by Unknown
Over the course of a half century, Ballard became one of the most prodigiously productive writers in America, his credits including ninety-five novels, more than a thousand short stories and novellas, and about fifty movie and television scripts. In addition to selling to the pulps, Ballard was published in the top slick magazines, including The Saturday Evening Post, McCall’s, and Esquire. Lennox appeared in twenty-seven Black Mask stories between 1933 and 1942, five of which were collected in Hollywood Troubleshooter (1985), as well as four novels: Say Yes to Murder (1942), Murder Can’t Stop (1946), Dealing Out Death (1948), and Lights, Camera, Murder, as John Shepherd (1960). He also wrote as Neil MacNeil and P. D. Ballard, and was one of many writers to produce novels under the house names Nick Carter and Robert Wallace.
“A Little Different,” the first Bill Lennox story, was published in the September 1933 issue.
A Little Different
W. T. Ballard
Bill Lennox, studio trouble-shooter, finds real trouble and the shooting not so good.
ILL LENNOX NODDED to the gateman and climbed on to the shine stand, just inside the General gate. The shine-boy grinned, his white teeth flashing in his dark face. “When is you all gwine tuh star me, Mister Lennox?”
Bill said, absently: “Pretty soon, Sam. Lean on that brush, will you; I’m in a hurry.”
“I’se leaning.” The boy ducked his head and went to work briskly. A big beaming car came through the gate. Bill could see the woman on the rear seat, a dazzling blonde with dark eyebrows. He watched the car sourly until it halted before the star’s bungalow dressing-room. The blonde descended, assisted by her maid, and disappeared. Lennox said something under his breath, found a quarter, which he tossed to the boy, and climbed from his seat.
Sol Spurck, head of General-Consolidated Films, put his short fingers together and stared at Lennox as the latter came into his office. “Where was you yesterday?”
Lennox looked at him without visible emotion. “Out, Sol. Out doing your dirty work.”
The short figure behind the big desk shifted uncertainly. “I told you that you should watch out for that dumb cluck Wayborn. He’s in a jam.”
Lennox shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets and sat down upon the corner of the desk. “What, again?”
Spurck seemed to explode. “Again—again! Always that guy—”
“Save it.” Lennox’s voice was very tired. “What’s he done now?”
“Am I a mind reader—am I?” Spurck had come to his feet and was bouncing about the office. “What is it that I pay you for—what is it? Must I do everything—everything? I tell you that Wayborn’s gone. Fifty thousand they want—fifty thousand for that—”
Lennox said: “Remember your arteries, Sol. Who wants fifty grand and for what?”
Spurck was wrenching open the drawer of his desk. He pulled forth a dirty scrap of paper and shoved it at Lennox. “Find him—find him quick. Are we half through shooting Dangerous Love? I ask you. Can we shoot without Wayborn? But fifty thousand for that schlemiel. I wouldn’t pay fifty thousand for Gable yet, and they ask it for a ham like Wayborn.”
Lennox said: “You wouldn’t pay fifty grand for your grandmother,” and stared at the piece of paper. On it were printed crude letters with a soft pencil. They said:
We’ve got Wayborn. You’ve got fifty grand. Let’s trade. Go to the cops and we drop him into the ocean. More later.
Lennox looked at his boss. “Where’d this come from?”
Spurck threw up his hands, appealing to the ceiling. “He asks me riddles yet. Mein Gott! He asks me riddles.”
Lennox said, roughly: “Cut it. Where’d this come from? Who’s seen it?”
His voice seemed to quiet the little man. Spurck returned to his chair and lit an enormous cigar with care. “No one has seen it,” he said in a surly tone. “I found it on the floor of my car this morning.”
“How long has Wayborn been gone?”
Spurck shrugged. “Yesterday, he was here. Today, he is not. Find him? Yes—but fifty thousand—no. Ten maybe. Not one cent over ten.”
Lennox said: “I suppose you know what this will mean? The picture is half in the can. If we don’t find Wayborn, we shoot it over and Price is three days behind schedule now.”
