by Howard Mason
“Does that give you so much pleasure?” asked Blaise.
Cass took his arm. “Wait till you’ve been around this haunted house a while. It’s a hotbed of feuds and intrigue. I hope you didn’t come here for rest and quiet.”
“If I had any such idea,” sighed Blaise, “it’s long since evaporated.” He stayed behind, letting her go up one step. “I ought to have a talk with Simon. Off the premises, I think.”
“He’s got a girl,” said Cass, “and a lot of the time they go to the Lido—that’s a night club on Sunset Boulevard.”
“I’ll give it a try.”
“Want me to come along?” asked Cass, and when Blaise shook his head, she ventured, “Are you angry at me?”
“I did have an impulse,” Blaise told her, “to turn you over and smack you until some of that hard-boiled veneer peels off, but that’s evaporated, too.”
Standing on the step above, her eyes were level with his. She stared at him for a moment, then shifted her gaze uncomfortably. “I know,” she said awkwardly. “I’m sorry.” Then she turned to look at him again. Her eyes were misty. “This is a lousy place,” she said huskily. “You’re a fool to stay.”
Blaise put his hand out to her, but she turned, went quickly up the last two steps and into the house.
Chapter 6
Paul Weldon was sprawled on the couch in his darkened studio. There was some light from the street lamps in the quiet Hollywood street high up in the hills above the city and he could hear his model, Molly Dann, humming in the studio bathroom which was her dressing room. His eyes ached from the strain of a hard day’s work, but he rose from the couch, turned on a light, then moved to the easel. He snapped on the two glaring world lights, focused them on the fresh canvas and stepped back to study his work. The painting was a seated nude, the tones of flesh and background airy and delicate, the body glowing with the translucent quality he worked so hard to achieve. The drawing, however, was foreshortened and grotesque as if he were trying to impart not grace but power; the beauty of flesh and something unbearably ugly that was joined to it in his mind. His model, Molly Dann, came in from the studio bathroom, dressed now except for the jacket of her suit which she was just buttoning over her brassiere. She was a strikingly handsome girl with a stunning figure. Her features, like Molly herself, were big, and her short black hair and olive skin gave her a barbaric beauty which would probably be coarse and unattractive in another ten years. Now, however, it was undeniably effective.
Molly stood back of the artist, studying the painting while he braced himself for her reaction. “Is that how I look to you?” she said. “Christ! Why do I even take off my clothes?”
“Maybe it’s force of habit,” said Weldon waspishly.
Molly grinned. “That burns you, too, doesn’t it?” She turned back to the canvas. “I was telling a friend of mine about your painting. All that lovely flesh you spend hours and hours sweating over—and the hideous way you make the body come out in the end.” Quietly, almost daintily, she added, “My friend said that was pure fag.”
Weldon whirled on her, his fists clenched.
“If you touch me,” said Molly, “I’ll put my foot right through that canvas.”
Weldon glared at her, then backed away to the mantel over the fireplace where he groped for a pack of cigarettes and matches.
“Why do you needle me?” he muttered. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”
“Who calls who?” demanded Molly. “Who has hysterics when I pose for other painters? Why don’t you try leaving me alone?” She picked up her purse, a pair of black gloves and a short loose coat. She paused for another look at the canvas. “My friend—the same one—also said that a man named Pascin did this kind of work so well it was foolish for anybody to come along and imitate him.”
Weldon flushed, but he ignored the extra insult. “Where are you going, Molly?”
“I’ve got a date. I’m meeting Simon Edgerton at the Lido.”
He blocked her path. “Why, Molly?” he pleaded.
“Because you give me a pain.” She stepped around him to the door. “Want me to pose tomorrow?”
He nodded unhappily. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“Make up your mind,” said Molly sharply.
“Yes,” said Weldon angrily. “Yes.”
