Beverly Hills Dead

by Stuart Woods

  “Shall I try to hold the airplane?”

  “What time is the next one?”

  “Twelve-thirty, and she’d get to New York very late, what with the time change.”

  “Don’t try to hold the plane. Just book her on the next one and wait to hear from either her or me. What number do I call to page you?” Rick wrote down the number and hung up. He called the studio and got the front gate.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Rick Barron. Have you seen Susan Stafford either come or go this morning?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How about yesterday?”

  “I’ll check the log.” There was a moment’s pause. “No, sir, she wasn’t logged in or out yesterday.”

  “Transfer me to the studio police line.” He waited, and a man answered.

  “This is Rick Barron. You have pass keys to all the bungalows, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, we do.”

  “I want you to go first to Susan Stafford’s bungalow, open it and see if she’s there. If she is, she’s not answering the phone. Then go to Vance Calder’s bungalow and check there. I’m in New York; call me at this number from Vance’s bungalow.” He gave the man the number.

  “Yes, sir. It should take me ten or fifteen minutes.”

  Rick hung up.

  Glenna, who had heard his side of the conversation, came and sat on the bed. “What do you think is going on?”

  “I have no idea, but I’m worried.”

  “Susie doesn’t seem like a prima donna. She wouldn’t just disappear, would she?”

  “I don’t think she would; she’s always seemed very level-headed.”

  “I’m going to shower while you wait for the call.”

  “Go ahead.” Rick picked up the Times and tried to read it. Ten minutes later, the phone rang. “Hello.”

  “Mr. Barron? This is studio security. I’m at Mr. Calder’s bungalow. Miss Stafford isn’t here, and she’s not at her own bungalow, either.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Anything else you want me to do?”

  “Tell the front gate if she turns up at the studio to call me at this number.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rick hung up and called Vance’s room and brought him up-to-date.

  “Something’s happened,” Vance said. “Susie wouldn’t do this.”

  “I agree. Do you have the name and address of the girl whose apartment she was supposed to visit?”

  “Her name is Henrietta Harmon, and she’s called Hank. She’s a script girl at RKO. I don’t know her address, but it’s in West Hollywood; she could be in the book. Shall I call there?”

  “No. Let me handle it. I’ll call you when I know something.”

  “Is our lunch still on?”

  “I don’t want to cancel an interview with Life, then find out there’s some simple explanation for all this.”

  “All right, I’ll get dressed and wait to hear from you.”

  Rick hung up, got out his address book and called Tom Terry at home.

  “Hello?”

  “Tom, it’s Rick. We’ve got a problem.”

  37

  Tom Terry checked the phone book and found Henrietta Harmon in West Hollywood, off Sunset. He made a note of the address and phone number, then got dressed, got into his car and drove quickly to Vance Calder’s house in Beverly Hills. As he pulled into the driveway he saw two cars ahead: a prewar Chevrolet coupe and a big Packard sedan. That would be the studio car.

  He pulled up, and the studio driver got out to meet him. “Good morning, Mr. Terry,” he said.

  “Morning, Jerry. I’ve heard what’s going on. Have you been in the house?”

  “No, sir. I just rang the bell.”

  Tom went to the front door, rang the bell, then tried the knob. It was unlocked. He turned to the driver. “Jerry, follow me, and stay in my tracks. Don’t touch anything.”

  “Yessir.”

  Tom went from room to room and found everything in order. He went upstairs, found the master bedroom and looked in both dressing rooms and baths. In one dressing room he found several pieces of a woman’s clothing and underwear in the drawers. On the floor there was a cardboard box containing sweaters and blouses. In the bathroom, there was makeup in the medicine cabinet and on the sink.

  “There’s more boxes and a suitcase in the coupe,” Jerry said.

  “Yeah? Then it looks like she unlocked the front door and brought one box inside, then went back for more, then…”

  “It don’t make any sense,” Jerry said.

  “No, it don’t,” Tom replied. “Something must have happened before she could bring in more boxes.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.” Tom went back downstairs and checked the interior of the car and the trunk, which was unlatched and contained more boxes. The car keys were in the ignition, and there was what looked like a couple of house keys on the key ring.

  “What do you want me to do?” Jerry asked.

  “Who are you reporting to today?”

  “One of the publicity guys. He’s at the airport waiting for Miss Stafford to show for her plane.”

  “I don’t think she’s going to make the plane, Jerry. Go back to the studio and report back to your boss. He can get in touch with the publicity guy.”

  “All right, Mr. Terry.” He got into the Packard and drove away.

  Tom got into his car and headed for West Hollywood, stopping at a corner pay phone to call Henrietta Harmon’s house. No answer; the girl must be at work.

  Tom found the building and parked out back. He ran up the main stairs and rang the doorbell: no answer, so he got out his kit and picked the lock. Inside, he closed the door softly behind him and looked around. He was standing in a small entrance hall. On a table in front of him was an envelope that had been torn open, and on the front was written one word: Hank. He replaced it, then tiptoed into the living room. It was nicely furnished and perfectly neat. He found the only bedroom, and it was in the same condition. The walk-in closet had a full rack of jackets and trousers on one side, but they looked more like the clothes of a slender man than those of a woman. There was nothing but hangers on the opposite rack.

