Kiss Me Twice

by Thomas Gifford

  “He’s fine. Still working the Army gig. Look, Teet, I got a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You’ve got a writer under contract at Paramount, little guy, big glasses, looks like an English professor, name of Ray—”

  “Chandler. You gotta mean Raymond Chandler. He’s a pretty big hitter, Lew. Sweet guy but, let’s face it, a little prickly. He’s one of the writer writers we got out here. O’Hara, Faulkner, Chandler, prickly guys. Ray, you couldn’t find a nicer guy but … oh hell, you know what I mean. Writes like an angel, been known to have a drink now and then. Jeez, the stories I could tell you, last spring when he was writing The Blue Dahlia for Ladd, Johnnie Houseman producing, wooh! The stories, damn near the end of Houseman! But you didn’t call to hear all this. So, what’s the deal with Ray?”

  “I need to talk to him. I thought he might be at the studio today—”

  Teet Carle laughed. “Ray’s a little pissed off at us just now. We want him to become a writer-producer, like Billy Wilder. Hell, we’d even let him produce his own pictures. But Ray takes the view that he’s a novelist, he doesn’t want to get his hands dirty with this movie Shinola. So he claims we’ve broken his contract, tells everybody we suspended him; well, it gets a little murky … which is a long-winded way of saying no, he’s not at the office these days—”

  “Damn,” Cassidy said. “How can I get hold of him?”

  “You’re in luck, Sunny Jim. I know exactly where he is. He and Joe Sistrom—he’s the only guy at Paramount that Ray’s talking to right now—he and Joe are right across the street, right here on Melrose, at a joint called Lucey’s. At this very moment. Drinking lunch. They’ll be there awhile, Lew.”

  “I owe you one, pal.”

  “Hey, don’t be a stranger, Lew boy. Hey, go Fordham!” He was laughing when he hung up.

  Chandler was smoking a pipe and drinking a highball. He displayed the same owlish expression, the quizzical smile, that had been in evidence at the lawn party. He wore a tweed jacket and looked like a man about to dash off to deliver a lecture on the Lake Poets. The man across the table had thick black hair, bushy, as if it had just exploded from within his skull. He was peering through immensely thick glasses at Chandler, smiling soothingly. That was Joe Sistrom. The crusts and pickles from a couple of club sandwiches sat before them and Sistrom was drinking a cup of coffee with the determination of a writer who had to go back to work.

  “I can’t work with people like Wilder, I can’t work under such conditions.” Chandler’s voice was soft, not angry, merely final. “It was impossible.”

  “I remember, Ray,” Sistrom said. “But for Double Indemnity, who knows, maybe it was worth it.”

  “Maybe,” Chandler said ruminatively, not quite sure. He looked up, squinting from behind his spectacles, through the pipe smoke. “Do we know you, sir?” He blinked. “Damn it, I do know you from somewhere … not an actor, not an agent, not a studio flack. …”

  “The party at Benedictus’s,” Cassidy said.

  “Ah yes, the football-playing chap! Well, it’s a small world, or so I’ve been told. Say, Joe, did you hear the radio this morning? Benedictus’s house up in the mountains—”

  Sistrom nodded. “They don’t seem to know if he and Mona were inside or not. Nobody can find them. Well, frankly, I’m not all that surprised, the company that bastard keeps. Latest thing I heard, so help me God, had something to do with the Nazis.” Shaking his head, he picked up a bit of pickle and gnawed at it.

  “Benedictus is alive,” Cassidy said. “Mind if I sit down for a second? I’m hoping you can give me an answer to just one question.”

  Chandler nodded at the empty chair. Cassidy sat down. Sistrom’s eyes floated behind the thick glasses, staring at Cassidy. “What have you got to do with Benedictus?” he asked.

  “I was up there last night. This is just between us, you guys. Agreed?” They nodded, suddenly alert. Cassidy knew he had them hooked. “Mona Ransom’s dead. Another man, a German called Moller, is dead, too. Benedictus tortured him to death and then blew up the house to cover his tracks. And because he’s not going to be needing the house anymore. Ray, remember the rumor you told me you’d been hearing lately … the selling of Nazi loot here in town? Benedictus’s connection?”