Spurck’s eyes were narrow. “Why did you let me use Wayborn? That ham—what is it I pay you for?”
Lennox said: “Because I’m a fool”; he said it bitterly. “Because I stick around this mad house and keep things going. Some day, Sol, I’ll quit this lousy outfit cold. I’ll sit back and watch it go to the devil.”
Spurck grinned. He’d heard the threat before, many times. “Find him, Bill.” He reached across and patted Lennox’s shoulder with a fat hand. “Find him, and I take you to Caliente. That’s a promise yet.”
2
Bill Lennox, trouble-shooter for General-Consolidated Studio, walked through the outer office. Trouble-shooter wasn’t his title. In fact, one of the things which Lennox lacked was an official title. Those in Hollywood who didn’t like him called him Spurck’s watch-dog. Ex-reporter, ex–publicity man, he had drifted into his present place through his inability to say yes and his decided ability in saying no.
His searching blue eyes swept about the large waiting-room. A world-famous writer bowed, half fearfully. A director whose last three pictures had hit the box-office paused for a moment to speak to him. Bill grunted and went on. As he walked down the line towards the row of dressing-rooms he was thinking quickly. Wayborn was gone. They needed him for Dangerous Love. No one seemed to know anything about him.
Lennox paused before the door of the third bungalow and knocked. A trim maid opened the door. Her eyes were uncertain when she saw who it was. Bill said: “Tell Miss Meyer that I want to see her.”
The maid’s eyes got more uncertain. “I don’t think—”
His voice rasped. “You aren’t paid to think. Tell Meyer that I want to see her at once.”
Elva Meyer’s eyes were cold, hostile beneath her dark brows as he walked through the door. She was seated before her dressing-table, but there was as yet no greasepaint on her face. “Well?” Her voice was colder than her eyes.
He was staring at her blond hair. “I’m not so hot,” he said, helping himself to a chair. “When did you see Wayborn last?”
The eyes flecked, glowed for an instant. “I told you some time ago that I was perfectly capable of looking after my affairs without your help.”
“Yeah?” He’d found a loose cigarette in his pocket and was rolling it back and forth between his strong fingers so that the tobacco spilled out at both ends. “Well, sweetheart, it so happens that I’m not sticking my schnozzle into your playhouse at the moment. You and Wayborn were at the Grove last night; then you turned up at the Brown Derby about one—”
She pushed back her chair, noisily. “I’m not going to stand this any longer—your jealous spying is driving me insane. I’m going to Mr. Spurck.”
He said, “Nerts! You’ll get damn little sympathy from Sol today, honey. He left it at home, wrapped in moth-balls—but you’re getting ideas under that peroxide-treated mat of yours. I’m not checking on you because I’m still interested. I’m washed up, baby, washed up. You’re not the first chiseling tramp that forgot my first name after I boosted them into lights, and I don’t suppose that you’ll be the last. I always was a sucker for a pretty face with nice hips for a background; but this is strictly business. Dangerous Love should be in the can by the last of the week. It won’t be unless Price can shoot.”
She said: “I’ve been here all morning, waiting.” She said it in the tone of one who does not like to wait.
Lennox grinned. For the first time in days he was enjoying himself. “You’re good, baby.” His voice mocked her. “You’re plenty good. You should be. I found you, trained you, but you aren’t good enough to play love scenes by yourself. Wayborn isn’t around. He’s been snatched.”
She made her eyes wide. “Snatched?”
she said, slowly. “You mean—”
His voice rasped with impatience. “Quit acting. You read the papers. You know what snatched means. They want fifty grand and they won’t get it.”
She sank back into her chair as if her legs suddenly refused to support her. “This is terrible. When did it happen?”
His eyes were sardonic. “That’s what I’m asking you, sweetheart. You were with him last night. He hasn’t been seen this morning.”
Her eyes blazed and she made two small white hands into little fists. “You’re lousy, Bill Lennox. You can’t tie me into this.” Her voice threatened to break. “Ralph took me home at one-thirty. I haven’t seen him since.”