  He checked the bathroom and found some empty spaces in the medicine cabinet, as if some bottles had been cleared out, but there was no makeup of any kind—strange for a woman’s bathroom. He checked the kitchen: the dishes were all put away and the counter-tops were clean. He looked for signs of blood everywhere but found none. He opened the service door and looked down the back stairs, then closed it. He went back to the front door, let himself out, relocked the door and went back to his car. He sat there for a moment, thinking, then he started the car and drove to the studio.

  At his desk, he called Rick Barron in New York.

  “Hello?”

  “Rick, it’s Tom.”

  “What did you learn?”

  “Miss Stafford appears to have moved out of the Harmon apartment yesterday and then drove to Mr. Calder’s house with a car full of boxes. She unlocked the front door and went upstairs to her dressing room, deposited one of the boxes there, then went back downstairs. Then she disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “Well, no one has seen her, have they?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, I let myself into the Harmon apartment and found that Miss Stafford had left a note for Miss Harmon on her front hall table. The envelope was still there but not the note. Everything in the apartment was in order, though it was obvious that one of the two roommates had moved out. The remaining clothes were of a mannish nature, and there was no makeup in the bathroom, which is odd for a woman’s apartment.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Back at the studio. There are only two further things I can do: go to RKO and interview Miss Harmon, or call a lieutenant we both know at the LAPD and report Miss Stafford missing. If I call him, then he should probably interview Miss Harmon. One other thing: the LAPD
is leaky with situations like this, so if we call them in, you’d better be prepared to read about it in the morning papers, probably even the New York papers.”

  “I think it’s too early to call the police, don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure it is. I’m disturbed that Miss Stafford was going about her business in a normal way, then suddenly disappeared in the middle of moving into Calder’s house, abandoning her car. Something else odd: after unlocking the front door of the house and taking a box of clothes upstairs, she replaced the keys in the car’s ignition.”

  “I suppose that’s a little unusual, but hardly a reason for calling in the police.”

  “Are you thinking maybe the girl just got overloaded with publicity appearances and bailed out? Went home to mama?”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “Then either somebody picked her up at Calder’s, or she’s on foot. Have you talked to her agent? She might confide in him. And somebody ought to call her family, if you know how to reach them.”

  “Her agent’s name is Marty Fine, at William Morris. You call him, and if you think it’s a good idea, go interview Miss Harmon. I’ll deal with Susie’s parents if that becomes necessary. I have to go to a luncheon with Vance and some people from Life; when I get back, I’ll call you at the office. If you need to reach me urgently, I’ll be at a restaurant called Voisin.” Rick gave him the number.

  “All right, Rick.” Tom hung up, called William Morris and got Marty Fine’s secretary on the phone.

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Tom Terry, head of security at Centurion. It’s urgent, and if he’s with somebody, tell him to take the call on another phone.”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  “This is Martin Fine,” a voice said.

  “Mr. Fine, this is Tom Terry, from Centurion. Rick Barron asked me to call you. Have you spoken with Susan Stafford during the past twenty-four hours?”

  “No. I last saw her at the opening of Bitter Creek on Saturday night. She told me she was going to rest on Sunday and leave for New York this morning, so she should be on a plane.”

  “She missed her flight. Can you think of anyone she might go to if she’s…upset about something, or if she just wants to get away from it all?”

  “The only people I know that she’s close to in L.A. are Vance Calder, who should be in New York, too, and a woman named Hank Harmon; they used to share an apartment.”

  “No other men, no other girlfriends?”

  “She lived at the Studio Club when she first came to town, but she never mentioned anyone’s name there.”

  “No relatives out here?”

  “No. Her parents live in a place called Delano, Georgia. You want their number?”

  “Yes, thanks.” Tom wrote it down.

  “I’m surprised she didn’t make the plane this morning,” Fine said. “She was looking forward to going to New York.”

  “Did she show any signs of personal strain on Saturday night?”

  “She was just a little tired, I thought, but she’d had a pretty full schedule all week. I’m concerned about this. Will you call me if you learn anything?”

  “Sure.”

  “And if there’s anything else I can do to help you, please let me know.”

  Tom thanked him, then headed for his car and RKO Studios.

  38

  Tom drove over to RKO Studios and identified himself to the front gate guard. “I’m looking to talk with an RKO script girl named Hank Harmon,” he said to the guard.

  “Sure, I know Hank,” the guard said, “but she’s not working here today. She’s over to the Culver lot, where they’re shooting a western.”

  “Thanks.” Tom turned around and drove out to the “forty acres,” as it was known, the back lot where many films had been shot, including a lot of the exteriors for Gone With the Wind. He gave the gate guard his card and talked his way onto the lot, following directions to the western street set. He parked some distance away and walked over, not wanting to make car sounds when they might be shooting. In his time at Centurion, Tom had learned how to move around a movie studio without disrupting production.

