Rook Takes Knight (The Howie Rook Mysteries)

by Stuart Palmer

  After some delay the sought-for gentleman appeared, wiping chemical-stained hands on a linen smock that had seen better days. He was an almost bald young-old man with a face like a benign gargoyle’s, a cigarette dangling from his loose lower lip, but there was a certain briskness and air of competence about him. “I’m Anton Keyes,” he said. “Now what can I do for you, mister?”

  “I need some color work, rush.”

  “Wait a minute,” the man objected. “We only do wholesale work here. We’ve an agreement with drugstores and camera shops and anywhere film is sold that they take in the work and we come and pick it up and process it. We’re not supposed—”

  “This is an emergency. You’re the boss—can’t you stretch a point? We need a color blowup, or several. And we must have the stuff by tomorrow around noon, come hell or high water.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “I’m working as an investigator for Mr. Agnews, the defense attorney.” Rook decided to lay his cards on the table—or at least the print and its negative on the counter. “It’s on the level,” he found himself apologizing. “I hope you don’t think I go for this sort of thing, I’m no pervert out for kicks.”

  Keyes was looking at the photo and then the negative, jaws agape. “Holy hell!” he whispered. “I’ve seen some nasty ones in my time—”

  “The original roll of negatives came through your shop, didn’t it? Via the Brentwood Pharmacy?”

  “Excuse me a minute.” Keyes disappeared inside again, but came back shortly. He seemed a man who could take anything in his stride. “Yeah, it’s our work. Old Barney Schwenk says he put it through some weeks ago—he’s been with us since my old man started the lab, and he doesn’t even look at the stuff any more. You see, I’ve got six men working here, and I’m out picking up stuff a good deal of the time. I don’t see much of the work.”

  “Well, you see it now. This may be important evidence in a criminal case. If you can rush it through in time, it may save a lady from going to jail!”

  Keyes was hardly listening. “But damn it, I think I know her! I know I know her! Or at least I used to. That’s Dee Delaney—its got to be!”

  “Mrs. Deirdre Charteris now,” Rook informed him.

  “The Dee-lovely Delaney, we used to call her. I was still photog and lab technician around the TV and movie lots until my father passed on and I inherited this place. Dee—why, Dee was the best-looking and the nicest of all the so-called starlets, back around ’62 and ’63. Half the props and grips and juicers were gone on her, and us cameramen used to fight for the honor of shooting her. She was special!”

  “She still is—but she’s in a jam.”

  Keyes was looking at the photo again, his eyes clouded. “I can see she’s in trouble,” he said grimly. “This photo spells that out.”

  “That particular trouble is over. Her husband was John Charteris, who got killed up in Brentwood Wednesday night by a hit-run driver. And the authorities are trying to pin it on her, which is why Agnews and I are on the job. The whole case, we think, hinges on this photo.”

  “Well, don’t you worry. You’ll get your enlargements, for damn sure. All you need and before noon tomorrow. And on the house!”

  “Thank you. Could we have half a dozen?”

  “Sure. And look, if there’s anything else I can do—I’m not just talking, I mean it—”

  “I don’t think—wait a minute! There just might be something. You were acquainted with Deirdre way back when, when she was trying to get ahead in show business. Was there some special man in her life that you remember?”

  “Wouldn’t that be for her to tell you?”

  “She doesn’t seem to appreciate the seriousness of her position. And she’s possibly trying to protect somebody.”

  “Well, then—” Keyes put out his mashed cigarette, then lighted another. “She was no tramp, understand. You only got fresh with her once. She wasn’t putting out, like most of those tomatoes. The word was that she was holding out for a wedding ring, or at least for a fat contract. None of us guys around the sets got to first base with her—she was the ‘I’ll have a drink but I won’t go upstairs’ type. I think somebody said she was carrying the torch for some man in the Service who went overseas. And there was a musician, only I can’t recall his name offhand.”

  Rook produced a card. “If you do think of it, call me at either of these numbers,” he told this unexpected ally.

  “I sure will. I’ll look through my old photos and scrapbooks, and maybe call a couple of the old crowd who used to work with me. We studio people stick with our own, Mr. Rook. And when you see Dee, tell her old Tony Keyes said hello, huh?”

