by Stuart Woods
Sid was stunned. “I had no idea your people had talked with her; we’ve been out of touch since we separated. All our conversations have been through lawyers since that time.”
Roy smiled. “All right, Sid. I’m pleased to tell you that all of the answers you’ve given us today are consistent with the information we have from other sources. If you’re willing to testify before the committee again, along the lines of what you’ve said here today, I and my colleagues are willing to submit your name to the committee as a friendly witness.”
Hy spoke for the first time. “That’s good news, Roy. Thank you all for your help.”
After a round of handshakes and good-byes, Sid and Hy left the cottage.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“It could have been worse,” Sid said.
49
Tom Terry walked into the restaurant and looked around. A man waved at him from a table, and he walked over and shook his hands. “Hello, Jake. I’m Tom Terry.”
Jake Connor shook the hand. “Sit down, Tom.” Connor was Tom’s opposite number at RKO, their head of security. “Have a drink?” There was a glass of brown whiskey before him.
“Sure. I’ll have a Wild Turkey and water.”
Jake waved down a waiter, ordered the drink and asked for menus. “How are you enjoying life at Centurion? You’ve been there a while, haven’t you?”
“I like it a lot,” Tom replied. “I replaced Rick Barron when he left for the navy in ’42.”
“You didn’t get caught in the draft?”
Tom shook his head. “I was a flatfoot who really had flat feet. How about you?”
“I joined the Marines, but I blew a knee in basic training and got a medical discharge. I guess we were both lucky, eh?”
“Well, we’re both alive.”
They ordered lunch.
“You’ve got a good reputation around town, Tom.”
“So do you.”
“So, we’re both good at our jobs. I guess the blacklist is giving you problems, just like me.”
“It hasn’t been too bad; Centurion has fewer people under contract than most studios, so maybe that’s helped.”
“Yeah, I guess it would.”
“Were you ever a cop, Jake?”
“Yeah, I was a detective with the Long Beach department, burglary and vice mostly. You were with Beverly Hills, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, I was in a patrol car.”
Lunch came, and they began to eat.
“What did you want to talk about, Tom?”
“First of all, this is off the record, under the table, whatever you want to call it. You can use what I tell you, but you can’t tell anybody where it came from.”
“I guess I can live with that. What’s up?”
“One of your studio’s employees is a murderer.”
Connor’s eyebrows went up. “Only one?”
“Only one, that I know of, who’s both a murderer and a lesbo.”
“Well, Tom, I guess you know that the picture business, in general, is pretty loose about who puts what, where, in the sack. Unless she wears a crew cut and carries a whip, or makes a major pass at a female star who doesn’t share her inclination, her dykeness is likely to be overlooked.”
“Is murder likely to be overlooked?”
“Is this about the Susan Stafford case?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And Hank Harmon?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t really know the girl, but I’ve seen her around the lot. Ben Morrison at the LAPD made a courtesy call on me when he first questioned her, but it’s my understanding that she has been eliminated as a suspect.”
Tom shook his head. “Don’t you believe it. I had lunch with Ben a couple of days ago, and she’s still right at the top of the list. In fact, hers is the only name on the list.”
“I thought she had an alibi.”
“Not one that covers the time in question. Her story was that she went to the farmer’s market, and that was confirmed by witnesses, but the case theory is that she returned to the apartment in time to catch Stafford there. Do you know the story of their relationship?”
“You mean that beautiful girl was in the sack with Hank?”
“Stafford lived with her for four or five months. I took a good look around Harmon’s place, and there was only one bed. When Susan came to work on Bitter Creek, she took up with her leading man, and, by all accounts, they fell in love. She was moving her stuff out of Hank’s apartment and into her costar’s place when Hank came home and caught her leaving. She beat up Stafford, knocked her unconscious, then strangled her. Late that night she drove the body, in Stafford’s car, way out Mulholland and dumped it on a trash pile, then she left the car at the leading man’s house and walked home. She did a good job of cleaning up after herself, too.”
“You’ve been following Morrison’s investigation, then?”
“He’s been following mine; I was the first person to talk to Hank. I made her as guilty in a ten-minute interview, and if she hadn’t lawyered up so fast, Ben would have sweated it out of her.”
“But there’s no physical evidence to put her in Hank’s apartment, is there?”
“We don’t need that evidence; Hank admits the girl was there and left her a note, but says she was already gone when she got home.”
“Have you seen the note?”
“Nah. She says she threw it away, but you can bet your ass it was a ‘Dear Mary’ letter. The fact that Susan was leaving her for a man pushed Hank over the edge.”
“But Morrison doesn’t have any hard evidence?”
“No witnesses, no blood on the floor, no prints in Susan’s car. Let me ask you something, Jake: when you were working in Long Beach didn’t you learn to read a suspect?”
“Yeah, I did, and I don’t think I was ever wrong about one. Couldn’t always prove it, but I knew.”
“I knew right away that Harmon killed Susan Stafford, and so did Ben Morrison; we just haven’t been able to prove it yet.”
“What are you asking me to do about this, Tom?”
“I’m not asking you to do anything, Jake. I just want to give you something to think about.”
