“Luna Martin,” Carlotta supplied impatiently. “Papa, he killed Arthur.”
“Why would I kill Arthur?”
“To get him off your client. Because he threatened to kill you. How do I know?” Carlotta said, looking around now for an ashtray for the cigarette she had barely touched. One of the two men in suits came up with one for her.
“I can’t dance,” said Cortona sadly, touching his leg. “Been like this since I was a kid. Truck got me in an alley in Palermo. Driver was a kid like me, doing a job. Only, he didn’t come out of the alley.” Cortona nodded at the two men in suits, who moved toward me as I backed up.
“I just have three questions,” I said, remembering that my.38 was on the desk of John Cawelti.
“What?” asked Carlotta.
The two guys in suits were coming on. They were both bigger than they had looked across the room.
“Who introduced Luna to your husband?”
“How should I know?”
“Two more questions and then. .” Cortona said.
“The black Buick in the driveway. That yours?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Last question,” said Cortona.
“What do you do with your old purses?”
“My old. .”
“You throw them away?” I asked.
“That’s four questions,” Cortona said. “You’re over the limit and you’re asking stupid questions.”
“I keep my old purses. I don’t throw things away. I’m a pack rat,” Carlotta said. “I hold onto my memories. And I’ll hold onto the memory of what’s gonna happen to you right now.”
“No more questions,” said Cortona, thumping his cane on the wooden floor.
I reached back for the door.
“I didn’t kill him,” I said.
“Then,” said Cortona with a shrug, “I’m making a mistake. I have made them in the past.”
I looked at Carlotta. Her veil was back down.
“An accident,” Cortona said. “You got an ocean. You got oil things. Lots of places for an accident.”
They took my arms and turned me out of the room.
“Not too long,” Cortona called. “We’ve got to get to town.”
“I didn’t do it,” I said to the two guys who walked me down the hallway and out the front door.
“We don’t care,” said the taller, heavier one on my right arm.
“Not in the least,” said the other one.
Both were dark. Both were strong. We were on the way down the front steps. Kudlap Singh, the Beast of Bombay, was at the bottom of the steps, directly in our path.
“We’re going for a walk with our friend,” the bigger guy on my right said.
“He is not your friend,” said Singh.
“We’re still going for a walk,” said the bigger guy.
“Peters is a friend to a friend of mine,” said Singh.
“That is interesting,” said the big guy, looking at his watch. “We’re in a hurry.”
“I think you should allow him to get in his car and drive away,” Singh said, barring the path.
The guy on my left arm let go and reached under his open jacket. Singh stepped forward and grabbed his wrist. The guy’s hand came out clutching a gun. The other guy let me go and went for his gun. I gave him a solid punch to the neck, usually effective and it didn’t hurt your knuckles. Both of Guiseppi Cortona’s men were on the ground. The one Singh had grabbed was clutching a broken wrist. His gun was nowhere in sight. The other guy was on his knees, gasping like an asthmatic.
“Go,” Singh said to me.
“Come on,” I said.
“I have a vehicle,” he said. “I will find other work. Perhaps the war will end soon and I’ll be able to return to India.”
The one I had punched was trying to stand. His hands were around his neck. It looked as if he were trying to strangle himself.
“Thanks,” I said.
I ran to my Crosley, got in, started it, and almost caught the bumper of the Lincoln as I made it through a narrow space between car and house. In the rearview mirror, I saw the two bad guys trying to pull themselves together. Guiseppi wasn’t going to be happy with them. They would have been better off coming with me.
Singh stood waiting till I was down the driveway and just about to hit the road. Then he turned slowly and walked around toward the rear of the house.
I found a turnoff about half a mile down the road, pulled in, parked where I wouldn’t be seen by anyone driving by, and waited. The wait was short, about two minutes. Kudlap Singh drove past in a blue coupe. He was definitely breaking the speed limit. About five minutes later, the Lincoln zipped by in a big hurry, but I got a glimpse of the guy I had hit in the neck. He was driving. The one with the broken wrist was next to him in the passenger seat, and I saw or imagined I saw Carlotta and her old man in the back.