Molly smiled. “I’ll see if I can make it. Depends on what time I get home tonight.” She gave him a big smile and went out. Weldon heard her heels clicking on the steps, then the sound of the front door closing. He stood by the window, watching as Molly moved gracefully down toward the intersection and then turned right to the road that wound down to Hollywood Boulevard. He let the curtain fall back and stepped to the easel to turn off the work lights. He sat in the still, dark room for a few minutes, then jumped up suddenly, took his hat and started swiftly down the stairs. He followed the same route to Hollywood Boulevard and when he was a block away he saw Molly just getting into a cab. He called to her, but she ignored it or didn’t hear him. His steps slowed down as the cab drove off.
The Lido was situated in that part of Los Angeles known as the County Strip, usually just “the Strip.” It was a winding section of Sunset Boulevard between Hollywood and Beverly Hills but belonging to neither and dependent on the County for all municipal services. It was the accepted location for all of Hollywood’s theatrical agencies, decorators’ establishments and smart little dress shops. It was also the center of the night life in the community, the whole length of the Strip being dotted with places that ranged from smart spots like Ciro’s and Mocambo to dreary little clip-joints in which strip-tease acts and modified B-girls hustled servicemen for drinks and tips.
The Lido was in the first category, full of subdued glamor. There was a bar near the entrance, and beyond this, roped off from the cheaper patrons, an over-decorated, gaudy room with low-keyed lighting. There was a smooth band and a fair-sized dance floor.
Blaise had returned to the Ocean Inn at ten o’clock and telephoned the Lido from his room. Simon Edgerton had not yet arrived, nor was there a reservation in his name, but the manner in which the headwaiter asked for a message indicated that Cassy was right and that Simon was indeed a habitué. He changed his clothes and drove to the Lido in the excellent car hired for him by Miriam Wayne, and now he was at the circular bar, having taken a seat as far from the front door as possible, but one that gave him a good view of the bar and the entrance to the main room. There was a fairly steady procession of arriving supper guests, and of the dinner crowd, since this was Southern California; those lucky enough to be working were going home to rest for early calls. Among the men, the outstanding characteristic was a harassed, worried look. The women shared a lacquered, consistent beauty so much alike in details of makeup, hairdo and dress as to seem to be the product of one great cookie cutter. There were also the standard variety of eccentrics: a turbaned Sikh, complete with ceremonial jewels and, as Blaise could hear in his conversation with the headwaiter, a distinct New York accent. There was a cowboy star, in white buckskin, who wore his ten-gallon hat into the dining room, and a party of drunken oilmen, each of whom, in some accustomed ceremony, pushed a dollar bill into the strapless décolletage of the checkroom girl. She squealed rewardingly, regarding them with blank hatred as they moved uproariously into the other room and fishing uncomfortably for the currency in her bosom.
At just about eleven o’clock, Simon Edgerton arrived with Molly Dann. He was a welcome and familiar guest. As they waited briefly in the doorway, Blaise heard the headwaiter say, “Couple of calls for you earlier, Mr. Edgerton.”
That left one call unaccounted for, thought Blaise, as he settled his bill and followed them.
Simon looked up as Blaise approached the table. He seemed unruffled by any care, absolutely sure of himself. “Hello, there,” he said warmly. “Alone?”
Blaise said, “I’m a stranger in these parts.” He
didn’t have to fish for an invitation. Simon summoned a waiter who swiftly brought another chair. There was a bottle of whiskey on the table, ice, soda and water. There were also, he noticed, three glasses.
“This is Molly Dann,” said Simon, and introduced Blaise. “Art expert,” added Simon. “Great pal of my father’s. Molly’s in the racket, too,” he told Blaise. “She’s a model.”
“Just for laughs,” said Molly.
“She gets more whistles than laughs,” Simon assured him. He smiled his friendliest smile for Blaise. “Looking for me?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Blaise, “yes.” He returned Simon’s frank stare. “Expecting me?” he asked.
“You boys want to spar in private?” asked Molly.
“Maybe you ought to go powder your nose or something,” said Simon.
“Sure,” said Molly amiably. She pushed back her chair and both men rose with her. “Don’t fight, boys—play nice.”
