by Simon Brett
In short, within a few months, Toni Frangipani was one of the biggest stars in the movies. The one possible threat to his acting career – the fact that he had a very squeaky voice and hardly spoke English – couldn’t have mattered less in the silent era.
He never forgot – indeed, he would have been very unwise to forget – how much he owed every step of his career to Lenny ‘The Skull’ Orvieto.
And, because Lenny was a generous guy, the relationship between them was a two-way street. If Toni Frangipani wanted something organised, Lenny was usually happy to organise it for him.
That afternoon Toni Frangipani wanted something organised. If Twinks’s snub had only been witnessed by those present, it would soon have been forgotten. But because Heddan Schoulders had written it up in her column – and kept writing little reminders of the incident in subsequent columns – Hollywood showed no signs of forgetting. And each mention thumped yet another bruise on to his already-bruised ego.
‘So,’ Lenny ‘The Skull’ Orvieto asked him that afternoon, ‘what needs doing?’
‘I needa someone taken outa.’
Giovanni and Giuseppe looked alert. He was talking their language.
‘No problem,’ said Orvieto. ‘The boys’ll take care of it. So who is he?’
‘No “he”. Issa “she”.’
‘Name?’
‘Honoria Lyminster.’
Lenny ‘The Skull’ Orvieto looked at his two hoods and passed the finger across his throat.
A contract had just been taken out on Twinks’s life.
The Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad’s La Grande Station was a familiar destination for tourists visiting Los Angeles (though neither Blotto nor Twinks had ever heard of it). Under its Moorish dome, as well as the railroad tracks and the platforms, there was a rabbit warren of offices. Most of these, obviously, were connected to the business of transportation, and the average person passing a door whose brass plate read ‘Terminal Services’ would have assumed it was part of the same network. They would, however, have been wrong.
It was quiet that afternoon in the office behind the door. The two clerks who manned the office sat in their shirtsleeves reading the racing papers. The windows were open and the fan, which turned turgidly from its ceiling mounting, didn’t do enough to make the thick air move.
They were used to days like this. There wasn’t really a pattern to the demand in their line of business. Days, weeks would go past without even an enquiry. Then suddenly there could be a flurry of half a dozen jobs within a week. The two clerks didn’t worry. They knew that when the work did come in it paid well. Their continuing employment was not under threat.
And of course, their job was only the fixing. They were the initial point of contact. All transactions were completely anonymous. Clients tended to have accounts. When they rang they gave their account number, which acted as a password. They then gave the job specifications. The clerk who answered the phone would quote a price which, though enormous, was never questioned. That call would end and the clerk, using another password, would ring the relevant number. Neither of the clerks had ever met the men who fulfilled their clients’ requirements.
In the middle of that stifling afternoon, the telephone rang. One of the clerks picked up the receiver. ‘Good afternoon. Terminal Services.’
The caller gave his account number.
‘Thank you. One moment, sir.’ The clerk checked through a card index on his desk to find the client’s details. ‘Very good, sir. And could I ask you for the name of the person for whom you wish to employ Terminal Services?’
The name was given. The clerk, an avid reader of the Hollywood gossip columns, recognised it immediately but, in accordance with his training, betrayed no emotion as he repeated the name to check he’d got it right.
‘Yup,’ said the voice from the other end of the line.
‘And do you wish the job to be carried out as soon as possible?’
‘Yup,’ the voice confirmed.
‘Let me just get you a price for that . . .’ The clerk knew full well the amount that was going to be demanded but, again as instructed during his training, he made the sounds of checking through some paperwork. He then quoted an eye-wateringly large figure. ‘Will that be in order, sir?’
‘Yup.’
‘Very good, sir. The job will be done and the fee added to your usual monthly account. Will that be in order, sir?’
‘Yup.’
‘And is there anything else we can help you with this afternoon?’
‘Nope.’
‘Well, thank you very much, sir, for using Terminal Services. Satisfaction, as always, guaranteed.’
The call was ended. Back on his ranch, which covered large chunks of Texas, Wilbur T. Cottonpick, dressed in another screamingly loud suit, sat back in his chair with some satisfaction. Though only an investor in the movie business, his ego was at least as sensitive as a film star’s. He had been held up to ridicule in Heddan Schoulders’ column. No one held Wilbur T. Cottonpick up to ridicule and survived.
And another contract had just been taken out on Twinks’s life.
Hardly had that call ended than the telephone again rang in the airless office. The clerk who’d just been busy gestured to his colleague to take this one.
‘Good afternoon. Terminal Services.’
The account number was given and an almost identical conversation ensued.
The clerk concluded it, ‘Well, thank you very much, sir, for using Terminal Services. Satisfaction, as always, guaranteed.’
Beside one of the pools at his Hollywood mansion, Hank Urchief lay back on his lounger, feeling sure he’d made the right decision. Not only would the assault on his ego be revenged, but he also saw a way of gaining sympathy – and publicity – by a very ostentatious display of grief at his victim’s demise. ‘So much talent . . . such a great future . . . tragic to see a young life cut off so early . . .’
And another contract had just been taken out on Twinks’s life.