  He found the western street and saw the production grouped at the far end, shooting a street fight. Staying out of camera range, he moved closer down the street.

  Hank Harmon was not hard to spot. She was sitting in a folding canvas chair a few feet from the director, a notebook in her lap, her face partly obscured by large sunglasses. She was handsome rather than beautiful, but striking nonetheless. She was wearing a western shirt and boots, and a buckskin jacket was draped over the back of her chair. Tom waited twenty minutes or so while they finished with the setup, and when they broke to move the camera, he approached Hank Harmon.

  “Miss Harmon?” He extended a hand and smiled. “I’m Tom Terry from Centurion Studios.”

  She returned his smile and his handshake. “How are you, Tom?” She seemed a very pleasant person. She was very tall—Tom estimated six feet or more, with the high-heeled boots—and slender but athletic-looking.

  “Just fine, thanks. I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for Susan Stafford. Do you know where I can find her?”

  “Why no. She shared my apartment for a few months, but yesterday she came by and removed her things. The last time I spoke to her, she said she planned to move into her bungalow at Centurion.”

  “Did you see her yesterday when she came by?”

  “No, I was out. I went to the farmer’s market, which I do every Sunday, and when I came back she had come and gone. She left a note.”

  “I wonder, may I have a look at the note?”

  “What’s this about, Tom?”

  “No one has seen Susan since she left your house yesterday, and we’re concerned.”

  “Who’s ‘we?’”

  “The studio. Susan was supposed to take a flight to New York this morning, but she missed it, and we haven’t been able to locate her. Maybe there’s something in her note that could give us some indication of where she went or, at least, her state of mind.”

  “There was nothing like that in the note; what she had to say was more of a personal nature. I don’t have it with me, anyway. But her state of mind was just fine. She said she was moving in with Vance Calder.”

  “I’m sorry, I thought you said she told you she was moving into her bungalow when you last saw her.”

  Hank blinked rapidly. “I guess things must have progressed with Mr. Calder in the meantime.”

  “What was there about the note that made you believe her state of mind was ‘just fine,’ as you put it?”

  “It was just normal Susie stuff. She didn’t seem upset or anything.”

  “When was the last time you saw Susan?”

  “Oh, it was some time ago, before she went away on location for her picture.”

  “Was she living in your apartment up until the time she went on location?”

  “Yes.”

  “And after she came back?”

  Hank looked away. “No, she didn’t return to my place after that.”

  “Did you two break up before she left?”

  Now Hank began to look wary. “Break up?”

  “What was the nature of your relationship with Susan?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “How many bedrooms are in your apartment?”

  “One.”

  “And how many beds in that room?”

  “Excuse me. I thought you said you work for Centurion, but you’re beginning to sound like a policeman.”

  “I used to be a cop; I apologize if I sounded that way, but we’re very concerned about Susan. What was the nature of your relationship?”

  “We were friends.”

  “Were?”

  “Obviously, if she moved out, we’re not as close now.”

  “She had quite a few of her things at your apartment, didn’t she?”

  “She had everything there.”

  “But you
haven’t seen her for a period of many weeks, and she only moved her things out yesterday. What did she do for clothes?”

  “Well, I assume the studio supplied her with western wear in Wyoming.”

  “Costumes, yes.”

  “Perhaps she went shopping. I don’t know.”

  “Did you drive her car to Vance Calder’s house some time yesterday?”

  “Why, no.”

  “So if we go over her car for fingerprints, we won’t find any of yours in the car?”

  Now Hank was looking just a little flustered. “Well, I have been in her car in the past.”

  “Have you ever driven it?”

  “No. Susie always drove.”

  “Then your fingerprints wouldn’t be on the steering wheel or the gearshift or the keys.”

  “Well, I…”

  “Hank!” an assistant director yelled from a few yards away. “We need you.”

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” Hank said, looking relieved.

  Tom gave her his card. “Will you call me if you hear from Susan?”

  “Of course,” she said, then walked away.

  Tom walked quickly back to his car. He drove back to the studio, lost in thought, and not good thoughts. Back in his office he checked his watch and called the restaurant Voisin in New York. A woman with a French accent answered, and he asked her to find Rick Barron and bring him to the phone. It took several minutes.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Tom.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I spoke with Hank Harmon half an hour ago.”

  “And?”

  “All sorts of warning signs in the interview. You know what I mean.” Rick had been a cop, too.

  “Yes, I do. What’s your best judgment, Tom?”

  “I think Susan Stafford never left Hank Harmon’s apartment alive.”

  “Tom,” Rick said, “call in the police.”

  39

  Rick left the phone booth and walked slowly back to the table, forcing himself to seem calm and unconcerned.

  Vance leaned over and asked, “What’s up?”

  “Just some studio business,” Rick replied and resumed his conversation with the Life people, while a photographer circled the table, looking for good angles on Vance.