Simon looked after her tall, undulating figure for a moment and so did a number of the other men in the room. Even the cowboy star, from an adjacent table, violated the austere code of his calling by frank interest in her sexy walk.
“Hell of a nice girl,” said Simon. “Regular. No beating around the bush with Molly.”
“Or with me,” said Blaise. He marveled at the change in Simon, the great assurance he now exuded. “Miriam Wayne gave me some cards from your father’s catalogue—the paintings he wanted to sell. I had them on the desk in the gallery. They vanished.”
“Too bad,” said Simon. “Makes you seem kind of a mug, doesn’t it?”
“It does, that. I don’t enjoy the prospect of telling your father I lost them.”
“Can’t say I blame you,” said Simon. “I’ve heard he has a lousy temper.”
Blaise laughed. “After all, we did wind up beating around the bush, didn’t we?”
Simon managed to look boyish and incredulous. “Look here, old man, do you think I took your cards?” His smile opened into a grin. “But why?”
“You bloody little fool!” said Blaise harshly. He saw Simon’s expression change to instant apprehension. “How long do you expect to get away with this? The first time your father takes an inventory, or remembers some pet piece you’ve already sold, he’ll light rockets under you. Now don’t give me any more lofty poise and wisecracks. If you want me to, I’ll help you. If you want to go to hell in your own wheelbarrow, I’ll give you a push.”
“You’ve been talking to Cassy,” said Simon.
“What if I have?”
“Nothing. I know she means well. You do too, probably.”
“She is worried.”
“Is that why you’re here?” asked Simon, and when Blaise offered no reply, he went on: “You probably won’t believe this, but as it happens, I’ve done nothing.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Work it out,” urged Simon. “In time, perhaps I’ll tell you.”
Molly Dann was slinking back to the table. “Everything all right, boys?” she asked cheerfully.
Blaise was standing. “I’m just leaving.”
“You just got here. Stick around,” Molly urged.
Simon didn’t add anything to the invitation. “Be sure and tell Cassy not to worry.”
Blaise nodded, and said good night to Molly, who was already pouring herself a drink, and went out through the bar to the side entrance and the parking lot. The attendant was just bringing up a smart Cadillac. A man and woman went off in this and before Blaise could give his check to the attendant a small convertible pulled in from the street, the tires squealing as they scraped on the dividing curb between the exit and entrance driveways. A tall, loose-boned man climbed out of the little car, stooping to duck the top. As the attendant scribbled a number on a check for him, Blaise heard him ask for Mr. Edgerton.
“Yeah, he’s here,” said the attendant, and the new arrival took the check and went past Blaise into the club. He wore thick glasses and had a concentrated, anxious look about him. He wore a dark suit which needed pressing. Blaise looked after him, then turned back to the driveway as the attendant asked for his check.
“I’ll take a walk,” said Blaise. “I’ll come back for the car.”
The attendant nodded and sank wearily down on the steps, turning up the volume on a little portable radio tucked into a niche in the wall. Blaise walked up Sunset Boulevard, west to the first intersection, then turned into a street that fell away in a perilously steep grade. He found an alley halfway down this dark residential thoroughfare, and as he moved along the lane he could hear the music of the Lido band. He came into the parking lot of the club with ease, since it was railed off by only a heavy chain suspended from iron posts. The little gray convertible was parked handily near the chain and because its owner was apparently a law-abiding man, an envelope was strapped to the steering wheel, with an isinglass window making the license visible to Blaise. He struck a match and leaned in to read the typewritten details of the registration. The car was registered to Hugh Norden, 772 Pickett Lane, Hollywood.
