Reluctantly Fadge agreed to take on the job. I gave him the address, and he promised he’d try to get me something before the end of the day. Joking aside, he was my favorite guy in the world.
I dropped my film off at Thelan’s Camera Center on Hollywood Boulevard and begged the man behind the counter to develop the film as quickly as he could. He took pity on me and said he’d have it ready by six. But it was going to cost me. Maybe no heavy petting, but five dollars extra.
The car idled at the curb, wipers laboring to keep up with the rain, as I dug into my purse for the scrap of paper Zelda Weitz had given me: Bertram Wallis’s address and phone number. Solar Drive. I flipped through the Thomas guide and located it. Then, plotting my route, I ran my finger down the map and gave a little start. Solar Drive was at the rim of a canyon high in the Hollywood Hills. And it was reachable only from Nichols Canyon Road, the very place I’d followed the Rambler wagon the night before.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hollywood Boulevard was flooded, but not so much that I couldn’t navigate my way west. I made the same turn up Nichols Canyon as I had the night before, hoping crews had cleared away the mudslide. They hadn’t, but some industrious drivers and the heavy rain had worn down the mound of earth and made the way passable if messy.
Near the top of Nichols Canyon Road, I turned right onto Solar Drive and saw police cars and a gaggle of onlookers ahead. I parked about fifty yards away, grabbed my camera, and set out on foot. I braved the weather, pointing my borrowed umbrella into the driving wind and rain. Despite all odds and appearances to the contrary, the distressed ribs of Marty the bellhop’s umbrella managed to hold onto the shredded fabric and provide a small measure of shelter from the storm. As I approached the house, I saw several more cars, some with radio and television call letters on the doors, and a gang of waterlogged souls milling about in slickers and rubber boots. I sidled up to a tall fellow holding a camera under his open raincoat. It was hard to say for sure, what with his rain hat and wet face, but I figured him to be about thirty, of large build, like a football player, with a friendly face. He flashed me an aw-shucks smile and told me his name was Andy Blaine. I introduced myself and asked which paper he was with.
“I used to shoot for the Examiner,” he said. “But since the merger last month, I peddle my photos to the highest bidder.”
A man huddling in a rain poncho beside Andy snorted a laugh and remarked in a dry, tired voice that the papers weren’t exactly breaking down doors to pay for pictures.
“It’s not as bad as all that,” Andy said to him. “I still sell my pictures if they’re good.”
“Good for you,” the other man said. “I lost my job last month when they announced the merger. Gene Duerson, by the way.” He extended a dry hand to me. “I have to scramble now to cover stories in the hopes of selling something to the dailies or scandal sheets.”
Gene was a wiry man of about forty-five or fifty, with horn-rimmed glasses and a long nose. I couldn’t see his hair thanks to the yellow rain hat he was wearing, but his face was open and genuine, if a little world weary. He looked frail. Or perhaps bored.
“Do you live around here, Miss Stone?” asked Andy, stepping between Gene and me.
“No, I’m from back East. Actually I’m a reporter, too. I write for a small daily in upstate New York.”
“No kidding? You’re a reporter?”
“You’ll have to excuse young Andy, here,” said Duerson, scribbling something into a pad of paper. “He’s from Iowa and never heard of a woman reporter.”
Andy grinned at me and apologized. “I’m still getting used to Los Angeles. It’s an education for a Midwest boy.”
“So what brings a girl from New York out here to a dead Hollywood producer’s house?” asked Duerson.
Unless George Walsh is involved, I’m not miserly when it comes to chatting with colleagues about my stories. Still, I’ve learned the hard way not to be too loose-lipped. I wasn’t sure where the Tony Eberle story might lead or even if he was involved in this latest development. But Bertram Wallis had handpicked him for his role in Twistin’ on the Beach, after all, and Tony was missing in action somewhere. And then there was Dorothy Fetterman, unsettling, competent, and powerful, wanting to know where the hometown hero was holed up. Who was to say that Tony Eberle wasn’t in this up to his ears? I wanted to be friendly with my new pals, but not at the expense of losing my story. I decided to give them the abbreviated version and leave out anything that might give away my advantage.