The two clerks in the Terminal Services offices looked at each other in disbelief as the phone rang for the third time that afternoon. After a few slack weeks, business was really hotting up.
The clerk who’d taken Hank Urchief’s call gestured that it was his colleague’s turn.
‘Good afternoon. Terminal Services.’
The routine was sedately repeated, but this one was different. The client gave two names rather than one. When the call ended, the clerks looked at each other in delighted disbelief. Four jobs within an hour had to be some kind of record. They felt very pleased with themselves.
Gottfried von Klappentrappen felt pretty pleased with himself too. Nobody gave him the brush-off and got away with it, and they certainly didn’t compound that felony by walking out of one of his movies.
He was also pleased to be getting rid of the young man who had made him look a fool by conducting a dalliance with his wife Zelda Finch. Soon to be ex-wife, Gottfried von Klappentrappen thought with some satisfaction.
Umberto found himself in a dilemma. He had been totally outmanoeuvred by Twinks, and that dumb brother of hers had witnessed his humiliation. For a man of his proud Sicilian ancestry, revenge was essential.
But his normal method of revenge was not open to him. Usually, when someone slighted him, he did what any other of the Barolo Brothers would have done and turned to the family for support. The massed power of the gang could track down and obliterate Blotto and Twinks within minutes.
But in this instance he couldn’t let his relations know about his dishonour. To do that would inevitably bring up his involvement in the Japanese Theatre Stranglings, an incident in his life over which a veil had been conveniently drawn. If the rest of the Barolo family found out that he had betrayed them on that occasion, then the contract would be taken out on him rather than Blotto and Twinks.
It was a ticklish situation. But the more he thought about it, the more Umberto realised that he couldn’t allow the Engl
ish girl to walk around Hollywood knowing about the Japanese Theatre Stranglings, whose details she could unload to any willing listener whenever she chose to. Her brother must also know about his act of disloyalty to the Barolo Brothers.
So both of them had to be eliminated as soon as possible. And since he couldn’t turn to his usual recourse of the family, he would have to do the job himself.
Mentally, he took out personal contracts on both the siblings.
The score at the end of the day was that Blotto had three contracts out on his life, but Twinks was way ahead with five.
24
The Plot Thickens – Again!
Blotto was pleased with the reconnaissance trip he’d taken with Corky Froggett. Though Umberto had revealed where Mimsy La Pim was being held, he’d made a very strong indication that rescuing her from there was not a sensible option.
Blotto’s instinctive reaction when he heard that advice was to regard it as a challenge. All right, so Mimsy was incarcerated in the Barolo Brothers’ headquarters in the Hollywood Hills, surrounded by dozens of armed guards. Well, those were the kind of odds he liked. Nothing appealed to him more than the idea of storming the citadel single-handed with no weapon other than his trusty cricket bat.
But wiser counsel from Twinks had curbed that instinct. As Umberto had admitted, the time when the Barolo Brothers would be most vulnerable would be the following morning, as they moved Mimsy La Pim from her incarceration to the place where they intended her to spend her final minutes. That was when any rescue attempt should be made.
Because Umberto had revealed the location where the stenchers planned to liquidate the poor innocent girl, that was where Blotto and Corky had gone to reconnoitre. And Blotto was very excited by what he saw. It was the ideal place for cricket-bat-waving heroics.
He could hardly wait for the next morning. Not only would he finally remeet Mimsy La Pim, he would also save her life. And he knew that doing that kind of thing could help to put a boddo in a girl’s good books.
So, with a merry ‘Chinny-up!’ to Corky Froggett as the Lagonda deposited him at the entrance to the Hollywood Hotel, Blotto rushed up the stairs, longing to share with Twinks the discoveries of the afternoon.
He burst into her suite to find it empty.
A sheet of paper was pinned to the dressing table by a vicious-looking knife.
On it were scrawled the words: ‘WE’VE GOT HONORIA LYMINSTER. YOU WILL BE CONTACTED ABOUT THE RANSOM ARRANGEMENTS.’
Twinks had been kidnapped!
Suddenly Blotto was in a quest for two Holy Gruels.
25
Corky Fills the Role
Blotto was at a loss. The similarity between the two notes made it clear, even to him, that Twinks had probably been kidnapped by the same lumps of toadspawn who’d taken Mimsy La Pim. In other words, the Barolo Brothers.
His first instinct had been to rush straight round to their headquarters, armed with his cricket bat, and rescue both victims. But he remembered how strongly Twinks had condemned this plan of action when there had been only one person incarcerated. Would she be of the same opinion now that there were two?
If only Twinks were there for him to ask . . .
‘Broken biscuits!’ he said out loud right there in her suite, which was a measure of how distraught he was.
He needed a sounding board. Though he was very good at doing action, he was a bit of an empty revolver when it came to planning action. He scoured his brain for names of people with whom he could discuss the problem. Ponky Larreighffriebollaux . . . ? Though one of his favourite muffin-toasters and an absolute foundation stone on the cricket field – there was no one Blotto would rather have at the other end when building up a fourth wicket stand – Ponky didn’t have a planning brain. J. Winthrop Stukes . . . ? He seemed an amiable cove, certainly knew his cricket and played a straight bat. On the other hand, the more time Blotto spent in Hollywood, the less able he felt to trust anyone involved in the movie business.
