The Con Man

by Gerald Verner

  “It seems to me rather a slender foundation on which to have made an arrest,” said Rivington.

  “I guess it would be if that had been all,” retorted Willing. “But it wasn’t all. Rennit was seen on the night of the murder hanging about outside the Mammoth Studios, and when we questioned him he refused to say what he was there for. Anyway, we’ve got the right man; he’s admitted his guilt.”

  Then he dropped a second bomb. A policeman on cycle patrol had been attracted to a disused studio by the sound of shots and had found Oscar Levenstein bleeding to death. Before he had died, however, he had named his assailants. They were Lefty Guinan and Spike Munro.

  “The Homicide Squad are going up right away,” he said, “and I’m joining them. The District Attorney wants you and your brother to come along, Mr Rivington.”

  “Right you are,” agreed Paul; “I’ll come along with you. Are you coming, too, Myers?”

  Elmer Myers shook his head.

  “I can’t,” he said. “I’ve got to meet Frank Leyland at the Brown Derby for lunch. Why not join us there after you’ve got through this business?”

  “I will,” agreed Paul. “Are you going now, Captain Willing?”

  “Sure,” was the laconic reply.

  “Come on, then,” said Paul, and both he and Bob followed the American detective to the high-powered police car that was waiting outside in the drive.

  They started off, and halfway along the road to the disused studios where the tragedy had happened that morning the Homicide Squad car caught them up, carrying the District Attorney, the District Medical Officer and men from the Central Office. They gave it priority along the narrow road that led up to the gate of the empty studios, and when they pulled up with the long radiator of the police car almost touching the rear lamp of the squad’s car the occupants of the former had already descended and were standing in a little group before the wooden gate. Captain Willing introduced Rivington and his brother to the District Attorney, and the grey-haired, stern-faced man shook hands heartily with both of them.

  “Glad to meet you, Mr Rivington,” he said. “This is a terrible thing about poor Levenstein. We’ll get the doctor’s report and the man can take photographs.”

  He called to a big man with badly-fitting clothes, whom he introduced as Captain Benson.

  “Benson’s in charge of the case,” said the grey-haired man; “you’d better get busy with your fellows, Benson.”

  “O.K.,” said the other, and turning, he began ripping out orders.

  The District Attorney led the way towards the little gate and Paul and Bob followed.

  As they passed into the courtyard Paul stood and watched while the routine methods adopted by the American police were put into operation. The District Medical Officer made his examination of the body and reported the result. Three bullets had torn their way through the chest and one of these had pierced the heart. Death had been instantaneous. One of the shots had passed completely through the body, and the bullet was found by one of the men who had come with Captain Benson lying by the end wall of the yard. It was handed over for examination by the firearms expert, Captain Tandy.

  When the first preliminary examination had been completed the photographers began their work. Several photographs were taken of the courtyard and body, and when this had been done the remains of Oscar Levenstein were carried out and put into the ambulance that had arrived in the interim. Paul Rivington was a great admirer of the efficiency and perfect organisation of the American detective force, and although he had seen it in action twice before, it never failed to interest him. There was very little difference in its methods from Scotland Yard, except that it had, to its advantage, a much freer hand, and was not bound by any restrictions and red tape.

  When the ambulance had departed, carrying away the District Medical Officer, the District Attorney brought Benson over to Paul.

  As Myers had regretfully consented to it, Paul told about the theft of the film.

  “Levenstein must have hired these guys to do the job for him,” said Benson as they drove back towards Hollywood in a police car. “They’re not local men. I know all the local crooks by sight, and I guess your description doesn’t fit one of them.”

  “Most probably they came from Chicago,” said the District Attorney, and Benson nodded.

  “I guess they did, sir,” he said. “I’ll get in touch with the Chicago Central Office and see if they can tell us anything about them.”

  “We shall have the newsmen round here like flies over this murder,” said the District Attorney with a frown. “Levenstein’s name makes a big story. Don’t tell them anything about the film end to it, Benson.”

