Browning PI

by Peter Corris

  'No garage?' I said. I didn't fancy leaving the Olds on the street. The road was narrow and winding and anyone coming around the next bend too fast could easily sideswipe it. Repair shop bills were something I didn't need.

  'We're not moving in,' she said.

  You'll gather from that we hadn't been getting along as well as I'd hoped. When I picked her up at Sam's I'd been freshly showered, shaved and cologned. I was wearing my lightweight suit and a newly laundered shirt. The sober, serious private detective, too tough for spats and pearl grey gloves, but looking his best. I might have been wearing bib overalls and Wellington boots for all the notice she took of me. By now, with the heat climbing, some of the gloss was coming off me. I'd loosened my tie and undone the top collar button. I got out of the car and peeled my jacket off. So what if sweat marks showed under my armpits. A healthy man sweats and shows it, especially if he's wearing a dark blue shirt. The hell with her. I lit a cigarette and crossed the road to where she was waiting by a gate in a brushwood fence.

  As soon as I reached her I noticed the change in her manner.

  'Could I have a cigarette?'

  I gave her one and lit it. All very smooth, just showing a little resentment at the way I'd been treated. She blew the smoke over my shoulder, up, up and away towards the mountains where the moguls have their houses. They have swimming pools although they're less than a mile from the sea. I'm told the deer and coyotes like them.

  'This house belongs to Akim Tamiroff,' May Lin said.

  'I can't see him at the beach.'

  'I don't think he ever came here but once. He said the light hurt his eyes.' She smiled. The first one today.

  'I don't think he's ever played a daytime scene,' I said.

  'My uncle tells me you're in pictures, Mr Browning.'

  'Richard,' I said. 'Yes, I have been. In a small way. Not very exciting work, really.'

  'You like excitement?'

  Her green eyes were sparkling now and, through our cigarette smoke, I became aware of the special tang the Malibu air has, a matter of the mountains meeting the sea. This was a lot better. I gave her one of my manly grins and pushed at the gate. 'How are we going to get in here?'

  Her hand came over mine and together we pushed the gate open. 'We left it unlocked last night. The house, too.'

  I nodded. That was Hart. He never locked anything. He said that way things didn't get broken when redistribution of wealth took place. I think I know what he meant. We went through a large courtyard fringed with bamboos and banana trees to the small back porch. The house was nothing much—just a long, low structure built more of glass than of timber. I could see straight through it to the Pacific Ocean. The interior seemed to glow; it was a light and sun trap, more for the likes of Dorothy Lamour than Akim Tamiroff.

  We went straight in through the back door. May Lin seemed to know her way around. She conducted me past the galley kitchen to the living room and through sliding glass doors on to the front deck. This jutted out until it almost overhung the sand. There was a short set of wooden steps, a hop, skip and a jump over some grass and then you had the stuff between your toes and were in funland. The waves crashed in heavily a bare seventy yards away.

  'Nice place,' I said.

  She nodded but didn't say anything. We crushed our cigarettes out simultaneously in the big sea-shell that sat on the rail of the deck. The shell looked as if it had been serving as an ashtray longer than it had as a home for a sea creature. I looked into those slanted green eyes with the heavy dark lashes and felt as if I was drowning. Maybe the beat of the waves on the sand helped the illusion. It happened very quickly. Our fingers touched as we butted the cigarettes, then our hands, then I had my arms around her and was crushing her against me and kissing her so hard I might have broken her neck if she hadn't been straining back against me, kissing fiercely and probing the inside of my mouth with her tongue.

  After that, things galloped along. We ran to the nearest bedroom, ripped our clothes off and got down to business. She was lithe and active in bed, built and tuned up for a younger man, but I did my best and performed pretty creditably. The truth was, I didn't much care what happened as long as I could see and touch her and feel her hands on me and, as anyone who's spent any time in the sack knows, it's when you forget about yourself that you do your best work. When we'd finished she hunted around in my jacket for cigarettes and brought them back to bed. We lay smoking and touching and hardly talking at all. I might even have drifted off for a minute. Certainly I wasn't aware of her going away but when I next saw her she was standing beside the bed wearing her clothes and something of the old cool look.