“I’m here to write a piece on a local boy who has a bit part in the movie Mr. Wallis was making. I heard about Mr. Wallis on the radio and couldn’t ignore a story like this.”
They both nodded politely, surely glad they didn’t have to do a profile on a small-town nobody, to echo Dorothy Fetterman’s words. Andy asked me for the actor’s name. I dodged his question.
“Nobody you’ve heard of,” I said. “Not much more than an extra, really.”
I chatted with the two men for about ten minutes. They told me that the police were inside the house, scouring the place for clues. A sergeant had given them and the other reporters an update about an hour and a half earlier, but they were still waiting for more information.
I asked what Andy and Gene knew of Bertram Wallis. Gene had met him a couple of times through Andy.
“Wallis sometimes needs a photographer for his parties,” said Andy. “Other times he’s just hoping to get some publicity. These producers are always looking to get their names or pictures in the papers.”
“Not always,” said Gene.
“How so?” I asked.
He balked, insisting he didn’t like to say such things in mixed company, especially with someone as young and innocent as I. Finally, after assurances that I didn’t offend easily, Andy chimed in and told me that Wallis often threw parties, including one Monday night.
“And some of the parties were indecent.”
“You mean like orgies?”
“The Romans had nothing on Bertie Wallis,” he said.
“Was it one of those orgies on Monday night?”
“I don’t think so. More of a respectable gathering that night. As respectable as Wallis ever got. I was here outside with some other photographers and reporters, waiting to see if anyone famous showed up. And sometimes Wallis invites us in to take a couple of photos. He likes the publicity so long as it’s not one of his indecent parties.”
“Did he invite any photographers inside that night?”
Andy shook his head. “No. I took a few pictures outside, though. Just people arriving in their cars.”
“Maybe you could show me sometime,” I said. “I’d like to see who attends these parties.”
Gene leaned against the fender of a news van and popped a cigarette into his mouth. He produced one of those old-fashioned strike lighters and scratched it three times before managing to generate a flame in the wet. He replaced the wand and tucked the contraption into his trouser pocket.
“I’ll tell you who attends. Men, girls, boys, you name it,” continued Andy. “Of course I was never asked to shoot photographs at those private affairs, but we’ve all heard about them.”
Gene just squinted off into the distance at the next ridge, watching the rain as cigarette smoke trailed out of his nostrils and disappeared on the wind.
“Boys?” I asked. “That can’t be. It’s illegal.”
“Well, by boys I mean young men. Actors and models, most of them. Of course every now and then there’s a rumor about a kid with some movie star. Fourteen, fifteen, or sixteen. That kind of thing.”
“Bertram Wallis liked young boys?”
“I never said that about Wallis,” said Andy, holding up his hands as if putting on the brakes. “I was talking about actors. Famous actors. Some of them swing that way. There’s folks who’ll scare up whatever perverts want in this town.”
“Really? And you say this is common knowledge? About famous actors?”
�
��You must’ve heard rumors about Rock Hudson.”
I told him I had but didn’t believe them.
“He’s just so manly,” I said. “I can’t picture it.”
“He’s not the only manly man who likes men. Not by a long shot. All the newspapermen and reporters know it, but we can’t print it. Wouldn’t be decent.”
“Nothing to do with decency,” Gene added in a near whisper. “The studios pay off the scandal sheets. If they didn’t, the whole country would know about Rock Hudson and Tony Perkins. And others. The list goes on and on.”
I swallowed a dry gulp. I hardly considered myself a Pollyanna, but my illusions were being smashed and drowned in the rain of a gray Hollywood morning.
