TERMS ACCEPTABLE. INFORM HEARST AND AT FIRST OPPORTUNITY PERFORM REPAIRS AND UPGRADE. QUINTILIUS WILL CONTACT WITH STOCK OPTIONS.
I read it through twice. Oh, okay; the Company must mean they intended to follow my suggestion. I’d promise him the moon but give him the eighteen years decreed by history, and he wouldn’t even be getting those if I didn’t do that repair work on his heart. What did they mean by upgrade, though? Eh! Details.
And I had no reason to feel lousy about lying to the old man. How many mortals even get to make it to 88, anyway? And when my stopgap measures finally failed, he’d close his eyes and die – like a lot of mortals – in happy expectation of eternal life after death. Of course, he’d get it in Heaven (if there is such a place) and not down here like he’d been promised, but he’d be in no position to sue me for breach of contract anyway.
I acknowledged the transmission and shut down at last. Yawning again, I crawled into my fabulous priceless antique Renaissance-era hand-carved gilded bed. The chihuahua hadn’t peed on it. That was something, at least.
I slept in next morning, though I knew Hearst preferred his guests to rise with the sun and do something healthy like ride five miles before breakfast. I figured he’d make an exception in my case. Besides, if the PT3 cocktail had delivered its usual kick he’d probably be staying in bed late himself, and so would Marion. I squinted up at the left-hand tower of La Casa Grande, making my way through the brilliant sunlight.
No dead dog in sight anywhere, as I hauled open the big front doors; Tcho-Tcho’s passing must have been discovered without much commotion. Good. I walked through the cool and the gloom of the big house to the morning room at the other end, where sunlight poured in through French doors. There a buffet was set out with breakfast.
Lewis was there ahead of me, loading up on flapjacks. I heaped hash browns on my plate and, for the benefit of the mortals in various corners of the room, said brightly:
“So, Lewis! Some swell room, huh? How’d you sleep?”
“Fine, thanks,” he replied. Other than a slight Theobromos hangover. “But, you know, the saddest thing happened! One of Mrs. Bryce’s little dogs got out in the night and died of exposure. The servants found it this morning.”
“Gee, that’s too bad.” Anybody suspect anything?
No. “Yes, Mrs. Bryce is dreadfully upset.” I feel just awful.
Hey, did you lure the damn mutt into my room? We’ve got worse things to worry about this morning. I helped myself to coffee and carried my plate out into the dining hall, sitting down at the long table. Lewis followed me.
Right, the Valentino script. Have you had any new ideas about who might have taken it?
No. I dug into my hash browns. Has anybody else complained about anything missing from their rooms?
No, nobody’s said a word.
The thing is – nobody knew you had it with you, right? You didn’t happen to mention that you were carrying around an autographed script for The Son of the Sheik?
No, of course not! Lewis sipped his coffee, looking slightly affronted. I’ve only been in this business for nearly two millennia.
Maybe one of the guests was after Garbo or Gable, and got into your room by mistake? I turned nonchalantly to glance into the morning room at Gable. He was deeply immersed in the sports section of one of Mr. Hearst’s papers.
Well, if it was an obsessive Garbo fan he’d have seen pretty quickly that he wasn’t in a woman’s room. Lewis put both elbows on the table in a manly sort of way. So if it was one of the ladies after Gable – ? Though it still doesn’t explain why she’d steal the script.
I glanced over at Connie, who was sitting in an easy chair balancing a plate of scrambled eggs on her knees as she ate. Connie wouldn’t have done it, and neither would Marion. I doubt it was the Hearst kid’s popsy. That leaves Garbo and Mrs. Bryce, who left the movie early.
But why would Garbo steal the script? Lewis drew his eyebrows together.
Why does Garbo do anything? I shrugged. Lewis looked around uneasily.
I can’t see her rifling through my belongings, however. And that leaves Mrs. Bryce.
Yeah. Mrs. Bryce. Whose little dog appeared mysteriously in my bedroom.