  “I reckon you can trust me,” said the big man. “I guess I’m not so fond of newsmen that I’m likely to spill anything more than I can help.”

  “I suppose, Mr Rivington,” said the District Attorney, turning to Paul, who was seated on his other side, “that you will still continue your search for this missing negative?”

  “Yes,” answered Paul, “that’s really what I’m here for.”

  “You can count on any assistance you may require from my department,” said the grey-haired man, “and I’m sure Captain Benson will also give you all the help he can.”

  “Sure I will,” said the officer heartily. “Mr Rivington has only got to say what he wants, and if I can give it to him it’s his.”

  Rivington tendered his thanks. The position of the District Attorney in America is similar to that of the Public Prosecutor in England, with the exception that it is more of an executive job.

  “The question at the moment,” said Paul, “is what happened to the film. I’m pretty certain that Levenstein hadn’t got it, and I’m equally certain that these two crooks thought they were speaking the truth when they accused him of double-crossing them and having stolen it. So who has got it?”

  “Probably this guy Rennit could answer that,” put in Willing, who had been listening. “He must have been in it with them.”

  “I’d like to have a talk with him,” said Paul, “Could you arrange that?”

  “Sure,” said Benson; “he’s in the cooler at Los Angeles, Come along this afternoon and I’ll take you to see him.”

  They fixed three o’clock, and then as they came in sight of the Brown Derby Paul asked them to stop the car; he and Bob got out, took their leave of the others, and when the car started once more went across and entered the doors of the famous restaurant. They saw Elmer Myers and Frank Leyland sitting at the table at the far end and joined them.

  “Well,” greeted the managing director of Mammoth Pictures, “what’s happened?”

  “Nothing very much,” answered Paul. “Mostly routine, that’s all. I want you to tell me something about this man Rennit. Is he the sort of fellow who would have been mixed up with these crooks who killed Levenstein?”

  It was Frank Leyland who answered.

  “I should say definitely no,” he declared. “I’m not a friend of Rennit’s, but I’ve met him several times at the studios, and I’ve met other people who know him quite well, and from all accounts he appears to be a very decent, hard-working chap. I can understand him killing Lamont if he had annoyed Mary Henley — that’s the girl whom Rennit’s taken keen on — but he wouldn’t have joined up with any crooks to do it. He’d have done it on his own and openly.”

  Elmer Myers nodded.

  “That’s my view, too,” he confirmed.

  “Well, I’m going to see him this afternoon,” said Paul, “and I’d like to meet this girl too. Where can she be found?”

  “Our casting director has got her address,” said Mr Myers. “I’ll — ”

  “There she is now,” broke in Leyland. “Just come in with that good-looking guy.”

  Paul Rivington turned and looked in the direction the other had indicated, and the expression of his face changed.

  “Who’s the man with her?” he asked sharply, and Leyland shook his head.

&nb
sp; “I don’t know,” he replied. “Do you, Elmer?”

  “No, I guess he’s a stranger to me,” said Mr Myers.

  “He’s not a stranger to me,” said Paul shortly, and something in his tone made Elmer Myers look at him quickly.

  “Do you know him?” he asked.

  “I know him rather well,” answered the detective. “The last time I saw him was in the dock at the Old Bailey!”

  Chapter 12

  LEFTY GUINAN PLANS A COUP

  Lefty Guinan and Spike faced each other over the table in their room at Macks, and neither of their faces was pleasant to look upon.

  “Say, what are we goin’ to do now?” demanded Mr Munro a little truculently, “It’s up to you to do somethin’.” He removed a chewed wad of gum from his mouth and substituted a fresh piece. “This guy Spearman’s got the film and he’s got the money, an’ we’ve got nothing. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Shut up, and let me think!” snarled Lefty, irritably.

  “Sure I’ll let you think all right,” said Spike, “but I reckon you’d better not think too long. If we stop here it ain’t goin’ to be healthy.”

  “That’s what I’m thinkin’ about, you fool,” broke in Lefty. “I guess I know that as well as you do. But I’m not goin’ back to Chicago until I’ve got even with Spearman.”

