Ask her about Sabine Marceau
“You know the name Valentina D’Abruzzo?” You ask.
“No, I don’t think...” Viola’s face hardens. “That’s the whore he’s been screwing?” She growls, clenching her jaw.
“Maybe.” You admit. “Though she may not be the only one.”
“What?” She replies, her eyes widening. “My God, he disgusts me.”
“I said from the start, you might not like what I found.” You reply, pulling your handkerchief from the breast pocket of your jacket. She waves it away just as the floorboards upstairs creak. While you pretend to ignore it, you see Viola stiffen. You wonder who it is. It’ll probably be the pool boy or her tennis instructor. These rich dames have no imagination. The timely reminder of her own indiscretion seems to cool her fire.
“I have never heard of this Valentina D’Angelo.” She tells you stiffly.
“D’Abruzzo.” You quietly correct her. “You’d know the name in Chicago, ma’am. It’s one of the biggest crime families there.”
“The Mafia!” She exclaims. “My God, it’s the Mafia that are after me! Oh Mr Harlowe, you’ve got to help me!” This time she does take your handkerchief, dabbing at her eyes.
“Don’t cry, sweetheart.” You sooth, getting to your feet and fiddling awkwardly with your hat. “I’ll get this straightened out, I promise.”
“Thank you Mr Harlowe.” She smiles weakly, standing up. “I knew I had the right man when I hired you.” She shows you to the door and you return to your car.
As you reach the outskirts of the city, your mind races, trying to put all the pieces together. As you sit at a junction, waiting for the lights to switch to green, your eyes widen. It all fits! As the lights change, you drive on, wondering what to do. You can’t sit on this any longer. It’s too big for a two-bit private dick. You’ve got to go to the cops with this.
“Nancy.” You murmur, spotting the turning towards the police station ahead. You swerve around the corner, the tires screeching and leaving black rubber marks on the road. You hear the screech of another car doing likewise just behind you and glance up, finding a big, black Oldsmobile filling the rear view mirror. Looks like you’ve picked up a tail.
“Goddamn it.” You mutter, pressing your foot to the pedal, the engine roaring as you accelerate. The Oldsmobile matches your speed. Glancing again at the mirror, you see a silhouette of two men sitting inside the pursuing vehicle. A heavy set man in the passenger seat and a thin man in the driver’s seat. You sigh recognizing Valentina’s thugs. Weaving in and out of the traffic, you try to lose them, but the hood manages to match your maneuvers and keep close.
You head out of the city, the tall densely packed blocks of downtown giving way to sparse low buildings as you drive through the suburbs. As you streak down the highway towards Long Beach, you spot a ramp down to the concrete storm drain that was once the Los Angeles River. Maybe you can outrun them in a straight line. You reach under your left arm and pat the pistol in your shoulder holster. Either that or try to shoot the sons of bitches!
Try to outrun them
Try to shoot them
“You know a Sabine Marceau?” You ask. Viola’s blue eyes meet yours.
“Yes.” She replies guardedly. “She’s an actress. She used to work for my husband as his personal secretary to make ends meet while she was looking for roles. I was an aspiring actress too before I met Neville.” You nod, remembering that fact from the file Paige had retrieved. “We became quite friendly, bonding over our shared frustration with show business.”
“I think she became friendlier still with your husband.” You reply.
“The harlot!” She gasps. “The deceitful whore! We were like sisters! I cannot believe she could betray me like this!”
“Life can be cruel.” You reply coldly. Viola clenches and unclenches her fists, her blue eyes burning with fury.
“So my dear husband has decided to replace me with Sabine.” She growls. Her eyes flick up to meet yours. “I cannot believe Sabine is a part of this plot to murder me.” She tells you earnestly. “She might have fallen prey to my lustful husband’s advances, but I don’t think her capable of murder. As I said, we were like sisters.”
“You’ll be surprised what people can do in the haze of lust and infatuation.” You shrug, reaching for your hat and climbing to your feet. “Believe me, I’ve seen it all.”
“There’s no love or compassion left in your heart, is there Mr Harlowe?” She replies sadly.
“Perks of the job, sister.” You grin, jamming the hat onto your head. “Don’t get up. I’ll show myself out.”
You return to your car and follow the now familiar route back to the city. Your mind races as the facts tumble around in your mind. You reach the outskirts of the city when suddenly it all clicks into place.
“Goddamn!” You exclaim, not seeing the red light as you pass right through it. A car swerves to avoid you, blaring its horn at you. You hear the horn sound again and glance up in your rear view mirror, watching as another car, a big, black Oldsmobile, runs the red light too, weaving to avoid the traffic and accelerating up behind you. Looks like you’ve picked up a tail.
