Cast the First Stone

by James W. Ziskin

  Wallis’s movie career looked pretty dismal to me. Imagine making teen romp after teen romp with little concern for how long in the tooth your main actor was growing. Bobby Renfro? He had to be thirty-five or thirty-six. But just as I was ready to close the file on Wallis, I noticed that he’d registered a screenplay with the guild for his next movie, The Colonel’s Widow. A précis didn’t provide much in the way of details other than a simple categorization as “historical art film.”

  Outside the rain continued to fall, perhaps a little harder than before, and the wind nearly finished off my pathetic umbrella. I wrestled my way into a phone booth on the corner in front of the Writers Guild, dialed Wallis’s number, and got no answer. Next I tried Mickey Harper, also without success. Afraid I was getting nowhere, I drove past Tony and Mickey’s apartment on Wilton Place to see if maybe there was a light on inside. All was dark, and no one answered when I knocked.

  Back at the McCadden Hotel, I changed out of my soggy shoes and clothes. Marty the bellhop knocked on my door just as I pulled a warm sweater over my head. He had a message from the front desk:

  Are you available to meet Mr. Stemple and me at eight at Dino’s Lodge? We’d like to discuss Tony Eberle with you. Call my office at HO5-4202 to confirm.

  Cordially,

  Dorothy Fetterman

  I’d seen Dino’s Lodge on the opening of 77 Sunset Strip many times. And now I was standing in the entrance, just like Efrem Zimbalist Jr. I wanted to savor the moment, light a cigarette or run a comb through my hair like Kookie Kookson III, but the rain chased me inside.

  I took a seat at the bar, ordered a drink, and cooled my heels for nearly twenty minutes before I spotted Dorothy and Archie Stemple at the coat check. Stemple wandered off to a table somewhere inside while Dorothy came to collect me in the bar.

  “I see you found the place,” she said once we were seated in a booth.

  She and Stemple sat on one side of the table, and I took the other. The setup felt like a police interrogation. I tried to break the ice and my own jitters by asking if Dean Martin and his friends might stop in. The two exchanged a glance. Archie Stemple snorted through his nose.

  “Oh, no, Miss Stone,” said Dorothy, shaking her head in a most condescending manner. “Dean Martin wouldn’t be caught dead in here.”

  My face flushed hot. “But it’s his place, isn’t it?”

  “He sold his name to these people,” said Stemple, oozing even more arrogance than Dorothy had done. At least she’d appeared to pity me. “He had a disagreement with the owners and stopped coming here. In fact, no one comes here anymore.”

  “That’s why we chose this place,” added Dorothy. “We didn’t want to be seen.”

  I gulped, trying to swallow my embarrassment. “Is that because of me, or are you two having an affair?” I asked in a cheeky attempt to win back my own self-respect.

  “Neither,” said Dorothy, unfazed. “But we want to keep this matter as quiet as possible.”

  “Tony Eberle?”

  They shared another knowing look, and I fancied they were deciding who would take the lead. Dorothy turned back to face me and leaned in ever so slightly to speak.

  “Not Tony Eberle,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Bertram Wallis.”

  I must have looked puzzled because she explained.

  “We haven’t been able to locate Mr. Wallis for a couple of days.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would you want to talk to me about Bertram Wallis? I’d never heard of him before yesterday.”

  “All right, enough of this,” said Stemple, practically spitting his words at me. “Tell us where Eberle is.”

  Dorothy put a gentle hand on Stemple’s arm. She didn’t utter a word to him. Didn’t even look at him. He parked his tongue and sat back in his seat. I knew who was in charge.

  “We think Tony might be able to tell us something about Mr. Wallis’s whereabouts,” she said in a softer voice. “Can you share your information with us? Where is he hiding?”

  I was holding nothing in my hand and was already regretting my lie earlier in the day. I still had no clue where Tony was and even less of an idea of how to find him. Of course there was his roommate, Mickey Harper, but I was having trouble corralling him as well. And if he knew anything, he wasn’t telling. Then there was the mysterious girlfriend. April something or other. I sensed that if I could locate her, I’d find Tony too. I didn’t dare tell Dorothy and Stemple any of this. I stalled instead.

  “What makes you think Tony knows where Wallis is?”

  “Bertie hired him,” said Dorothy. “He seems to have some kind of connection with him.”

  “And you’re worried about Mr. Wallis. What exactly do you think happened?”

  “Of course we’re concerned. A man disappears for two days without a word.”

  “But you’re not so concerned for Tony Eberle.”

  “Bertie Wallis is an important man,” said Dorothy. “Tony Eberle is a nobody. Now less than a nobody.”

  “Except that he may know something about your Mr. Wallis. Not entirely a nobody yet.”

  “You’re avoiding my question.”

  “I can reach him,” I said. “But I’ll need a day or two.”

  Dorothy stared deep into my eyes, trying to read my thoughts. I have a pretty good poker face, but she was testing my resolve.

  “I suppose we have no choice,” she said finally. “You’ll keep me apprised of your progress.”

  She slipped out of the booth, and Stemple followed. She stopped at the bar and settled my bill. I watched them collect their things from the coat-check girl and disappear through the door.

