“What do you trust me with?”
“Not to murder me in my sleep. Or to poison me with breakfast.”
I rolled my eyes. In other words, Mickey Harper was happy to sleep in my bed and accept my charity. But he wouldn’t even tell me his height and weight if he thought I might learn something about him.
“Have you been in touch with Tony?” I asked.
“If I say I have, you’ll tell the cops.”
“You really think I’ll turn you in to the police? You just spent the night in my bed. If I’d wanted to call the cops on you, I would have done it for you making me spend the night in a chair.”
He shrugged. “I just know that I’m supposed to deny I know anything about Tony. As soon as I admit I know where he is, we’re both in hot water.”
“What about April?” I asked, changing tack. “Can you tell me where she is?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know her full name.”
My patience exhausted, I snapped at Mickey. “Oh, for God’s sake. It’s April Kincaid, 1402 North Edgemont Street, apartment two-B. She drives an old Rambler wagon and ran off to her family’s broken-down ranch house in Barstow with Tony in tow. I went out there day before yesterday and convinced her to come back to Los Angeles. She’s holed up with some people I know to keep her safe from whoever killed Bertram Wallis.”
Mickey gaped at me, surely taken aback by the violence of my outburst. For the first time, he appeared unsure of what to say to me.
“Did she contact you yesterday?” I asked a touch friendlier.
He cast his eyes downward and picked at his fingernails before finally nodding. “She told me Tony was on his own. She lost him in Barstow.”
I drew a sigh. “Did she tell you where she was?”
He nodded again.
“Damn it. Now I’m going to have to move her again. I don’t know why I’m bothering to help you people. All you do is lie to me. You, April, and—I’m sure—Tony would too, if I could find him. What is going on with you three?”
“We’re not lying to you,” he said, though his heart wasn’t in it.
I choked out a sarcastic laugh. “Really? You told me you didn’t know April’s full name, where she lived, or what her car looked like. You said you didn’t see Tony Monday night or Tuesday morning. You told me you didn’t drive up Nichols Canyon Road last Wednesday night.” I paused for breath. “You said you’d only known Tony a short while and you weren’t from New Holland. Have I forgotten anything?”
“I tell you what I have to,” he said in his defense. “It’s not lying.”
“Can you tell me one thing truthfully?” I asked. “Was Tony mixed up in Bertram Wallis’s death?”
Mickey perked up at the question. “No, he wasn’t. See? I didn’t lie to you about that. I told you that the first time you asked me. He didn’t have anything to do with that.”
“What about the witnesses who saw him at Wallis’s place Monday night?”
Mickey shook his head. “Maybe he was there, and maybe he yelled at Bertie, but he didn’t kill him.”
“How can you be sure? You told me you were at a party with friends Monday night and didn’t know where Tony spent the night.”
“I said what I had to.”
I considered myself a patient soul, not prone to outbursts or fits of temper, but Mickey Harper was testing me. His constant lying was making me work twice or thrice as hard to get answers to simple questions. Questions that might have actually helped him and Tony out of the mess they’d got themselves into. Mickey and Tony were fast friends, looking out for each other, that much was clear. Their ties went back years to a small mill town in upstate New York, and I doubted my recent acquaintance was compelling enough to challenge the loyalties they felt for each other. And April made the pair a trio. I couldn’t guess at the nature of the threesome’s covenant, but the underpinnings clearly stood on devotion, secrecy, and trust. I was unwelcome but determined to break through. My story depended on it. Tony’s career might well have depended on it too.
I waited for Mickey to step into the shower before phoning Charlie Reese to dictate the story I’d written in the small hours of the morning. In contrast to the mysterious tone I’d woven into the article with Gene, I told a more straightforward tale of a young man everyone back home already knew. I related the facts. How Tony Eberle had stood on the edge of realizing his dreams, only to see them vanish before his eyes in an instant. Pulling no punches at this late date, I gave the facts: Tony had disappeared the day after producer Bertram Wallis was murdered at his Hollywood Hills home. I wrote that he’d been fired from the picture and that local police and studio representatives all wanted to speak to him. I left Mickey’s name out of the article, naming him only as an anonymous friend. To have included him would have set off a firestorm of gossip and speculation back home, and, besides, I’d promised him I wouldn’t.
