Sitting in the bare empty kitchen, frowning and smoking, an idea came to him. It came flashing like a ray of light on a dark night, and Lefty Guinan drew a deep breath. If only it could be done. Not only would it get his money back — at least, knowing something of Mr Spearman’s character he was pretty sure it would — but he could probably get the film as well. Yes, it was certainly a swell idea, and the more he thought of it the more he liked it. Not very difficult either. Now they’d found this house it would be easy. In his imagination he saw the idea put into practice, and his mouth curled into a cruel smile. He’d make Tommy Spearman squirm. He should suffer for what he’d done.
Spike Munro, coming back laden with parcels, found him almost jubilant.
“What’s got you?” he asked, eyeing his companion suspiciously.
“I’ve got a swell plan — ” began Lefty.
“Well, keep it to yourself,” said Mr Munro. “It’s your swell plans that have landed us in this mess.”
Lefty Guinan’s face darkened.
“Cut that stuff!” he snarled. “I’m not standin’ any of that from you, Spike, so get that in your head! Can I help the luck goin’ against me? This idea of mine’s fine and dandy, and it’ll put us on velvet again.”
“If it’ll do that, spill it,” said Spike.
Rapidly Lefty Guinan explained his great scheme, and when he had finished Spike Munro nodded.
“I’ll hand it to you, Lefty,” he said. “It’s a swell idea!”
Chapter 13
THE CON MAN
“A crook, is he?” said Elmer Myers, raising his eyebrows. “Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake?”
Paul shook his head and shifted his position so that he was between Elmer Myers and not in a direct line of sight with the man who had come in.
“No, I’ve made no mistake,” he said. “That fellow’s name is Tommy Spearman, and when I saw him he was on trial for fraud.”
Frank Leyland frowned.
“What the deuce is Mary Henley doing with a fellow like that?” he muttered. “She’s not that sort.”
“Probably she doesn’t know his real character,” said Paul. “I hope he hasn’t spotted me.”
He need not have worried. Mr Spearman sat down at a table near the door with his back to the detective and became at once engrossed in his pretty companion.
Paul Rivington watched them and wondered. What had brought Tommy Spearman to Hollywood, and what was he doing with this girl who was the fiancée of the man held for the murder of Perry Lamont? Was he in this business of the stolen film too? Paul decided that Mr Spearman would be worth keeping an eye on. There was a possibility that they were all in it — Rennit, the girl, and Spearman. Perhaps the two crooks who had shot Levenstein had been engaged by Spearman to steal the film, and had tried to double-cross him. It was all a bit complicated and would require thinking out, but it certainly looked as if Spearman was connected with the business in some way, and therefore a good standpoint. The girl and he were talking in low tones, and Paul would have given a lot to know what it was they were talking about. Presently when they had finished their lunch they rose to go, and as they reached the door Paul leaned forward and touched his brother’s arm.
“Slip along after them, old chap,” he whispered, “and find out, if you can, where Spearman is staying and what name he’s using. It’s certainly not his own.”
Bob nodded and, rising, sauntered over to the door and made his exit in the wake of Mr Spearman and the girl. He had not very far to go, for outside the Beverley Wilshire Mr Spearman and the girl halted. They chatted for a second or two and then parted, she to go down the street and he to turn into the hotel. Bob waited for five or six minutes, then he crossed the road, ascended the steps of the Beverley Wilshire, and approached the reception-clerk’s desk.
“Have you a gentleman named Mr Lickerbolt staying here?” he asked.
“What name?” asked the clerk.
“Lickerbolt,” repeated Bob — it was the most unusual name he could think of on the spur of the moment.
The reception-clerk shook his head.
“Nope,” he replied. “I guess nobody of that name is stayin’ here.”
“But I’m sure he said he was staying here,” persisted Bob, frowning. “Perhaps you’d recognise him if I described him to you.”
He gave a description that might have fitted Mr Spearman, without the small physical alterations that he purposely put in.