I drove back to the Forbes house, my heart pounding in time to the oil derricks. The front door wasn’t locked. They had left in a rush, though I was sure Cortona had made at least one phone call before they piled into the Lincoln.
I found a phone on the second floor in what looked like the master bedroom: big, blue-and-white wallpaper, a bed with a dark wooden headboard the size of Rhode Island. I made two calls and started my search. It took me fifteen minutes and four rooms, but I found what I was looking for.
Forbes had said his wife was a pack rat, that she didn’t throw anything away, not a grudge, not an old dress. He was right.
I headed for my car.
I knew a few more things than I knew before I had made the trip.
The most important thing I had learned was who had killed Arthur Forbes. At least I thought I knew. I was more sure of something else. Fred Astaire’s life was in danger.
Chapter Thirteen: Dancing at the Moving Picture Ball
I pushed the Crosley, but there was no way I could get more than forty-five miles an hour out of it. I made one quick stop for gas, a Whiz bar, and an apple. I listened to Elmer Davis on the radio and tried to come up with more of a plan than I had. No use.
Davis reminded his listeners that the United States was an awesome power. We had put together an army of twelve million men and we were fighting two powerful empires at the same time. We had a navy bigger than the combined fleets of our enemies and allies. And we were still able to record a twenty-percent increase in annual civilian spending. Davis closed by saying that, “To America, war is a business, not an art.”
It was almost dark when I got back to L.A. and pulled into a parking spot on Wilshire between a fire hydrant and a Rolls-Royce. The street was packed and the lights were bright at the Wiltern Theater. When darkness hit so would the curfew, but there were still a few minutes. I ducked traffic and ran across the street to the front of the theater, where my brother Phil and Steve Seidman stood waiting.
“You’re late,” Phil said, checking his watch.
“Did they start?” I asked.
“I got the schedule,” said Seidman. “Ritz Brothers open, followed by Jane Withers and Allan Jones. Then Fred Astaire and Rita Hayworth. Show closes with Alice Faye and Phil Harris.”
“You see Guiseppi Cortona and his daughter go in?” I asked.
“Who knows?” Phil said. “This better be something, Tobias.”
“They’re in there. Forbes told me he had tickets. Let’s go,” I said, heading for the lobby door.
“This is bullshit,” Phil said, holding his ground.
“We’ve got no time for this,” I said, “but here.”
I took out what I had found hidden at the Forbes house and handed it to Phil. I showed him where he should look.
“Carlotta Forbes took dancing lessons at On Your Toes Dance Studio. Her teacher was Luna Martin. They had lots of lessons. Look.”
I flipped the pages of Willie Talbott’s book and showed him.
“And?”
“And,” I said, looking at the lobby and hearing the laughter inside the theater, “I
’d have to say Carlotta introduced Luna to her husband or got Luna to introduce herself.”
“Why?” asked Phil.
“Blackmail. I’d say Carlotta was in bed with Willie and maybe even with Luna,” I said.
Phil shook his head. He had heard it all before and seen it all. He was an L.A. cop.
“That’s life,” I said.
“So,” said Phil, “Carlotta murders Luna. Carlotta goes for Willie Talbott’s book to keep us from finding her connection to the dead woman. She kills Willie. No more blackmailers. Then. .”
A couple in full evening dress hurried in late.
“Forbes finds out, maybe finds the book and has it out with Carlotta, tells her, father or no father, he’s getting rid of her. Or maybe he threatens her with telling Guiseppi. He calls me and Astaire and tells us he wants to talk to us,” I said. “By the time we get there, Carlotta puts a knife in her husband’s heart, gets the book back if she ever lost it, calls the cops to catch me and Astaire with the body.”
More laughter and applause inside the theater.
“Stupid,” Phil said, running his hand over his bristly gray hair. “Why does she want to kill Fred Astaire?”