He saw the glare of headlights and ducked back into the alley, retracing his steps to the Lido entrance. He redeemed his own car, and after driving out, a U-turn enabled him to park on the opposite side of the street, headed for Hollywood. He stretched himself comfortably across the seat, lit a cigarette and turned on the radio. The air was full of the standard nightly hosannas sung to the used-car dealers of the community; a group of frantic specialists who miraculously suspended all economic law in order to buy any used car at a handsome premium while simultaneously selling similar vehicles for a fraction of their worth. There was also a program of authentic New Orleans jazz sponsored by an institution which guaranteed to wean friends and loved ones from the evil of alcoholism, and a dolorous string ensemble sawed at standard classics under the auspices of the most conveniently situated burial park in all Los Angeles. Meanwhile, a sound truck patrolled the boulevard on behalf of the Rev. J. J. “Fighting Jack” Linnit, “the little evangelist with the big message” and a hideous purple neon sign at the far end of the street urged the wayfarer to refresh himself with nutburgers, cheeseburgers and SkiHi Malts.
Blaise had been sampling the sights and sounds of Southern California for only about twenty minutes when he saw the gray convertible come up the Lido driveway, heading east into the boulevard. Blaise pulled away from the curb and in the flow of traffic following the car ahead was easy.
The trail was brief, involving only one turn—into a canyon below the Strip—and then a climb of two or three blocks to a circle. An arrow lettered “Pickett Lane” marked one spoke of the shaded wheel of streets intersecting here. With this to guide him, Blaise was content to let Norden’s car go ahead. He saw the gray convertible parked at the dead end of the street and stopped halfway down. Number 772 was a small house of two duplex units. He pushed Norden’s bell and the door instantly clicked open. There was a flight of steps with a landing, the second section of staircase doubling back so that until he reached the landing he would not be seen from the apartment door.
He hesitated in the hall, then heard a door opening above. A high-pitched, questioning voice asked, “Yes?”
Blaise stopped on the steps. He made no reply and he heard the voice again. “Simon? Is that you, Simon?”
Blaise went up to the landing. The man he had followed was standing in the open doorway. “Mr. Norden?” asked Blaise politely. He got a worried, sullen stare. “I’m a friend of Simon Edgerton,” he said. “I’d like to talk with you.”
Norden watched him come up the last few steps, but he didn’t move aside or make any gesture that might be construed as an invitation. He had furtive, darting eyes behind the thick glasses and they flickered over Blaise uncertainly. “Did Simon send you?” he asked.
“His father sent me,” said Blaise, and for a moment thought that Nord
en would yelp in pained surprise. Then he stepped up quickly, in time to get his shoulder against the door that was instantly slammed in his face. Norden was frail and it wasn’t hard, despite his panting efforts, to push inside. He found himself in a small, crowded living room in which books seemed to overflow from the rows of shelves to the floor and over each article of furniture. Norden backed away, coming to rest against the shelves that lined the far wall. Facing Blaise, he stretched his long thin arm to fumble behind some old volumes, and as Blaise took a step forward Norden was ominously waving him back with a gun.
Blaise obediently retreated. Norden was not handling the revolver with much conviction, but he was a nervous man and under the circumstances it seemed wise to oblige him.
“What do you want?” demanded Norden.
“It’s not a holdup. And I’m not from the police. My name is Ellis Blaise. I’m an art dealer. Right now I’m working for Lucas Edgerton.”
Norden considered this and Blaise was glad to see that he found it reassuring. “Put the gun away,” he urged. “It’s a silly damn thing to be waving at visitors.”
“How am I to know?” Norden let the hand with the gun in it sink down. “You come pushing in here. And this damn neighborhood, with prowlers around.” He pushed the gun back into its niche behind the books. “What’s old man Edgerton want with me?” He was fumbling in his pockets for cigarettes and he lit one with hands that trembled slightly. “He probably thinks you’re leading his son into paths of evil,” said Blaise. “And by the way, are you?”
Norden puffed nervously at his cigarette. “No. That was years ago. I told the old man all about it. I haven’t had anything to do with Simon in…”
“Before you get too far into that,” Blaise told him, “I followed you here from the Lido.” While Norden digested this, he added, “And you were expecting him when I rang your bell?”
“Personal matter,” Norden muttered. “Anyway, what the hell business is it of yours?”
“I told you. I’m working for Edgerton.”