  “I figured it was just a crazy story,” Chandler said very quietly. “You’re about to tell me it’s—”

  “It’s true. Tash is running the show—”

  “So what’s this got to do with you?” Sistrom had grown cagey. “Is this a rib? What is this?”

  “There’s a long version and a short one. The short one is this. I’m a private investigator from New York. My partner and I were here working on busting this ring open and last night Benedictus took care of my partner. We were so close to nailing him—but now Benedictus is on the lam, but he’s got one big score to make first. One more auction. Soon. Very soon. Ray, I have no idea where he holds these auctions. … Mona was going to tell me but it’s too late for that now. He kills everybody who gets close. I’m convinced he’s gone right off the edge. He’s crazy now. … He’ll do anything. You hear what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, I hear you.” Chandler looked at Sistrom. “Too bad I’m such a pipsqueak, Joe. This sounds like a case for Philip Marlowe—”

  “I’m Marlowe this time around,” Cassidy said. “I’ve got a gun that says so.”

  “Jesus,” Sistrom said. “Guns make me nervous. What do you want from Ray? Exactly?”

  “Where do these auctions take place? What have you heard?”

  “Oh hell, Cassidy—those are just rumors.” Chandler’s pipe had gone out and he tapped the edge of the bowl gently against the ashtray.

  “Remember, I’m Marlowe—”

  “Well, I can only tell you what I’ve heard—”

  “Where,” Sistrom said, “do you hear this stuff?”

  “Writers’ Building here on the lot.”

  “Where will it be, Ray?”

  “Officially the studio owns the place. Pinnacle, I mean, not Paramount. But I hear Tash really owns it, little spread in the mountains behind Santa Barbara. Pretty secluded, I was actually up there one time. Cissy, that’s my wife, took rather a liking to Mona. Felt sorry for her, I think. It’s a nice layout, there’s even an airstrip. … Let’s see, I think I can tell you how to make the trip. …”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “TOO BAD ABOUT LEARY.”

  MacMurdo was driving a Cadillac he’d commandeered somewhere among his connections. The sun had appeared for a few late afternoon hours but it had already dropped behind the lush green hills into the Pacific. It was supposed to rain again later, but for the moment the evening was wet and clean and smelled like Eden must have smelled once, wherever and whenever Eden was. MacMurdo looked over at Cassidy, then back to the winding black ribbon of road. Too bad about Leary. That was all MacMurdo had said on the subject.

  Cassidy stared ahead. He barely remembered sleep. Chandler’s rumor said it was all happening tonight and Chandler’s rumor was all they had. Cassidy hadn’t revealed his source to the Colonel, certainly not that it was a rumor. He supposed those things they were driving among were mountains of some kind but after last night he looked at them and decided they weren’t worthy of the name. Green hills, just moist, lush green hills turning black as the last of the light went quickly westward. It smelled like life out there.

  Harry Madrid and Karin sat in the back seat. She’d insisted on coming. There was no dissuading her. Cassidy hated her being there. He didn’t know what was going to happen but he knew he didn’t want her there. Benedictus, the enemy, was going to be there and he was, simply put, Death. One thing he did know, only one thing, for certain. Benedictus was dying tonight. Cassidy looked upon it as a cleansing process. He shook his head, fought off another yawn. You had that kind of thought when you hadn’t slept for a long time. But nothing made any difference. It was dying night for Tash Benedictus.

  “You’re to
o tired for this tonight,” MacMurdo said. “You’ll pardon my saying so, pard, but I don’t want my life in your hands tonight.”

  “I don’t really care what you think, Sam. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just my driver tonight. Do what you want. I’ll do what I need to do. We’re not exactly a team anymore. I signed on to help you find Moller. Moller’s dead now and I’m a tourist.”

  “What you are,” MacMurdo said softly, “is a loose cannon rolling around my deck. My ship. That’s the thing, pard. That’s why you worry me. I’d just as soon you got out of tonight alive.”

  White wooden fences lined the road now and some horses were moving in the twilight. Over the trees an old biplane painted bright blue and white swooped down and disappeared.

  “Reminds me of Kentucky,” MacMurdo said. “Those fences. Fresh white. It’s all mighty clean up here. Rich folks. You gotta love rich folks. They’ve got so much money. Damn, but I always wished I could be rich for a time. See what it’s like. Y’know what I mean, pard?”

