by Bill Bernico
I explained what I’d learned about the bald guy in the Rolls and about Trixie seeing Selma in the back with him. We didn’t get much more of a chance to hash over any other details when he pulled his car up to the curb and stepped out. I followed him into Reggie’s Tavern where we met another officer taking a statement from the tavern owner.
My own problems soon took a back seat to what was happening at the bar. Reggie stood behind his bar, near the phone. His left hand was resting on the bar while his right hand was handcuffed to a metal wall partition. He explained to the officer how two guys had held him up earlier that afternoon. They took him into the bathroom and handcuffed him to a partition between the toilet and the washbasin, cleaned out his cash register and left.
Reggie told the officer how he had worked for a long time and finally was able to tear the whole wall loose. He had dragged it with him behind the bar to get to the phone to call the police. The guy was wringing wet with sweat.
Dan stepped in just as another officer with a bolt cutter snipped the short chain on the handcuff. Reggie sat down as the officer pulled the partition out of the way and began to work on picking the lock on the cuff still attached to Reggie’s wrist.
Fifteen minutes later Dan had finished his questioning and the two of us were soon headed back to the precinct.
“So what do you want me to do,” Dan said, “check out every silver Rolls in town?”
“No,” I said. “Just the ones owned by bald guys,” I remarked. Dan failed to see the humor. I got out in front of the precinct and drove away, leaving Dan standing there still talking.
I found out from Fran that shooting had resumed on November Children at a ranch in the valley. It took me half an hour to drive there. There were several trucks with lighting equipment and reflectors and another truck open on the sides revealing camera equipment. From the commotion near the house, I soon found the focal point of that day’s shooting.
The director sat in his canvas-back chair while several actors said their lines into the camera and to each other. A plane flew by overhead during one of the dialogs and the director yelled, ‘Cut—plane’. Everyone stopped what they were doing and held perfectly still while the plane flew out of range of the boom microphone hanging over the actors’ heads. The director got the nod from the sound engineer and filming resumed.
After ten or twelve minutes the director yelled, “Cut. That’s a wrap. Everybody back here tomorrow morning at five-thirty sharp.”
I walked over to where he sat and introduced myself and told him I was investigating a murder and a missing person, which wasn’t exactly a lie, but wasn’t exactly the whole truth, either. He rose from his chair and summoned a woman to join us.
“Mr. Cooper,” he said, “this is Ruth Strong, our casting director. “Ruth, this is Matt Cooper. He’s looking into some business about one of our cast members. Give him whatever he needs, will you, darling?” He excused himself and joined two other men behind one of the camera trucks. I recognized one of the men as Mark Stein, the producer I’d spoken to earlier in the week.
“Well, Mr. Cooper,” Ruth said, “What can I do for you?”
“I’m here about Virginia Bishop,” I said.
“She’s not here,” she said. “We had to shoot around her today. I tell you, if it’s not one thing it’s another. One more day and she’s out. That’s it.”
“Well, then,” I said, “I guess she’ll have to be out.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Cooper?” she said.
“She’s dead,” I explained. “Someone canceled her show permanently. They found her in my office.”
Ruth took a small step backwards as if she were afraid of me.
“Hey, it was just my office, not me,” I said, trying to look harmless.
She made a quick note on her clipboard. I could make out the words ‘Bishop’ and ‘dead’, but then again I was reading upside down and from an angle.
I pulled out the picture of Selma Holquist and showed it to Ruth. “Do you know this girl?” I said.
Ruth studied it for a moment and handed it back to me. “Yeah, I’ve seen her,” she said. “Name’s Parker, Lola Parker. This the girl you lookin’ for?”
“When did you last see her?” I said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe two weeks ago. I was going to find a small part for her in this movie but she never came back after the screen test. Strange. Most people you can’t get rid of, this one I couldn’t find.”
“Anyone else here know her or talk to her?” I said.
“Just Sean,” she said.
“Sean?”
“MacMurphy,” she explained. “The director. He’s also the star of this movie.”
