I’d had a nightmare … but it’d felt too real, too detailed, to be just a dream.
I was a Confederate soldier wounded in the Battle of Atlanta.
They carried me by stretcher to the train depot where the field hospital was set up. There was no room inside so they laid me on the sun-baked dirt beside the railway tracks.
The ground was covered as far as the eye could see with wounded and dying.
They left me there to wait for a doctor. But he never came.
All I could hear were the anguished cries for water and the dying prayers of the wounded that lay near me.
The blinding sun seared my eyes, and my lips would’ve been cracked with thirst except for the blood pouring out my mouth with each choking breath.
I’d been shot in the chest and lay drowning in my own blood.
Suddenly, out of the sky, the Jaguar goddess with glowing green eyes swooped down to crouch at my side.
Matz bent over me …
I tried to raise a defensive hand but failed.
She caressed my bloodstained cheek with one razor claw. ‘I’ve come for you, my little soldier …’
42
TRENCH COAT
Honeycutt rang me at 6 am to confirm where we were going to meet at the studio. He sounded like he hadn’t slept at all.
Earl was due to spend the day filming at the Atlanta train depot opposite Tara on the Back Forty, so we’d meet there. We both agreed the best course of action was to monitor Earl through until the end.
It felt cold to say that but what else could I do?
According to the studio records Bloom had dug up, the cement flooring in Studio 3 was poured just before the construction workers clocked off at 10.30 pm. That meant Earl’s body would be put in the slush before 11.30 pm. After that the cement would be too hard.
It was Sunday morning and the traffic heading into the city was light but it might as well have been heavy for all I cared. As irresponsible and crazy as Earl was I really didn’t want to watch him wend his way to a violent death.
I gave myself a mental slap … Think of what this would mean for Troy! That’s why I was here!
Then I noticed the car following me …
I was on Venice Boulevard when I realised that a blue sedan had followed me through the past three sets of traffic lights. They weren’t too close or too obvious, but after someone searched Phyllis’ house last night I was on the lookout.
I pulled over and pretended to check my Los Angeles city map. The sedan crept slowly past. It was driven by a gaunt-faced man with greying black hair and his dark felt hat was pulled down over his eyes. He looked like Foster Brigham’s hard-living elder brother.
In other words, he perfectly fitted the description Benny and Phyllis’ neighbour had given me.
I found my position on the map and then darted a glance at the road ahead. He’d parked in a space five cars in front of me.
I traced Venice Boulevard with one finger. In about half a mile there was an alley off to the right leading to a dead end. The dead end finished in front of a small park. If I could block his car and get to him straight away it might work.
Anyway, it was the best I could do at short notice.
I pulled back out into traffic and passed him without a glance. He tried to get straight in behind me but a man in a brown Buick cut him off.
By the time my new friend was back in the lane it was too late for him to follow me through the lights so I slowed a little. We went on for a few blocks and he edged up to four cars behind me. I indicated, made the right-hand turn into the alley and waited on the left. The alley was bounded on both sides by brick buildings and led into a little park with trees and swings. The alley was deserted and there was no one in the park either; it was too early on a Sunday morning for mothers and babies.
The grey-haired man snapped around the corner too fast and raced past me, only to pull up at the dead end with squealing tyres. I pulled my car across the alley, blocking his way out. If he was going anywhere it would be on foot and I could manage that.
I got out and approached his idling sedan with my revolver in my right hand. He turned off the engine and just sat there watching me with slit eyes … waiting, sizing me up.
‘Keep your hands where I can see them!’ I slapped the hood of his car. ‘Get out.’
He didn’t move.
I pointed the gun at his head. ‘I said, get out of the car!’
He opened his door slowly, getting to his feet with painful hesitation as though an old injury impeded his movement.
My tracker was around six foot and lean, with a dark brown hat and a trench coat over a good-quality dark suit. He had greying black hair with a dark moustache and brows, flint eyes and a hard jaw.
And he didn’t like the fact that I’d put one over him.
He stood stiffly beside the car but was cool, very cool. He hadn’t been the least surprised that I was armed, which meant he was used to dealing with violence.
And probably ready for it.
‘Turn around, legs spread. Hands on the hood.’
He wasn’t surprised by that order either and complied. I’d expected more of an argument.
Men in this era didn’t take orders from women easily … even those with a gun in their hand. For some reason, he believed I could shoot him down, here in this alley.
Just who did he think I was?
I patted him down with my left hand, keeping the revolver ready with the other. I did both sides, the armpits, the lower back, the groin and ankles. He’d flinched when I reached his groin, but I ignored that.
I wasn’t taking any chances; if I’d thought it was necessary I’d have put on the rubber gloves.
After last night I was in a very bad mood.
But he didn’t have a gun. Or knives. Not even any knuckle dusters or a cosh. All he had were cigarettes, some gum, an expensive fountain pen and an expensive tan leather wallet in his suit breast pocket. I laid them out on the hood of his car, one by one.
I moved back again, out of range, to check his wallet.
He watched me over his shoulder, hands still on the hood.
