“Thank you; I’ll call again.”
Mount Hyperion Estates: two dozen mansions behind a high wall with a security gate house. Wait a minute: Sam Graffman lives there - the producer. Into my black book for his phone number.
“Graffman residence.” The British tones of Andrew the major domo - too East London for a movie Jeeves, but the colonials don’t know the difference.
“Andy, this is Stoney Winston. How are you?”
“My dear Winston: blimey!” Andrew enhances his local image with antique British slang. “Are you working for the old boy again?”
“Not this time. I need help with a location problem.”
“Delighted to oblige.”
“I’m looking for an estate and I remembered that place the preacher lives in - you know, Isaiah Hammond?”
“That vulgar thing with the Greek columns?”
“Right. How far up from you is it?”
“Just three houses. But you can’t shoot in Mount Hyperion.”
“No?”
“Oh no; they’d never let you.”
“Too bad. Well, it was just a thought. Thanks, Andy.”
“Always a pleasure, old boy.”
Knowing half the noncoms in Hollywood comes in handy.
Into the wardrobe department for a civil servant costume: my only suit, white shirt, and a not quite fashionable tie sent by Mama six Noels back. The effect was passable.
I consulted the household prop resources for a pocket notebook and ballpoint pen, plus two octagonal film shipping cases from my editing supplies. Up to Sally’s bedroom to retrieve the .38 pistol from her night table.
Then off to Hollywood Props Incorporated to hire a shoulder holster and a plausible police ID. I hid the holster, tie, and jacket on the Rabbit’s floorboards and placed the film shipping cans prominently on the seat beside me. Then westward down Sunset Boulevard toward Mount Hyperion Estates, preparing two roles at once: first a studio delivery man; then a plodding minion of the law.
Chapter 15
Twilight was approaching as I corkscrewed up the outer approach to Mount Hyperion and stopped at the pretentious gate house, to confront a guard wearing a banana republic uniform complete except for medals.
“Hi! Got a print here for Mr. Graffman. He’s going to project it tonight.”
“You gotta call.”
“I know.” I bounced into the kiosk, friendly as a puppy. “Let’s see: he’s 308, right?”
“Yeah.”
I punched in the numbers; waited.
“Graffman residence.” A maid answered, sparing me the need to explain a second call to Andy.
“I have a print here - for Mr. Graffman’s screening?”
“Wait a minute. I’ll ask about it.”
Talking to the now-abandoned phone: “Okay, I’ll bring it right up.” To the guard: “All set.”
“Know the house?”
“Oh sure.”
“Never seen you here before.”
“The regular driver told me.”
“Sign in.”
I scribbled Harry Secombe/Sellers Enterprises and hopped back in the Rabbit, praying the maid wouldn’t phone the guard when she returned to a disconnected call.
Up the long, looping road in the near-dark, past five or six architectural extravaganzas, past the Graffman’s silent pile, past two more homes, to a looming Doric fantasy set well back from the road: the Reverend Hammond’s cozy parish cottage.
Up a gravel drive so white it must be dusted daily; I parked as inconspicuously as the lemon-colored Rabbit allowed. Two minutes to install shoulder holstered gun, lash up necktie, and don jacket. Several deep breaths while I practiced thinking like a TV cop, then up to the big paneled door.
“Yea-uh?” in the resonant drawl of Isaiah Hammond, who had opened the door himself.
“Reverend Hammond? I’m Sam Bagdassarian, L.A.P.D.” I was quoting the name on the prop ID, which I removed from my jacket pocket and flashed one-handed, very professionally, so that Hammond had almost enough time to read it. “Like to ask a couple questions.”
“What about?”
“May I come in, sir?”
“I guess.” He held the door while I strolled past him into the foyer, which I surveyed calmly, like a cop who looks at everything.
“Is there someplace we can talk quietly, sir?”
“Well... the living room. Don’t I know you?”
“Yes sir, I took a statement from you at your studio on...” consulting pocket notebook, “...Thursday of last week at 1:43 PM.” Flipping the notebook shut. “I was working undercover at that time.”