“Was that him talking to Mark Stein?” I said, pointing to where the three men stood.
She nodded.
“Thank you, Ruth,” I said. “Maybe Mr. MacMurphy can fill in a few blank spots for me.
“Looks like you’ll have to stop back tomorrow,” Ruth said, pointing to the silver Rolls Royce driving away from the ranch. “You just missed him.”
I ran back to my Olds and followed at a safe distance. The Rolls maintained a steady speed down the highway and, after a few miles, turned south toward Hollywood. It pulled up to the gate at Behemoth Pictures and passed through with just a wave from the guard.
I parked across the street from the gate and waited. I don’t know what I expected to see but it seemed like the thing to do. Besides, there was no way the guard would let me enter this late in the day.
Fifteen minutes passed and I was ready to leave when I spotted Fran Anderson walking toward the gate from inside. I hurried over and approached the gate. “Fran,” I said, looking at the guard as I passed him. “You’re just the person I was looking for.”
Fran gestured to the guard and I was allowed to enter the studio lot. I walked her back toward her office, out of earshot of the guard before I began explaining.
“You followed Sean MacMurphy here?” she said. “Why?”
I explained about the silver Rolls Trixie had described and the man in the back seat.
“Doesn’t sound like Sean to me,” she said. “He’s got a full head of hair. Besides, what would he want with a young girl like that? According to Betty Grinell’s gossip column, he’s happily married.”
“I did a little checking on that myself,” I explained. “You know who he’s married to, don’t you?”
“Are you kidding?” she said. “Show me someone who doesn’t. Dorothy MacMurphy is about as famous as most of the movie stars who work at her father’s studio.”
“I know,” I said. “Frank Boyle might not think too much of his son-in-law sneaking around on his precious Dorothy like that.”
Fran held my arm as she walked. “No way could he pull it off without someone seeing him,” she said. It’s just too risky.”
“I checked a little further,” I said. “That chauffeur of his seems to live pretty high on the hog for a chauffeur. Almost like he’s got a second income from some high up source. But why?”
“Hush money?” Fran said.
“Bingo,” I said. “But what about the bald part?”
“Matt, have you forgotten what business he’s in?” Fran said. “He’s got a full wardrobe and makeup department at his disposal. It wouldn’t take much to make a few changes.”
We walked a little further until we found ourselves in front of building S-9, where Fran worked. The silver Rolls was parked just outside. I looked at Fran and she looked back as if to say she knew what I was thinking. We quietly opened the door and entered, making sure to ease the door closed again. It was dark except for an exit sign and a red light above one of the doors. It was flashing.
Fran whispered in my ear, “There’s no production going on at this time of night.”
“Maybe it’s not a Frank Boyle Production,” I said. “Is there another way into this room besides this door?”
“Not really,” Fran said, “but I know a spot wher
e we can see in from above.”
I followed her to a stairway and we climbed up above the room with the flashing red light. From up in the catwalk I could see a maze of narrow walkways leading four different ways. We kept going straight ahead and stopped when we came to the end of the walk. There was a glass window positioned at the top of what would have been the ceiling of the room we were standing above. I could just barely see in and down to the floor below.
The lights were lower than usual and there were only two men that I could make out. One was Sean MacMurphy. I’d recognized him from the location ranch earlier that afternoon. I’d never seen the other man. They were standing near a camera and boom mike and were looking toward a corner that wasn’t visible from where I stood.
“What’s in that corner?” I asked Fran.
“Another part of the set,” Fran said. “That and a few props for a picture they’re working on.”
“Is there any other way to see into that room from up here?” I said.
“No, Matt,” she said. “This window is only here for one of the lighting guys. You’d have to be in the room to see that end of it.”
I motioned Fran and we headed back the way we’d come. We’d reached the end of the platform and were about to descend the stairs again when the flashing red light went out and the sound stage door opened. MacMurphy and the other man came out. I could hear them from where we crouched.
“What do you want me to do, Sean?” the other man said.