A commotion coming from the house interrupted our palaver. Andy picked up his tripod and hustled over to the driveway. Gene followed, a little less frantically, but all he was carrying was a pad and pencil. I sloshed through the rain after them. The throng of about twenty reporters closed ranks in seconds, surrounding a plainclothes policeman who’d just emerged from the house. The cop was a beefy man of about thirty-five with black hair slicked down on his head, perhaps with pomade, perhaps from the rain. The circle of reporters crowded around him, leaving no room for me to squeeze in. In fact, I was shut out. I held my camera at the ready, but the huddle was too tall for me to get a shot of the cop. The press fired questions at him, and I was thankful to be close enough to hear if not see the briefing.
“Come on, Millard, throw us a bone. Give us something we can write,” said one voice.
“Hold your horses, fellas,” answered the cop. “You’ll get your stories once we have some more information.”
“Can’t you tell us anything new?” asked another reporter.
“All I can say for now is that the deceased, one Bertram Wallis, age thirty-six, was discovered in the ravine below his terrace this morning.”
“Who discovered the body?” I yelled from my position on the periphery.
The crowd turned to see who was the owner of the pixie voice. A crack opened in the wall of raincoats, and I got my first clear view of the policeman. And he got his first glimpse of me. He grinned one of those toothy, wolfish grins in my direction.
“What do we got here?” he said, taking a step toward me, shoving a couple of reporters out the way as he did. “You must be lost, young lady.”
I straightened my back, trying to summon a couple of extra inches of height beneath my umbrella, but, in truth, without much success. The cop stood before me, wearing nothing to protect himself from the rain. Just a wool overcoat and the aforementioned pomade, which resisted water like a duck’s oily feathers. He wasn’t bad-looking in a five-o’clock-shadow kind of way, but I found him off-putting just the same. A bully, I thought right off the bat. But then his grizzled features softened just a bit, and his smile went from threatening to welcoming in an instant. Maybe I’d misjudged him.
“Are you with a magazine or a newspaper, miss?” he asked.
“Newspaper,” I said.
“Which one?”
How to answer? If I told him the truth, he’d surely want to know why I was there. I’d have to tell him about Tony Eberle, which couldn’t be good for Tony. Still, I had no other affiliation and no choice.
“The Republic,” I said, hoping it would end there. It didn’t. “The New Holland Republic,” I clarified after he’d asked.
The cop, Sergeant John L. Millard, as he later told me for my article, nodded and dropped the matter, at least for the time being.
“The cleaning lady spotted him,” he said, finally answering my question. “That is she saw him in the mud and brush from the terrace above.”
“What was she doing on the terrace?” I asked. “I mean it was pouring this morning. Why would she be standing out in the rain?”
“You hear that, fellas?” he said to the other reporters. “You mugs should learn to ask questions like that.” Then turning back to me, he answered that she’d gone looking for the dog. “She got here at seven this morning and didn’t see Wallis or his dog. Then she heard the little guy barking out on the terrace. He was locked outside. Been out there at least two days.”
“How did she know that?” called one of the reporters.
Millard smirked. “You believe this guy?” he asked me but not expecting an answer. Then he turned back to the circle of reporters and explained that the dog had “done his business, big and small” all over the terrace.
“What kind of dog is it? And what’s his name?” I asked.
Millard regarded me queerly. Then he attempted to show me a friendly smile. “You really want to know what kind of dog it is? Do you write for Doggy Daily or something?”
I repeated my affiliation, and he told me Bertram Wallis’s dog was a Chinese pug named Leon. I noticed some of my brethren of the press corps writing furiously on their pads.
“The cleaning lady’s been off since Monday night,” continued Millard. “So the little dog was pretty cold and hungry when she found him.”
“Then do you suspect the body had been in the ravine for at least as long as Leon was locked out on the terrace?” I asked.
“Another excellent question, boys. I hope you’re all paying attention.” He turned back to me. “To answer your question, we’re not sure about the time of death, but judging by the condition of the body, it looks like the guy was down there for a day or two.”
“How’s the dog doing now?” asked an earnest reporter. Millard rolled his eyes. “It’s not for the paper,” the reporter said in his defense. “I love dogs, is all.”
Millard waved a hand at him. “He’s fine. Had his breakfast and is sleeping in his warm bed.”