The living room was Beverly Hills Baroque: all busy fabrics and plants distributed as if to dress a set.
“I do recall you. About the Tolman chile.”
“Lee Tolman, yes sir. As I stated at that time, Miss Tolman was missing. She still is.”
“I am sorry for her poor folks’ worry.”
“Yes sir. Can you tell me your whereabouts between the hours of two and eight PM on that Thursday?”
Hammond reached in the neck of his expensive polo shirt to scratch his chest hair. “I believe I should know what this is all about.”
“You are the owner of the cutter Mixed Blessing, is that correct, sir?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“At approximately six PM on that date, I discovered a deceased body aboard the vessel.”
“A what?!”
“A female Caucasian aged twenty to twenty-five, approximately five feet-six, light complexion, red hair.”
“Not Lee?”
“No sir. Subsequent investigation revealed that the victim was a Miss Martin, nickname Peeper.”
Hammond looked genuinely confused. “Who...?”
“Upon discovering the body, I attempted to exit the vessel, but ascertained that I was locked in. When I did emerge through a hatch, I was set upon and thrown overboard.” A meaningful stare at Hammond. “I believe you recognized me at that time, sir.”
“I wasn’t even there!”
“As I continued my undercover investigation, I was twice attacked by two individuals in your employ.”
Hammond’s confusion was shading into worry. “Two...?
“Up to that point in time, my efforts were focused on certain financial activities connected with your church. But since the alleged murder of Miss Martin, I’ve been cooperating with Homicide Division. It would save time, sir, if you’d cooperate too.”
“What financial activities? Listen, I do not have to respond to you.”
I put my hands on my hips, drawing back my jacket to display the shoulder holster as I nodded with patient resignation. “All right, Reverend, I guess we better go downtown.” Flipping to the front of my notebook, I pretended to read a Miranda card in a bored drone: “You-have-the-right-to-remain-silent-you...”
“Now hold the phone; let’s just start right over again. Firstly, I have not been on that boat in more’n a week.”
“What about the date in question, sir?”
“Thursday?” Hammond thought, then brightened. “I was, uh, with a certain lady.”
“Her name, sir?”
“Lisa Torres.” In Hammond’s drawl, the name came out ‘Leeza Torse.’ “She does makeup at the studio. We went to lunch an’, well...”
“Where?”
“Harold’s Steak House, on Lankershim.”
“We’ll check that.” I wrote it down with my government issue ballpoint. “Reverend, who else would have access to your boat.”
“Nobody, ‘cept me ‘n Nahan.”
“That would be Wilton M. Nahan, your business manager. Does he sail the boat?”
“Naw, he just uses it to show off.”
“Can you explain that, sir?”
“Well, he can’t sail worth a damn, but he takes bidness clients down to the marina; entertains ‘em on the boat.”
Flipping to a new section of my notebook, I pretended to study a page. ??
?We would be interested in knowing why a church might have business clients.”
“Nahan does, not the church.”
I produced a look both bored and skeptical. “Not according to our data. We’ve uncovered evidence of massive fraud, tax evasion, and illegal securities transactions. In fact, we were just about ready to move on this case.”
Hammond looked increasingly angry. “It’s not me; it’s Nahan.”
“Yes sir.”
“I’m telling you, it was his game all along. Oh, I knew he was driving over the speed limit, but I thought it was little stuff. You know how it is with those figger-riggers; it’s near automatic. Everybody does it. When I found out about this other stuff, I told him he was pushin’ his luck some.”
I kept it flat and tired. “When you found out.”
“I would have blowed the whistle myself, but then how would that look for the church?”
“Was that the only reason you held back?”
“How do you mean?”
“We are aware of a certain pornographic film.”
“Hell no! Nahan tried that on me. Must think I’m dumber’n a steer in a stockyard. I just laughed at him.”
“He attempted to keep you quiet by threatening to expose your relationship with a pornographic actress, is that it?”
“Yeah; I could not believe my ears.”
I covered some rapid thinking by scribbling busily in my notebook. Then: “Just a few more questions, sir. Do you know the present whereabouts of Lee Tolman?”