I got up and crossed back into the morning room on the pretext of going for a coffee refill. Mrs. Bryce, clad in black pajamas, was sitting alone in a prominent chair, with Conqueror Worm greedily wolfing down Eggs Benedict from a plate on the floor. Mrs. Bryce was not eating. Her eyes were closed and her face turned up to the ceiling. I guess she was meditating, since she was doing the whole lotus position bit.
As I passed, Conqueror Worm left off eating long enough to raise his tiny head and snarl at me.
“I hope you will excuse him, Mr. Denham,” said Mrs. Bryce, without opening her eyes. “He’s very protective of me just now.”
“That’s okay, Mrs. Bryce,” I said affably, but I kept well away from the dog. “Sorry to hear about your sad loss.”
“Oh, Tcho-Tcho remains with us still,” she said serenely. “She has merely ascended to the next astral plane. I just received a communication from her, in fact. She discarded her earthly body in order to accomplish her more important work.”
“Gee, that’s just great,” I replied, and Gable looked up from his paper at me and rolled his eyes. I shrugged and poured myself more coffee. I still thought Mrs. Bryce was a phony on the make, but if she wanted to pretend Tcho-Tcho had passed on voluntarily instead of being swatted like a tennis ball, that was all right with me.
You think she might have done it, after all? Lewis wondered as I came back to the table. She had sort of fixated on me, before Marion turned her on Garbo.
Could be. I think she’s too far off on another planet to be organized enough for cat burglary, though. And why would she steal the script and nothing else?
I can’t imagine. What are we going to do? Lewis twisted the end of his paper napkin. Should we report the theft to Mr. Hearst?
Hell no. That’d queer my pitch. Some representatives of an all-powerful Company we’d look, wouldn’t we, letting mortals steal stuff out of our rooms? No. Here’s what you do: see if you can talk to the people who left the theater early, one by one. Just sort of engage them in casual conversation. Find out where each one of the suspects went, and see if you can crosscheck their stories with others.
Lewis looked panicked. But – I’m only a Literature Preservation Specialist. Isn’t this interrogation sort of thing more in your line of work, as a Facilitator?
Maybe, but right now I’ve got my hands full, I responded, just as the lord of the manor came striding into the room.
Mr. Hearst, wearing jodhpurs and boots, was flushed with exertion. He hadn’t got up late after all, but had been out on horseback surveying his domain, like one of the old Californio dons. He hit me with a triumphant look as he marched past, but didn’t stop. Instead he went straight up to Mrs. Bryce’s chair and took off his hat to address her. Conqueror Worm looked up and him and cowered, then ran to hide behind the chair.
“Ma’am, I was so sorry to hear about your little dog! I hope you’ll do me the honor of picking out another from my kennels? I don’t think we have any chihuahuas at present, but in my experience a puppy consoles you a good deal when you lose an old canine friend,” he told her, with a lot more power and breath in his voice than he’d had last night. The PT3 was working, that much was certain.
Mrs. Bryce looked up from her meditation, startled. Smiling radiantly she rose to her feet.
“Why, Mr. Hearst, you are too kind,” she replied. No malarkey about ascendance to astral planes with him, I noticed. He offered her his arm and they swept out through the French doors, with Conqueror Worm running after them desperately.
What happens when we’ve narrowed down the list of suspects? Lewis tugged at my attention.
Then we steal the script back, I told him.
But how? Lewis tore his paper napkin clean in half. Even if we move fast enough to confuse the surveillanc
e cameras in the halls –
We’ll figure something out, I replied, and then shushed him, because Marion came floating in.
Floating isn’t much of an exaggeration, and there was no booze doing the levitation for her this morning. Marion Davies was one happy mortal. She spotted Connie and made straight for her. Connie looked up and offered a glass.
“I saved ya some Arranch Use, Marion,” she said meaningfully. The orange juice was probably laced with gin. She and Marion were drinking buddies.
“Never mind that! C’mere,” Marion told her, and they went over to whisper and giggle in a corner. Connie was looking incredulous.
And are you sure we can rule the servants out? Lewis persisted.
Maybe, I replied, and shushed him again, because Marion had noticed me and broken off her chat with Connie, her smile fading. She got up and approached me hesitantly.