“Astaire and I went to Willie’s to get the book. She’s afraid Willie showed it to us before he went for the roof where she was waiting for him and she turned over the room and couldn’t find the book. Carlotta knew our Willie and his room pretty well, but. .”
“No,” said Phil.
“I found the book in Carlotta’s closet,” I said. “The killer took it from Willie Talbott. Give me that much.”
Phil and Steve Seidman exchanged looks. Steve closed his eyes and shrugged. We started moving toward the lobby. Posters announcing the “Night of Stars for Victory” were propped up all around.
A pair of men in suits and ties stopped us at the inner door. One of them asked for tickets. Phil showed his badge. The men took turns looking at it and couldn’t make up their minds what to do. Phil made up their minds for them. He pocketed shield and wallet and bulled past the men, one of whom said, “Wait just a goddamn minute.”
But we didn’t wait. We opened the inner doors and went in.
The theater was packed and in a good mood. Jane Withers was on stage with Allan Jones. Harry Ritz was peeking, goggle-eyed, around the curtain on the right of the stage. Every time Withers or Jones looked toward the curtain, Ritz disappeared. The audience went wild.
Cortona was in about the fourteenth row on the right. He was easy to find. There was an empty seat next to him and he was the only one not laughing at Harry Ritz. Seidman and Phil moved to the exit door on the left and went through. I excused my way into the seat next to Cortona, stepping on the foot of Edith Head. Cortona glanced at me but didn’t seem surprised to see me.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said.
Cortona didn’t answer.
“This Carlotta’s seat?”
Cortona was silent.
The audience roared as all three of the Ritz Brothers high-stepped across the stage behind Withers and Jones, who finally caught them.
“Where’s Carlotta?”
Cortona closed his eyes, his chin sagged on the head of the cane held between his legs.
“I warned Arthur when he married her,” he said. “She’s my daughter but she’s not right in the head.”
I had to lean over to hear him over the laughter in the audience and the banter on stage.
“She’s my only child,” Cortona said, his eyes still closed. “But she’s. . she has a streak in her. A temper. I don’t know where she gets it.”
I had some ideas, but this wasn’t the place to bring them out.
“Will you please be quiet?” a man in the row behind us said, leaning forward.
“She wanted me dead,” I whispered to the old man. “And she wants Astaire dead.”
He didn’t answer.
“Why?” I asked.
“The book,” he said. “She’s afraid you saw the book. Carlotta and that Luna Martin were. . And she blames you and Astaire for working Luna up.”
“She’ll be caught before. .” I said.
“She doesn’t care,” he said, shaking his head. “I can tell big men with guns and knives what to do and they do it. But with her. .”
The applause suddenly boomed and Jane Withers did a gee-whiz introduction of Astaire and Rita Hayworth. I eased my way back into the aisle and went for the door Phil and Seidman had taken.
There were two guards in brown uniforms at the stage entrance. One of them held up his hand. The other one said, “Toby, what the hell is going on? Phil just blew by and the place is going nuts.”
The guard was Barry Lorie. We had both worked security at Warner Brothers. Good man, bad legs.
“Someone’s trying to kill Astaire,” I said.
“Shit you say.”
“Straight up, Barry. You see a thin, good-looking dark woman back here, all in black?”
“Lots of ’em,” said Barry. “In black, white, pink, red. You name it.”
Astaire and Rita Hayworth were in the wings no more than a dozen feet from me. People were scurrying around. A guy with a clipboard was looking at his watch and doing a countdown. Astaire was in a tux and a toupee. Hayworth was in something black and frilly, her red hair billowed soft.
“Fred,” I called in a loud whisper.
“Keep it down, Toby,” Barry said.
I looked for Phil and Steve and couldn’t find them.
Astaire turned when I called again. He saw me and said, “Toby?”
Rita Hayworth turned toward me, teeth white, lips red, puzzled. The orchestra began to play “Lovely to Look At.”
“Carlotta Forbes did it,” I said. “She’s here tonight. She’s after. .” but Astaire couldn’t hear me over the music.
