I picked up the receiver. “Aloha, Vincent, nice to hear from you.”
“Hello, Mr McCoy, I think I might have something you’d be interested in.”
“You know I’ll make it worth your while.”
“I sure hope so. You might want to get over here. I just had a call from Gloria Butterfield’s agent. Says he needs access to her apartment.”
“Did he say when?”
“In about a half hour.”
“Did he say why?”
“He’s coming to clear it out.”
23
Montgomery Pearce came out of the elevator at the Chateau Elysée with a pile of heavy boxes in his puny little arms. He was probably nearly thirty but still looked like he should be in high school. His name cropped up in Variety every now and then and I got the impression he had a high regard for his talents. After slipping Vincent a few bucks for his help, I followed Monty out into the parking lot.
“Montgomery Pearce?”
“My books are full.” He spoke as quickly as he walked. The trunk of his blue Buick was open and he tipped the boxes in. When he straightened up, I was right behind him. “I’m sorry, pal, I’m not taking on any more clients.”
I frowned at him.
“You not an actor?”
“No, I am not.”
“My mistake, I thought everyone in this building was an actor.” He sidestepped round me and heading back for another load.
“I don’t live here,” I said following a couple paces behind. “I came to see you. I think you can help me.”
“If you’re not an actor I don’t see how.”
“I want to talk to you about Gloria Butterfield.”
Montgomery Pearce let the double doors of the Chateau Elysée shut in my face. By the time I’d followed him into the lobby, he’d darted into the elevator and the door was sliding shut.
“Not the talkative type?” Vincent asked from behind his desk.
“Not yet. I’ll have another crack at him when he comes back down. So, when are we going to get you in the water?”
Vincent and I chatted about breakers and riptides while I waited for Pearce to fill a few more boxes. He reappeared in the lobby after ten minutes and I followed him out into the sunshine.
“Like I say, I want to talk to you about Miss Butterfield.”
“I got nothing to say.” I was used to people stonewalling me, but this guy seemed particularly hostile.
“Look, I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot, and I can see you’re busy…” I lifted a box from his arms and carried it to his car. “But I think you can help me.”
“And I think I’ve already helped you enough.” He placed his boxes into the trunk and then snatched the remaining one out of my hands.
“But we’ve never met.”
He peered at me over his wire-rimmed glasses. “Maybe, but I’ve met your boss plenty.” He stepped toward the building again and I reached out to grab his arm.
“I don’t have a boss, I don’t know who you think I am, but you’ve got me mixed up with some other guy.”
He pulled his arm away from me but kept his feet rooted to the spot.
“Okay, so you’re not an actor… and you don’t work for Howard Strickling…” Pearce fixed me with a stare. “So who are you?”
I explained my situation and how my investigation into Clara’s disappearance had led me to Gloria Butterfield.
“I wasn’t even at Powell’s party, so I don’t see how I can help.”
“But Miss Butterfield was. You can put me in touch with her. You’re sending her things on somewhere, right? Give me the address and I’ll pay her a visit.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
He paused, pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. “She doesn’t want to be found. Will you excuse me?”
“Listen, a girl’s missing. Now you’re telling me a girl who was at the same party, who wore the same necklace, has disappeared too. I won’t let you snow me on this. I need to know where Gloria is.”
He looked nervous, or maybe rattled. In the distance a dog was yapping. I was getting a little rattled by its high-pitched squeaks myself.
“I’m sorry, I really can’t help.”
“If I were Clara’s brother, or father, would you tell me the same thing then? Come on, pal, you might just be saving a life here.”
He stared at me some more and I could tell he was considering my request. The yapping grew louder and more insistent. And more distracting. I looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of a dog. Then I realized the noise wasn’t coming from the street, but from inside the Buick. Hadn’t Vincent told me Gloria didn’t go anywhere without her little dog?
“If I open this car door,” I asked Pearce, “what will I find inside?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to: a young, dark haired woman opened the door and looked up at me from the backseat footwell.
“Hi,” she said in a tiny little voice. “You want to speak to me?”
“Are you Gloria?”
“Uh huh.”
“You changed your hair,” I said.
A miniature—and very excited—poodle leapt out of the car and sniffed my ankles.
“The hair is just the beginning,” she said as she climbed out of the Buick. “Monty promises in a couple months no one will recognize me. It’s a fresh start. A whole new me.”
It was hard to square the gal in front of me with the starlet in the newspaper standing next to a beaming Jimmy Stewart. Dressed in a sweater and slacks, she looked so different from the glamorous blonde flashing Mary Treen’s necklace.
“I need your help, Miss Butterfield.”
She listened attentively as I explained who I was and why I was there, but as soon as I mentioned the lion’s head pendant, she got twitchy. “You’re not in trouble,” I said, trying to reassure her. “I’m not a cop. I don’t care about the necklace, I just need to know what you saw at Powell’s place.”
She nodded that she understood. “I already got into so much trouble about the necklace. I don’t want to bring it all up again.”
“What kind of trouble?”
She looked at Pearce who answered for her: “Strickling.”