  The window was dark at the Wilton Place apartment. I knocked anyway, but no one answered. I hadn’t eaten, so I drove off to a nearby deli and grabbed a sandwich to go. It was just about ten, and I wasn’t sleepy. I needed to catch a break if I was going to locate Tony Eberle in the couple of days I’d promised Dorothy Fetterman. Dinner in hand, I returned to Wilton Place to wait. It didn’t take long.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I nibbled on my sandwich as the rain drummed on the roof of my rented car. The radio kept me company as I sat in the dark. For once, I didn’t even mind the selections coming over the airwaves. Bobby Vee, the Shirelles, Ray Charles. Not so bad. But when “Bristol Stomp” came on, I drew the line. I switched off the radio and looked just as the window of apartment 101 lit up. I nearly choked on my sandwich, which I promptly dropped on the floor at my feet.

  There were a couple of shapes moving around in the room, but I couldn’t make out more than that. I was parked about fifty or sixty feet from the window. There was no way to tell who was inside, but I assumed whoever it was had arrived while I was at the deli ordering my dinner. Or maybe I’d been concentrating on the radio when Mickey or Tony had come home. Or was it someone else inside? Perhaps someone who wanted to find Tony Eberle as much as I did. That was a frightening thought. I watched for ten minutes, waiting for the perfect moment to go and knock at the door.

  Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was just about ten thirty when the light blinked off. I reached for the door handle, ready to get out and investigate, but I held off, figuring Mickey or Tony would be safely tucked into bed by the time I rapped on the door. I rehearsed what I would say when I finally made contact with whoever was inside. If it was Tony, I’d ask why he’d decided to run off and blow his one big chance. And I’d ask about Bertram Wallis. If it was Mickey on the other side of the door, I’d make him show me Tony’s possessions one way or another so I might locate April. Three minutes later, as I contemplated my next move, a soft glow appeared in the maw of the garage exit to the right of the darkened window. The throw of two headlights, growing ever brighter, lit the wet pavement. Then a car, a light-colored wagon, emerged from the underground garage onto the street, pausing at the entrance as if to check that the coast was clear. I shrank into my seat, trying to melt into the dark, rainy night until the car had made its decision. When it final
ly pushed its way out and turned left onto Wilton, I reached for the key in the ignition and held it fast between my right forefinger and thumb. The wagon waited for a moment at the traffic light, then made a left when it changed. I turned the key, shifted into gear, and followed.

  From behind, the car looked like an early fifties Rambler station wagon. Through the driving rain it was hard to be sure, but I thought I could make out the shapes of three heads inside. The Rambler continued west along Franklin Avenue, crossing La Brea where it zigzagged down to Hollywood Boulevard. I marked the car some thirty yards back, keeping my distance so as not to raise suspicion. Only when we reached a red light did I pull to a stop directly behind it. Hoping the passengers wouldn’t notice me among the other cars, I wondered if the street lamp was bright enough for me to get a clear shot of the license plate. I pulled my Leica from my purse and popped off the lens cover. The light changed, but I snapped one frame before the Rambler had moved. I would have to develop the film to see if I’d managed to focus on the license plate in my haste.

  I gave the car in front of me some space. A short time later, it turned right off Hollywood onto Nichols Canyon Road. I stepped on the gas to keep pace.

  The road narrowed as it twisted its way slowly up a hill. We climbed for about three minutes, leaving the city behind in short order. I marveled at how lonely and remote the hills were, just a couple of hundred yards from Hollywood Boulevard. Matching their every turn, I sloshed through the runoff rainwater that was rushing down the hill. Three times, the Rambler steered around fallen branches or some creeping mud that had slid down the sides of the canyon into the road, and I did the same. I worried that the passengers might notice a car following them, but I didn’t dare fall too far behind and lose them.

  The Rambler stopped at an intersection. I cringed as I came nearer, knowing full well that I couldn’t pull up short without arousing suspicion. So I did the only thing I could. I forged on ahead and stopped right behind them. Now, as my wipers beat back and forth across the windshield, throwing waves of the pouring rain off to either side, I could clearly discern three heads inside the car in front of me. Surely they’d noticed me by now. My headlights were shining directly into their car, and the road was deserted besides us. The Rambler sat stubbornly at the stop sign. What were they doing?

  Fifteen seconds ticked by. I wanted to pick up my camera and risk another photo, but my courage didn’t go that far. Yet I had to do something before they climbed out of the car to investigate who was tailing them. I decided it was better to blow my horn than to idle silently behind them. I gave them a short blast and watched, hoping they’d take me for just another motorist eager to get home. My gambit worked. The brake lights blinked off, and the car continued up Nichols Canyon Road. I exhaled, clutching the steering wheel as the Rambler receded into the distance up the hill. In for a penny in for a pound, I set off after them.

  My targets picked up speed, and I let them. The rain flooded the road now, and, unfamiliar with the area, I drove carefully, slowly, not wanting to risk a crash. They rounded a curve about a hundred yards ahead, and I lost sight of them for about twenty seconds. Once I’d reached the turn, they’d already disappeared around another bend in the road. I accelerated. But a quarter of a mile later, they were still nowhere in sight.

