1 The Hollywood Detective

by Martha Steinway

  “You are mean to me Clark Lorimer,” Myrtle protested and hit him playfully on the arm. “You know I never have more than four.”

  “I know honey, I’m just teasing you.”

  “Well I’m just glad I live in Pasadena,” the older woman added. “There must be enough people for a panther to eat in Beverly Hills—it won’t need to head any further east.”

  “I have a friend in Laurel Canyon,” said Myrtle. “She won’t even go downstairs since she heard it was on the prowl. Do you know she’s living on water from the bathroom faucet and a box of chocolates her husband brought home from a trip to Chicago.”

  “The question, I suppose,” said Lorimer, stepping back to admire his handiwork, “is who would you sue? I mean, is it the host of the party? Or the animal handlers?”

  “Oh that’s easy.” Myrtle’s voice rose about an octave. “I’d sue Jimmy Stewart.”

  “The actor?”

  “Well it was all his idea. Doesn’t that make him, you know, responsible?” She shook her injured arm in the air for emphasis.

  “How on earth is it Jimmy Stewart’s fault?”

  “He’s the damned fool who opened the cages! Willie Powell had been telling everyone what an ace shot he was and Mickey got so sick of his bragging he told Willie he should prove it. So Jimmy opened up the cages and challenged Willie to shoot at least one animal right between the eyes.”

  I could see Lorimer’s face in the mirror. His jaw had dropped so low I thought it might hit the counter. “Jimmy Stewart?” he said. “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, he ain’t as nice as you think he is. None of them are. Take away their scripts and give ’em a bottle of bourbon and those actors are just as stupid as the rest of us.”

  One thing I loved about the Mob: they’re not scared of anyone. Except maybe other mobsters. They certainly aren’t scared of Hollywood big cheeses. If Myrtle Willoughby wanted to tell her story, Howard Strickling couldn’t do a thing about it—he had nothing to threaten her with.

  When Clark Lorimer had finished working his magic on Myrtle, he called Red back to his chair. And once Myrtle had settled her account, receiving strict instructions from the girl on the desk to watch out for wild animals, I followed her out onto the sidewalk.

  “Miss Willoughby?”

  She turned to me and smiled. “Yes?”

  “I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for Clara.”

  “I don’t know any Clara.”

  “Clara Lockhart. She’s an actress. Blonde, about your height.”

  A flash of recognition whipped across her features and she narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?”

  I took a step toward her and held out my hand. “Spencer McCoy. I’m an investigator.”

  Instantly, her features darkened and she quickly pulled her hands away from mine. “I can’t speak to you. My husband wouldn’t want—”

  “It’s okay, I only want to talk about Clara.”

  “Why? What’s she done?”

  “Disappeared.”

  “But I saw her just the other day.”

  “At Powell’s party, I know. Trouble is, no one’s seen her since.”

  Her eyes widened and her mouth opened into a big ‘o’. “Oh my. You don’t think…?” She lifted a hand to her mouth. “You don’t think the panther got her?”

  “Right now I don’t know what to think.”

  She touched her bandaged arm and flinched in remembrance.

  “How well do you know Clara?” I asked her.

  “I met her three or four times, maybe. You know, at parties and premieres and stuff.” Myrtle glanced over my shoulder, turning her chin this way and that. I guessed she was checking out her new hairdo in the parlor window.

  “Did she seem okay to you on Sunday night?”

  “Oh sure, she was having a blast. Big movie stars taking an interest in her, fast flowing booze. She was having a gay old time.”

  “Did you see her with anyone in particular?”

  “You gotta understand, I don’t really know her too well. Just her face and her name.” I thought about how Mary Treen had underlined Myrtle’s name so emphatically on the guest list. “I didn’t really notice who she was with, to tell the truth.”

  Anyone who reads Black Mask will tell you that when someone says “to tell the truth” you can be sure they’re telling you anything but.

  “Did you talk to her? Did she say if she was going away?”

  Myrtle paused to think and made a show of putting on a very serious face, so I’d know she was giving my questions proper consideration.

  “I can’t say that she did.”

  “So you did speak to her?”

  “Just to be polite. I really don’t know her,” she said again.

  “You know any of the people she was with?”

  She fished around inside her purse and pulled out a stick of gum. She offered it to me but didn’t really give me a chance to decline before she started to unwrap it. “Nah, not so much.”

  “So you recognized some of them at least? Can you tell me any names?”

  “Only Willie.”

  “William Powell?”

  “Nah, he was at the piano most of the night. Did you know he could sing? I ain’t heard nothing like it.” She pushed a lock of hair over her forehead. “I don’t know this other Willie’s last name, but it’s kinda funny, foreign maybe. But I definitely saw her with him.”

  “And who’s Willie?”

  She recoiled and screwed up her nose. She was calculating what it was safe to tell me. “I heard he makes quite a bit of dough taking photographs.”

  I remembered the stamp on the back of Clara’s headshot. Wilfred Tomasky. “And he’s a friend of Clara’s?”

  “Couldn’t tell ya, but they didn’t seem all that friendly to me.”

  “They were fighting?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You said they weren’t friendly!”

