The only thing I learned that I hadn't known before was that, shortly before Roger Brane's body was found, there had been a terrific hand-to-hand combat, apparently of titanic proportions, between Brane and an unnamed but well-known Los Angeles private detective who lived in Hollywood. They did everything but say, "Shell Scott of the Hamilton Building on Broadway."
That spoiled my plans to order a second sirloin. I swore silently to myself, then read the funnies. They didn't help. It was no good getting griped at any more people; I had enough gripes to last me a long time. I finished my coffee, paid the check, and took off for Magna Studios.
I wanted to check with the guard, Johnny Brown, and Mace or no Mace, it was high time I chatted with Wandra Price.
Johnny said cheerily, "Hi, Shell," when I walked up.
"Hi, Johnny. You do me any good?"
"Yup." He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.
"Well," I said, "so it paid off? Which one of the boys got the jumps?"
"Not boys."
I wiggled my eyebrows a little. "Which one of the girls, then?"
"It wasn't one."
"Huh? It wasn't? If it wasn't a man or a woman, what was it? Lassie?"
He grinned. "That's not what I meant. I mean it wasn't one woman. It was four."
"Four!"
"Yep. Four of 'em had fits or something. Here's the list."
He handed me the list of names and I started at the top and worked my way down. Hallie Wilson was right at the top, but I knew about her and should have expected her name. Then there were two big feminine stars: Constanza Carmocha and Barbara Faun. Both of them up at the top and always good for a line in front of the theatre box offices.
But it was the last name that blasted me. Maybe it shouldn't have, but it did. You way ahead of me?
Wandra Price.
Uh-huh, Wandra "I'm protective about her" Price. This was getting better, and maybe there was a way out of the fog I'd been living in. Or maybe just out of the living.
"Johnny," I said. "Let me use your phone. I want to check the other studios—the big ones. See if they had fits over there, too."
He beamed. "You forgot I was a cop, Shell. I already did it for you. No soap."
"Business as usual?"
"Business as usual. You like it?"
"I like it fine, Johnny. Thanks a hell of a lot."
"Glad to do it, Shell. I—uh. . . "
I grinned at him. "Looks like you're back on the team."
"True," he said. "I'm a cluck." He stuck out his hand and I shook it, and it felt good.
"Here. Gimme the slip," he said. "Why these four are listed is this." He pointed at the top name. "Hallie Wilson just didn't show up."
"I know. How about the rest?"
He slid his finger down. "Neither did Barbara Faun. Don't know if the studio's heard from her or not, I just know she didn't show. That was yesterday. But none of 'em is here today, either."
"All four gone today?"
"Right. This Constanza, she was here yesterday, but she must of threw a fit right in the middle of a take. She says she can't work with such a stupid director, but he hasn't even said hello to her. Maybe means nothing; she's done it before."
"Temperament?"
"Yup. That's the way we spell temper here. She's a Spanish tomato. With chili peppers in her ears."
"I've seen her pictures." I grinned at him and gnashed my teeth.
He leered and got a vacant look in his eyes for a minute, then said, "Wandra Price come out but said she was sick. They let her go home. Guess she didn't look so good."
"Fine, Johnny. One more favor if you can. I'd like their addresses. I'm curious to see why they all came down with hysterics right after Brane got it."
He fumbled around behind his counter, wrote down the addresses opposite the stars' names, and handed me the slip.
"Thanks, Johnny. You need anything, drop down and see me."
"Sure thing, Shell. Let me know how it goes." He frowned and paused a moment. Then he said slowly, "Say, Shell, I—uh—I hope you didn't want it kept a secret I was getting this dope."
"I didn't think much about it," I said. "It was just an idea when I asked you for the stuff. Why?"
"Well, I had to do quite a bit of checking to find out who all was mixed up. You know. Anyway, it's no secret what dope I been getting for you. Might be somebody wouldn't be happy."
"Yeah," I said. "I see what you mean. It's O.K., though, Johnny. And thanks."