  My headlights peered through the driving rain. I leaned forward and wiped the foggy windshield with my right hand to see better. Something loomed ahead. My eyes grew as I watched. I’d never witnessed anything like it before. A muddy mountain of slop was crawling across the road directly in my path. It looked alive, and it took me a moment to realize that this was a mudslide. A living blob of earth tumbled across the pavement, piling up upon itself, blocking the way. I stamped on the brakes and skidded to a stop. All was silent except my heavy breathing and the humming of the windshield wipers, sloshing back and forth across the glass. The mound of mud and branches stood before me, stretching right to left across Nichols Canyon Road. There was no room for me to maneuver around it. I’d have needed a shovel, a snowplow, or an earthmover to push the mud out of the way. I cursed my luck as I imagined the Rambler and its three passengers snaking up the hill. I’d lost them and any chance of finding Tony Eberle.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 1962

  I’d expected Southern California to provide a warm, sunny respite from the East Coast winter. But Thursday morning brought the wettest day of all. A deluge. I switched on the radio for the news. All Los Angeles schools were canceled due to the rain. Wow, I thought. New Holland refused to close schools even for a blizzard. Besides the weather, the top stories of the day were the state of emergency in France and the Cuban embargo announced by President Kennedy. I was preparing to brush my teeth in the bathroom when the local news came on. I rushed back into the bedroom, mouth full of toothpaste, to catch the end of the report.

  “Repeating our top story, producer Bertram Wallis has been found dead in a ravine below his Hollywood Hills mansion. Police have not yet given a time or cause of death, but the lead investigator on the scene described the circumstances as suspicious. More as this story develops.”

  “No luck yet,” I told Charlie over the phone. “I almost got him last night. At least I think it was him. But there was a mudslide on the road, and I lost him.”

  “A mudslide?” he asked, and I could tell he wished he could write a story about that. “Did you take any pictures?”

  I explained that I’d had little interest in photographing a mound of slop in the dead of night.

  “Besides, I’ve got to follow up on some big news I just heard on the radio. Do you remember I mentioned the name Bertram Wallis the other day? Well, last night that woman from the studio told me he was missing. She thought Tony Eberle might know where he was. But this morning Wallis was found dead in a ravine below his home in the Hollywood Hills.”

  Charlie whistled down the line.

  “Doesn’t look good for our friend Tony,” I said. “Not as long he remains on the lam.”

  “Yeah, he’s going to have some explaining to do when he turns up. Assuming he’s not lying at the bottom of another ravine somewhere.”

  “I’ve got Wallis’s address. I’m heading up there right now.”

  “Keep track of your carfare. Artie will want to account for every last penny.”

  I gulped. This wasn’t the moment to break the news about the rented car, so I kept my mouth shut.

  “Any progress with Tony’s family and friends?” I asked instead.

  “Afraid not. The father won’t talk any more to the press until he’s spoken to Tony.”

  “Can’t say I blame him,” I said. “What about his old drama club chums?”

  “I spoke to three of them. They said Tony was a great talent, polite enough, but no one ever got close to him. And none have heard from him since high school. Apparently, he had few friends back then.”

  “Quite mysterious for a milkman’s son from Rockton.”

  Charlie wished me luck, and I hung up.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I scribbled some notes to myself. I thought about Tony’s childhood friends. Surely he had more than one, and I wanted to speak to them. Eberle Sr. had to know their names, but Charlie had failed to get him to talk. I had another idea. I picked up the receiver and asked for the operator. Taking into account Fadge’s laziness and overall unreliability, I still figured he’d be in the store at that hour. I placed a station-to-station call to Fiorello’s, and my dear friend answered on the seventh ring.

  “I need a favor,” I said after I’d completed the niceties and given him the short version of my California adventure. “But you’ve got to promise me you won’t breathe a word to anybody. At least not yet.”

  He made another in a series of childish jokes that I was going to owe him for this. “And not some lousy Hollywood knickknack from a souvenir shop. I’m talking sex.”

  “You’ll get a Dodgers pennant and a Hollywood snow globe, but only if you’re
good.”

  “At least some heavy petting.”

  “Let’s see the results, then we’ll talk about payback. Here’s the sitch. Tony Eberle never showed up for his close-up. If anyone knows where he is, they’re not talking. And get this: the producer who hired him turned up dead this morning.”

  “Trouble seems to follow you around lately,” he said. “So how can I help and make you beholden to me at the same time?”

  “I need you to go see Tony’s father and get the names of some of Tony’s childhood friends. Then you can let Charlie Reese know. He’ll take it from there.”

  “That doesn’t sound too hard. Why can’t Charlie get the names for you?”

  “The father doesn’t want to talk to the press. So I thought you might persuade him. Lean on him a little.”

  “You want me to rough him up?”

  “No, I want you to lean on him till he tells you what you want to know. Literally lean on him. He’ll talk or suffocate.”

  Fadge uttered a mirthless laugh from three thousand miles away. “You want a favor and you start in with the fat jokes?”

  “I’m batting my eyelashes as I ask please.”