The wallet was good quality but old and falling apart. In the left side there was a black-and-white photo of him and a blonde woman by a wild and angry ocean. It was faded and worn, as though it’d been handled a great deal. Behind that was a veteran’s medical card showing he’d served in World War I.
There was about forty dollars in the billfold. His driver’s licence was folded up on the other side of the wallet.
I pulled it out and read aloud, ‘Hammett. Dashiell.’ He had a New York address.
The name rang a bell.
I’d heard it before, not in connection with this case, but in exactly what context or where I couldn’t remember.
Dashiell Hammett said nothing. He just watched me go through his things, which puzzled me no end.
Hammett wasn’t a small man and the scowl lines on his face reflected an aggressive nature that should have had him giving me hell. But he just stood in position and watched.
Was he afraid of me for some reason? Or was something else going on?
I refolded the licence, replaced it and flipped the wallet shut. He waited for me to return it.
Keeping my eyes on his face, I tossed it through the open window and onto the front seat of my Ford instead.
‘What, you’re going to rob me too?’
I laughed. ‘Don’t give me that innocent stuff, Hammett. You follow me around and you get what you deserve. And I’m keeping the wallet until I’m finished with you. It gives you some incentive not to run. So, who are you? Why are you following me?’
Hammett blinked at the first question, as though I should’ve known that already. He volunteered, ‘I’m a scriptwriter over at MGM.’
‘Oh, and you just happen to be following me as part of your research for a detective movie?’
Hammett blinked again, puzzled by something I couldn’t pick. He relaxed and,
without my permission, took his hands off the hood. He turned around to say, ‘No, Miss Dupree. Actually I’ve got plenty of detective experience already. I used to work for Pinkertons before I became a writer.’
So Dashiell Hammett was a private eye? Pinkertons was one of the first private investigation agencies in America. That fitted. He was cool with a gun in his face and that was something you don’t learn in the normal course of life.
So Hammett was investigating me? ‘Did you search my house last night?’
Now he leant back against the car. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘Why?’
‘What?’ he said with sarcasm. ‘Are you gonna shoot me if I don’t answer?’
When Hammett had first exited the car he’d been defensive, closed, expecting the worst. Now he was too relaxed. In that brief encounter he’d learnt more about me than vice versa.
‘No,’ I said. ‘But there are other ways to get answers.’
Hammett crossed his arms. ‘What are you going to do, girlie? Beat it out of me?’ He snorted with contempt.
Girlie? I holstered my gun then said coolly, ‘Only as a last resort.’
‘Sure you will.’
He stopped laughing when I reached into his car and pulled the keys out of the ignition. I threw them into my car too. I had my running shoes on, so if he took off on foot I’d grab him and put him in my boot.
If Hammett wasn’t going to talk then I’d search his car. If there was nothing there I’d come back to him.
I walked around to the passenger’s side of the car and opened the door.
His face tightened into the old aggressive lines as he worked out what I was going to do.
Good. That meant there was something in there he didn’t want me to see.
I flipped open the glove compartment. It held a bunch of empty Lucky Strike cigarette packets, a half-full bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon and a map of Los Angeles. The map was recent but had been used so much it was in two pieces. I spread them both across the front seat.
There were five places marked in red and a dozen more in black.
I shot him a glance. He was watching me with angry concern, but made no move to run. Hammett was confused more than anything … as though he couldn’t place me or my intentions and he didn’t like that feeling.
One of the red circles was Phyllis’ house. Another one was around Ceiba House.
I shot him a searching look. Was this all part of yet another weird strand of Earl’s lunatic double life?
But why was Hammett investigating me?
There were three more red circles marked: one in downtown Los Angeles, another in Santa Monica and a third in the San Fernando Valley.
I leant closer — the last one was the gang’s house.
Hmm … I gave him a pleased grin. This entanglement could turn out to be useful after all.
But the foremost questions on my mind were exactly how many people was he following and how did we all connect?
I tapped the map with my forefinger. ‘Looks like you’re a very busy investigator, Mr Hammett.’
‘You have no idea, girlie,’ came the smart-mouthed reply.
He was a hard case. I refolded the map and stowed it in my pocket.
I slid my fingers up and around the dashboard and hit a solid object wired to the underside of the dash. It was within leaning distance of the steering wheel and it was metal.
I gave it a sharp tug and pulled away a revolver. I spun the barrel; it was fully loaded.
‘Anticipating trouble?’ I asked.
He didn’t reply.
The gun joined the rest of his stuff on my front seat.
The sun visors were next. I flipped them both down and there was a battered grey notebook clipped to the one on the driver’s side. It had the name ‘Delmar’ printed on the front in black-ink capitals. I backed out of the car to get a better look.
It was small, square and ruled all the way through into three columns. It was a logbook. He was logging his surveillance.
Great. Now maybe I was going to get some real answers.
The three columns were divided into dates and times, locations, and names with details. I flicked back to the start of the book. The first entry was made at 5 pm, April 30th 1939. The place was the Hope Foundation Building, which was listed as having a downtown LA address. At that time and place a Floyd Nugent met with the Chairman of the Refugee Relief Fund, Stanislaw Brokowski.