His eyes searched her face. “I guess you’re in the clear, kid.” He sounded almost regretful. “Wayborn’s boy says that he came in around two, but that he went out again, without his car.”
She gained assurance at his words. “But what will Spurck do? He’ll have to pay the fifty grand.”
“Will he? You don’t know Sol, sweetheart.”
“But he can’t junk the picture. Why, he’s spent more than that on publicity.”
Lennox shrugged. “We’ll reshoot it if Wayborn doesn’t turn up.” He was on his feet; the girl came out of her chair.
“But he can’t leave Ralph to—to—die. It isn’t human.”
Lennox’s voice grated. “Want to pay the fifty grand yourself?”
She stared at him. “I pay the fifty thousand? Don’t be absurd.”
“There’s your answer,” he told her. “That’s the way Sol feels, and Wayborn isn’t Sol’s boy-friend.”
She said, angrily: “You’re getting nasty again; but Sol will have to pay. I’ll go to the papers, to the police.”
“Do that,” he suggested, “and you and me will be going to one swell funeral; that is—if they find the body.”
3
ancy Hobbs was eating in Al Levy’s when Lennox came through the door. She nodded to the empty chair, and he sank into it. “Hello, Brat.”
She smiled at him. “You look worried, Bill.”
He ordered before he answered. “And you look swell. Why don’t you go into pictures instead of writing about them?”
She said, “Because I know too much. You have to be dumb to get by, like Elva Meyer.”
He scowled. “Seems I saw an interview in a fan magazine where you said that she was just a home girl—”
Nancy laughed, not nicely. “She is. Anybody’s home girl. Look at the ones she’s wrecked.”
He said: “Lay off! I’m trying to think. I can’t when you chatter.”
She was silent with no sign of resentment. He broke a piece of bread savagely. “Wayborn’s been snatched.”
Her eyes were narrow. “What is it? A publicity gag?”
“I wish to——it was. The dumb cluck is gone; someone wants fifty grand.”
Her eyes were still suspicious. “I don’t trust you, Bill; not since you pulled that burning-yacht stunt.”
He didn’t grin. “I’m out of that racket, sweetheart. I’ve got to find Wayborn. The picture’s half in the can and the big slob looks like a million. Sol is howling his head off.”
She said: “Why don’t you chuck it Bill—pull loose? You used to be a decent pal; now you’re nothing but a two-timing mug. Get loose. Shove off to New York. Write that book. You’ve been writing it in your mind for ten years.”
His mouth twisted with a shade of bitterness. “What would I use for money, sweet?”
She stared at him. “You’re getting three fifty—”
He spread his hands. “It goes—I’m living on week-after-next now. Sol lets me draw ahead.”
“Sweet of him. He knows that he can hold you as long as you’re broke. Listen, Bill. I’ve got a few dollars that aren’t working their heads off. I’ll stake you. Get the Chief tomorrow and get the hell out of this town.”
For a moment he was silent, then he patted the back of her hand. “It won’t work, babe. I gotta find Wayborn. I gotta get that damn’ picture into the can; after that, we’ll talk about it.”
She sighed, knowing that she had lost. “This Wayborn thing? It’s on the level?”
He said: “So help me.”
She sat there, playing with her fork, thinking. Finally she looked up at him. “Better see Red Girkin.”
He stared at her. “Who’s Girkin? What is this?”
She said, in a tired voice: “I’m helping, pal. Helping as I always do. Go on. See Girkin. He’s got an apartment on Van Ness off Melrose.” She gave him the number.
He said, roughly: “What do you know, babe?”
She shook her head. “Just a hunch. Go see him. Stall.” She gathered her bag and gloves and rose. “You can pay my check, that is, if you have enough.”
He said, absently: “My credit’s good, but, Nance, what’s the—”
“For a smart guy, you ask plenty of questions. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
She was gone, leaving him staring after her. Lennox said something under his breath, then went on with his dinner. Afterward he took a taxi.