  'Well,' she said, 'aren't you going to search the house?'

  'What?'

  'I could tell that you and Mr McVey did not believe me. Now that you have satisfied your vanity you can check on my story.'

  Well, May Lin was like that—a three-alarm fire one minute and an iceberg the next. I was so surprised that I did exactly what she said. After pulling on my shirt and trousers I padded through the house. There were a lot of books with Hart Sallust's name in them, some clothes that looked like they could have been his, a typewriter and several reams of paper. I took a look in the bathroom.

  'No shaving gear,' I said.

  'He wears a full beard.'

  That was news to me but there was nothing unlikely about it. Writers grew and removed beards the way they went on and off the grog.

  'Are you satisfied?'

  Her manner and tone of voice cooled me right down. Normally, on a nice warm day in a beachhouse that had champagne in the fridge, I'd have been ready for another bout, but she was all business. Two could play at that. 'No,' I said, 'I'm not.'

  'What do you mean?'

  I pointed at the clean, tidy room that had served as a study. 'I never saw Sallust work in a room like that. He liked to work up to his knees in garbage—bottles, glasses, crumpled paper, books, magazines, cigarette packs, ashtrays. . .'

  She said nothing.

  'And another thing. Where's the work so far—the, what d'you call it—draft script?'

  She smiled and shook her head. 'You don't understand. There was no draft script. There was nothing written. He could not write. That's why the study is the way it is. He would sit down at the typewriter and not even bother to roll in a sheet of paper.'

  As I say, I'd heard of writer's block and had a vague idea of what it meant, but this sounded worse—like writer's blank. 'But you were supposed to be helping him, for how long?'

  'Nearly three weeks.'

  'What were you doing all that time? No, that's not the question. He must've talked about the script, the story at least. What was it about?'

  I felt faintly ridiculous standing there in my shirt and pants and bare feet with her fully dressed and looking ready to go out to lunch. I also felt hungry and thirsty. And that was another of May Lin's great talents—she seemed to be able to read minds.

  'Let's have something to eat and I'll try to explain. Why don't you get dressed, Richard? I've got a couple of calls to make.'

  She used the phone in the study while I took a quick shower, dressed and opened a bottle of champagne. There was bread in the kitchen, cheese, tomatoes and cold cuts in the fridge. I loaded up a few plates and took them out to the deck. I'd gulped down one glass of champagne and was pouring another when she came out. She'd taken off her jacket and the scarf. Her long, brown mane fell over her shoulders. Her lipstick and nails were as red as her blouse and her eyes almost glittered in the bright sun. She gave me a smile before putting on a pair of sunglasses and accepting a glass of the bubbly. I began to feel encouraged. Still, the brief period of antagonism had reminded me that I was on a job. I felt proud that I'd hit on the right question and I asked it again.

  She sipped her wine, cut a wedge of cheese and put it on a plate with a piece of bread. She looked at the food as if she just might eat it, if it was lucky. 'Do you know much about writing for the movies, Richard?'

&nb
sp; I shook my head and swallowed a mouthful of meat, bread and pickle. 'Nothing.'

  'Most of it takes place in the head. The writer has a storyline, characters. He imagines the scenes and hears the dialogue. He writes it down, builds up the characters and develops the story as he goes along. Sometimes the characters change and the story goes in unexpected directions. There are no rules except that you need three acts, like a play.'

  I nodded and kept eating. The champagne was good but it was going to warm quickly out in the sun. I poured another glass.

  'Mr Sallust had a peculiar assignment for this picture. He agreed to write a movie for John Garfield. He didn't tell them what his story idea was and they didn't ask.'

  'I never heard of that,' I said. 'Usually the studio buys a story. Then they buy a writer.'

  'Mr Sallust is a close friend of the producer, Joe Herman. They worked out an arrangement whereby Mr Sallust needed to inform Mr Herman about the progress of the script only in the most general terms—the number of characters, foreign and domestic locations, set requirements, that sort of thing. Mr Sallust said it was a breakthrough—the first time a screenwriter had worked with the sort of freedom a novelist has.'