Floyd Nugent … that was the man in The New York Times photo with Susan Curtis.
Why did the Hope Foundation keep cropping up everywhere?
Earl’s antique dealer — Bonifacio Neves — said they wanted to purchase Earl’s Civil War desk for inclusion in the auction to raise money for the Refugee Relief Fund. Was this all just some waste-of-time cul de sac to do with Montfort’s damned Redbud desk?
I flicked ahead, looking for Earl’s name.
Earl Curtis didn’t appear until Wednesday May 24th, just three days ago. Then the next five pages were filled with his activities; every detail of where he went, who he saw.
All details that only someone who had access to the Selznick studios could produce.
I shot Hammett a look. He’d said he was a scriptwriter at MGM …
Whoever put Earl in that slab had to be able to get into the studio to do it.
The last four pages of the log had my name in the third column, interspersed with more details about goings-on at the Hope Foundation.
I looked over at Hammett. He was frowning but didn’t know how to stop me. I already had a long list of questions but needed to finish searching the car first.
I pocketed the notebook.
He made a frustrated growl but didn’t speak.
There was nothing under the front seat but rubbish … more empty cigarette packets, mouldy half-eaten sandwiches in brown paper bags, cigarette butts and the stale smell of spilt alcohol. I unwrapped every crumpled piece of paper but found nothing of use.
The floor in the back was covered in a continuation of the rubbish dump from the front, but the seat itself had a neatly folded blanket marked Army Issue and a stained black-and-white striped pillow sans case. He’d either been on a stakeout or was about to go on one.
I came out and around his sedan and used his keys to unlock the boot …
I glared down at the contents then back at Hammett. He shifted uneasily under my gaze.
Besides the spare tyre and jack, there was a short-handled shovel with black clay encrusted on the blade and an open leather carry bag with a handle and a brass lock.
Inside the carry bag was a torch, a coiled length of rope and another gun.
Rope, shovel, gun.
It was standard kidnapping and body-disposal gear.
43
THE HOPE FOUNDATION
I pulled my revolver out again, shoved the boot down hard with my left hand and stalked back to Hammett. This time I stuck the gun under his chin, leaning him back into the car.
‘What’s with the rope and shovel, Hammett?’
He wouldn’t answer.
I dug it in deeper. ‘Come on!’
‘First prove to me I can trust you.’
I snorted. ‘You follow me around with a body disposal kit and you want ME to tell YOU something about trust?’
Hammett dodged my gun, getting his throat into an easier position. ‘The rope’s not for that,’ he said tersely. ‘I used it last night to get into an office building.’
‘Go on!’
‘I was there to collect some information about a case I’m working on —’
I pulled the gun away to let him speak. He automatically rubbed his neck.
‘Information about what case, Hammett?’
‘A friend of mine went missing,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for him.’
‘I don’t believe you! What could I possibly have to do with that?’ This didn’t make any sense. ‘I want to know why you’re following me around?’
Hammett said reluctantly, ‘I
found a file on Earl Curtis on the desk of the man I believe is responsible for my friend’s disappearance.’
‘And …?’
He was unsure. ‘I don’t know exactly how Curtis fits into my friend’s disappearance, but that is why I started checking him out.’
Hmm … This was more like it!
‘And where do I come into it?’
‘While I was over at the Selznick studios asking about Curtis, I heard about Phyllis’ suspicious accident and how you appeared out of nowhere to replace her. So I asked around and got that New York Torch story you’d been spinning everyone, but when I rang them they’d never heard of you … Then yesterday morning I saw you come out of a house I’d been watching in the San Fernando Valley. Then I knew you must have a connection with my suspect … So who are you really?’
‘I’m a private investigator too,’ I replied.
He scoffed, ‘Sure you are, girlie.’
‘You can believe I’m some kind of sleazy criminal but you can’t believe I’m on the side of the angels?’ That seemed to confuse him. ‘Pretty twisted way of seeing women, don’t you think?’
He scowled. ‘But what —?’
‘What case am I working?’ I eyed him warily. If Hammett was telling the truth he could be a whole lotta use to me. ‘Someone’s after Earl Curtis …’ I thought fast and lied. ‘He’s been receiving anonymous death threats.’
Hammett’s eyes lit up with interest. ‘Any idea about who is sending them?’
I shook my head. ‘Not yet.’
His gaze became a keen blade, probing for holes in my story. ‘Then why were you in that house in the San Fernando Valley?’
‘The gang broke into Earl’s house in Beverly Hills the night before last. He chased them off while I was on stakeout, so I followed them home.’
‘This is interesting … Very interesting.’ He silently digested that piece of information.
‘Okay, Hammett, now tell me about the case you’re working on. Who’s this missing friend and who’s your suspect?’
‘My friend is Delmar Handy. Has Curtis mentioned him at all?’
He sounded genuine. Delmar was the name printed on the front of his surveillance log.
Hoodwink Page 37
