All That Glitters
Page 23
“Persuading a couple of reluctant guests.” She led me a few feet away. She pulled Leo’s bankbook from inside the bodice of her dress. “I showed this to the DA. He didn’t want to touch it, but he’s going to subpoena De Palma’s bank records.”
I slipped the bankbook into my jacket pocket as Laura escorted Annabelle to the farthest table in back.
With his usual calm, James, the butler, greeted every guest. Hoping to get a final read on each suspect, I stood at the entrance to the ballroom and welcomed everyone like I was hosting a dinner party.
Christine arrived on William Powell’s arm. She acted as if I wasn’t there, no doubt fearing her personal life would become public before the night was over.
Powell shook my hand. “I’m probably one of the few people looking forward to this evening. I’ll be taking notes so I’ll be prepared when filming starts on The Thin Man. Unfortunately, Christine doesn’t share my enthusiasm for tonight’s activities.”
Christine passed by, and Powell gave me a slashing gesture to his throat.
Laura greeted both with kisses and led Hollywood’s newest couple to their seats.
Minutes later, Roland Harper arrived, impeccably dressed as always, smiling like he’d come to a Hollywood premiere. He grabbed a drink from the bar and worked the guests, shaking men’s hands and complimenting women on their evening wear.
James greeted Sonny and his mother, Angie, who looked demure in an orange dress the shade of autumn leaves. Her son wore long pants for a change. He grinned and nudged me in the ribs as he went by.
Pat Lonigan handed James his straw hat then stopped beside me. “What’s this about, Jake?”
“Tomorrow’s headline.”
He patted me on the shoulder and headed for the bar. With a tall drink, he found his place on the opposite side of the room from a table reserved for Louella Parsons.
When Louella arrived, everyone seemed to freeze in mid-sentence. The maker and breaker of so many Hollywood careers squeezed my hands then winked. “I take it the party will be over before my nine o’clock deadline.”
“That’s the plan.” I showed her to a table at the front of the room.
“Good luck.” She pulled a notepad and pen from her purse. “I really mean that.”
I returned to the ballroom entrance and straightened my tie. I had on the same tux I wore the night of the party, but without a bloodstained shirt. Everyone was dressed in formal wear as they had been that night. Drinks flowed, but little else was the same.
I was counting on those responsible for Eric’s murder believing that I knew each and every detail of the plot and that I would reveal the details with or without their cooperation. With more than one person responsible, I relied on them pointing fingers at others to make themselves look like minor players in the crime.
Just before seven, Slick Ray Gambino and Leo De Palma arrived, looking like they’d rather be anywhere else.
Behind them stood the reason they came, Detective Gus Connolly. He wore a tux he probably hadn’t worn in years.
I shook Gambino’s hand. “I never thanked you for the loan of the Chevrolet.”
“It’s yours as long as you need it.”
Hopefully, that wouldn’t be much longer. I held out my hand to Leo. “You ever find your wallet?”
He slapped my hand away.
Gambino pushed him away from me. “Relax, goombah.”
Leo smoothed the lapels on his jacket and sneered as he followed his boss inside.
I nodded to James, who disappeared into the kitchen and returned with Todd and Norman Carville. The old man shuffled beside his son, until he reached the doorway. There, he assumed the bearing of a studio head. He clapped me on the back. “Even if this doesn’t work, at least you talked my way out of the hospital.”
“It’ll work.” I placed the odds at less than fifty-fifty.
Todd appeared to relish the accountant appearance, no doubt benefiting from other people underestimating him. I’d come to learn more of his true nature, his abhorrence of those less fortunate, and his love for the “finer” things in life that only money could provide. He followed Norman into the ballroom to a spattering of applause. He escorted his father to the front of the room, where the old man sat beside Louella Parsons.
At the entrance to the room, Laura straightened my tie and kissed my cheek. “Please be careful, darling.”