“J-Joe? I need to ask you about something.”
“Please, take my seat, Miss Davies.” Lewis rose and pulled the chair out for her. “I was just going for a stroll.”
“Gee, he’s a gentleman, too,” Marion said, giggling, but there was a little edge under her laughter. She sank down across from me, and waited until Lewis had taken his empty plate and departed before she said.
“Did you – um – come up here to ask Pops for m-money?”
“Aw, hell, no,” I said in my best Regular Guy voice. “I wouldn’t do something like that, Marion.”
“Well, I didn’t really think so,” she admitted, looking at the table and pushing a few grains of spilled salt around with her fingertip. “He doesn’t pay blackmailers, you know. But – y-you’ve got a reputation as a man who knows a lot of secrets, and I just thought – if you’d used me to get up here to talk to him – ” She looked at me with narrowed eyes. “That wouldn’t be very nice.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” I agreed. “And I swear I didn’t come up here to do anything like that. Honest.”
Marion just nodded. “The other thing I thought it might be,” she went on, “was that you might be selling some kind of patent medicine. A lot of people know he’s interested in longevity, and it looked like he’d been drinking something red out of his coffee cup, you see.” Her mouth was hard. “He may be a millionaire and he’s terribly smart, but people take advantage of him all the time.”
“Not me,” I said, and looked around as though I wanted to see who might be listening. I leaned across the table to speak close to her ear. “Listen, honey, the truth is – I really did need his advice about something. And he was kind enough to listen. But it’s a private matter and believe me, he’s not the one being blackmailed. See?”
“Oh!” She thought she saw. “Is it Mr. Mayer?”
“Why, no, not at all,” I answered hurriedly, in a tone that implied exactly the opposite. Her face cleared.
“Gee, poor Mr. Mayer,” she said. She knitted her brows. “So you didn’t give W.R. any kind of . . . spring tonic or something?”
“Where would I get something like that?” I looked confused, as I would be if I were some low-level studio dick who handled crises for executives and had never heard of PT3.
“Yeah.” Marion reached over and patted my hand. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to be sure.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said, getting to my feet. “But please don’t worry, okay?”
She had nothing to worry about, after all. Unlike me. I still had to talk to Mr. Hearst.
I strolled out through the grounds to look for him. He found me first, though, looming abruptly into my path.
“Mr. Denham.” Hearst grinned at me. “I must commend you on that stuff. It works. Have you communicated with your people?”
“Yes, sir, I have,” I assured him, keeping my voice firm and hearty.
“Good. Walk with me, will you? I’d like to hear what they had to say.” He started off, and I had to run to fall into step beside him.
“Well – they’ve agreed to your terms. I must say I’m a little surprised.” I laughed in an embarrassed kind of way. “I never thought it was possible to grant a mortal what you’re asking for, but you know how it is – the rank and file aren’t told everything, I guess.”
“I suspected that was how it was,” Hearst told me placidly. His little dachshund came racing to greet him. He scooped her up and she licked his face in excitement. “So. How is this to be arranged?”
“As far as the shares of stock go, there’ll be another gentleman getting in touch with you pretty soon,” I said. “I’m not sure what name he’ll be using, but you’ll know him. He’ll mention my name, just as I mentioned Mr. Shaw’s.”
“Very good. And the other matter?”
Boy, the other matter. “I can give you a recipe for a tonic you’ll drunk on a daily basis,” I said, improvising. “Your own staff can make it up.”
“As simple as that?” He looked down at me sidelong, and so did the dog. “Is it the recipe for what I drank last night?”
“Oh, no, sir,” I told him truthfully. “No, this will be something to prolong your life until the date history decrees that you appear to die. See? But it’ll all be faked. One of our doctors will be there to pronounce you dead, and instead of being taken away to a mortuary, you’ll go to one of our hospitals and be made immortal in a new body.”
That part was a whopping big bald-faced lie, of course. I felt sweat beading on my forehead again, as we walked along through the garden and Hearst took his time about replying.