  “It wasn’t physical. They were just shouting at each other.”

  “What about?”

  “Beats me.”

  I felt I was finally making some progress. “And do you remember if Clara was wearing a necklace when you saw her?”

  Again, Myrtle put on her thinking face. “Yeah, yeah she was. Some kind of lion. Reminded me of the movies—the big lion that roars at the start?”

  “See anyone else wearing the same necklace?”

  “What kind of a hooey question is that? I just told you she was wearing it, didn’t I?”

  “It’s important. Someone might have taken it from her.”

  She lowered her voice: “I didn’t take it, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “The thought hadn’t even entered my mind. Listen, all I care about is finding Clara. If you can think of anything she said, some little thing you overheard, or some tiny thing you saw, please give me a call.” I handed her my card.

  “Keep it. If my Mickey finds me with an investigator’s card you’re gonna be pulling me outta the Venice canal. But now that you pumped me so hard, it mighta jogged something loose up in this old brain of mine.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yeah. I saw Clara leave.”

  My heart slammed against the side of my chest. “What time was this?”

  “Don’t remember exactly. It was still dark. Three, maybe four o’clock.”

  “Did she leave with somebody?”

  “Didn’t see his face, before you ask me who he was. But I saw his car. And you know why I remember it?”

  My face was pleading with her to get to the point.

  “The paint job. The car was maroon and green. You never seen two colors look so bad together.”

  15

  I was running late for my appointment with Mary Treen. She’d told me she had costume fittings until one o’clock and what she called a “design” session with the hairstylist at one-thirty. When I got to the MGM gate, my pass was ready for me to collect and I made my way to the refectory. Ma
ry was waiting for me outside.

  The sound of a thousand technicians, costumiers, make-up artists and background players wolfing their meals before their next call was almost deafening. We grabbed a couple trays and joined the line.

  “So, you said you had something to show me?”

  “Pardon?”

  “It sure is loud in here. You said you had something,” I shouted over the din. “On the phone. Something from Clara?”

  “Yes. When we sit down, I’ll show it to you.”

  Now I was really intrigued. She ordered a meal and I collected a juice. We found a couple seats opposite each other in the middle of a long trestle table. On my right were two girls tapping out the rhythm of the musical score in front of them. To my left were a group of stunt guys mapping out a scene using cutlery and salt shakers as barriers and half a hotdog as a car. Mary and I both winced: we knew it wasn’t going to be easy to talk.

  “This came this morning.” She pulled a postcard out of her jacket pocket and slid it across the table to me.

  On the front was a photograph of gently sloping hills above a sweeping crescent of a golden sand. Printed in a florid, curling script was the legend “Santa Barbara”.

  “This is from Clara?” I asked.

  “Turn it over.”

  Hi M

  Met a real nice gent who’s showing me a real good time. Be back home in a couple weeks.

  Love C

  “You seen the postmark?” Mary shouted at me across the table.

  Los Angeles.

  “Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”

  I did. If Clara was here in Los Angeles, why hadn’t she returned home? Was somebody stopping her?

  “Should I take this to the police? Do you think they’ll take me seriously?” she asked.

  “If you float some notes they might.”

  “What do you make of it?” she asked.

  I flipped the card over again and studied the picture. There was something about it that didn’t seem right. “Maybe it’s time to call her folks,” I said. “Do you have their number?”

  She took a big mouthful of food. I waited for her to swallow. “No need. They called last night to talk to her. I told them she was at the movies. From the way they spoke I could tell they hadn’t heard from her.”

  “You didn’t say anything about her going missing?”

  “Didn’t see the point of worrying them.”

  I stared at the reverse of the card. “Is this her handwriting?”

  Mary had to duck as a stunt guy demonstrated a spectacular collision between the salt shaker and the hotdog. I think he apologized, but it was hard to tell with such a racket going on.

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her writing. I guess it might be hers.”

  “Is this the kind of thing she’d write on a postcard? Does it sound like her?”

  “If you’re asking me is she the kind of girl who would run off with a guy she just met at a party, then, sure. Clara enjoys a good time. But not last Sunday night, not when she had a big audition at Paramount in the morning. It feels screwy to me, that’s why I wanted you to see it.”

  I took a long sip of juice. “Maybe this is good news. Maybe she really has just taken off with some charming guy in a fast car.” I thought about what Myrtle Willoughby had told me. About the car she’d seen Clara getting into at the party. Just like the one I’d seen at Chateau Elysée. “But on the other hand…” I screwed up my face, not wanting to share the less positive explanations.

  “Oh believe me, I’ve been driving myself crazy going over all the things that might have happened to her. This is what I’ve come up with, tell me what you think.” She stuck a thumb in the air. “Scenario number one: the card was written by somebody who’s taken her some place against her will and is using it to delay the police investigation by a few days.” She waved thumb and forefinger at me. “Scenario two: it was written by Clara, but with a gun at her temple—”

  “You watch too many movies.”

  “Professional hazard. Three: it was written by her killer, trying to cover his tracks.”

  “You’re forgetting number four: she’s been kidnapped by white slave traders.”