  “Then what are you goin’ to do?” asked Spike. “We can’t stop here or we’ll be pinched.”

  “We’ll be pinched if we try to get away,” said Guinan. “How far do you think we’d get in the train once our descriptions were circulated? Levenstein might have talked before he croaked. I didn’t mean to kill Levenstein; I just lost my head.”

  “If you waste time talkin’ here you’ll lose more than your head,” said Spike practically. “See here, Lefty, we’re up against it, and we’ve gotta think quick. The first thing we’ve gotta do is to get out of here.”

  “That’s all very well,” said Guinan, “but where can we go?”

  He began to walk up and down jerkily. There was something very like panic in his heart and he cursed himself again for his wild action in killing Oscar Levenstein and the lunacy that made him leave Spike alive to bear witness against him.

  “We’ll have to take to the road, Spike,” he said, suddenly stopping, “We’ve got the car, and if we can get out of the city into the country we’ll at least have time to think.”

  “Come on, then,” said Spike promptly. “For the love of Mike let’s get away from here.”

  They decided that it was impossible to take their luggage, and Lefty hastily transferred what few papers he possessed from his big trunk to his breast pocket. With a self-possession they were far from feeling they walked down the stairs to the exit, but nobody took any notice of them. They reached the car, which Guinan had left outside, without being challenged. Lefty took his place at the wheel with a sigh of relief, and as he drove off with his companion beside him his forehead was wet with perspiration.

  “One thing we can do,” he said as he swung the car into the main street, “we can make some kind of a change in our appearance. Keep a look out for a drug store.”

  Spike pointed out one a quarter of a mile further on — you can’t travel far without, finding a drugstore in Hollywood — and Lefty stopped the car outside and entered the shop. He had no difficulty in purchasing what he wanted. The store was well stocked with materials for film make-up, and he rejoined the car feeling a little more cheerful. On the way out to the country they had to pass the Brown Derby, and as they went by the famous restaurant a man and a girl came out.

  “Look!” hissed Spike, clutching Lefty’s arm; “there’s that guy Spearman with a dame!”

  “I guess I’d like to get my own back on him,” he snapped viciously. “Workin’ with a girl, is he? That’s a new one for Tommy. She’s a good-looker too.”

  He was hoping as the car went by that Mr Spearman had not seen and recognised them. But about this he need not have worried. Tommy Spearman had for the moment forgotten that such people as Lefty Guinan and Spike Munro existed.

  They came through the straggling outskirts of Culver City into open country, and in a rough and deserted-patch of road Lefty pulled up the car and brought out the things he had bought at the drug-store. With the aid of some annatto stain he gave himself a deep tan, and when he had shaved his eyebrows, brushed his hair in a different way and affixed a small moustache on his upper lip his appearance was so altered that even Spike had to look twice to be certain that it was still Lefty Guinan who sat beside him.

  “You look swell,” he commented. “You could walk past all the fly cops in Chicago and they’d never know you.”

  “You’ll be more difficult.” said Lefty, looking at Spike with his head on one side. “But I reckon we can do something.”

  He proceeded to do something. Spike had naturally thin eyebrows of a rather pale colour and these were augmented with false hair and darkened. At the same time their shape was altered — and nothing changes a person’s looks so much as the shape of their eyebrows. A bottle of hair dye changed the mouse-coloured covering of Mr Munro’s head to a deep black. His pale complexion was made ruddy by the application of brick rouge. Lefty surveyed his work with satisfaction.

  “I guess you’ll do,” he grunted, and repacked his make-up materials. “Now we’ve got to find somewhere to park ourselves.” He looked round at the countryside. “I think we’ll go on, and perhaps we can find some small apartment house or hotel where we can get a room.”

  He started the engine and the car began to move forward again. The road got rougher, and presently led into another that wound its way along the foot of a chain of wooded hills. They had gone about half a mile along this when Guinan uttered an exclamation and stopped the car suddenly.

  “What’s bitin’ you?” grumbled Spike.

