The Hollywood Starlet Caper

by Robert Muccigrosso

  Mumbles came in a little after six, shaking the rain from his coat and mumbling more than usual. I managed to decipher his lament that devils were taking over the City of Angels. A gumshoe poker-playing crony had informed him that a cop had bitten the bullet, although in this instance it was a knife carving the cop. And in a movie theater in mid afternoon!

  I told him that the movie was about a French policeman, that the popcorn would have tasted better if it had more butter and salt, and that the dead copper was none other than King Kong's partner. I also mentioned that the ticket seller had been none too friendly and that you could trip on the stairs if you weren't careful. A skilled private eye like myself doesn't forget important details.

  Mumbles was fattergasted by the news. “You know, pal, you're in a bigger hole than I thought, and you're sinking deeper. Don't think for a minute that Kong didn't know that you were supposed to meet his partner this afternoon. The son of a bitch probably arranged the meeting. And who do you suppose Kong will blame for his partner's murder?”

  I thought about the question for a couple of minutes and concluded that I would be on the receiving end of the blame. Then I reached for my thinking hat and weighed possible plans of action. Should I contact Kong and tell him that John was dead before I arrived? Would he be touched when I related how I had planned to offer John popcorn and maybe some nuts or candy after we spoke? Should I tell him that I had a certain little black book that could fall into certain hands if he harmed a single dark brown hair on my head? Should I plead that my mother would grieve endlessly if someone helped her sonny boy to kick the bucket, and would no longer receive loving gifts of can openers? Should I plead with him on behalf of my secretary, Dotty, so dopey that only a dope like me would be dopey enough to hire her? I was at sevens and eights, or was it eights and nines?

  Mumbles said that we had to think clearly about the mess I was in and suggested that we have a drink, go out to eat, and sleep on what should be the next step to combat this doomsday scenario. One drink led to another, and by that time we were feeling little pain. We decided to eat in. The inside of the fridge was looking more forlorn than usual, but Mumbles managed to scrape together a meal made passable by the soothing effects of demon rum. One more drink after supper and we were in no condition to talk about the weather, let alone what we should do about a dead copper and a dead starlet. We said good night and staggered to our respective bedrooms. Though tanked to the gills, I had enough sense left to put my .38 under my pillowcase should King Kong come storming through the door. I was too many sheets to the wind to check whether I had left the safety on the gun.

  Chapter 22

  I think it was the poet Rugyard Kipperling, or something like that, who scribbled some nonsense about the dawn coming up like thunder across some bay or other. I know that my fussy eighth-grade teacher made us memorize and repeat it until we wanted to choke her but settled for sneaking a dead mouse into her purse. Be that as it may, the dawn came up today, but the only thunder I heard was ricocheting around in my head. Once I made it to the bathroom, I downed several aspirins and then walked carefully to the kitchen, where I managed to brew some strong coffee for my remorseless hangover.

  The aspirins and java were slowly reducing the peals of thunder to low rumbles. Then the phone screeched and ended the relative quiet. My instinct was not to answer it, but more than a dozen rings convinced me otherwise.

  It was the ADA's office calling, which immediately made me regret having answered the cursed machine. I waited while his secretary told me to hold on and that her boss would be with me shortly. They say that a man's life passes rapidly before him in the short while it takes for him to reach the end. Mine was passing more quickly than that.

  “Well, Mr. DeWitt, you'll be pleased to hear that you're alibi almost leaves you off the hook as far as Miss Stitchbottom's murder is concerned. The coroner reported that she died here in her apartment in LA at a time when you could account for your whereabouts in Morro Bay. I sent someone to check your alibi, and, in addition to the man who managed your cabins, workers at places where you ate confirmed your presence. The police meanwhile found fresh traces of her blood in her apartment. In other words, someone took the victim from Morro Bay, brought her back, and killed her. That killer couldn't have been you since you could not have been in two places at once. Do you agree?”