  “Certainly.” As Rook left he saw the man holding the negative up to the light, staring at it with his gargoyle-face twisted in what might have been an expression of suppressed fury.

  IV

  ROOK HAD REASON TO feel more hopeful now. The morning was half gone, but he had started some wheels turning. Evelyn Potter was on the job (good old Evelyn!) prowling through the back copies of Inside Filmdom in search of something that might possibly disclose the identity of Deirdre’s former boy friend. He had had cooperation from Mr. Willson (Willson with two l’s, remember) and also the promise of speedy (and free) enlargements of the Exhibit A photo from that friendly gargoyle Mr. Anton Keyes. And there was still Mike Finn in reserve. The ex-policeman could sometimes get in where even Rook himself couldn’t go, and he was a bulldog.

  Rook took time out to stop at a filling station on Bundy and use the pay phone. “Finn Associates, Michael Finn speaking,” came the answer.

  “What’s this with the ‘associates’ bit, Mike? You buy a couple of goldfish for your office?”

  “Howie? Oh, it sounds better. And if it’s an assignment, I dunno. I got a lot of stuff piled up on my desk.” Mike always played coy.

  “Old True and Argosy magazines, you mean. Who you kidding, Mike?”

  “Well, come to think of it, I did run across one of your pieces in Real Detective the other day. If you’re going to rehash those old murders for the pulps, why don’t you get your facts straight? Why, everybody knows the Black Dahlia killer was a man who’s now in a Texas jail.”

  “Once a dumb flatfoot, always a dumb flatfoot! The killer was a woman, and she’s working right now in a beauty parlor in Long Beach!” But eventually, with the amenities and insults concluded, they got down to business. Rook explained what he had in mind.

  “But, Howie—every auto junk yard in the greater Los Angeles area? That’ll take weeks—”

  “There’s some sort of a clearing house for old auto parts somewhere, so find it. And a practically classic car Model-A Ford shouldn’t be too hard to run down. Keep in touch through Hal Agnews’ switchboard, because around noon I’ll have some other stuff for you.” That was that. Rook started toward his car, then came back and found another dime. But Deirdre’s number didn’t answer at all, even though he used Hal’s special code.

  There was nothing for it but to pop in on her unannounced. He drove north, crossed Sunset and up Kenter and finally up the long, winding Tigertail. When he pulled into the Charteris driveway he looked carefully up the street, but there were no signs of surveillance today. Of course, Wilt Mays could have had one of his men with binoculars stationed on one of the higher roads, up the canyon. There was a crepe wreath hanging now on the Cupid door knocker, so the morticians had been busy. Evidently the last rites for John Charteris were to be observed—or celebrated—as if nothing at all were wrong.

  Rook knocked, and then knocked again. No answer. He hammered impatiently, and called out, “Mrs. Charteris? Deirdre, it’s me!”

  Still nothing but stony silence from within. But surely Deirdre wouldn’t have been insane enough to panic and try to make a break for the Mexican border! He went around the house to the garage—the brown Volkswagen still stood outside, the Lincoln and the red MG in their stalls. Deirdre surely wouldn’t have gone down the long road on foot, and still less lik
ely was it that she would have essayed the mountaineer tactics and tried to scramble up and down steep canyon walls …

  Then he heard a splash from somewhere out in the back. Of course! He hunted around until he found a gate in the picket fence, surrounded by thick shrubbery, and came suddenly through into the swimming pool and patio area. It was all beautifully landscaped and a-bloom with rose trees and flower beds and ornamental cacti—but Rook wasted little time on the scenery.