  “You’ll never get rich in the Army,” Cassidy said.

  “That’s the truth.” MacMurdo smiled. “You are a truth-telling man, God love you.”

  They followed a cream-colored Bugatti through the low white wooden gate. No guard on duty. Nothing out of the ordinary. A rumor made real: only in Hollywood, Cassidy, only in fantasy land. Would Hedda and Louella be on hand? The idea just added to the insanity of it all. It was just like a movie. Hell, everything was just like a movie.

  There were maybe twenty very grand cars parked before the ranch house, Cords and Continentals and Pierce-Arrows and a Riley and a Jaguar and the cream Bugatti. Beyond the lawn, stretching away toward the hills, was the airstrip Chandler had remembered. The blue-and-white biplane was rolling to a stop near the hangar. Something struck a chime of memory … the hangar. And he remembered the glass-enclosed tennis court, Karl Dauner’s tennis court, remembered it crashing down, the glass twinkling like falling snow. …

  There were several planes on the field, buyers who had flown in for their share of Nazi plunder. There was another biplane, a Ford Trimotor painted bright red, a big two-engine job Cassidy couldn’t identify, which sat on its haunches looking like a small version of the DC-3 with a twin tail assembly and a fuselage sloping back to a tiny toy wheel mount.

  MacMurdo parked the Cadillac in the deep shadows next to a black Pierce big as a hearse. He turned to look at Harry Madrid and Karin in the back, but he spoke to Cassidy. “Now, you’re an angry man, pard, I realize that. And you’ve got all sorts of ideas about Benedictus and I can’t say I blame you. But you’re just gonna have to behave yourself. No walking in and opening fire, you got that? We’re going to take this old critter by surprise, we’re the last people on earth he’s going to expect. So we just go in, we know nothing about last night, everything’s fine as far as we’re concerned. He may not have recognized you guys last night, what with rain and wind and trying to drive with one arm and shackling Mona to the car and arranging to blow up the house and finishing Moller—well, hell, he had a lot on his plate. So let’s just figure we’re mysterious buyers and old Tash thinks we’re all in the dark about his various excesses. … You got that, Lew?”

  “Let’s just get on with it.” Cassidy got out and opened the door and helped Karin out. “I wish you weren’t here—”

  “No place for a woman? Believe me, Lewis, I’ve seen worse.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ve got to be here.”

  “I don’t understand. You’re crazy.” He brushed her hair with his mouth, felt the scar at her temple. The war lay within that scar, Rolf’s clinic, all of that.

  “It’s almost over,” she said. “Let’s finish it.”

  Inside the house there was a low murmur of conversation, as if it were somehow just another casual gathering of friends looking for a convivial evening. No music, no hilarity, just ice clinking in glasses, quiet chatter, overlaid with an air of expectation, the discernible whiff of tension. The women were wearing slacks, the men cashmere jackets or bush coats and ascots and suede boots for the Hollywood touch. It was thundering again outside as if the storm were waking up and getting ready. Unlike the lawn party, Cassidy saw only one famous face. Errol Flynn was talking to a man and a woman who were finding him most amusing. He was wearing a beret tipped at a rakish angle, polished riding boots, and smoked a cigarette in a holder. As he spoke he seemed instinctively to strike a series of poses. The rest of the crowd was composed—at least the men—of people who struck deals for a living, not poses, and their eyes moved quickly, deep in their sockets, searching out the deal, the risks, the rewards. They weren’t men who were catching glimpses of themselves in mirrors. They didn’t know they had profiles. They didn’t care.

  Benedictus appeared, came in through the French doors from the patio, alone, stood calmly observing his guests. He wore a taupe gabardine jacket with western stitching. The empty sleeve was tucked carefully into the jacket pocket. The picture was complete. The eye patch, the hearing aid, the sandy hair, the faintly mocking style. Meet Evil, Cassidy thought. He no longer wanted to torture the man until the man’s heart stopped. Now he just wanted to rid the world of him, execute him. Get it over with. He felt as if there had been a Tash Benedictus waiting for him ever since Karin had gone away before the war. There had been something bad waiting for him, an awful job that had to be done. It had turned out to be some dark figure, a stranger, a one-armed Irishman, Brian Sheehan, a killer whatever the hell his name was.