The cab dropped him at the corner of Melrose and he walked to the apartment house. A row of brass-bound mail-boxes stared at him from the tiled lobby wall. One of them, number five, had the name W. C. Girkin. There was another name, but Lennox did not notice it. He pushed the bell viciously. The door at the bottom of the carpeted stairs buzzed as the catch was released from above. Lennox pulled it open and started up the steps. At their head a man in a light, close-fitting suit waited.
The man said: “What the hell?”
Lennox stared at him and said: “Hello, Charley.”
Charley took a thin hand out of his right coat pocket and wrapped the fingers around those of Lennox. “I’ll be a so-and-so. How are you, pally? How’d you know that I was in this burg?”
Lennox started to say that he hadn’t known, then stopped. “I know things.” He grinned. “What’s the matter? Cops in the big town get rough?”
The other shrugged. “Pal of mine had a doll out here. I drifted out with him. Jeeze. What a country!”
Lennox said: “Some of us like it. You ought to have blown in a year sooner. Could have used you in a gangster picture.”
Charley said, “Me?” and made his eyes very wide. “You’ve got me wrong, pally. I’m just a businessman with ideas. But come on. Red will think they’ve put the finger on me.” He turned and led the way towards the door of number five. The door was closed and he knocked, three knocks all together, another after a slight pause. The door came open and Charley said: “Okey, just a pal. Meet Red Girkin. This is Bill Lennox.”
The red-headed man said hello without evident pleasure. He was big, with heavy shoulders and a rather short neck. He sat down on a chair before the small built-in desk and went on with his game of solitaire. Once he swore to himself and turned over a pile of cards to reach an ace. Charley said: “What are you doing in Suckerville?”
Lennox laughed. “That’s one for the book. You’d make a swell gag man.”
The other nodded slowly. “There’s money in these hills, Pal. Like to cut you in.”
The red-headed man at the desk said: “Shut up.” He made it sound vicious.
Lennox looked at him with narrow eyes, then back at Charley. “Your friend doesn’t like me.”
The thin man grinned. “Don’t mind him; it’s just the bad booze. Lemme have your number. I might put you on to something swell.”
4
ill Lennox said to Spurck, “I haven’t found the slob yet, but I know who’s got him.”
Spurck was excited. He came out of his chair and bounced around the corner of the big desk. “You know—you know, and you don’t go to the police yet?”
“Listen, Sol. Why don’t you try thinking once in a while before you open that mouth of yours? I know who’s got Wayborn, but I don’t know why and I don’t know where he is.”
“Who’s got him?”
“That’s
one thing that it isn’t wise for you to know. These boys are tough, Sol. It don’t mean a thing to them that you’re the biggest shot in the industry. They’d as soon rub you out as look at you. In fact, they’d a little rather. You never won any beauty contests, you know.”
Spurck sat down at his desk again. “What do we do, then?”
“We pay fifty grand.”
“You’re crazy!”
“Sure, I got that way, working for you. We pay the fifty grand, finish the picture, and then I try to get it back. If I don’t, we spread the story all over the front page and charge the fifty grand to publicity. What the hell else can we do?”
Spurck swore. He raved. He almost cried, but Lennox paid no attention. “Take it and like it,” he said. “You’ve spent more than that on New York flops and kept nothing but the title. Have you heard from the gang?”
The little man pulled out his desk drawer and found an envelope which he handed to Lennox. “They want I should bring the money down to Redondo, in a suitcase. I should bring it myself, and I should not bring the cops; no one but me and my chauffeur.”
Lennox said: “Okey. Go to the bank and get the dough in small bills as they say. Don’t be a sap and mark them. Then take a ride to Redondo tonight.”
Spurck rolled his eyes. “It ain’t that I’m afraid, you understand; but I don’t like it, I’m telling you.”
Lennox grinned. “I’m your chauffeur, Sol. I wouldn’t miss this party for a lot.”
At seven o’clock Lennox swung the Lincoln town car out of the driveway of Spurck’s Beverly Hills home. Dressed in brown livery borrowed from the chauffeur, he was hardly recognizable as he cut across towards Inglewood and picked up Redondo Boulevard.