  “You bet I agree,” I told him.

  “Now Mr. DeWitt, I'd advise you not to leave town yet, if you had any notion of doing so. As I said, you're almost off the hook but not completely. You didn't kill Miss Stickbottom, but you could have hired someone to do so. Now let me make myself clear. At this point I don't think that you were involved, but until we find out who was, I want you to hang around. Capisce, as my Italian friends say? And if you know or find out anything that could help us solve the crime, let us know right away.”

  I capisced and told him that I would keep him informed. Naturally, I didn't mention the matter of the little black book involving Blatt that would toss me back into the hot water from which this good ADA had just rescued me. Nor did I mention the book detailing Kong's nefarious deeds or the little matter of Kong's dead partner, either of which would get me transformed into a chunk of Swiss cheese that contained more holes than usual.

  Wellman's call lifted my spirits. Lifted? Hell, it made them soar higher than Lindy flying across the Atlantic. I whistled “Happy Days Are Here Again,” and it wasn't because I particularly liked Mr. Roosevelt, although I sure preferred him to old Herbert H. Throwing caution and my hangover to the wind, I fixed my first libation of the day. Feeling better? You betcha!

  The feeling didn't last past my second helping of booze and the arrival of dark clouds filled with regret. Knowing me had proved unhealthy—no, make that fatal–for at least three people since I had arrived in LA. Poor Scarlett deserved a better fate as did Light Fingers Louie. And John, who hadn't bothered to help Kong pummel me and, in fact, had forced him to stop, shouldn't have been on the receiving end of a deadly weapon. My soaring spirits were crashing in flames like the Hindenburg over the New Jersey shore.

  Polish Phil had warned me to watch my back. I guess he meant it in a manner of speaking since the apartment didn't have a full-length mirror. Now I needed good, solid advice from him. I called but got a pal of his, Fred Feeney, aka Freddy the Freeloader, a retired cop whose reputation for corruption while on the force had been almost as legendary as the Polack's. Phil, it turned out, was in St. Salome's Hospital recovering from an emergency appendectomy or some such disease. I told Fred, who was watering Phil's plants and doubtlessly helping himself to whatever booze Phil had not had the chance to hide, to give our mutual pal my regards and to tell him that I was trying to watch my back.

  I was annoyed that Phil had picked this time to have his appendix act up. Why now? Some consideration for the mess that I'm in seemed in order. Still, I owed him a lot and was not about to become an ingrate.

  Dotty was at home when I called. I told her about Phil and my wish to send him a small get-well gift.

  “How small, Mr. D? As small as the Christmas gifts you've been giving me and everyone else as long as I've known you?”

  I was sorry that this albatross around my neck had been at home when I called. I told her to watch the sass, especially since Christmas was less than eleven months away and that her gift could go from small to microscopic.

  “Well what do you suggest?”

  “Hmm. You could get him a nice pair of galoshes, or better yet, give him yours. They've needed to be thrown away for a long time now, Mr. D. Or you could get him a new can opener. You know, like the ones you're always sending your mother.”

  “I could do either of those, Dotty dear. I could also fire you and make you work permanently in Cousin Elmer's glue factory. But I'm too soft-hearted for that. Look,” I told her, “buy some cheap posies and send them. Don't forget to include a card, unless the florist charges for it, in which case you can write a note with your pretty little fing
ers.”

  “Oh, Mr. D!” She began to cry. “Mr. D, my pretty little fingers aren't pretty any more. I tore a cuticle when I was biting my nails. It still hurts, Mr. D. Do you know what I can do?”

  Indeed I did know what she could do, but as I always say, Mom taught me to be a gentleman. I settled for telling her to send flowers and asking if I had received any messages since my last call. She said “yes” and “no.” I only hoped, but sorely doubted, that the answers came in order to the questions asked.