“Son of a bitch.” You mutter, pressing your foot to the pedal, the engine roaring as you accelerate. The Oldsmobile matches your speed. Glancing again at the mirror, you see a silhouette of two men sitting inside the pursuing vehicle. A heavy set man in the passenger seat and a thin man in the driver’s seat. You sigh recognizing Valentina’s thugs. Weaving in and out of the traffic, you try to lose them, but the hood manages to match your maneuvers and keep close.
You head out of the city, the tall densely packed blocks of downtown giving way to sparse low buildings as you drive through the suburbs. As you streak down the highway towards Long Beach, you spot a ramp down to the concrete storm drain that was once the Los Angeles River. Maybe you can outrun them in a straight line. You reach under your left arm and pat the pistol in your shoulder holster. Either that or try to shoot the sons of bitches!
Try to outrun them
Try to shoot them
“That’s a good lead.” You reply. “I’ll stake out the restaurant and see who shows up. I think we’re nearly there, Mrs Vandergraaf.”
“Good.” She sighs. “I just want this all to end, Mr Harlowe.” Her eyes water and she quickly reaches into her purse for a handkerchief.
“Pull yourself together sweetheart.” You growl. The last thing you need right now is a hysterical dame in your office. Viola nods and dabs at her eyes before rising from the seat.
“I’m sorry.” She replies. “Good day, Mr Harlowe.” She walks to the door and pulls it open.
“I’ll get this straightened out.” You call out.
“I know you will.” She replies, before stepping out of your office, her heels clicking as she walks down the corridor beyond.
You arrive at the restaurant at quarter to eight and pull over on the opposite side of the street. It’s a classy place. French cuisine and fine wine. You shake your head. You’d sooner have a steak and a beer. You reach over to the passenger seat, picking up your camera and winding the film on before sinking low in your seat. Several well-dressed couples arrive and are shown to their tables before Vandergraaf arrives alone just before eight. His silver Aston Martin DB1 pulls up out front and he climbs out, tossing his keys to a young valet who eagerly jumps into the beautiful sports car and drives it away to the parking lot at the rear. Vandergraaf pauses at the door and glances anxiously around him. A wry smile crosses your face as you recognize the familiar traits of an adulterous husband. You reach for your camera and take several photos before he steps inside and disappears from view.
You recognize the redhead before you even see her face. Tastefully late, Sabine saunters across the road in a luxurious fur coat, an expensive purse tucked under her arm. You raise the camera again, taking several shots as she steps into the restaurant, jewelry glittering on her wrists and throat as she smiles at the m
aître d’ before being shown into the restaurant. You put the camera back down and settle back in your seat. Time to get comfortable. They might be in there for some time.
Droplets of rain splash on the windshield. A few a first and then faster and faster as it quickly becomes a shower, the rain drumming loudly on the roof.
“Great.” You mutter, checking your watch. Ten fifteen. They could be out any time. Sure enough, a few minutes later, the valet returns with the Aston Martin. The rain is lashing down now, beads running down the side window. You reach for the camera just as Vandergraaf and his mistress hurry from the restaurant, a couple of bus boys holding umbrellas over their heads. You snap a few shots, but with the rain and the umbrellas, you can’t get a clear shot of their faces.
“Goddamn it!” You groan as they climb into the car. You need a clear, incriminating shot of the two of them together. As they pull away, you fire up your engine and follow them. They’ll either be going to a hotel or some love nest, so you’ll get the money shot when they arrive. You follow at a safe distance, keeping a car or two between you, but close enough that you can run the lights if need be to prevent them giving you the slip. They drive along Sunset Boulevard heading towards West Hollywood. The rain is falling heavier now, the road shiny and the wipers sweeping back and forth with an almost hypnotic rhythm. You peer through the mist of droplets falling through the headlights, keeping your eyes glued on the bright red tail lights ahead of you as the Aston Martin weaves through traffic. Suddenly you hear the roar of a car speeding up alongside you. It pulls ahead and cuts in front of you.
Brake
Swerve around it
You twist the steering wheel sharply to the right, the tires squealing in protest as you swerve to avoid the other car. The suspension crunches as you mount the sidewalk. A woman screams as she dives out of your path. Your eyes widen as you spot the lamp post directly ahead. There is no time to react and the Buick’s nose crumples as you smash into it. You are thrown out of your seat, your head shattering the windshield as you are propelled through it. Your face crunches into the hood, your nose breaking and several teeth snapping clean off. You can feel the jagged edges of the remains of the windshield slicing into your stomach, razor sharp shards of glass sinking deep into your gut like knives. You groan, reaching down and feeling blood gushing out from the wounds. You try to curse, but only gurgle as blood wells up in your mouth. You try not to retch before darkness closes in and you slip into unconsciousness never to awaken.