“Now,” said the guy with the clipboard.
And Hayworth and Astaire flowed onto the stage to wild applause.
“Barry?” I asked.
He nodded and let me pass.
I pushed my way through dancers, comics, and novelty acts, all waiting, all trying to be quiet. No Carlotta. I looked onto the stage where Astaire and Hayworth seemed to float about an inch off the floor. And then I saw her. Carlotta was in the wings on the other side of the stage. She had a big purse in her hand and her hand in the purse.
“I’ve got to get to the other side,” I whispered to an old guy in a cap who was working on the rigging. “Fast.”
“Flat goes clear to the back wall,” he said. “Either go out and around, or you go right across the stage. Lots of people out there.”
Carlotta’s hand was slowly coming out of her purse. I was pretty sure of what was in that hand. I looked around for Phil. Nothing.
I tore off my jacket and tapped the shoulder of a curly-haired guy just about my size. He was whispering to a pretty blonde in a big purple-and-white turban. The guy turned to me. It was Cornel Wilde.
“I need your jacket,” I said.
“My. .”
“Police,” I said, pointing to my empty holster. “Hurry.”
Wilde looked at the blonde and then turned to me, taking off his jacket.
“Anything I can do to help?” he asked.
“Pray,” I said, putting on the jacket and taking the hand of the blonde girl.
“Wait,” she squealed as I pulled her toward the stage.
“We’re gonna dance across that stage,” I said. “We’re gonna save Fred Astaire’s life.”
The blonde turned to Wilde, who said, “Do it.”
I pushed past the guy with the clipboard, took a deep breath, and danced the blonde out onto the stage, doing my best to imagine I was Fred Astaire.
There was a rumble of confused conversation in the audience.
Astaire and Hayworth swirled around and Astaire gave me a questioning look. I nodded toward the far wing and he turned his eyes toward Carlotta, who was definitely taking something out of her purse. I kept dancing. The look on Carlotta’s face mi
ght have said a lot of things. I thought it said, “This is my lucky night. I’ve got them both out there.”
But it was hard to imagine what Carlotta was thinking. She was about to murder a movie star on stage, in front of a few thousand people, to cover up another murder. There was no chance of her getting away with this. And then I realized what she was doing. It was her relationship to Luna Martin she was covering. She didn’t care if she was dragged away in cuffs as long as no one could suggest a relationship to Luna.
I turned, more or less to the music, and the blonde beamed at the audience and guided me through the couple of dozen feet across the stage.
“Light and lead me,” she whispered like a ventriloquist through clenched teeth.
I nodded and looked at her.
I was dancing with Betty Grable.
We had almost made it across the stage when Carlotta, her back to the people in the wing, came out with the gun. Almost, but not quite. I wasn’t going to get to her in time. My best bet was to get Astaire and Hayworth down and hope Carlotta missed. I danced toward them and was about to throw myself onto Astaire and Hayworth when I heard a scuffling over the music and saw my brother grab Carlotta’s wrist, pull the gun from her hand, and pull her back into the shadows.
I was in the middle of the stage now, with Betty Grable in my arms. The lights were in my eyes but I could feel the people out there. Suddenly, somehow, Astaire and Hayworth orchestrated a partner-change and I found Rita Hayworth in my arms. She smelled like the few good memories of my battered life.
The audience went wild with applause. Astaire and Betty Grable went twirling past us.
“You’d better have a goddamn good explanation for this,” Hayworth said with an enormous smile. “And don’t step on my toes.”
I don’t know what I did for the next minute or so. I know I didn’t step on Rita Hayworth’s toes. Then, mercifully, the music stopped. She led me to the front of the stage. Astaire and Grable were there. We all joined hands and bowed. The audience went wild.
The lights were coming up as the curtain slowly lowered in front of us. I looked for Guiseppi Cortona. His seat was empty.
“Explain,” said Rita Hayworth, her hands on her hips when the curtain was all the way down.
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