No, it was really Twinks he needed to consult with.
He wondered for a moment whether it was because he was away from home that the problem seemed so acute. But no, back at Tawcester Towers without Twinks he’d still be caught like a lobster in a mangle.
On the other hand, back at home, he could always commune with Mephistopheles. But though he got lots of moral support from that source, the hunter was never that useful when it came to giving practical advice.
And the only other person at Tawcester Towers he communed with was . . . Suddenly it came to him. Corky Froggett!
He found the chauffeur resolutely polishing the Lagonda in the parking garage underneath the hotel. The blue bodywork looked perfect, but it was a point of honour with Corky to remove every fleck of dust within minutes of its landing on the surface. He even kept a weather eye, with his chamois leather at the ready, to trap as many flecks as he could before they achieved landfall.
‘Good afternoon, milord,’ he said, standing instinctively to attention at the young master’s approach. He only just stopped himself from saluting. Corky Froggett’s time in the military had left a mark on every aspect of his life. Particularly in revealing to him where his true talent lay, which was in the business of killing people.
‘Corky old chum . . .’ said Blotto, using language that would have appalled the Dowager Duchess, who had no truck with the alien concept of treating the servant classes as if they were part of the same species. ‘I’m in a bit of a gluepot.’
‘Sorry to hear that, milord.’
The roof of the Lagonda was still down from its recent excursion. Blotto got in the driver’s seat and draped himself over the leather upholstery. He patted the seat beside him. ‘You get in, Corky.’
‘I think it would be more appropriate were I to stand, milord.’
‘And if I were to order you to get in and sit down . . . ?’
‘Then I would obviously do as instructed, milord.’
‘Well, I am.’
‘You are what, milord?’
‘I am ordering you to get in and sit down.’
‘Very good, milord.’ Corky Froggett got in and sat down. But he didn’t look very relaxed. He had the rare ability to sit as if he were still standing at attention.
There was a silence. Whereas other people might have asked Blotto the nature of the gluepot in which he found himself, the chauffeur did not feel it was his place to initiate conversation.
Finally, Blotto spoke. ‘Fact is, not to fiddle around the furniture, Corky, Twinks has been kidnapped.’
‘How very unfortunate for the young mistress.’ Then Corky saw a possible way of realising his lifetime’s ambition. ‘If it were of use, milord, for me to beard the kidnappers in their lair, to lay down my life in an unsuccessful attempt to rescue your sister, you have only to say the word.’
‘Well, that’s very sporting of you, Corky, but actually I was thinking a successful attempt to rescue the old bloater might fit the pigeonhole rather better.’
‘Oh.’ The chauffeur could not completely keep the disappointment from his voice. Since he had first started working as a boot boy at Tawcester Towers, he had aspired to the apotheosis of laying down his life for a member of the Lyminster family. But it seemed that would have to wait for another occasion. He quickly readjusted his expectations and asked, ‘Do you know who has kidnapped the young mistress, milord?’
‘It’s a guinea to a groat that this is the work of a bunch of stenchers called the Barolo Brothers.’
‘Ah.’ The name meant nothing to Corky. He knew little of the criminal underworld of Los Angeles. ‘And do you know where these devilish monsters have taken the young lady?’
‘I can’t actually guarantee I’ve winged the right partridge, but I’m pretty sure the Barolo Brothers are holding her in their HQ.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘It’s a disused backlot. Hasn’t been used for many years, but it’s dressed up as a mountain hideout . . . you know, the kind of
swamphole where the bad tomatoes who’ve been terrorising the local cattle ranchers hole up and divide their spoils? And where they take their kidnap victims, come to that.’
‘Like they did in Chaps’ Lonesome Stand?’
Blotto looked at his chauffeur in amazement. ‘Have you seen that?’ he asked.
‘Certainly, milord. You try to keep me away from the Tawsford Picture Palace when there’s a Chaps Chapple movie on.’
‘Toad in the hole, Corky, you’re not telling me you’re a Chaps Chapple enthusiast?’
‘Certainly am, milord.’
‘Well, I’ll be jugged like a hare! I’ve seen every one of his movies about a dozen times.’
‘Me too, milord. And, what’s more, that makes me think of a way we might rescue the young mistress!’
‘How’s that, Corky? Come on, uncage the ferrets.’
‘Well, milord, you remember what Chaps Chapple does in Chaps’ Lonesome Stand . . . ?’
26
Blotto’s Lonesome Stand
The levels of secrecy employed by the Terminal Services operation were very tight. Information was shared on a need-to-know basis. The use of a complex system of codes meant that no member of the network knew the identity of any others.
This worked splendidly most of the time, as could be vouched for by the number of successful liquidations achieved by the company, but it did have one unconsidered drawback.
Because of the lack of direct contact between the fixers and the perpetrators, each new job was treated in isolation, with no sharing of information. As a result, in the rare event of two contracts being taken out on the same person, two hitmen would be allocated as if they were doing two separate jobs.