“That sounds like Captain Chase,” said the clerk at once. “He’s an Englishman…”
“Then he wouldn’t be my friend,” said Bob. “My friend’s an American. Besides, his name’s Lickerbolt, and there’s no reason for him to change it.”
“I guess if I had a name like that,” replied the clerk. “I’d darn soon change it!”
Bob grinned, thanked him, apologised for troubling him and went back to the Brown Derby.
“Well, that’s quick work, anyway,” said Paul, when his brother told him what had happened. “So Captain Chase is the name he’s going under, is it? That sounds very Spearmanish.” He glanced at his watch. “I must be getting along to Los Angeles to see Rennit. Listen, Bob; you stop around here and keep an eye on Captain Chase. I’m interested in that gentleman’s movements.”
“You reckon he’s mixed up in this business,” asked Elmer Myers.
“I think it’s more than likely,” answered Paul. “I don’t know how, but that’s what I’m hoping to find out.”
“Leyland and I are going to the studios,” said Myers, “and after that I’m going home. I’ll see you there.”
Paul agreed, and they left the restaurant. Outside the detective took leave of the others and drove down to the Central Detective Bureau at Los Angeles. He arrived a little before the time of his appointment, but he found Captain Benson waiting for him.
“I guess I’ve got news for you, Mr Rivington,” he said, leading the way into his office. “We’ve succeeded in getting pictures of those two crooks of yours.”
“They’re not my special property, you know,” said Paul, smiling.
Benson’s large face creased into a grin.
“Sure they’re not,” he answered. “I guess they knew all about them in Chicago, and nothing to their credit. He displayed one of the photographs that had arrived by telegraph. “The smaller man is Spike Munro and the big ’un is Lefty Guinan. They’ve been mixed up in all sorts of shady business, and were well in with Lew Healey and the rum-runners for some time.”
“Well, that’s good work,” said Paul, “and the next thing to do is to pull them in.”
“And I guess it won’t be long before we do that,” declared Benson confidently. “I’ve got men stationed at the railroad stations so they can’t very well leave the city. And I’ve got a whole squad of men combing the apartment houses and the hotels. I don’t reckon it’ll be long before they’re run to earth.” He pushed a box of black cigars across to Paul, but the other declined the invitation.
“I’d rather have a cigarette, if you don’t mind,” he said, producing his case and taking one out. “Tell me, have you ever heard of a man called Tommy Spearman?”
Benson helped himself to a cigar, bit off the end, frowned and shook his head.
“No,” he replied. “Who is he?”
“He’s an English crook,” said the detective. “One of the cleverest confident men I know, and he’s in Hollywood staying at the Beverley Wilshire under the name of Captain Chase.”
“Oh, is that the guy?” said Benson. “Of course, we know of his arrival. We check up all strangers that come to the city, but we couldn’t find anything wrong with him.”
“You wouldn’t,” declared Paul. “Tommy Spearman would take care of that. But the fact that he’s here rather interests me.”
He told the other under what conditions he had seen Mr Spearman, and Benson scratched the lowest of his many chins.
“I guess it sounds a bit complicated,” he remarked. “Here are the
se two fellers, Munro and Guinan, who we know killed Levenstein and did the bust at Mammoth Studios. Here’s Rennit, who swears he killed Lamont, and now here’s this guy you’re talkin’ about, all friendly with Rennit’s girl. How many more of them are in this business, and who’s got the film?”
“That,” said Paul, “is a question that interests me, since it’s my job to find it. I don’t know how they all come into it, but I don’t mind betting that Spearman’s got the film.”
“What makes you think that?” asked Benson.
“Well, who else can have it?” said Paul. “It was never given to Levenstein, and he never stole it from Guinan. I’m certain of that, and equally certain that Guinan hasn’t got it. There’s a chance that Rennit might have it, but I don’t think so. And, anyhow, knowing Spearman as I do, he’s the most likely. If he was in with them on this business, it’s just the sort of thing he would do, and try and make a bit on his own.”