  I spent a few hours fidgeting and scratching myself in the vain hope that such activity would help me to figure out my problems. No dice. The more I fidgeted and scratched, the further away seemed a solution.

  I was glad to see Mumbles when he returned late in the afternoon. I hoped that he could see the road through the mist once I laid out everything before him, including the fact that I possessed the two little black books that a couple of people would give an eyetooth for. My hope was that it would be their eyeteeth and not mine.

  Hearing that I needed a serious discussion with him, my friend said to hang on while he fixed himself a drink, loosened his flowered tie, and took off his brown scuffed shoes. This was not a good way to begin the discussion: his feet smelled as though they had spent too much time in the trenches during the Great War. But he said he was all ears, although that seemed an exaggeration since his ears looked quite normal to me. He took a sip of his Manhattan and told me to go ahead and shoot. I asked him not to use that expression in light of all the murder and mayhem I had witnessed

  Either he was tired from the day's work or from listening to my story, or both, but his head began to nod and his mouth to drop open. That is, until I mentioned the matter of the black books and told him that both were in my possession.

  Mumbles's head snapped to attention like a doughboy in France when General MacArthur passed by. He didn't salute but he did snarl. “I can't believe it. You mean you had those books all along and didn't bother to tell me? What's the matter with you? I get you a job, I let you live here with me, and suddenly I'm a nogoodnik who can't be trusted? Some friend you turned out to be!”

  Mumbles had a point. It wasn't that I distrusted him, it was that as a gumshoe I had learned the hard way not to trust too easily. Besides, I told myself, the more he knew, the more he would be putting himself in harm's way. But now he knew the score and was sore as hell. I did my best to sooth his rustled feathers.

  “Listen, Marty, I was only trying to protect you. I don't want you to be in the same mess that I'm in. Do you want to get on the wrong side of Kong and Blatt?”

  That did the trick. Mumbles mumbled, grabbed a beer, and told me that we'd find a way out. Then I grabbed some Jack Daniel's and some peanuts. That might not help us find a solution to what ailed me, but I was thirsty and hungry.

  We batted ideas back and forth. I did most of the batting, Mumbles most of the catching. But no home runs. Finally, Mumbles announced his grand plan. Get in touch with Blatt, tell him you have the book, want to give it to him, and want to settle up. Tell him that you had a good reason for not having told him before, but don't say anything about the other book. As for that other book, hold on to it. Give it to the police and you might end up like Kong's partner, because you never know who on that stinking force is a friend of Kong's.

  What Mumbles said, or at least what I heard him say, made sense. I wanted out, and his suggestion pointed me to the door. Sure, something inside told me to continue after the killer or killers. But I was tired, very tired, and not a little scared, I wasn't ashamed to say, for my own skin.

  We hoisted another drink to toast our success, tentative though it was. Then we went to Clifton's Brookdale Cafeteria for some hearty grub. By the time we got back, it was late. Mumbles said he had to get up early, and I was exhausted from too much thinking. Besides, I wanted to be good and rested for tomorrow when I would call Blatt.

  Chapter 23

  I woke up early, but not as early as Mumbles, who had left by the time I was sitting down to breakfast and gulping down some Maxwell House. I had to admit that I felt good after last night's talk with the Mumbler. He had put matters into perspective for me. No question about it. He had turned out to be a better friend than I could have imagined.

  I called to make an appointment to see Fatso Blatt. I told Miss Snooty Pants, his secretary, that I was available all day. She said that she was sure that Mr. Blatt would be thrilled to see one of his most reliable and gifted associates. I thought that sarcasm rather than honey was dripping from her overpainted lips, but who knows? Maybe she had come to appreciate my true worth. Unfortunately, the fat guy was currently tied up in conference and had other appointments. But she said that she'd get back to me once his meeting ended and see if he could squeeze me in. I told her that it was very important, and she asked where she had heard that before. I told her that I didn't know, but that it was probably a common saying. Then she said that I was not only reliable and gifted but bright as well. That made me feel good, although the thought crossed my mind that she was high on something or other that she shouldn't be high on as far as local and state authorities and the FBI were concerned. But let's face it: my irresistible charm had won her over.