“You’d have thought from the way he’s behaved that I must have stolen it, but I didn’t… I swear.”
Gloria told me she’d spent the night at Powell’s place trying to get an introduction to Jimmy Stewart, or “Mr Stewart” as she insisted on calling him. She told me that after she’d caught the eye of the critics with her last picture, the studio was keen to raise her profile. Consequently they’d arranged for her to accompany Jimmy Stewart to the premiere. “It happens all the time,” Gloria explained. “I used to think when I saw two movie actors in a photograph that they had to be lovers, or at least real good pals, but it just isn’t like that.” She let out a disappointed little sigh, as if someone had just reminded her Santa Claus didn’t exist. “Strickling’s office called and said I’d been selected.”
“It’s a real feather in her cap,” Pearce added, “walking into a premiere on the arm of Jimmy Stewart.”
“I was thrilled about it, but really nervous too. So when I was at the party, I spent most of the night looking for him.”
“He’s a tall guy,” I said, “he couldn’t have been that hard to spot.”
Pearce leaned toward me conspiratorially. “He’s not as tall as you think.”
“Even though lots of people told me they’d seen him, all night I only ever seemed to get a glimpse of the back of his head. I just wanted to meet him ahead of the premiere, you know, face to face, to say thank you for agreeing to take me.”
The way she was talking, it sounded as if she was a little in love with the guy.
“Some people said they’d seen him at the bar, some in the summer house, others at the swing seat. Honestly, I must have walked ten miles chasing after him.”
“Did you finally get to meet h
im?”
“Uh huh. Just to say hi, though he didn’t seem that interested.” Her gaze dropped. She had the disappointed Santa Claus look again. “He seemed kind of distracted.”
Small talk about Jimmy Stewart was getting me precisely nowhere. “Tell me about Clara Lockhart. When did you speak to her?”
“I’m sorry, but I never heard of the gal.”
“Then how did you come to be wearing her necklace?”
“I found it. I swear. I told Howard—”
“Mr Strickling,” Pearce corrected.
“I told Mr Strickling I didn’t steal it… but it didn’t stop him getting mad at me.”
“Where did you find it?”
“It was on the big old swing seat Powell has. It had fallen between the cushions. I only picked it up because I thought I might be able to find the girl it belonged to. I thought it was real smart of me to wear it at the premiere, with all those photographers around. I knew my picture would be in the paper and that way its rightful owner would see it.” I wasn’t sure I believed her. It sounded like a story she’d invented to cover herself. “Only Howa— Mr Strickling sees it different.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Put it this way,” said Pearce, “you may be the last person alive to see Gloria Butterfield.”
I looked at Pearce then back at Gloria. “I don’t understand.”
“Mr Strickling made it clear you couldn’t cause as much trouble as I had and not pay the price.”
“He said he’d make sure she never worked in this town again.”
“Just for taking the necklace?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Uh huh. So Monty here is taking me to a place in Palm Springs. I’m going to get a new nose and a new chin, and one day, when I’ve changed my name and I’m a big star, I’m going to tell everyone what Howard Strickling does to girls who disobey him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not the first girl he’s made disappear.”
24
I was starting to wonder if maybe I should tell the cops what I’d learned. It seemed pretty clear that Howard Strickling had used Eddie Mannix to silence Clara. Whether that meant taking her to a surgeon in the desert, or dumping her body in the ocean, I had no way of knowing. But I just didn’t trust the cops to get the job done. I still owed Mary Treen eleven hours of my time and if I had to spend every second of it tracking down Mannix and his Cadillac, then that’s exactly what I was going to do. One way or another, I was going to make him tell me what had happened to Clara.
I took Red’s Pontiac over to Culver City. The Plymouth was too smashed up to rely on, and besides—Mannix would recognize it straightaway. Though tailing him before had ended badly, right now it was my only option. All I could do was hope that if I stayed on his tail long enough, he’d lead me to Clara.
Around twelve-thirty in the afternoon his Cadillac pulled out of the gates. I followed at a safe distance behind, not wanting a repeat of the previous night’s encounter. I couldn’t believe the guy’s bravado, sailing around Los Angeles as if his conscience was clear. I watched as passersby pointed at his car, and I imagined him lapping up their attention. He must have had an ego the size of Clark Gable’s.
He moved north before heading west and I soon found myself on the road out to Oxnard. I thought briefly about the ten footer that was still unwrapped in the corner of my office and promised myself I’d break it out over the weekend—after I’d found Clara, or earned Mary’s cash—whichever came sooner.
I had figured Mannix was heading out to Goebel’s Lion Farm, so I was surprised when he drove straight on past. After another five miles, he took a turn and led me up into the Santa Monica mountains. Once we’d left the freeway, I had to be careful. There were now just a handful of cars on the road and I didn’t want to give him any reason to suspect he was being followed.
We’d climbed a few hundred feet before I noticed something truly alarming. Red’s unfamiliar instrument panel was telling me I was nearly out of gas. The car was on a steep incline, so I hoped that if I got back on the level the gauge would register more in the tank, but as we kept climbing I checked the needle every couple hundred feet. I’d never been in a car that had run out of gas, and I didn’t know what would happen. Would it just stop? Would something burn out? Or blow up?