Like me, she was certain Eric’s killer was present. A murderer, even a cornered one, wouldn’t give up. I didn’t want anyone hurt, including myself, so inside my tux I’d slipped a .38 I’d brought from New York. If that wasn’t enough, Annabelle and Gus were ready to apprehend the killer.
I summoned Blackie Doyle’s swagger; okay, maybe it was Jake Donovan’s swagger all along. I winked at Laura and led her into the ballroom. The buzz quieted as she sat beside Mildred.
I made my way to the front of the room. “May I have your attention, please? Some of you know me as a mystery writer. Some of you know me as a former Pinkerton detective. Most of you don’t know me at all.”
A few chuckles rippled through the guests. I strolled between the tables, seeking to exude an air of supreme confidence.
The flush on Christine’s face made her look like her blood was ready to boil. “What the hell is this all about?”
A balding man at the next table slid his chair back and stood. “Yeah. A couple of cops show up at my house and twist my arm to attend a party at the Carvilles’. What gives?”
“I’m helping the police solve Eric Carville’s murder. You have any objection to that?”
He meekly shook his head and sat.
“Are we suspects?” Roland Harper asked.
“All your questions will be answered.” I glanced at my watch. “For the evening’s entertainment, within the hour, I’ll reveal the identity of the killer, who’s sitting at one of these tables.”
I forced myself not to stare at Leo, as a murmur swept through the crowd. Now I had their attention. William Powell held up a glass in a silent salute then downed the booze in one gulp.
I winked at Mildred, who followed my every move. “Let’s get started.”
I began by describing the events that had occurred after Laura and I left the party. An intoxicated Eric climbed the stairs to his room and waited for a woman, who joined him a short while later.
Everyone in the ballroom gazed around, trying to guess the woman’s identity. I skipped the details of the rendezvous, except for describing the two glasses. As I weaved through the tables, I explained how the killer planted a suicide note and put one of the glasses in the drawer before shooting a sleeping Eric Carville.
James was standing in the doorway. I stopped beside Todd’s table and gestured toward the butler’s place card. “James, please have a seat. Tonight you’re a guest, like everyone else.” I resisted the urge to point to him and shout, The butler did it! “What time did you discover the body?”
His normally calm appearance vanished as he sat beside Todd and rattled off information like a tommy gun spitting lead. “I was in the kitchen supervising the staff cleanup. At midnight, a bang came from upstairs. I could tell it was a gunshot because it sounded the same as a stage prop I used back in my acting days. I ran up the back stairs.” He grabbed a glass in front of him and downed half the water. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
In my mind, the butler wasn’t a suspect. Still, I felt certain he’d lied about Christine being the woman who’d slipped into Eric’s bed the night of the party. “You’re doing fine.”
“The door to Eric’s room was open, and I…I…Eric was dead.” He set the glass down. “I told all of this to the police.”
I tried to sound reassuring. “Of course you did, but how did you know he was dead? Did you check for a pulse?”
“I…I should have. I must’ve been in shock. I’m not sure how long I stood like that. The next thing I remember, Todd burst in, let out a cry, and fell to his knees, shouting to the Lord.”
Todd spoke in a whisper, and the room quieted. “I’d just finished a dance with Angie. I knew right away it was a gunshot. I dashed up the stairs off the foyer. James was standing in the doorway like some statue.”
I shrugged. “Well, he is a butler.”
Todd ignored my attempt at disarming humor. “I brushed past James and”—his voice cracked—“and found Eric.”
“It must’ve been horrible to see your brother that way.”
He wiped a tear with a folded napkin. “He’d been shot in the temple. In his hand was the Colt .45 he kept in his nightstand. I knew then his death was a suicide.”
“Why would your brother want to kill himself?”
“His career, and the studio’s future, was riding on the success of Midnight Wedding. Apparently, everyone had problems with the script he wrote. Including you.”
“Did he seem depressed to you?” At the party Eric danced and drank too much, which seemed to be in character for him, according to nearly everyone.
“As the start of filming neared, my brother grew increasingly morose, keeping to himself, drinking until he passed out. He was well on his way that night.”