I felt some measure of guilt for my hand in destroying a young man’s reputation. Of course I knew that the blame was Tony’s alone. But I still regretted it had come to this. I knew my story would cause a sensation in New Holland, but there was no more time to put it off. If I didn’t act soon, someone else would scoop me on the story. It was my job to report the news. And this was news. Big news for the New Holland faithful. I was sure I was doing the right thing, even if it didn’t feel that way. The only doubt in my mind was how long the hometown fans would stand behind Tony. Heroes can become pariahs overnight. The public is fickle and hard to please, ever ready to abandon a fallen star for the new flavor of the month.
“Kind of a sad tale,” I said. “And it’s not over yet. It might well get worse before it gets better.”
Charlie asked if I had any photographs I could send. He said he could arrange things with the Times or the AP.
“I’ve got everything you need to tell the story. Shots of the studio, Tony’s apartment building, and the scene of the murder. Everything except the star himself.”
“Good. We’ve got lots of pictures of him on file. And I’ll ask Norma to get a photo of this Wallis guy from the wire service.”
We discussed what I would do next. I told him I’d nearly bagged Tony two days before, only to lose him in the mud of Barstow, California. But I had his girlfriend, April, stashed in a safe place. I still had hopes of getting my hands on Tony soon.
“I’ll send you a wire in an hour with details on where to drop off the photos for transmission,” he said. “Make sure you check back with your hotel. In the meantime, keep punching, Ellie.”
“What about George Walsh?” I asked before he could hang up. “Is Short sending him out here?”
Charlie was quiet. I asked again.
“I’ll let you know for sure tomorrow,” he said finally. “Artie says George is going, but I’m still trying to talk him out of it.”
Thanks to April’s phone call to Mickey, I felt it necessary to move her from the safety of Nelson and Lucia’s guesthouse. Where to I wasn’t exactly sure. Before setting out for the Blanchards’ place, I stopped at Thelan’s and dropped off all the film I’d shot. The clerk assured me it would be ready in four hours. Then I stopped at a nearby bank and cashed some traveler’s checks.
I arrived at the top of Astral Drive a little past nine thirty, flush with cash but already flagging from my sleepless night. The rain had slowed to an intermittent drizzle, which pleased me to no end. I’d applauded the weather report that came over the radio on my drive up Nichols Canyon. No rain in the forecast for Tuesday.
Nelson Blanchard met me in the driveway, still in his dressing gown, ascot, and leather slippers. I wouldn’t swear to it, but I would have wagered a bundle that he was wearing nothing else underneath the robe.
“Come in, Ellie dear,” he said, waving me into the foyer. “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news.”
“Don’t tell me she’s gone.”
“Vanished. Lucia heard a car this morning about six. She saw headlights through the window and peeked out. Your friend
April dashed out of the guesthouse and climbed into a car before Lucia could put on her robe. We sleep in the nude, you see.”
The last detail was neither a surprising nor germane. I ignored it and asked if Lucia had at least gotten a look at the car.
“Light color. A station wagon. That’s all she could tell me.”
“Where is she now? Can I speak to her?”
Nelson shook his head. “She’s in her bath.” Then an idea came to him. “Unless you don’t mind talking to a naked lady.”
I reminded Nelson that I had already seen Lucia in the altogether the previous summer in the Adirondacks. It had been an unsettling encounter, standing before such a beautiful creature who was wearing nothing but a smile. As much as I wanted to ask for her version of the events, I did not feel the need to repeat the experience.
I had an idea that Tony had made his way back to Los Angeles in the night and recovered April’s car from where I’d parked it on Edgemont. He must have hitchhiked from Barstow, as I was sure he had no money for bus fare. But how had April reached him to tell him where she was? Mickey. That was the only possibility I could see. I wondered if that beautiful little boy had engineered the entire visit to my hotel room to provide cover while his friends made good April’s escape.