“Well, I reckon it won’t be difficult to find out,” said Captain Benson, blowing a cloud of smoke across his desk. “You say he’s staying at the Beverley Wilshire? I’ll have a man sent to search his apartments.”
“That’s what I was going to suggest,” said the detective, “and I’d like to go with him if I may.”
“Sure you may,” agreed the other. “This film is part of the job. Would you like me to arrange for the man to go back with you after you’ve seen Rennit?”
“Yes, if you can manage it,” said Rivington.
“Sure I can,” declared Benson. “Now come along, and I’ll shoot you into this fellow Rennit.”
He rose and Paul followed him out of the office through the building to the part where the cells were situated. Dick Rennit, pale, haggard and unshaven, looked up with weary eyes as they entered. He was sitting dejectedly on the pallet-bed, his hands clasped loosely between his knees.
“This gentleman wants to have a talk with you, Rennit,” said Benson, and Dick’s face set.
“Why can’t you leave me alone?” he demanded hoarsely. “I’ve told you all you want to know, haven’t I? I’ve told you I killed Lament. What more do you want?”
“Quite a lot,” said Paul. “I want to ask you one or two questions — ”
“I won’t answer any questions,” said Rennit sullenly. “Questions, questions, questions! Great Heaven, nothing but questions! Can’t you leave me alone? I’ve told you all I’m going to tell you. I’ve made a statement and signed it. All you want to know is who killed Lamont, and I’ve told you — I did. Now leave me alone!”
His nerves were on edge, and Rivington privately came to the conclusion that he was not far off hysteria. He tried to adopt a soothing tone, but it had no effect. For nearly an hour he questioned, suggested and tried by every device he could think of to get Rennit to talk, but without success. All he would do was to keep on reiterating that he had killed Lamont. Paul gave it up at last and accompanied Benson back to the latter’s office.
“Well, what do you make of him?” asked the captain.
“He’s so insistent he killed Lamont,” replied Paul thoughtfully, “that one’s almost inclined to think he did nothing of the kind.”
Captain Benson looked at him sharply.
“Queer you should say that,” he remarked “because I’ve thought the same thing. I guess his great trouble seems to be that we might not believe him.”
“In which case you would, of course, start looking for somebody else,” said Paul. “That’s what troubling Rennit; he’s shielding somebody.”
“Who could he be shielding?” asked Benson, wrinkling his forehead.
“There’s only one person so far as I can see,” replied Rivington, “and that’s the girl — Mary Henley!”
Chapter 14
MR SPEARMAN SCORES
Mr Thomas Spearman, alias Captain Chase, was feeling cheerful when he left Mary Henley and ascended to his comfortable suite of rooms at the Beverley Wilshire. He had plenty of money and the means for acquiring more, and he had made the acquaintance of a girl who for the first time in his chequered career had the power to make his pulse beat a little quicker. He tried as he sat down by the open window of his sitting room to think of a word that would describe her, and rejected superlative after superlative. In his younger days — before he had been cashiered from a crack regiment for copying the signature of a fellow-officer on one of the latter’s cheques — Mr Spearman had had dreams. He had in his more serious moments visualised just the kind of girl he would have liked to marry and settle down with. In the years that followed these dreams had grown more shadowy and remote, until they had almost faded altogether. And now — here was the epitome of his visions, a living, breathing reality. Mr Spearman sighed and lit a cigarette.
Of course, it was too late now. Apart from the fact that Mary Henley was obviously deeply wrapped up in Dick Rennit, she could never be anything to him. To give him his due, he would never have dreamed of asking her, even if she had been free. His was not the kind of life that a woman could share, and he had no illusions that marriage would reform him. He was a crook by nature and inclination, and a crook he would be until the hour of his death. All the same, it was pleasant to talk to her, even though it was and could never be anything else but a passing interlude. He had promised to do all he could to help her, and he was quite genuine about this.