Then he asked me if the little lady had any more questions. I did. Many. I wondered, for instance, when Wallis had last been seen alive? Did the police suspect foul play and, if so, did they have anyone in mind? What was the name of the housekeeper? Were there any witnesses besides the housekeeper? Did Mr. Wallis have any next of kin? I was trying to decide which question to ask first when Gene Duerson piped up in his strongest voice from behind the policeman.
“Was this an accident? Or do you suspect murder or suicide?”
Millard shrugged at me as if to say “You lost your chance, sister,” and turned to answer Gene.
“We haven’t determined anything yet. As I said before, it appears Mr. Wallis has been dead for a day or two. Possibly three. The coroner’s office will have a better estimate later today or tomorrow.”
“Excuse me,” I said, pushing my way into the scrum of reporters. “Can you tell us what the deceased was wearing?”
“What he was wearing?” asked Millard. I nodded. “He was dressed in slacks and a shirt. Nothing unusual there.”
“And did he have anything on his person?”
Millard took a step toward me. Gone was the friendly demeanor he’d been wielding. “What do you mean by anything on his person?”
I gulped. “Just that. Was he carrying anything that might help you determine what happened to him?”
For a long moment, Sergeant Millard stared me down, cocking his head and aiming his squinting right eye at me.
“Have you been talking to one of my boys?”
“No, I just got here five minutes ago.”
“I hope not, because if I find out someone blabbed to you, I’ll have his badge.”
“Honest. I haven’t spoken to any cops. I just got here.”
He glared a little more, unsettling me, before finally clearing his throat. “I suppose it will come out later,” he began. “Wallis had his wallet on him. His driver’s license, a Diner’s Club card, house key, and twenty-two dollars. Nothing appears to be missing.”
He shuffled in the mud. Then he nodded, almost as if he’d made up his mind. “We found a telephone number in his right front trouser pocket. We’ve established who the subscriber is and have dispatched a patrol car to the address to investigate.”
The crush of reporters tightened
the circle around the cop, bombarding him with questions as they scribbled in their pads. Whose phone number was it? What was the address? Was he a suspect? Sergeant Millard didn’t appreciate the mob’s advance, cursing and shoving reporters out of his way as he cleared a path for himself. Once he’d separated himself from the boys of the press, he wiped some rain off his forehead with the back of his hand and warned them all that he’d throw every last one of them in jail if they ever surrounded him like that again.
“I don’t like being crowded, is all,” he yelled at them. Us. “Keep your distance.”
Once he’d cooled off, Millard made his last remarks to the reporters. No, he wasn’t going to release the information on the phone number. Not until the police had had a chance to interview the fellow.
“Then it was a man,” said Gene Duerson, practically risking arrest.
Millard fumed. He stared him down for about ten seconds before admitting—grudgingly—that, yes, the telephone number belonged to a man. With that last statement, he stomped off back to the house and shelter.
“So we have to stand out here and wait some more,” said Andy, who rejoined me under a nearby tree that offered a small measure of protection from the rain.
“I’m not waiting here,” I said. “I’ve got an idea.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I wasn’t sure if I was making a mistake letting Andy Blaine and Gene Duerson in on my hunch, but I did it anyway. They could certainly help me in some way later on, perhaps get me permission to send a wirephoto back to New Holland or give me advice on where to eat. They were locals, after all. I invited them to take a ride with me, and we drove down the hill into Hollywood toward Wilton Place. I wasn’t too worried that they would scoop me if my hunch was right. After all, I didn’t care about losing the story to any Los Angeles reporters. My focus was on the New Holland audience.
We chatted along the way, getting to know each other. Andy told me he’d taken up photography in high school in Davenport. He landed in Los Angeles after his tour in the navy ended. He’d been stationed in Long Beach, liked the Southern California weather, and never left. I became aware of a lingering smile on his part, and it was stuck on me. Sure, he seemed sweet, but I wasn’t looking for love in the front seat of my rented car. Gene sat in the back, staring out the window and listening to Andy’s prattling.
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