Jake toyed with his food.
“Talk to Harmon yourself; see what you think.”
Jake shook his head. “Nah. She’s had plenty of time to get her story straight.”
“Yes, she has. Look, I don’t know what your management is like, but I can tell you that if my management knew that there was a homicidal dyke working on our lot, she wouldn’t be there another minute, and she wouldn’t walk away with a fulsome letter of recommendation.”
“I don’t think my management would like it much, either,” Connor said.
“There’s another factor.”
“What?”
“If Harmon was out on the street and unemployable, she’d be pretty pissed off, wouldn’t she?”
“Sure. I expect so.”
“And in that frame of mind, with pressure on her, she’d be more likely to make a mistake, maybe cry on somebody’s shoulder.”
Connor nodded. “Probably so.”
“Jake, my people at the studio are really hurting about this situation. The girl has parents back in Georgia, and she was the light of their life. She’s gone from being a brand-new movie star to being dumped, dead, on a trash pile, and from her family’s point of view, nobody’s doing anything about it.”
“Shit,” Connor said, “if I were in your shoes I’d probably take her out somewhere and put a slug in her head.”
“Believe me, that crossed my mind, and I haven’t ruled it out yet, but I want to give the system a chance to work.”
“I see your point.”
“Well, Jake, it was good to meet you,” Tom said, putting down his napkin “Let me get lunch.”
“Nah. It’s on me,” Connor replied. They shook hands. “Let me see what I can do.”
“It’s probably better if we don�
�t speak again for a while,” Tom said, rising from the table. “But after some time has passed, I’ll buy lunch.”
“We should keep in touch, anyway,” Connor said.
Tom walked back to his car, knowing he had planted a ticking bomb under Hank Harmon.
50
Rick was working on the budget for Greenwich Village Girl when Eddie Harris came through their connecting door, through their shared screening room, holding a newspaper in his hand.
“Have you seen this?” he asked.
“I read it at breakfast.”
“Then you saw Hopper.”
“Saw her column; didn’t read it.”
“It’s written as a news story under Hopper’s byline. Listen to this, Rick: ‘A script supervisor at RKO, linked by police to the brutal murder of Susan Stafford, the beautiful young costar of Centurion’s huge hit, Bitter Creek, has been unceremoniously fired by RKO. No one in management there would confirm the reason for the firing, but speculation has increased that the LAPD is closer to an arrest. Henrietta Harmon, known as “Hank,” was escorted off the RKO lot by security officers at the close of business yesterday.
“‘Harmon was the first person investigated by police after Susan Stafford disappeared, and after Stafford’s body was found at a garbage dump, a search warrant was obtained and detectives searched Harmon’s apartment. They found no evidence of the murder, but a source at the LAPD has told this reporter that the place had been thoroughly cleaned before their arrival. This reporter has also learned that Harmon disappeared after initially being questioned, and police believe that she did so in order to allow cuts and scratches that she would have received during the killing to heal. The coroner’s report states that Stafford fought for her life.
“‘When Harmon returned to Los Angeles she hired a criminal lawyer who refused to allow police to question her further. Knowledgeable sources tell me that new evidence is being developed that will further link Henrietta “Hank” Harmon to the killing of Susan Stafford, and that an arrest is imminent.’”
“You know anything about this, Rick?”
“First I’ve heard of it.”
“Well, I didn’t plant it, either, but I’m glad there’s nothing about a lesbian affair. Did you get a call from Hopper, asking for confirmation?”
“No, but there isn’t anything in that story that I could have confirmed, except that Susie is dead.”
“This thing smells planted,” Eddie said. “I asked Bart Crowther if he had anything to do with it, and he denied planting the story.”
“It could very well have been planted by somebody at RKO or somebody at the LAPD.”
“Well, I hope it’s true.”
“So do I.”
Vance Calder packed the last of Susie’s clothes in a cardboard box and stacked it on top of the box she had left in her dressing room the day she went missing. He carried the two boxes downstairs to the kitchen, where his housekeeper, Maria, was sewing a button on one of his shirts, and set them on the table.
“Maria, these are some things that belonged to Miss Stafford,” he said. “If there’s anything you want, or if you know anyone who might need the clothes, please take them. Anything else you can drop off at a Salvation Army store on your way home tonight.”
“Thank you, Mr. Calder,” Maria said. “And I’ll put your shirt back in your dressing room in just a moment.”
Vance walked through the house to the study; his new desk had arrived the day before, Sid Brooks having taken the old one, and he began putting office supplies that he had brought from the studio into the drawers. With the help of the studio’s design department he had replaced the furniture that Sid or his ex-wife had removed, and the living room had been painted a warm yellow. He had begun to feel that the place belonged to him and no one else.
Maria knocked at the door.
“Yes, Maria?”
She walked in and handed him a blue-velvet jewelry box. “This was in the bottom of the carton with the sweaters, Mr. Calder.”
“Thank you, Maria.” She left, and Vance opened the box. It contained a pair of small, diamond ear studs, along with a Bulova wristwatch and a couple of brooches. Also in the box was a gold, heart-shaped locket on a matching chain.