That was true. “The police ruled out suicide. Who do you think murdered your brother?”
“I still believe Eric killed himself.”
I turned to a table behind Todd’s. Christine’s heel tapped below her chair, no doubt worried what questions I might ask her. She stared at her drink. With her forehead wrinkled like an accordion, she barely resembled the flashy Hollywood star I’d first met at Union Station.
In the past twenty-four hours I’d concluded as many as three people might have been involved in Eric’s death: the shooter, the person who ordered the hit, and perhaps a third person who helped the killer get in, get out, and get away.
Ignoring a second drink, William Powell sat beside Christine, holding her hand and offering words of comfort. What a guy.
I couldn’t imagine her involvement, but I couldn’t afford to go easy on her. “You sensed something in Eric others didn’t, am I right?”
Christine’s glower felt like a noose tightening around my neck. “Why don’t you quit flapping your gums and say what’s on your mind?”
“Okay.” I crossed my arms. “Were you in love with Eric Carville?”
Christine snorted laughter. “Me? In love? Come on. During the past year, we went out a few times and had some laughs. Behind his abrasive exterior, Eric was terribly insecure, like a little boy, really. Most people only noticed the coarse side, but if I avoided abrasive men in Hollywood, I might as well be a nun.”
Most of the guests laughed.
I wasn’t one of them. “Would you describe the last time you saw Eric alive?”
“I…I’m not certain. One minute Eric was downing whiskey shots, the next he disappeared. I assumed he was out on the deck, heaving over the railing or in a john somewhere.” She held William Powell’s hand. “I was dancing when I heard shouts coming from upstairs. The music stopped, and…I don’t remember much after that.”
I didn’t want to embarrass her, but I needed an answer to a critical question. “Were you aware Eric kept a gun in his nightstand drawer?”
Christine defiantly thrust out her jaw. “Yes.”
At his table, Pat Lonigan set his notepad open in front of him. He hadn’t written anything yet and wasn’t likely to unless I uncovered something to write about.
Louella Parsons appeared considerably more interested. Beside her, Norman Carville appeared to listen with rapt attention.
At a table next to the dance floor, Roland Harper lit a Chesterfield, looking confident, poised, and debonair. I suspected his confidence came from spending most of his life keeping a secret. Had he shared everything about Eric’s murder with the cops?
I stopped beside the actor’s table. “You saw a different side to Eric.”
Roland tapped the cigarette against the ashtray. “Like Christine, I, too, ignored Eric’s abrasive exterior, but I saw something she didn’t or wouldn’t. He was mean, cruel, and enjoyed making people suffer. He was a top-notch villain in a city of villains.”
From the corner of my eye, I spotted Angie nodding. Laura and I had uncovered her relationship with Todd, but I knew nothing about her feelings for Eric.
Roland took a long puff and blew smoke toward the empty dance floor. “I tolerated Eric because he was a Carville.” He tipped his hand to Norman. “Sorry, Mr. Carville.”
“In fact, you despised him,” I said.
“Okay, sure.”
“Enough to kill him?”
Roland crushed out the half-smoked cigarette. He folded his hands on the table and retained his calm bearing. “I didn’t kill Eric Carville, Mr. Donovan.”
“Do you know who did?”
“To tell you the truth, since I heard someone shot the bastard, I haven’t really given it a lot of thought.”
I believed him.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed Gus drumming his fingers next to a coffee cup, like the evening was a complete waste of his time. He rose and stood beside the French doors, arms folded. Annabelle appeared even more bored than Gus as she doodled on a notepad.
Gambino had an empty glass in front of him and a second was half full. He seemed to be enjoying the evening, while Leo displayed the same scowl he’d worn trashing our hotel suite.
I stopped beside his table and set my foot on a chair beside Gambino. “Word is Eric was into you for some big-time money over a gambling debt.”