  “I don’t appreciate your making fun of me, Mr McCoy.”

  “I’m not, I swear. You asked for my opinion. And I still think the most likely scenario is she’s been swept off her feet by some Romeo and is so head over heels that she forgot to post the card in the place where she bought it.”

  Mary turned and glanced at the clock on the wall behind her. She collected the postcard from the table and slipped it back inside her jacket.

  “Listen, you’ve paid me until the end of tomorrow. I still got a few leads to chase up. I’m sure we’ll find her. Try not to worry.”

  Mary sat very still and thought about what I’d said. She dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “How can I not worry? Los Angeles isn’t the safest place in the world at the best of times. But now, with that wild animal on the loose?” She patted a hand against her chest. “I mean, can you imagine finding a big cat on your porch when you stepped outside?”

  I thought about the tiger. “I can picture it.”

  She straightened the cutlery on her plate. The girls to my right started to hum along to the rhythm they’d been tapping.

  “Shall we?” Mary pushed back her chair and stood up. We walked over to the rack of used trays covered in dirty crockery and food spills. “You said you still had a few leads.”

  “Yeah, I spoke to a gal named Myrtle Willoughby—a name you recognized on the guest list? She told me she saw Clara leave the party on Sunday night, so I’m looking for the car she traveled in. And that Tomasky fella? He’s a photographer, he did her head shots. I intend to speak to him this afternoon.”

  “Right now?”

  “Just as soon as I get to his studio on Hollywood Boulevard.”

  We pushed through the double doors into the blistering sun. Mary shielded her eyes with a hand. “But he’s here.”

  “He is?”

  “Yes. I recognized the name when I saw it on a friend’s call sheet this morning. He’s right here on the lot doing publicity shots for the new Tarzan movie.”

  I thought that was a happy coincidence until I saw an even happier one. On the way over to the Tarzan set, I spotted something very interesting in the parking lot. Parked up close to a single-story building was a maroon and green Cadillac convertible.

  Finally I felt like I was getting somewhere.

  16

  The thing you notice first whenever you walk on a sound stage is the acoustics. If you sit and watch people arrive, chances are that four out of five of them will stick a finger in their ears within the first ten paces, trying to unblock something that isn’t there. I don’t know what they do on set, but things always sound muffled, like you’ve got custard in your ears.

  I have to say, I was grateful for that custard: the noise in Stage 17 was about ten times louder than in the refectory. The lights were humming, the cameras whirring and about a hundred different people were all barking instructions at one another. Plus, because this was the Tarzan set, add in the squawking parrots, chattering monkeys, and the sound technicians making like trumpeting elephants, and you’ve got yourself a headache so bad a whole bottle of aspirin wouldn’t shift it. I wanted to pull my hat right down over my ears, even if it would have made me look like Stan Laurel. The director called action, and for about thirty seconds the sound levels slumped, only to soar straight back up when he yelled “cut”.

  It’s not always easy to get onto a set when a picture’s in production, but once you’re on, there are so many people hanging around that a private investigator who keeps his mouth shut and his head down won’t attract any attention, unwanted or otherwise. So I wandered around freely. I took a good look at the guys who were looking after the animals. Between takes, Cheeta scampered over to his handler, a middle-aged guy with a never-ending supply of bananas. They were filming
a scene that involved Tarzan capturing a snake, and the snake handler always made sure he grabbed the mambo when the cameras weren’t rolling. There were at least two men corralling the parrots—which were flying all over—and another two men guarding a large cage that was shrouded with a heavy curtain. A sign on the cage said Raymondo. Crocodile. 18 yrs. They all seemed very professional, and very responsible. I wondered if they were from Goebel’s. I thought about striking up a conversation with one of them, but they all seemed far too preoccupied to make small talk with me.

  A photographer was trying to get Johnny Weissmuller and Maureen O’Sullivan to pose with the mamba whenever there was a break in filming. Johnny seemed much more obliging than his co-star, but I wasn’t really paying that much attention to the actors: I kept both eyes on the photographer.

  Though he was tall, he seemed to have a permanent stoop, probably from bending over cameras all day. He looked like something straight out of the movies himself. His hair was slicked back, he had a pencil mustache, and wore spats at the end of his skinny legs. I didn’t need to speak to the guy to know I didn’t trust him. The fact that Myrtle Willoughby had seen him fighting with Clara certainly didn’t help to raise my opinion of him any.

  After a few more takes someone shouted that the camera had jammed and there would be a thirty minute break. Maureen and Johnny immediately left the set, and headed to their dressing rooms, while most of the crew made a dash for the refectory. With only the animals to photograph, Wilfred Tomasky tried to get some close-ups of the snake. He probably felt some affinity with the slithering creature.

  “Was WC Fields right?” I asked him.

  Tomasky looked up briefly from the camera.

  “About never working with children and animals,” I explained.

  “You think I have not heard that question before?” He spoke with a thick accent. Maybe he was Russian. Or Polish.

  “Still, at least these ones are a lot tamer than the animals on Sunday night, huh?”

  He turned his attention from the snake and finally looked in my direction. He scrutinized my face.