  There was Sister Mary lying on a pad and sunning her somewhat overdeveloped curves, wearing only the briefest of sun suits. And in the blue-green water, swimming a lazy Australian crawl, was Deirdre. Both women looked momentarily startled at his sudden materialization, and he called out hastily, “It’s only me! Or ‘I,’ if you want to be pedantic about it. I knocked until I was blue in the face, and nobody answered …”

  Mary Patch was hastily struggling into a robe. But Deirdre swung up the ladder and came toward him, dripping and smiling. She seemed utterly unconscious of the fact that her body, that magnificently and subtly voluptuous white body, was covered only in a few of the more strategic places by the skimpiest of bikinis. “What a pleasant surprise,” she was saying. “I’m so glad you came! Howie—may I call you Howie now?—I’ve been doing some thinking—”

  Rook could have told her that it was about time. But she went on, “Just give me a second, please. I daren’t be out in the sun much because I never seem to tan, I just freckle like mad or burn to a crisp …” She slipped into a capacious, almost ridiculous granny gown and put on a wide-brimmed straw hat in a sort of reverse-action strip tease.

  “Me too,” put in Mary. “I peel like old wallpaper if I’m out in the sun too long. But then I like everything that’s bad for me. You know the saying—everything is always illegal, or immoral, or fattening …” She dragged a chaise over for Rook to sit upon.

  “It’s just that I was thinking about John and—” began Deirdre.

  “Wait! Are we alone? What about the servants?”

  “They’re not here.”

  “Dee had me phone and tell them not to come back to work until Monday,” Mary put in.

  “I just couldn’t stand to have them around and looking sorry for me,” Deirdre confessed. “And I don’t want you to think I’m being heartless or frivolous to want a swim on a day like this, but I thought it would freshen me up. Oh, would you care for a drink or something?”

  Rook started to say “No, thanks” and then saw a possible way to get rid of their self-appointed chaperone, who was beginning to get into his hair. “Perhaps Mrs. Patch would be kind enough to make some iced coffee?”

  “Of course! Iced coffee and a sandwich or two. Would you mind, Mary dear?” Whether Mary minded or not, she nodded and went into the house. Deirdre perched herself close to Rook. “It occurred to me,” she said very seriously, “that John’s death might not have been murder at all! He might have purposely stepped in front of that car, which somebody had borrowed just for a joy ride the way kids do. Because Dr. Mortensen, the psychiatrist John went to, said that sadomasochistic types, like John was supposed to be, often end in self-destruction.”

  Rook said, “I’ll make a note of that. Right now I’m trying to locate a couple of presumed eyewitnesses, who may settle it one way or the other. It’s something Hal might suggest in court, as a last resort.” Her face fell, and he swiftly changed the subject. “There are some more things I have to ask you. First, who were your husband’s closest relatives?”

  “Why—just some cousins up in Frisco. They didn’t seem to approve of his marrying anyone who carried the taint of show business, I guess. I never met them—but they each sent an expensive and useless silver something-or-other as wedding presents, though. A Mr. George Worthington and a Miss Evangeline Corey—they were on our Christmas card list, and that’s all.”

  “But perhaps they’ll inherit if you don’t. Do they need money?”

  “Doesn’t everyone? But surely you’re not suggesting that they would kill John, or arrange to have someone kill him, and then try to pin it on me!”

  Rook shrugged. “Just reaching for the moon. It sounds farfetched, but you never know. However, Hal and I have come to a much more likely explanation. Deirdre, the time has come when you’ve got to tell me to whom you showed that photo—apart from Hal and me and your sister.”

  She looked blank—almost too much so. “But, Howie, I told you! Nobody! Why do you ask?”

  “Because while there’s always some chance that your husband was murdered by somebody out of his past, some former girl friend or business associate or former friend turned enemy, Hal and I have come to the conclusion that that would be reaching out too far into left field. It’s an unusual murder, and must have an unusual motive. Three things in this case seem to be inextricably linked. Taking a woman like yourself, almost too beautiful, taking a photograph of cruel indignities amounting to torture done to her, and taking a murder which was as cold-blooded as an execution, there’s just one possible answer.”

  “And that is?” Her voice seemed a little withdrawn now.

  “Just this. Neither Hal nor myself have been able to put that photo out of our minds since we saw it. And if it had that effect on us, then it isn’t hard to imagine the effect it might have on someone who knew you and maybe had a secret yen for you, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  “Oh,” said Deirdre.

  “So somebody must have seen it—and ten to one that somebody is the person we’re looking for.” He took out his pouch and lighted up his briar, to give her time to think.