“I truly do not. Not for weeks.”
“Concerning that Thursday afternoon, where was Mr. Nahan, do you know?”
“Like I said, I was tied up all afternoon.”
“Tied up, sir.” Another scribble. “Could he sail your boat if he had to?”
“I showed him how to run the engine - to keep the batteries charged. He was always playing the stereo.”
I nodded and wrote some more, then stared at him as if trying to make up my mind. Finally, “Sir, I don’t believe it’s necessary to continue at this time, but I’ll have to ask you to keep yourself available.”
Hammond relaxed visibly. “I want to clear this up as much as you do.”
“And I would advise you to refrain from contacting Mr. Nahan.” A meaningful look at my watch. “Our people are probably calling on him at about this time.”
“Why sure.”
I plodded back into the foyer, stowing pen and notebook. “Thank you for your cooperation, sir. You’ll be hearing from us.”
“You know where to find me.”
My best Sergeant Friday look. “Yessir, we do.”
I had to move fast now. Surprise and guilt had kept Hammond from looking too hard at my story. But now he’d have time to think about it and my cliché TV detective impression wouldn’t stand much scrutiny.
I urged the Rabbit through the cool darkness down to Sunset, left to Crescent Heights, up again to Laurel Canyon.
* * * *
My living room was dark except for the winking red eye on my telephone answering machine. I rewound the tape and played back the call.
“Stoney? Yeah, this is Gladys Dempal.” She dropped briefly into cornball Slavic dialect: “Is fillink like sikret hagent. Listen, Stoney, it’s five-fifty P.M. Pepe sat tight all afternoon. No calls; never left his office.
“Then about ten minutes ago, he made a call. A secretary said ‘Mr. Nahan’s office’ and a man came on the line. Now I can’t remember word for word, but I’ll give you the gist. Pepe named you; said you’d found out about a certain film. The other man asked what you knew. Pepe said ‘everything.’ The man said that’s bad. Pepe said it’s worse: somebody named Peeper was dead. “Dead? Hey, Stoney, this is serious stuff. You didn’t tell me what I was getting into. Okay, the voice on the other end didn’t react - I mean dead air for ten seconds. So Pepe said he was worried and did the other man know anything about this Peeper? More silence, then the other man sort of sighed. He told Pepe to stay at the studio and he would come over. Pepe asks what for and the other man says don’t worry; just stay there ‘til I come. Then he hangs...”
Click. Damn machine only records thirty-second messages. But Gladys did indeed deliver the gist.
It was after eight. Too late to catch them there.
I switched off the phone machine as I dug Lee’s mother’s business card out of my wallet. I called her beach house.
“Rachel Gershon.”
“Ritchie, this is Stoney Winston, remember?”
“You’re the jewel who does windows,” delivered in a three-scotch burr. I pictured Lee’s mother propping up the counter in her kitchen, glass in one meaty hand, cigarette in the other. “You still looking for Beverly, kid?”
“That’s why I called. I found her; but then I lost her again.”
“She was here today.”
Flush of relief: “Great!”
“She often checks in between saviors. Showed up on the bus this morning. Walked all the way down to the beach. Now she’s off to Monterey.”
“What for?”
“Salvation. Nirvana.” Pause filled with what sounded like ice cubes clinking. “Touchies and feelies.”
“What...?”
“Some commune or group or something.”
“Had she been there before?”
“Well, she talked about ‘going back.’“
That would explain Lee’s cryptic remarks to Herbie. “Believe it or not, Ritchie, that might be the safest place for her.”
“Good as any, until she wears it out and gets restless again. It never lasts.”
“Okay, well, I promised to call you.”
“Yeah.”
“Good-bye, Ritchie.”
So that’s all there was to Lee’s disappearance. The spirit having moved her, she had set out on the road to Damascus or Mecca or the Emerald City.
Or some damn place. Good luck, Lee, and good hunting. But remembering her puzzled green eyes, I doubted she’d have either.