He had a point there. If I was stirring up trouble for somebody, there was an excellent chance they'd be happy to do the same for me. With that thought I started to take off for the Cad. I started to, but I suddenly remembered something that should have puzzled me before, something I'd heard and absorbed and paid no attention to. I turned around and walked back to Johnny.
"How about letting me inside for a few minutes?" I asked him.
"O.K. You forget something?"
"Uh-huh." I took the pass, thanked him, and went inside. I found Paul Clark at the cutting room again and we went to the Velvet Room for coffee.
When we were settled, I asked him abruptly, "Didn't you give me a song and dance yesterday, Clark?"
His brown eyes stared at me from his sunburned face. "What the hell you talking about?" he asked.
"You said you couldn't tell me any more than you had about Brane. You knew him a while back, didn't you? Before Hollywood?"
He swallowed and fingered his long, pointed nose. "So? Where did I know him?"
"Kansas City." I was taking a chance of making a fool of myself, but it might pay off with something. With what, I didn't know, but I've made a fool of myself before.
Clark said harshly. "So I knew the louse in K.C. How'd you find that out?"
"Part guessing," I said agreeably. "When Brane was popping off at you Tuesday night at the party, he mentioned something about shoving your face clear back to Kansas City, Missouri."
Clark frowned and ran fingers through his hair. "He say that? Guess I don't remember." Then he shrugged. "Well, what about it?"
I said, "You told me you couldn't tell me any more about the guy."
He shook his head and grinned. "Scott," he said, "you're sure persistent. But that's not what I told you. I said I couldn't tell you anything that would help you in figuring out why he was killed. And I still can't."
"But you did know Brane back in Missouri?"
"Sure. Four, five years ago," he said resignedly. "That's where I come from. Brane lived there for a while."
That was news. I said, "You two chummy back there?"
"Hell, no." He shook his head. "He was just as big a bastard then."
"Why didn't you tell me this yesterday when I was here, Clark?"
He sighed. "More third degree. Look, Scott, I told you all I knew of any importance yesterday. Why should I say I knew him before? After all, I was at the damn party too. Brane didn't fall off a curb; somebody murdered the crumb. I'm not going to say any more than I have to—and neither is anybody else you talk to."
This time I sighed. There was a lot of truth in what he'd just said. And I wondered how long I'd be getting partial answers or no answers at all. That reminded me of the three Magna stars I was going to talk to and I thought of something else I hadn't checked yet. I still had the list of suspects that Samson had given me and I took it out and compared it with the list I'd got from Johnny Brown. Sure enough, it was what I'd guessed. Barbara Faun, Constanza Carmocha, and Wandra Price were all listed as being present at the party. The only one of the four who wasn't on Samson's list was Hallie Wilson—for the simple reason that she'd taken a powder. I stuck the lists in my pocket and said to Clark, "How long you been around Hollywood?"
"Almost four years. Ever since I left Missouri."
"Why'd you leave?"
He drained his coffee, set the cup on the table, and glared at me. "For a guy who isn't a cop, you sure ask a lot of personal questions."
I grinned. "I kn
ow. Maybe this thing's got me worried. Forget it."
He held up a hand. "It's all right. You must be getting a riding, and it's partly my fault. Cops talk to you yet?"
"Yesterday morning."
"They'll get to me pretty quick," he said. "Just so I answer all your questions, I left Missouri like a lot of other guys. Hell, why not? Truman did. I was going to make some big money in Hollywood. Besides, I felt like a change of climate and scenery." He grinned widely. "I'm single and still young. Where's a better place to be?"
I saw what he meant. "O.K.," I said. "Thanks again. You're apt to get tired of me."
He blinked and grinned slightly. "Scott, I'm tired of you already."
"Then I'm gone. See you around."