  Benedictus—Brian Sheehan—wore a strip of sticking plaster on his forehead. That’s all it had cost him, a bump on the head, and Manfred Moller had been gutted, Mona Ransom had been battered to death, and Terry Leary had been shot and run down by six thousand pounds of Rolls-Royce. He’d fixed it so Terry Leary would damn well be better off dead. Maybe he was dead by now. … Maybe it was already over for Terry.

  And there was Tash Benedictus, one eye shining like firelight, that crooked smile in place, sipping at a glass of Irish whiskey. There was Tash Benedictus straight from Hell, carrying Hell with him wherever he went. He should have trailed wisps of smoke, some kind of warning, but he just smiled and smiled and was a villain.

  “Ballsy little bugger.” Harry Madrid was smoking a cigar, holding the wrapper in his hand. He dropped it into the base of a potted palm.

  “I’m going to kill him, Harry.”

  “Of course you are, son.”

  MacMurdo said: “Everybody just stay calm, damn it. He’s got the minotaur. Y’know, I’m back to thinkin’ he may be Vulkan after all. I mean, who else? Runnin’ the whole bloody business … Now, let’s just not get anxious, gentlemen.”

  Karin stood beside MacMurdo, watching him.

  “He sees us,” Harry Madrid said softly.

  Benedictus came toward them, a welcoming smile on his face, and what was so frightening was the simple truth that he didn’t strike a false note. “Well, of all people,” he said. “Mona mentioned she’d seen you and I was terribly sorry to miss you at our little Sunday afternoon. I was bloody rude but it was one of those days, business and pleasure, business won out and I missed my own party. Now, let’s see, if it ain’t Harry Madrid! And Mr. Cassidy, the search for the downed airman—it all comes back to me! And you, sir, a new face …”

  “MacMurdo.”

  “Welcome. Mi casa, su casa, and all that. And this lovely lady?”

  “I’m Karin Cassidy.”

  “Well, howdy-do, howdy-do.” He smiled raffishly, as if it were all just Hollywood junk, bottom half of a twin bill. “I hope you’ve brought your checkbooks.”

  “Somehow,” Harry Madrid said, “I’d think you’re more in the cash-and-carry business.”

  “Merely a turn of phrase. You are quite correct in your assumption.”

  Cassidy said: “I was hoping to see Mona.”

  “Were you?”

  “Will she be joining us this evening?”

  Benedictus made a sad face. “I’m afraid not. We had a
spot of bother up at our mountain place. Fire, gas line exploded, house went just like that. Well, she’s upset and trying to oversee the mess. … It’s been on the radio all day, I’m surprised you haven’t heard. So, no Mona. But, on to the business at hand—are you planning to bid on some of our little pieces? I expect Mona filled you in on things.” He waited, all calm expectancy.

  “Very briefly,” Cassidy said. “Mr. MacMurdo here represents an anonymous investor—”

  “I always keep an eye out for the odd bargain,” MacMurdo said.

  “Well, I hope you find one, sir.” Benedictus turned to Karin. “Will you excuse me? My associate is getting things ready. Can’t leave him to do all the work. He’s the chap who’ll do the auctioneering. Until later, then.”

  They watched him mingle with the crowd, the good host, as if the Nazis and their victims and all of his own victims were abstractions, not worth remembering.

  “He’s a swine,” Harry Madrid said, “but there’s nothing wrong with his nerve.”

  Cassidy spoke tonelessly. “He’s not going to see the morning, Harry.”

  Karin was speaking intently while MacMurdo, enormous, attentive, leaned forward, listening, his eyes raking the crowd. Cassidy strained to hear what she was saying but failed. War crimes … What was so important all of a sudden? Was he still working on her, holding it over her? What more could he want from her?

  The paintings and drawings were arranged on easels in a long room with hooked throw rugs, wagon-wheel furniture, and a few Frederic Remingtons that decorated the walls and weren’t for sale. None of them even registered on Cassidy. He prowled the room alone, watching the doorway, scanning the faces, but in his mind’s eye seeing only Tash Benedictus. Harry Madrid had linked his arm through Karin’s and they were among those viewing the art with an eye toward purchase.

  MacMurdo came to stand beside him.

  “No sale on minotaurs,” Cassidy said.