My only option was to find her again. I pulled away from the Blanchards’ place, intending to check April’s then Mickey and Tony’s apartments for any sign of life. I wanted to wring Mickey’s neck for his duplicity, but I stepped on the brakes instead. Below me on Solar Drive, a group of reporters had gathered outside Bertram Wallis’s house. I thought I could see Gene and Andy in the mix, so I parked the car and went to investigate.
“What’s up, boys?” I asked, rousing them both from near sleep.
Andy’s face lit up like a Roman candle. Gene puffed on a cigarette.
“Millard’s going to give the press a tour of the house in a half hour,” said Andy. “You won’t want to miss this.”
“I’ve lost April,” I told Gene. He straightened up. “The studio was looking for her and sure to find her, so I stashed her with some friends of mine. She lit out, and now I don’t know where she’s gone.”
“A lot of trouble we went to to get her out of Barstow,” said Gene, and he tossed his cigarette to the ground where it drowned in a puddle. “Where do you think she’ll go?”
“I’m going to cover the bases. Her place, Tony’s place. But who knows if they have other friends here in Los Angeles? Or they could be in Nevada by now.”
Gene shrugged. “That’ll teach you to help folks who don’t want helping.”
“Here comes Millard,” said Andy, grabbing his tripod and heading toward the driveway. Gene and I followed.
The last thing I wanted to do was face Sergeant John Millard, but there was no avoiding it. I joined the crush of reporters that was tightening the cordon around him. Remembering his aversion to crowds, I stayed back, waiting to gauge his reaction. As a result, he didn’t see me at first. But I noticed the backside of a walrus I thought I recognized. It was Harvey Dunnolt’s amorphous mass displacing three other reporters at the center of the congregation. I’d been in Los Angeles for a week and had almost nothing to show for my time. And now the competition from the Schenectady Gazette had arrived. With the speed and stealth of a slug, perhaps, but he was there, ahead of me in line to tour the murder house. I knew I had to act.
“Okay, boys. Get your press cards out,” said Millard in his officious tone. “You’re going to show them to Officer Phillips here or you’re not getting inside for the fun and games.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder to indicate a very large and intimidating man in uniform behind him. “Let’s go. One at a time.”
The reporters lined up and shuffled past the tall Colored officer, flashing their credentials for his inspection as they did. I joined the procession but got shoved to the back. I was the last reporter to approach the gatekeeper.
“No sightseers today, miss,” said the officer in a rich bass voice. “Reporters only.”
I shrank before him.
“It’s all right, Phillips,” said Millard, who’d finally seen me.
“Hello, John.” I nearly choked on the name.
“I didn’t know we were on such friendly terms,” he said. “After the other night, I mean.”
I had to defuse the situation quickly or be left on the wrong side of Officer Phillips, who was aiming a menacing squint at me. Playing the only card I had in my hand, I thanked Millard for the pleasant evening we’d spent together.
He smirked. “Funny. I don’t remember it that way.”
“I’d like to go inside to view the crime scene.”
“Go ahead,” he said after staring me down for a moment. “Provided Officer Phillips here says it’s okay.”
I pushed past him, pausing to flash my press card to Officer Phillips. He glared at me, and, for a moment, I thought he would turn me away. But then his scowl softened into a smile, and he broke into a thunderous laugh.
“I’m just having fun with you, miss. Go on in.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Bertram Wallis’s house was one of those modern boxes perched on the edge of a ravine, one half clinging stubbornly to the hill by its fingernails, the other standing like a stork on stilts. Enormous. Probably five thousand square feet. Blond wood floors, glass and steel, and dramatic vistas. Views of Los Angeles as well as the canyon below. The place must have set Wallis back eighty or ninety thousand at least.