“It all sounds plausible,” he said at last. “Though of course I’ve no way of knowing whether your people will keep their word. Have I?”
“You’d just have to trust us,” I agreed. “But look at the way you feel right now! Isn’t that proof enough?”
“It’s persuasive,” he replied, but left the sentence unfinished. We walked on. Okay, I needed to impress him again.
“See that pink rose?” I pointed to a bush about a hundred yards away, where one big bloom was just opening.
“I see it, Mr. Denham.”
“Count to three, okay?”
“One,” Hearst said, and I was holding the rose in front of his eyes. He went pale. Then he smiled again, wide and genuine. The little dog whuffed at me uncertainly.
“Pretty good,” he said. “And can you ‘put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes’?”
“I might, if I could fly,” I said. “No wings, though. You don’t want wings too, do you, Mr. Hearst?”
He just laughed. “Not yet. I believe I’ll go wash up now, and then head off to the tennis court. Do you play, Mr. Denham?”
“Gee, I just love tennis,” I replied, “but, you know, I got all the way up here and discovered I’d only packed one tennis shoe?”
“Oh, I’ll have a pair brought out for you.” Hearst looked down at my feet. “You’re, what, about a size six?”
“Yes, sir,” I said with a sinking feeling.
“They’ll be waiting for you at the court,” Hearst informed me. “Try to play down to my speed, will you?” He winked hugely and ambled away.
I was on my way back to the breakfast room with the vague hope of drinking a bottle of pancake syrup or something when I came upon Lewis. He was creeping along a garden path, keenly watching a flaxen-haired figure slumped on a marble bench amid the roses.
“What are you doing, Lewis?” I said.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he replied sotto voce. “I’m stalking Garbo.”
“All right . . .” I must have looked dubious, because he drew himself up indignantly.
“Can you think of any other way to start a casual conversation with her?” he demanded. “And I’ve worked out a way – ” he looked around and transmitted the rest, I’ve worked out quite a clever way of detecting the guilty party.
Oh yeah?
You see, I just engage Garbo in conversation and then sort of artlessly mention that I didn’t catch the end of Going Hollywood because I had a dreadful migraine headache, so I wen
t back to my room early, and would she tell me how it came out? And if she’s not the thief, she’ll just explain that she left early too and has no idea how it turned out. But! If she’s the one who took the script, she’ll know I’m lying, because she’ll have been in my room and seen I wasn’t there. And she’ll be so disconcerted that her blood pressure will rise, her pulse will race, her pupils will dilate and she’ll display all the other physical manifestations that would show up on a polygraph if I happened to be using one! And then I’ll know.
Ingenious, I admitted. Worked all the time for me, when I was an Inquisitor.
Thank you. Lewis beamed.
Of course, first you have to get Garbo to talk to you.
Lewis nodded, looking determined. He resumed his ever-so-cautious advance on the Burning Icicle. I shrugged and went back to La Casa Del Sol to change into tennis togs.
Playing tennis with W.R. Hearst called for every ounce of the guile and finesse that had made me a champion in the Black Legend All-Stars, believe me. I had to demonstrate all kinds of hyperfunction stunts a mortal wouldn’t be able to do, like appearing on both sides of the net at once, just to impress him with my immortalness; and yet I had to avoid killing the old man with the ball, and – oh yeah – let him win somehow, too. I’d like to see Bill Tilden try it some time.
It was hell. Hearst seemed to think it was funny; at least, he was in a great mood watching me run around frantically while he kept his position in center court, solid as a tower. He returned my sissy serves with all the force of cannon fire. His dog watched from beyond the fence, standing up on her hind legs to bark suspiciously. She was sure there was something funny about me now. Thank God Gable put in an appearance after about an hour of this, and I was able to retire to the sidelines and wheeze, and swear a tougher hour was never wasted there. Hearst paused before his game long enough to make a brief call from a courtside phone. Two minutes later, there was a smiling servant offering me a glass of ice-cold ginger ale.
Gable didn’t beat Hearst, either, and I think he actually tried. Clark wasn’t much of a toady.
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