  “But the answer is still no!” she said slowly. “It wasn’t the sort of thing I’d show anybody—unless I really had to, as I did with Hal Agnews and you. Mary wanted me to use it as divorce evidence, but the whole thing is so humiliating and distasteful! I did not show that picture to anybody—and you’ve got to believe me!” Her big azure eyes, turned full upon him now, were guileless as a child’s. But she was no child, and Rook would have bet anything that she was lying in her teeth, playing the role of the injured innocent for all she was worth.

  “You’re making it tough for us,” he said. “Because the only way we can keep you out of jail is to produce the person who actually did murder your husband!”

  “And I tell you it doesn’t seem possible that anybody we knew—or anybody I knew or ever did know—”

  “But somebody did!” Deirdre had no answer for that, so he went doggedly on. “I’m afraid you’re not being frank with us.

  “I did not show that photo to anybody, so help me God!”

  Perhaps she was the type who having told a lie once or twice, came to believe in it. He tried another tack. “How about your sister, then? She seems to be the officious, busybody type, if you don’t mind my saying so.” Deirdre said firmly that Mary might be overly protective sometimes but she would never in the world have even thought of going around and displaying a picture like that. “Do you mind if I ask her? Because here she comes.”

  And here she came, bearing a tray. Mary looked red-faced and sullen—perhaps the kitchen windows opened out onto the patio and she had got an earful. At any rate, she was ready with the answer to Rook’s sixty-four-dollar question almost before he could put it in words. “I did not show that photo to any living soul!” she insisted.

  “You mean you didn’t show it to anybody except your husband?”

  Mary hesitated, looking at Deirdre as if for moral support and then defiantly back at Rook. “No, I did not—” she began. Then suddenly, “Well, what if I did! There are no secrets between husband and wife. And I wanted Ed to know what was going on, so he wouldn’t think less of my sister for thinking of divorce!”

  “And what was his reaction?” Rook pressed his advantage.

  “Ed hit the ceiling, who wouldn’t? He said he’d like to get a bunch of his pals from the American Legion post or somewhere and take John Charteris out and tar-and-feather him! Which I, for one, devoutly wish they had!” Her wide mouth
suddenly snapped shut, and that was evidently all that anyone was going to get out of her. So Rook drank the iced coffee and downed two sandwiches made of peanut butter and watercress. Then another wild idea occurred to him. “Deirdre, could your husband have seen that photo?”

  She gasped. “John? Heavens, no!”

  “He could have looked in your handbag!” She shook her head very firmly. “But listen a minute,” he went on. “There are those people who like to dwell, in a sort of morbid fascination, on their past misdeeds. It’s part of the principle of group therapy, and the Oxford Group, and of Alcoholics Anonymous.”

  “That is simply preposterous,” Deirdre told him. “John had no idea that the photos existed, and if he had he’d never have shown them to a living soul—he’d have died first!”

  Rook had struck the end of another blind alley. “Well, I must be on my way,” he said. “Thanks for the coffee and sandwiches, Mrs. Patch.” Mary just nodded coldly, but Deirdre walked with him into and through the house. “Oh,” he asked suddenly, “do you have maybe another album, or scrapbooks or anything, of your own? I mean, going back to the days before your marriage?”

  She shook her head. “I used to have—but John made me destroy all those little mementos when we were married. My life in show business was supposed to be a closed chapter. Why?”

  “Just another wild idea. By the way, I ran into somebody today by accident. He knew you, and he told me to tell you hello for old Tony Keyes.”

  “It doesn’t ring any bell.”

  “A photographer, back around the studios?”

  “Was he the one who wanted me to work in a moonlighting nudie picture? I don’t seem to remember …”

  “A thinnish character, chain smoker, on the homely side?”

  “Oh, that would have to be Tony the Pinch!” Her face warmed. “We called him that because he was a little free with his hands, but he was harmless—a good-natured guy who was always good for lunch or a couple of bucks. I never did know his last name. You meet so many characters when you’re freelancing from one lot to another …” She looked a little wistful, as if suddenly regretting the old days, “good old days” or not. “You have to be very young and a little crazy to stand it,” she said. “If you do see Tony again, tell him hello right back. And ask him if I owe him two dollars.”