Beyond the entrance, the ground floor of the house was one huge room, divided into three different sitting areas, each with sofas, chairs, and end tables of different colors. All modern and expensive-looking. There was a bar on one side, a dining table for twelve on the other. A swinging door behind the table must have led to the kitchen. The south- and east-facing walls were floor-to-ceiling glass that provided the view. In the middle of each, a pair of sliding doors opened to the terrace outside. A staircase ran along the north wall, leading up to the second floor.
I joined the group of reporters who’d been herded into the dining area. Harvey Dunnolt was writing something in his pad and still hadn’t seen me. Maybe he wouldn’t have recognized me anyway. I’d become used to that kind of thing. Most newspapermen look right past a girl reporter. Even when they’re leering at her. I slipped behind Andy and waited for Millard to start the show.
“How about a cup of coffee later?” Andy whispered to me.
“If you don’t mind a quick one,” I said. “I’ve got some errands after this.”
“All right, boys and girl,” said Millard, arriving in the room. He’d made a point of looking directly at me as he said it.
I risked a glance in Harvey Dunnolt’s direction. Still unaware of my presence, he was standing there, listless, staring at Millard, his mouth hanging open and his eyes half-shut. I wanted to toss a spitball at him.
“You fellas are in for a treat,” began Millard. “We’re going to show you what we think happened, and you can take pictures and notes for your stories. Any questions before we start?”
Harvey Dunnolt raised his hand.
“You’re raising your hand?” sneered Millard. “This isn’t school, big boy. Here we shout out our questions.”
“Sorry. I only just arrived in Los Angeles last night,” said Harvey, blushing from the dressing down. “I was wondering if you have any idea of where Tony Eberle is and if he is a suspect in this murder.”
The room erupted into chaos, with the boys of the press wanting to know if Millard had been holding out on them. Who was this Tony Eberle? Was he a suspect? And who was this rotund man asking the question? Millard was on his heels, trying to calm the group with raised hands and voice. At length, he managed to restore order with the promise that he’d explain everything to their satisfaction.
Gene Duerson and I exchanged a quick glance. I could read his face. Any advantage we might have held over the others had just evaporated.
Millard cleared his throat. “Ton
y Eberle—E-B-E-R-L-E—is an actor in the movie Mr. Wallis was producing,” he said, wiping his face with a handkerchief as he did. “We would like to question Mr. Eberle about what he might know about Mr. Wallis’s death.”
“So you’re saying he’s a suspect in the murder?” shouted one of the reporters from the back of the scrum.
“I’m not saying that,” snapped Millard. “I said we want to question him. He’s one of several people who were present at the party Wallis threw the night he died.”
“Why haven’t you questioned him yet?” asked another reporter.
Millard pursed his lips and shook his head. He clearly hadn’t intended to talk about Tony Eberle with the press this day.
“We haven’t talked to him yet because we can’t locate him.”
More rumbling from the peanut gallery, and someone asked if the phone number in Wallis’s pocket had been Eberle’s. Gene and I again shared a look. I, for one, was glad I’d posted my story with Charlie just an hour before. For his sake, I hoped Gene had something ready to go as well.
“I’m not confirming or denying that,” said Millard, for all intents and purposes confirming it.
I was sure the entire press corps of Los Angeles was going to descend on Tony’s apartment as soon as the tour of the murder scene ended. I made a note to call Mickey to warn him as soon as I could find a phone.
“So you don’t know where this Eberle guy is?” someone asked.
“No.”
“Do you have any other suspects?”
“Not at this time.”
There was a brief pause in the questioning. Then someone asked how well Bertram Wallis knew Tony Eberle. Were they “intimates”? Oh, no, I thought. Was this where the innuendo would start?
Millard didn’t know. All he could say was that Tony had a fairly large role in Wallis’s movie.
“Or I should say he used to have a role in the picture. He got fired when he didn’t show up for filming on Tuesday morning.”
Millard fielded some more questions about Tony. Address, general information on his acting career, and so on. The sergeant answered some and claimed ignorance of others. It was nothing the boys couldn’t discover on their own. Then good ol’ Harvey Dunnolt decided to share Tony’s provenance with the entire room.
Cast the First Stone Page 16