Gambino sipped his drink. “Come on, Jake. You’re wasting everyone’s time. I barely knew the guy. I’m a businessman. All I know is, the debt was paid. He was all square, a customer in good standing.”
“Nice of him to pay up before he got knocked off, don’t you think? He spend a lot of time at your joint?”
“Joint? Come on, my place ain’t no joint. Like I said, he was a decent customer. Doesn’t mean he was a decent guy, but why would I want to kill a customer?” Gambino downed the rest of the drink.
I jerked my thumb toward Leo. “This your accountant?”
Gambino chuckled. “Leo has a degree in accounting. He’s responsible for a great many of my business interests, but mostly he handles security for the organization.”
“He ever freelance?”
“Freelance?” Gambino laughed. “You mean, like doing income taxes as a favor for a neighbor or dame?”
I shook my head. “More like freelance security.”
Gambino’s eyes narrowed. “I know what you’re getting at. None of my boys freelance. That’s why they’re employees.” The very idea seemed preposterous to him. “Ask him yourself.”
I removed my shoe from the chair. “How ‘bout it, Leo? You ever do any independent ‘security’ work Mr. Gambino doesn’t know about?”
Leo jumped up and glared like he wanted to rip off my head and spit down my neck. He surely had his .45 under his jacket.
Tension crackled through the ballroom. Everyone seemed to have their hands on the edge of their tables, ready to duck for cover in case lead flew.
Annabelle stuck her hand in her purse. Gus circled the tables and moved close enough to help, if I needed it.
My gumshoe days taught me never to show fear. I didn’t flinch and held my ground.
When Gambino tugged on Leo’s arm, the hit man sat back down in his chair. “Mr. Donovan’s trying to pull a fast one, Mr. Gambino. I work for you. You pay me well.”
I nodded toward Laura. I had things under control, even if I’d taken a gamble tightening the screws on a Chicago gangster. “Where were you the night of the murder?”
Leo ran a finger on the side of his starched, white shirt collar. “Playing poker at Mr. Gambino’s club.”
“Gambling’s illegal.”
&nbs
p; Leo chuckled. “Penny ante only. Purely recreational.”
“Recreational? What about that, Mr. Gambino?” I asked. “Was Leo playing poker at your club the night Eric Carville was murdered?”
Gambino’s eyes never left Leo’s. “I was out of town, but the boys will back up his story.”
“I’m sure they will, but that doesn’t mean they’ll be telling the truth.”
Leo leaped to his feet again. He lunged and grabbed my lapels.
A woman shrieked and chair legs squeaked as people backed away from the confrontation.
I smacked Leo’s arms away and reached for my gun but kept it in my jacket as Gambino pulled his security man off me.
“Jake, why don’t you back off and let Leo cool down?”
When Gus moved between the two gangsters and me, I took a breath to calm myself and regain my air of certainty. I still had to expose the person responsible for the hit. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back.”
I straightened my jacket and patted Gus on the shoulder. I passed the table with Sonny and his mother, Angie, who held a wrinkled handkerchief. I stopped beside Christine’s chair. “Just a couple more questions.”
Christine blew out a breath. “Goody for me.”
I pointed to Gambino’s table. “You and Eric ever visit Mr. Gambino’s speakeasy?”
“Once or twice.”
“I presume you’ve met Mr. Gambino.”
Christine shrugged. “It’s not like we’re friends. Like I said, I’ve only been to his club a couple—”
“What about that weasel seated next to him?”
“No.” She glanced at Leo, who looked like he could barely contain his rage. “I think I’d remember a man like him.”
The hair on the back of my neck tingled as it often did when I was close to something important. “Someone slipped away the night of the party and went upstairs to Eric’s room—”
“It wasn’t me!” Christine smacked the table with her hand, nearly toppling Powell’s drink.
Hoping to catch her off guard, I turned and faced Angie Burkheart. “Do you know who slept with Eric the night he was murdered?”
A trembling hand flew to her mouth.
Sonny held out both hands. “We left just before you and Miss Wilson, Jake.”