Of course, if Rennit had killed Lamont, there was nothing he could do. The question was, had he? There seemed no reason why the young fool should have confessed unless he had.
He frowned and thought hard, but by teatime he had come to no satisfactory conclusion. The English habit of tea still clung to him, and he went down to the lounge to order some. As he passed the reception-clerk the man smiled and, calling to him, handed him a bundle of English newspapers. Mr Spearman, who was interested in the doings of his country, had ordered them.
“You’ve got a double, Captain Chase,” said the clerk. “I guess you didn’t know that.”
“Have I?” said Mr Spearman not very interested. “Who is the unfortunate person?”
“A guy called Lickerbolt,” grinned the man, and related his conversation with Bob.
Mr Spearman’s interest increased suddenly. This looked a little disconcerting. There might, of course, be nothing in it, but on the other hand there might. Adopting a bored air, he cautiously questioned the reception-clerk and succeeded in extracting from him a description of Bob. It was not a very good description, and conveyed nothing at all to Mr Spearman, but it left him rather alert.
“Why, there’s the guy now, sir,” said the clerk just as he was turning away to the lounge. “On the other side of the street. Still looking for his friend, I expect.”
Mr Spearman glanced through the glass doors of the entrance, and it was only by an effort that he succeeded in retaining his composure.
“Oh, is that the chap!” he said smoothly, and wondered if the clerk could hear the pounding of his heart. “Well, I hope he finds this fellow — what’s-his-name — Lickerbolt.”
He smiled, nodded and turned away. He did not go to the lounge as he had originally intended. Instead he went back to his sitting room. If Bob Rivington was in Hollywood it meant that his brother was there also and they were obviously interested in him. Mr Spearman felt a little perturbed. What was the reason for this sudden interest, and why were they there at all? He walked up and down the comfortable room uneasily. They couldn’t have got anything on him. Lefty Guinan dared not have given him away, either about the money or the film. So what was the meaning of this attention on Bob Rivington’s part? The story of Mr Lickerbolt was all nonsense, of course. It had been a ruse to find out if he were staying at the Beverley Wilshire.
And now they had found out they were watching the place. Mr Spearman’s face was very serious. Although he couldn’t understand what it was, there was something up, and he decided that he ought to take precautions. During the next fifteen minutes his brain worked very rapidly indeed, and presently he came to a conclu
sion.
He proceeded to put this into execution at once, and felt easier when he had done so. Once more he began to think about his tea, and rang the bell. To the waiter who answered the ring he gave his order, and presently was sipping his tea and munching the anchovy toast that accompanied it. Although he had still one or two qualms, he was feeling considerably more comfortable, and when he had swallowed his second cup and lit a cigarette he had come to the conclusion that it was very doubtful whether Rivington could do anything to cause him inconvenience. He had almost reached the end of his cigarette when there came a tap at the door, and in answer to his “Come in” a bell-boy entered.
“Two gentlemen want to see you, sir,” he said, and Mr Spearman, who had expected the waiter to take away the tea-tray, raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Two gentlemen?” he repeated. “To see me? Who are they?”
“They didn’t give any names,” answered the bell-boy, “but I can tell you who one of them is — Captain Willing, from the police.”
Mr Spearman kept his face expressionless, although the shock had been no light one.
“What on earth can he want to see me for?” he muttered in the puzzled tones of an honest man who cannot imagine why anyone connected with the police should desire to make his acquaintance. “Anyway, I suppose you’d better show them up.”
The bell-boy departed, and Mr Spearman braced himself for the coming interview. He thanked his lucky stars that his caution had prompted him to do what he had done, if he had been taken unawares — he gave a little shiver. He had tasted prison-life, and had no wish to repeat the experience. There came another tap at the door, and this time the bell-boy ushered in two men. The first was a complete stranger to Mr Spearman, but the second — there was no mistaking the other man, it was Paul Rivington.
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