“Same as last time,” MacMurphy answered. “Meet me out at the ranch tomorrow morning.”
The other man nodded and went back into the sound stage, closing the door behind him. Sean left the building. Fran and I tiptoed back down the stairs and over to the exit. I cracked the door open enough to see the silver Rolls Royce driving back toward the gate.
“I gotta see what this guy is up to,” I told Fran. “Somethin’s not right here.”
“Be careful, Matt,” she said.
Fran waited around the corner while I sneaked into the sound stage looking for the chauffeur. With my .38 drawn and up at my side, I crept past the camera and mike boom over to the part of the room we couldn’t see from above. The man I’d followed in was dragging a large trunk toward the exit and didn’t see me. As he dragged the trunk backwards he bumped into me and immediately stood upright.
“Jesus Christ, you scared the shit outta me,” he said. “Who the hell are you? How’d you get in here?”
“Can it. I’ll ask the questions,” I said. “For starters, what’s in the trunk?”
“None of your god damn business,” he said.
I pointed my gun in his face. “Open it.”
He hesitated just long enough for me to pull back the hammer on my .38 and give him my impatient look. I took two steps back while he bent over to undo the latches. As he lifted the trunk lid I said, “Step away.”
He did as he was told and I moved in for a closer look. The trunk contained several coils of cable, three lighting fixtures, some sort of apparatus with wheels on it and a cord with a power box on the end of it.
The chauffeur’s mouth made that thin shape while his eyebrows raised in unison. “What are you, some kind of lighting thief?”
“Don’t get smart,” I said. “Where’s the girl?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” he said. “What girl?”
“The one you and that bald guy were driving around a couple of weeks ago,” I said.
“Are you on drugs or what?” he said. “There is no girl and I don’t know any bald guy. Now, who the hell are you?”
Before I could answer Fran entered the room with Dan Hollister close behind. She looked at me and said, “I called in some help, Matt. Thought you might need it.” Officer Burns held the door open as Fran and Hollister entered.
“Cooper, what’s going on here?” Dan said.
The chauffeur turned toward Dan. “Now who the hell are you?”
Dan produced his shield and I.D. “Hollister, twelvth precinct.” He turned to me. “Cooper?” The tone in his voice grew more weary.
I holstered my .38 and hunched my shoulders in the ‘beats me’ position. “I thought I was on to something. Guess not.”
“Are you gonna book me for possession of lighting fixtures?” the chauffeur said, laughing.
“Don’t be a wise guy. Just gimme your name,” Dan said.
“Dawson, Chester Dawson,” he replied. “I’m Mr. MacMurphy’s assistant.”
Dan was growing more impatient by the minute. “O.K.,” he said, “I’ll bite. Who’s Mr. MacMurphy?”
Dawson, Fran and I all turned to Dan and each of us gave him the look of disbelief.
“Well, who is he?” Dan repeated.
I took him aside and said, “Sean MacMurphy, the director.” It still looked like Dan had no clue. “Frank Boyle’s son-in-law.”
The light went on over Hollister’s head and adopted his timid look. “Sorry, Mr. Dawson,” he said. “Do you want to press charges?”
Dawson looked me over for a moment before deciding I wasn’t worth it. “Forget it,” he said. “Just get out of here let me get on with my work.”
Dan and I left with Fran and Officer Burns close on our heels. Once outside I tried to explain to Dan. “I guess there could be another silver Rolls and another chauffeur and another...”
“Cooper, get outta here,” Dan said. “I’m gettin’ sick of covering for you whenever you screw up.”
I was in no mood for an argument. “Come on, Fran,” I said, “I’ll give you a lift home.”
The next morning I decided to pay a visit to the ranch and to Sean MacMurphy. I took Sunset east. Something caught my eye as I drove. It was a silver Rolls Royce sedan. It was parked next to another silver Rolls Royce sedan. In fact it was one of seven Rolls Royces on that lot. Among the other five there were two black, one white, one burgundy and a two-tone silver over charcoal. The sign over the entrance gate read “Playing The Rolls” in wrought iron. I pulled over to the curb and crossed the street to the lot.