  An hour or so later Blatt himself called to say that he was up to his fat neck—well, he didn't call it fat, probably because he was nearsighted and not looking into a mirror—in meetings, but that I should come around to his little abode in the evening, say, about eight o'clock. We could have a few drinks and discuss this whole Scarlett business in comfort, he explained. He apologized for having been angry with me, citing the pressures of his work. It's time that we discussed matters like the gentlemen that we are, he added. I was touched and told him that the offer was real white of him but that I had no idea where he lived.

  “No problem, Mr. DeWhiff, come with your pal Mr. Hardy. He's been here before, and I'm sure he won't mind bringing you.”

  I could see a light drizzle falling upon the City of Angels but, more important, I could also see a light glimmering at the end of the dark tunnel from which I had been trying to escape. Mumbles would take me to Blatt's, and I would hand over Scarlett's book and collect my reward, along with a couple of drinks. Then I would say bye-bye to Marty and LA, and return to my own beloved city.

  I had to take care of two important matters, however. First, I rang up Mumbles to tell him what was what and to make sure that he could drive me. Someone claiming to be his secretary answered the phone and said that Mr. Martin Hardy was indisposed but that she would take a message. I gave her the message. I also wondered what she meant by “indisposed.” The moans of pleasure I could hear gave me a pretty good idea: Mumbles must have been eating some food he particularly liked.

  Next I called Blatt's office and told his secretary to inform her employer that I preferred Jack Daniel's.

  “And here I thought that you preferred women,” the nasty battleaxe snorted. “But then I guess that beggars with a mug like yours can't be choosey.”

  I said a few things to her in return that can't be repeated in polite company. Nor impolite company for that matter.

  Mumbles was in high spirits when he returned. I figured that he had got himself an efficient and reliable secretary unlike mine.

  “What secretary?” Mumbles asked as he munched on a candy bar. “I ain't had a secretary since I left the Big City.”

  That puzzled me, but I wasn't about to waste time on it. We had to make plans for what I should say to Blatt and how far I should go in pressing him for a sweet bonus.

  “The sky's the limit, buddy. You're holding all the cards, if you know what I mean.”

  I wasn't holding any cards, as he could plainly see. In fact, I hadn't been holding any cards since the night I lost my shirt playing with a couple of sharpies back home. Fortunately, it was an old shirt, and, more fortunately, I quit before I lost my pants as well.

  Mumbles caught my confusion and cleared up matters. “Play it by ear, buddy boy, and I'll step
in to help if it's necessary. Then you'll get the dough, hand over the book, and we'll go celebrate somewhere.”

  It sounded good. However, what I didn't know at the time was that it would prove too good to be true.

  Mumbles fixed some grub for us to scarf down, and then we headed for Blatt's home, located somewhere in the lonely Hollywood Hills. I wondered who would want to live so far away from the center of the city. Mumbles told me not to kid myself, that wealthy people were already making the Hills their homes. It was too dark to tell if the Mumbler was right, but once we arrived shay Blatt, as the Frenchies would say, I didn't doubt him. “Little abode”? Hell, even in the dark Blatt's place looked more like a castle to me, not that I had ever seen a castle, of course. “Big” and “more big” described it. This guy Blatt must have more simoleons than I figured. The Depression? Hollywood mustn't have heard about it, considering the way it pays people associated with the movies. Or maybe Blatt had hit it big with the fillies at Hollywood Park. Or maybe he was part of the corruption that, I gathered, seemed to be spreading like a cancer throughout this otherwise pretty nice town. In any case, I sensed that he needed the return of Scarlett's book because there was something rotten in the state of Norway—or was it Sweden?–as the Beard of Avon said.