  Lefty took his right hand from the wheel and pointed towards the hills.

  “Take a look at that?” he said.

  Spike Munro twisted himself round in his seat and followed the direction of his companion’s finger. Half-hidden among the trees he saw a house; at least it had obviously once been a house. Now it was more of a ruin than anything else. Only part of the roof still remained and the windows were broken. The paint was pealing from the doors and sashes, and about the whole place hung an atmosphere of neglect.

  “Why stop to look at that?” grunted Mr, Munro disparagingly. “I don’t think much of it.”

  “Don’t you,” grinned Lefty. “Well, I’m sorry, because I think we’re going to see it at closer quarters.”

  “Say, what’s the idea?” said his companion.

  “That’s safer than all the apartment houses and hotels that were ever built,” said Lefty. “I guess we can lie low there pretty secure.”

  He swung himself out of the car.

  “Come on, I’m going to have a look at the place.”

  He went over to the gate, followed by the now interested Spike. It was set well back from the road, a dilapidated affair that hung from one hinge and gave access to a twisting weed-choked path that wound its way up the hillside through an avenue of trees. The trees were so thick that from this point the house itself was completely invisible. When they eventually came in sight of it again they found that at closer quarters it was even in a worse state of repair than it had looked from the roadway. The sloping garden with its terraces was a riot of tangled weeds and flowers that had run to seed. The grass of the lawn was knee-deep, and the gravel of the path hidden in moss. Roses forlorn and neglected sprawled over broken trellis-work.

  Lefty approached the porch and tried the door. It was locked, as he had expected, but the ground floor windows were so broken that the door as a barrier was more of a joke than anything else. He went round to the first window he came to and putting his hand through a large hole in one of the panes, jerked up the rusty catch. Opening the French windows, he stepped into a large low-roofed room that when the house had been inhabited had probably b
een the drawing room. The signs of neglect inside were even more evident than those without. The coloured wash on the walls was discoloured and thick with dirt; the ceiling had fallen in several places and lay in plaster heaps about the floor. The floor itself was no longer intact. Holes gaped everywhere.

  “I guess you wouldn’t call the place a palace,” grunted Spike Munro, looking about him and sniffing.

  “What did you expect?” said Lefty. “The Knickerbocker Building? I reckon we’re darned lucky to have stumbled on this place. Let’s see what the rest of it’s like.”

  They explored it thoroughly. It was not a very large house, but they found at least one room that was weatherproof, and this was the kitchen. It had a stone floor and was in better repair than any of the others.

  “This is swell,” said Lefty. “We can block up that window with sacks — ” he pointed to a heap of sacks that lay in one corner “ — and nobody will be able to see a light.”

  “What are we going to do about food?” demanded Mr Munro, putting his last wad of gum into his mouth and thrusting it into his cheek.

  “We’ll get some canned stuff,” replied Lefty. “Either you or I can go and get it. I guess we’d better not go together. There’s less chance of our being recognised if we don’t go together.”

  “Sure; you go,” said Spike with alacrity.

  “We’ll toss up for it,” said Lefty Guinan, and put his hand in his pocket.

  “Then we’ll toss up with this,” said Mr Munro emphatically and producing a dollar piece. “I know that buck of yours, Lefty — both sides alike!”

  He spun the coin and Guinan won.

  “Away you go, Spike,” he grinned, “and be as quick as you can.”

  Mr Munro departed, grumbling, and presently Lefty Guinan heard the whine of the car as it faded in the distance. While the other was gone Lefty occupied his time by covering the window with sacking and making everything as comfortable as he could. When he had finished he sat down on a box which he had found in the cellar and lit a cigarette. His thoughts turned to Tommy Spearman and his heart was savage at the way he had been twisted. He’d have given a lot to be even with that gentleman — he didn’t call him a gentleman in his mind — and get his money back. It wasn’t that he was broke, but he was precious near it, near enough in fact to be unpleasant, and if he was ever going to get out of the mess he’d got himself into and see Chicago once more he would need money, and lots of it.