  'Sounds bloody dangerous to me,' I said. 'What if he came up with something like a tightrope walk across Niagara Falls or a plane flight under the Sydney Harbour Bridge11?'

  'Under the what?'

  'Never mind. Go on.'

  She drank some wine but still didn't touch the food. The edge of the piece of meat was curling. 'It was risky, yes. But Mr Sallust had Herman's confidence. Unfortunately, things did not go well.'

  I was feeling a litle drowsy by this time. Who wouldn't after sex, wine and sun? There was a scattering of people on the beach and a few in the water although the day wasn't really hot. I got to thinking of Stockton beach, near Newcastle, and the Sydney beaches where I'd swum a fair bit before the war, the Great War, that is. Those were the days—long, clear, hot Australian summers and the deep green Pacific Ocean as cool and clean as. . .

  'Richard! Are you listening?'

  'Eh? Yes, yes, of course. John Garfield and no bloody story. Go on.'

  I thought I'd recovered pretty well but I was wrong. She was offended by me going off into a brown study. She tossed off her wine. 'What's the use? You're not interested and too stupid to understand. This is a waste of time.'

  'Hey, come on now. I'm sorry. Have a bite to eat. . .'

  'You are a fool. I want to go.'

  'Not until you tell me what Sallust was writing.'

  'I don't know! Nothing. He was drunk most of the time. He talked a bit about some characters, he didn't even have names for them. There was no story. Just ideas. Boy meets girl, boy can't have girl. Nonsense like that.'

  'I get it,' I said. 'He was in love with you and he couldn't get his head straight to write anything because you wouldn't. . .'

  She'd been staring out at the water. Now her head jerked around. 'That surprises you, doesn't it? That I wouldn't. Well, you're right. I wasn't attracted to him and I don't sleep with men I'm not attracted to.'

  That sort of remark was what I was waiting to hear. I put down my glass and reached across the table for her hand. 'Don't be cross, May. I believe you. I think we should go inside and. . .'

  'No. I want to go back to the city. I want to forget all about this. Please take me back.'

  What could I do? I had the answer to the question Pete was sure to put to me. Not much of an answer but at least I could show I'd been on the ball. And although I was powerfully attracted to May Lin, these swings of mood were sure to prove wearing over the long haul. So it was back to business. I finished off the champagne and threw the food out onto the grass. A circling flock of seagulls swooped and started fighting over the titbits. The biggest, fattest ones got the lion's share as they always will. 'Right,' I said. 'We'll go back, but first you'll show me where the alleged kidnap took place.'

  There I was again, asking the right questions. Pete McVey and Raymond Chandler would have been proud of me.

  8

  It was hot in the car, even with the windows down. The sky had taken on a grey-blue sullen look the way it can in LA and there was no breeze either from the mountains or the sea. Hot and still, like a summer day in Melbourne. I found myself remembering the old days in Australia more and more as the years went by. Things were simpler then—have a good time today and tomorrow and don't worry about next week pretty well summed it up. I drove along the road towards the Ventura County line. It was even hotter here. The only cool thing around was May Lin's disposition.

  'What the hell were you doing out here?' I said. 'We're on the way to Santa Barbara, for Christ's sake.'

  'He said he wanted to drive.'

  We drove. The road narrowed and we were really in the sticks—canyons off to the right and rugged coastal country on the other side. They tell me some of the stars have their houses there now, out as far as the Yerba Buena Road. In 1943 the only things living there ran around on four legs or had wings. I was getting suspicious, but May Lin was such a mysterious creature you could get suspicious about the way she smoked a cigarette. I looked at the speedometer and resolved to give it another mile, two at the most.

  The road dipped and swung west and I had a view of the sea that took my breath away. The oil derricks might be at work a few miles further north, but here the water was as deep and blue and untroubled as in Columbus's time. The coastline was rocky with small beaches tucked away in pockets. Very romantic. I glanced across at May Lin but she was looking in the other direction, at the brush beside the road and the cottonwood trees beyond that. I should have been more suspicious—that sea view was a knockout, but the beauty of it took my attention and wiped my brain pan clear of thought.