I went back to the gate, gave the pass to Johnny, and climbed into the Cad. There didn't seem to be any sense hanging around Magna any longer. All the people I wanted to see now were home. Or at least they weren't at the studio. I checked the list of names and addresses of the stars. Following the shortest route, I'd call on Barbara Faun, then on Constanza Carmocha, and finally on Wandra Price, who lived clear out in the San Fernando Valley.
I decided against phoning and drove the Cadillac up to Santa Monica Boulevard, then left toward Barbara Faun's home in Beverly Hills. I was ringing the doorbell in fifteen minutes, but for a while all I got was echoes. I hated to be so damn noisy with a doorbell, or rather door chimes, but this business was pretty important to me. So I leaned on the bell and let my finger get tired. If anybody was home, they were going to get tired, too.
Finally a window upstairs opened and blonde hair tumbled into the sun as Barbara Faun stuck out her head. I knew it was she; I'd seen three or four of her pictures, and she's a beautiful blonde of about twenty-five or so and well put together.
She called tensely, "Stop it! Go away. I can't stand it!"
I craned my neck up at her. "Miss Faun, I'm Shell Scott. I'm a private detective, and—"
She let out a little squeal that didn't sound like she was glad to see me, yanked her head inside, and slammed down the window. The way she did it I wouldn't have been surprised if she was upstairs piling furniture against the door.
I felt like a louse, but damn it, leaned on the bell some more.
Finally I heard footsteps. Success.
Oh, yeah?
She came to the door, all right. And she opened it. And she stuck a great big disgusting gun right in my kisser.
"Go away!" she almost screamed at me. "Go away! I don't want to talk to you. To anyone. Go—"
I didn't really hear the last part very well because I was fifty feet away grinding the starter in my Cad. That gal was just about ready to blow off the one ear I've still got in one complete piece. Or maybe my head. She'd blown her top already and mine looked like it was next in natural progression. I said good-by, softly, from two blocks away.
I headed for Constanza's place on Doheny Road, a couple of miles or so from where I was, but I wasn't as eager as I'd been a few minutes before. If Constanza had a gun, I'd better go in waving my white handkerchief.
About half a mile from her place I figured that I'd just drive up, park, and walk up like a traveling salesman, grinning and looking as pleasant as possible. I'd make it quick and be out of there in fifteen minutes. I was anxious to get to Wandra's.
There was a little hitch in my plans.
I turned off Sunset and was almost at the end of curving Loma Vista Drive where it meets Doheny Road at the big Doheny Ranch, when the windshield splintered and little cracks radiated out from the center. At first I didn't get it—just for a fraction of a second. Even with all my thinking about guns, I had to see the little round hole in the windshield before the idea penetrated all the way. There were so many ideas whirling around in my brain about all the people in this cockeyed kill that even as I heard the crack of the gun and the slap as the bullet smashed through the glass, the words came slowly, crowding others out of the way as they formed in my mind.
Somebody just tried to kill me!
Chapter Eleven
I YANKED at the wheel of the car and slid over to the right of the road, slamming on my brakes. My .38 was out of its holster and in my right hand before the car stopped. I ducked down out of sight and glanced at the cracked glass, but it didn't tell me much more; the top was down on my car and the bullet hadn't dug into the upholstery or metal anywhere, so it must have come from down low. But where low I had no idea.
I kicked open the right door of the car and waited a few seconds, gathering my legs under me. There was a thick cover of brush along the right of the road, past the curb, and even crouched down at the bottom of the car I could see the heavy wire fence that paralleled the road, set back about six feet from it. Beyond the fence I could make out a lot more brush and shrubbery and the tall trunks of eucalyptus trees. The shot must have come from in there somewhere, and a few feet behind where the car now stood.
There weren't any more shots, so I grabbed a lungful of air, held my breath, and dived out the door of the car. I sprinted for the meager cover of the brush and vines, my eyes trying to find any movement on my right, and my gun ready in my hand.