I strolled down the row of luxury cars, running my hand over the hoods as I passed. Beside the seven Rolls Royces, I counted three Bentleys, two Jaguars, a Mercedes-Benz, a Bugatti and a Duesenburg. The last car in the line was a Chrysler limousine. It seemed out of place among the other cars.
“You lost?” I said, almost expecting the Chrysler to answer me.
“No, I no lost. I work here,” a voice said. From behind the Duesenburg rose a man. He was a small Mexican man with a wiry frame and thin mustache.
I smiled and held out my hand. He wiped his on a rag and grasped mine with a firm shake. “Rudolpho Maguera,” he said, pumping my hand up and down. “My friends call me Rudy.”
“Hello Rudy,” I said. “Matt Cooper. You say you work here?”
“For now I do,” he said. “Someday I hope to have my own garage. I do all the work and my boss, he get all the money. It is not fair.”
“Rudy,” I said, “what’s the story on all these nice cars? I mean are they for sale or what?”
“For sale, rent, loan, lease,” Rudy said. “Whatever makes the boss the most money.” Rudy ran his palm across the hood of the Duesenburg and smiled. “This one she is one fine automobile, no? Mr. Lang he like this one.”
“Mr. Lang? I said.
“My boss, Art Lang,” Rudy said. “He own this lot and another like it in Burbank and two in the valley.”
“Do all of his lots have these same kinds of cars?” I said.
“Si,” Rudy said. “He do a lot of business with the movie studios.” He pointed to a jet blank Bentley. “That one, she was in Mr. Huston’s last picture. Maybe you saw it, no?”
“No,” I said. “What about the Rolls Royces? Do you get much call for them?”
“Oh si,” Rudy said, a bit of excitement in his voice. “The black one is going to Mr. DeMille’s movie premier tonight and the two-tone one is being held for Mr. Gable.”
“Clark Gable?” I sai
d. “But I thought he owned a Duesenburg.”
“He does. This one,” Rudy said, proudly displaying the car he’d been wiping down when I arrived. He puffed his chest out a little and said, “I am to tune this engine and replace two tires. While I do this, Mr. Gable he drives the Rolls, no charge. Mr. Lang he insist.”
I walked down the row of cars with Rudy close behind me. I stopped at one of the silver sedans. “Have either of these two been rented in the past couple of weeks?”
Rudy pointed to the first one and said, “Not this one. We are still waiting for a seal for the transmission. It can go nowhere until I replace it.”
“What about this one?” I said, leaning on the other one.
Rudy pulled me off the car and wiped the place where my hand had rested. “Si,” he said. “This one, she has been out twice in the last two weeks.” He continued to wipe the fender and windshield.
“Would you know who had it?” I said.
“It came back late last night.” Rudy said. “Mr. MacMurphy needed it for only a day.”
“MacMurphy?” I said.
“Si, the director,” Rudy said.
“You spoke with him?” I said.
“Not with him,” Rudy said. “He send his helper to pick it up. The man say it is for Mr. MacMurphy.”
“And before that?” I said.
“Let me see if I can remember,” Rudy said. He thought for a moment and then snapped his fingers. “It was Mr. Bascomb. He rent it for three days.”
“When was that?” I said.
“He take it on August fifteenth and return it two days later.” He finished wiping the Rolls and turned to me. “Why you so interested in these cars?”
“No particular reason,” I said.
Rudy didn’t buy that. “You a policeman, Mr. Cooper?” he said.
“No, Rudy, I’m not a cop. I’m a private investigator,” I said. “Tell me, what did this Mr. Bascomb look like?”
“About your size,” he said. “Maybe a little heavier. He have dark skin like he spend a lot of time in the sun.”
“What color hair?” I said.
Rudy laughed. “Hair?” he said. “The only hair I see is sticking out of his nose. His head, it look like a...”
