refreshments at the concession stand. I still had the popcorn, or at least what remained after I tumbled down the stairs and ran out into the street. It was pouring rain by this time, and I had big things to worry about, like a dead cop and soggy popcorn.