THE END
Go back a few moments and rethink your actions
You make your way back through the busy L.A. streets to your office. The sun is high in the sky and it feels oppressively hot. As you climb out of the car and cross the street to your office building, you once again reflect that perhaps you’d be more comfortable somewhere a little cooler. Chicago perhaps, Seattle maybe? Hell, right now you’d rather be freezing your ass off in Anchorage. Tucking your hat under your arm, you wipe the sweat from your brow as you walk along the corridor towards the familiar frosted glass door. You step inside your office, tossing your hat onto your desk and collapse into your swivel chair just as the telephone rings. The shrill ringing shatters the peaceful silence. You eye the telephone malevolently before sighing, leaning forward and lifting the receiver.
“Harlowe.” You answer wearily.
“Good afternoon.” A well-spoken man’s voice. “My name’s Carstairs, Mr and Mrs Vandergraaf’s butler. I saw you when you visited the house this morning.”
“What can I do for you, Mr Carstairs?” You reply brusquely.
“I know you are carrying out an investigation on behalf of Mrs Vandergraaf and I have some information that I think you would find useful.” Carstairs tells you, his voice low.
“Sure, lay it on me.” You reply, reaching for your notebook.
“I’d rather not discuss it on the telephone.” He whispers. You sigh. Great. The nervous type.
“You know Griffith observatory?” You ask him.
“Of course.” He replies.
“There’s a bench near the astronomers monument on the front lawn. Can you meet me there in an hour?”
“I can.” He tells you.
“Okay pal, I’ll see you shortly.” You hang up, lean back in your chair and sigh deeply. A hell of a day.
You pull into the parking lot of the Griffith observatory and climb out of your car. The sky has clouded over, giving some respite from the oppressive heat. You glance over at the wide, low building on the edge of the hillside overlooking the Los Angeles basin. The white building is crowned with a large brown dome in the center and two smaller domes at each end. You wander leisurely along the path across the front law, the multifaceted cone shaped astronomers monument ahead of you, the likenesses of six famous astronomers adorning its sides. You see a lone, gray haired figure on the nearby bench and quicken your step, sitting down next to Carstairs.
“Here I am, Carstairs.” You announce gruffly. “So whaddya got to tell me?” He remains silent. You glance sideways. His gaze is fixed on the monument. No, past the monument. You look closer and it’s then you notice the dark red stain seeping through his suit jacket. His eyes are glassy and lifeless. You grasp his hand, which is still warm to the touch. He’s been dead only minutes.
“Goddamn it.” You curse, wondering if you unwittingly passed his killer in the parking lot. As you let go of his hand, a book of matches slips from his fingers, dropping to his feet. You stoop to pick it up. The glossy white card is embossed with ‘After Dark Club, Sunset Strip’ on the front. You flip it over. ‘Sabine’ is scrawled on the back with a red lipstick kiss mark just beneath.
“Thanks mac.” You tell the corpse, slipping the book of matches into your pocket. You get to your feet, wondering whether to call the cops. You might glean some more information once the boys in the morgue have had a chance to check the body. Still, it’ll cost you a couple of hours down at the station that might be better spent thinking through the clues so far. (And drinking)
Call the police
Go back to your office
Skip to a section
Just because you’ve reached an ending doesn’t mean you have to start from the beginning. If you would rather skip to the start of a particular part of the story, please select the appropriate heading below. To start from the very beginning, select “A new case”.
A new case
Mulholland Drive
Stake out
Santa Monica
Griffith Observatory
Police Station
Nightclub
Following Vandergraaf
Casino
Newspaper
Car Chase
An offer you can’t refuse
Whodunit
Swimming Pool
Movie House
Apartment
Oil Field
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As a roguish smuggler on the fringes of the galaxy, you live a life of excitement and adventure. Whether battling bloodthirsty pirates or enjoying the pleasures of a girl in every spaceport, you live each day as if it were your last. Now tasked with travelling through the deadly Dark nebula with a precious cargo, you and your beautiful redheaded co-pilot will encounter danger and temptation at every turn and where your choices can lead to the heights of ecstasy or a quick and gruesome death.
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Sin in the City of Angels Page 33