Probably should call Denise and tell her where Lee was... My God! I never told her Lee was alive - or that I had the blackmail film. The last two days had moved so fast, I never thought to. I could do better than phone: I’d collect the film from my cutting room and present it to Denise gift-wrapped.
Chapter 16
Rattling through the night down to Denise’s studio to collect the original film. By now I could probably make this run without steering. Just let the Rabbit have its head.
I was imagining Denise’s face when I dropped the film in her lap and told her Lee was safe and sound. No more extortion and no threat to the studio sale. It felt good: Stoney Winston, mild-mannered director by day....
I drove through the garish blaze on Hollywood Boulevard, past strolling adolescents and bag ladies and tourists gaping at the hookers.
Not so good about Peeper, though; remembering her chirpy energy and the innocence shining through her face paint.
I chuffed to a stop in the studio parking lot between a muscle-bound Pontiac bearing the license plate PEPEDEL and a sedate Cadillac Seville. If Pepe was still inside, then the Seville might belong to Nahan.
Stealth time. I eased my key into the lobby door lock, wincing at the deadbolt’s clack, then slipped in and shut the door gently. Dead silence except for the distant whoosh of passing cars. Blue-white wash from a single lit fluorescent in the hall. Up the stairs, keeping feet close to the wall to minimize creaking - a technique perfected for boyhood midnight snacks. I paused at the second floor corridor. To the left, a faint glow visible from around the corner near the row of cutting rooms. To the right, the closed door of Pepe’s office, leaking light onto the faded carpet. Padding toward it, I checked the .38 in its hired holster.
Silence behind the door. Long, irresolute pause, then I pulled out the pistol, turned the handle, and pushed the door open.
I froze.
Pepe sprawled with one cheek mashed against the carpet in a puddle of clotting blood, staring at one o
utstretched hand with empty, taxidermist eyes. His lips were pulled back from perfect corn row teeth in a grin that looked no phonier dead than alive.
A quick survey confirmed that the office was empty. Someone had ransacked it, opening files and strewing their contents over the carpet, dumping drawers, pulling boxes from the open closet. Pepe’s pockets had been turned out; his wallet and change lay on the floor beside him.
It didn’t look professional - at least the way I’d seen it staged in films: no slit upholstery, no dismantled pictures, no turned-up rugs.
Covering my fingers with a handful of my jacket, I pulled the door half open and eased back out into the hall. I looked down toward the opposite corner, splashed by the fluorescent overhead. Silence, then a faint metallic clank. A pause. Another clank.
I paced very slowly toward the light, setting one foot before the other as if trying to avoid touching the floor. Stopping just short of the corner, I pasted myself to the wall and looked around it.
The door to the film storeroom was open, edge toward me, with a key ring still dangling from the deadbolt lock. The room light was on and the tinny clanks were coming from inside. Back to the wall, I edged up to the storeroom and stopped in the shadow of the open door. The room’s occupant was still invisible from my angle. Nothing to do but take the plunge. Leveling the .38, I stepped into the open doorway.
“Hello, Nahan.” He froze in the act of stripping tape from the edge of a rusty film can. Scores of other cans were strewn about, lids off, contents spilling everywhere. Endless snakes of film streamed off the metal shelves, corkscrewing downward into snarls hundreds of feet long. The floor was invisible under six inches of shiny flat spaghetti. Some of it was ancient nitrate stock so brittle that it had crumbled when it hit the floor.
Nahan glanced at the stumpy little revolver that lay on a shelf three feet from his hand. I grabbed it. Nahan looked at me blankly, then with mechanical deliberateness, finished opening the can he held. Flinching from the emerging stench, he dropped the can and a rain of gray-brown powder splashed his shoes.
“That nitrate film is dangerous. Besides, your dirty movie isn’t here. I’ve got it.” He glared. “And I just found Pepe. Did you kill him to get the film?”
Silence.
“Why did you kill Peeper?”
Nahan managed an imperious stare. “I don’t have to speak to you.”
No he didn’t. Time for the most convincing performance I have ever given: I settled my face into the implacable calm of a wooden Indian and began speaking like a very reasonable child: “You think I’ll call the police but I won’t.”