Vance picked up the locket and pressed the clasp. Inside, was a photograph of Susie with another girl, who Vance assumed was Hank Harmon. Both women appeared to be naked, at least from the waist up. Susie was leaning against Harmon, wrapped in her arms. One hand was resting on Harmon’s left breast. On the other side of the open locket was engraved an inscription: “Susie and Hank, one forever.”
Vance closed the locket and put it back in the box. He thought for a minute, then he picked up the phone and called Centurion Studios. “This is Vance Calder,” he said to the operator. “Will you please connect me with Tom Terry in security?”
“Of course, Mr. Calder.”
A moment later, Terry was on the line. “Hello, Vance. Can I help you?”
“I need some advice, Tom. I gave some clothes that belonged to Susie Stafford to my housekeeper, and in one of the boxes she found a jewelry case that contained, among other things, a locket holding a rather…affectionate photograph of Susie and a woman I assume to be Hank Harmon. I don’t think I want to send the photograph to her parents. My question is: what should I do with it?”
“You should give it to the police, Vance. I’ll call the detective in charge of the investigation and let him know about it. I expect he’ll send someone over to get the locket.”
“Thanks, Tom. Did you see the item in the paper this morning by Hedda Hopper?”
“Yes, I did, and I think it’s a good one.”
“Do you think they’re near an arrest?”
“If they are, they must have some new information I’m not privy to. I’ll call Lieutenant Morrison now; I expect you’ll hear from him soon.”
“Thank you, Tom. I’ll wait to hear from him.”
Ben Morrison was at his door half an hour later. Vance let him in and shook his hand.
“We met once before, Mr. Calder,” Morrison said.
“I remember; at my bungalow at the studio. Come into the study; the jewelry box is there.”
Morrison followed him into the study, and Vance handed the velvet box to him. He sat down, opened the box and examined the locket carefully. “This is very interesting,” he said.
“It doesn’t seem like a crucial piece of evidence, does it?” Vance asked.
“It could be valuable, in that it helps establish the relationship between the two women.”
“I’d hate for that photograph to be displayed in open court; so would her parents, I think.”
“I can keep it out of the papers, but when we go to trial, I’m sure it will be placed in evidence. There’s nothing I can do to prevent that, except extract a confession from Miss Harmon, and I don’t think her lawyer is going to let her do that.”
“I saw something in the papers this morning that implied you are close to an arrest.”
“I saw that, too, Mr. Calder. It didn’t come from me, and I doubt that it came from any of my people. My best guess is that it came from RKO.”
“Are you close to arresting Hank Harmon?”
“No, sir, we’re not, but please don’t tell anyone I said that.”
“Do you feel any need to correct the newspaper account?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Morrison said. “Maybe it will stir the pot a little. You never know.”
“I hope so,” Vance said. “When you’re finished with the jewelry, would you return it to Susie’s parents? Not the photograph; I don’t think they should see that.”
“Of course, I’d be glad to.” Morrison stood and offered his hand. “I’ll let you know if we come up with anything new.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Vance showed him to the door, then returned to his study and sank into a chair. Once again, he drove the recurring thought from his mind that he should buy a gun and shoot Hank Harmon. He
made himself calm again, as best he could.
51
Tom Terry sat in his car across the street from Hank Harmon’s apartment house and watched a passel of photographers and reporters mill around. The shades were drawn on Harmon’s windows upstairs, and there was no sign of life.
Then Tom saw a prewar Chevrolet convertible, with the top up, edge out of the parking lot behind the building, driven by a woman. He wasn’t sure it was Harmon, but he was going to find out.
The Chevy turned up the hill, away from Sunset and the photographers, and accelerated. Tom started his car and followed, staying well back. The car made a couple of turns, then headed back toward Sunset. Tom made a note of the plate number and followed. The convertible turned up Coldwater Canyon and began climbing the mountain. As it crested the ridge at the top, it pulled over, and the top went down. Hank Harmon was at the wheel, and she seemed to believe that she had gotten away from her pursuers. She started down the other side of the mountain and into the San Fernando Valley.
Tom followed her for another twenty minutes, until she turned into a residential neighborhood and then into a driveway. He stopped down the block and watched her get out of the car, take a couple of suitcases from the trunk, ring the doorbell, then go inside. Tom made a note of the address.
He made a U-turn and, back on the main road, found a phone booth. He called the city desk of the newspaper that had run the Hopper piece about Harmon and, without giving his name, gave the man who answered the make, model and license plate number of Harmon’s car and the address of the house she had run to, then he got back into his car and drove back to L.A. As he came over the mountain he passed the car of a photographer he knew, going the other way. His work was done, for now.
He had another date, though. He drove to the bar where he had first met with Hal Schmidt of Milwaukee, went inside, took a booth and ordered a drink. Schmidt was ten minutes late. He slid into the booth, and Tom signaled the waiter for one more drink.
“How you been, Hal? Settling into L.A.?”
“I’ve been well, thanks, Tom, and I’m enjoying the city. The quality of the women is a definite improvement over Milwaukee.”