  The big black car came up out of nowhere. I heard a siren and pulled over and slowed down like an honest citizen. The next thing I knew two men with hats pulled down over their eyes and sunglasses on above their tough expressions were pulling open the front doors of my car. I heard May Lin scream and I saw a gun. I knew what to do and I was scared enough to do it. I reached for the gun in my jacket pocket, the one I'd located and cleaned and filled with bullets last night. I jerked it clear of the pocket smoothly and aimed somewhere above the head of the man who was reaching behind his back for something. I pulled the trigger once, twice. There were little dry snaps, no satisfying, scary booms. I swore and then I heard a swishing sound and the blue sky turned black and the hot air turned cold and the sagebrush beside the road didn't have any smell at all.

  When I returned to the land of the living my trousers were down around my knees because my belt was around my ankles. My wrists were behind my back, strapped tight, and, since my tie was missing, I concluded that it was doing the job. I was lying on the floor of a cabin—rough pine walls, unlined roof, Indian rug over the deal boards. There was a stone fireplace and some solid, amateur-built furniture. My head ached and the taste in my mouth made me think I'd been chewing on the rug. I hadn't, but I'd been dribbling on it some. I wriggled around trying to get a better look at the place. One room—wood stove, tap and enamel sink, storage shelves with cans and packets on them. There was a folding cot with some army issue blankets on it under the small window. Not the Ritz.

  The light was dim in the cabin and looked to be fading outside. That made it late in the afternoon. Say, five hours since I'd been knocked out. A feeling of panic swept over me. What if I had a fractured skull? I'd been knocked out a couple of times before—once when I was trying to jump on board a freight train and again in a boxing ring when we were filming a turkey called The Leather Pushers and I moved my head to the right instead of the left. The first time I woke up in Mexico and the second12 I needed bridgework. I did what I could to check on my state of health—blinked my eyes, ran my tongue around my mouth and checked for dried blood from my nose or ears. I must have looked like an idiot with a half dozen facial tics. There was no serious damage as far as I could tell. That left me free to wor
ry about the big picture—who'd done this to me and what would they do next?

  My next thought was for May Lin. I'd heard her scream when the guys with the guns got to work but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Anyone can scream. I could have screamed myself right there and then and don't think I didn't feel like it. What made me sceptical about May Lin's screaming was the gun. I knew I'd checked and loaded it and that it was in good working order when I'd put it in my pocket. When I'd needed it the gun had been about as useful as a toothbrush. And who'd fossicked in my pockets for cigarettes and got herself showered and cleaned up while I'd snatched forty post-lovemaking winks?

  That was more than enough thinking. The thing to do was to get free. I spent ten minutes or so rolling about on the floor, trying to work loose the belt and the tie. No luck. Then I rolled around some more in an effort to find something I could use to do some cutting—a wood axe, a fire iron, a bed spring, a dustpan. Nothing. I got even closer to screaming point, or weeping point. It could have gone either way. Then I heard footsteps outside the cabin door and voices. I rolled back to approximately the point I'd started from and lay doggo.

  The door opened.

  'Jiminy Crickets, Mr Brown. I cleaned this place up. I swear I did and lookit now.'

  'It sure is a mess, Hank.'

  'He's trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. I can't see how. . .'

  Mr Brown touched my ribs with the toe of his right wingtip. 'That's because you just plain don't know enough about this business, Hank. Now, me, I was in the marines a spell, and when we wanted a man tied up good, why, we'd just run a line to his neck so that if he moved he throttled himself. See? A gentleman tied up like that got the message real quick.'

  I sneaked a look at Hank and Mr Brown through slitted eyes. Hank was a string bean in denims, flannel shirt and work boots. He had a rifle slung across his shoulder. Mr Brown was a smooth, citified number in a cream linen suit with a waistcoat which was unusual in LA about then. He was recently barbered and he had very white teeth. He could've been an actor except that he was carrying a little too much weight for a youngish man. His dark straight hair was slicked back and shiny. He was frowning and his eyes were hooded. His shirt was as white as his teeth. He wore some kind of gold bracelet that hung down below his French cuffs. There was no gun in evidence, but of the two men, he was the one I was most afraid of.