I made it to the foot of the wire fence and flopped on my stomach without running into any more opposition, and my breathing slowed down a little. Whoever let fly at me could have taken off in a hurry without waiting to see what was up, or could still be somewhere close by, probably inside that damned wire fence, which was higher than my head and had some barbed wire across the top. But before I climbed up over the fence I was going to make sure whoever used me for target practice wasn't on the same side of it as me. If so, there'd be a beautiful chance I'd get a bullet in me while climbing the fence or plodding around inside.
It took me about five minutes, trying to look eight ways at once, but when I got through I knew whoever shot at me was either inside the enclosure or long gone. Probably long gone, but I was going to find out.
It seemed like I was up on top of the fence for an hour waiting for somebody to plug me, but I finally got over and dropped down to the soft earth inside. It was longer dropping down than climbing up because the earth slanted steeply downward inside the fence. I stood behind one of the eucalyptus trees for a minute, looking around, but all I could see was more eucalyptus trees and brush. Finally I made out a house or building of some kind visible through the trees, but nobody seemed to be moving around it.
As a matter of fact, nobody seemed to be moving anywhere, except me, but there was always a chance somebody could be waiting for me to start looking. Somebody with malice aforethought, and I'm chary of my blood. So I skipped from tree to tree, like a sprite, and finally I was up against the fence on the other side, and there was another road beyond it. Doheny Road. Somebody who wanted to pot me could have wheeled up Hillcrest—the next road down Sunset from Loma Vista—turned at Doheny, and then waited for a yellow Cad. Or somebody could simply have been waiting. Or a lot of things. The only thing I was sure of was that it wasn't one of my good friends.
I wandered around for another fifteen minutes and found out only that nobody was home at the little house. Nothing else happened. I'd been playing tag with somebody who was probably miles away having a beer. I tramped around a little more and went back to the Cad, tearing hell out of my trousers getting over the fence again.
Constanza, here I come. If you've got a gun, I'll bat you with it.
Chapter Twelve
CONSTANZA CARMOCHA, red-hot star of Magna Studios and chili-hell on wheels, didn't have a gun.
She didn't need one. She had all the weapons that have ruined men from time immemorial. Or time immoral, I forget. She was a Mexican mamma from Cuernavaca, or so her studio biography read, and she'd never lost her delightful Spanish accent. Her voice wore a Spanish accent, too, but you weren't listening, you were looking.
I parked in front of the house and walked up the flagstone path across the lawn and rang the bell and she opened the door and looked out and I thought, Ay-ay-ay-ay
!
She'd looked good on the screen, but this was different. This was in all three dimensions. She was two feet away, but I felt like she was crowding me. This was almost as dangerous as getting shot at.
I said, "You're Miss Constanza Carmocha?"
"Sure, pops. Why the hell?"
I licked my lips. "Uh, I heard you were sick."
That didn't seem like the way to solve a murder, so I tried again. "I was at Magna Studios. I'm Shell Scott."
She frowned a little. She had lips that wouldn't keep still. They wiggled and fashioned little smiles and little frowns all the time, and her eyes were wide and a deep, dark brown. Finally she said, "So what, pops?"
"It's about Roger Brane. May I come in?"
She started to swing the door shut, then stopped and looked out at me for a minute. Then she pulled the door wide and said, "Hell, you're here. Guess I gotta face it."
"Face what?"
"What you mean, face what?"
"You have to face what? I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
"You kidding?"
I shook my head. "Nope. I would like to ask you some questions, though. I suppose you've read the papers. I. . . There's some people who think maybe I did more than hit Brane."
Her eyes lit up then. "Ho, you're the one what popped him? Come in, brother. Any enemy of Brane's is a friend of mine. I popped him myself once. With an easel. The weasel." She laughed merrily. "Easel-weasel. Come on in. Hell, you're in practically already."
I went in and she stood aside to let me pass, and there wasn't really enough room, but I didn't complain. She pointed to a big easy chair. I sat down. She went across the room and draped herself on a couch.
Bodies in Bedlam (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 8