I peered through the windshield and tried to work out Mannix’s final destination. The route through the Santa Monica mountains is one of the most beautiful in California. The roads twist round in a series of hairpin bends that give you a glimpse first of the ocean to the west, then the lush green slopes to the east. The route has another distinction too: it has to be the worst place within a hundred mile radius to conduct a tail. Not only are the roads more or less empty, especially at this time of year, but they’re so narrow there’s no way to overtake. And for half the journey you can’t even see the guy you’re tailing because he’s round the bend ahead of you. That’s when you tend to speed up, or lose concentration, because you’re worrying about never catching sight of him again.
I swung the Pontiac around another sharp bend and glanced at the instrument panel. According to the gauge, I was running on empty. Maybe it was broken. Maybe the tank was half full. As we continued to climb I wondered just where Mannix was headed. There weren’t too many options.
Compared to the Hollywood Hills there are very few properties in the mountains, but the houses tend be large, expensive, and owned by people who are prepared to pay a lot of money for privacy. A secluded villa would be an excellent place to hide Clara.
I couldn’t be sure, but I thought Mannix had slowed down. I was so concerned about the fuel gauge that I hadn’t been concentrating on the speedometer, but I felt I was incrementally gaining on him. That wasn’t a good sign. If I slowed down too, he’d know I was following him. Overtaking, if I could find a place to do it, was my best option. I was two hundred yards behind, then a hundred, and soon I was close enough to admire Mannix’s garish paint job.
He turned another bend and for ten seconds was lost to me. When I turned the same bend, I had to slam on the brakes: the Cadillac was now parked across the road blocking my way. Eddie Mannix climbed out. My heart pulsed hard inside my chest, my ribs thumped against the Colt.
I opened the door, stepped out into the arid mountain air and realized too late what was in Eddie’s hand.
“You’re the guy from last night.” He held the tire iron in his left hand, and spat into the palm of his right.
“Nice up here, isn’t it?” I asked. “Not too many folk, no one to witness a crime.” I reached inside my jacket for the Colt. He didn’t give me a chance to pull it out. He lunged at me, swinging the iron like a baseball bat. I ducked out of the way leaving the hood of Red’s Pontiac to take the blow. I reached again for the Colt as I stepped sideways and out of his reach. Mannix followed me round the side of the car. He brought the length of metal down again, this time smashing it into the roof of the Pontiac.
I aimed the gun at him.
“Drop it!” I hollered.
He ran at me, the iron high above his head.
I stumbled backward and pulled the trigger. My bullet whizzed off into the scrub. Mannix lunged at me, but he stumbled in the loose dirt, his feet slipping beneath him. He dropped down and fell forward.
Gripping the Colt with both hands, I hurried over to him. He wasn’t moving. For a moment I thought I’d actually hit him, the bullet somehow grazing him before it skidded away. A trickle of blood seeped out from under his cheek. Then I realized why: he had fallen on the tire iron. I checked his pulse. His heart was still beating.
I looked around. We were completely alone. No sign of any other cars on the road below, no houses overlooking us. And here I was standing over a guy I’d somehow managed to knock out without laying a finger on him.
I considered my options. There wasn’t enough gas in Red’s car to get me back to the city. I couldn’t go forward because the road was blocked by Mannix’s Cadil
lac. I holstered the Colt and opened the trunk of the Pontiac. It looked big enough for my needs. I stepped around the car and stood over Mannix. I took a deep breath, looped an arm under each of his and hauled him up. I heaved and managed to drag him three whole feet along the road. I heaved again and managed to get a little momentum going, this time I made it all the way to the trunk of the Pontiac. Another deep breath and I pushed his top half into the trunk. He was bent forward, face down, his legs hanging out the back of the car. I turned him over and I lifted one leg at a time, folding them into the trunk.
I hesitated. Should I shut the trunk? If I did he might not have enough air. I didn’t want to kill him, I just wanted him out of the road so no one would run him over. After a moment’s consideration I elected to leave the trunk open, then parked the Pontiac as close to the side of the road as I could so there was just enough space for another vehicle to pass. Then I threw the tire iron over the side of the road and watched it tumble down through scrub, bouncing off rocks and trees as it went.
I ran over to the Cadillac and climbed inside.
25
I carried on up the road in the hope that I’d stumble across Mannix’s intended destination. In a place like this, there weren’t too many options, so I continued to zig zag higher. The air felt a little thinner as it cooled with the altitude; or maybe my nerves were playing tricks on me.
I could see a house up ahead. As the crow flies it was only a mile away, but the switchback roads meant I drove for another three miles before I got there. The closer I got, the more I could make out. It was one of those hacienda villas, draped in bougainvillea and topped off with terracotta roof tiles. It was bigger than most apartment blocks in the city. When I was about fifty yards away, I noticed that its iron gates started to slowly open. When no car pulled out, I realized someone must have been checking the road for the arrival of a maroon and green Cadillac. I pulled in and parked at the top of a long driveway.
1 The Hollywood Detective Page 11
