Hollywood Gothic

by Thomas Gifford

  “Good God.”

  “I’m not saying he did it, Toby. Just that he’s the kind of man who might order it done as a matter of business policy. Maybe V.L. means something else altogether. But Goldie seemed to know some odd people, as Schaeffer reminded you. Donovan’s no prize.”

  “So how can you help me with Donovan?”

  “Stroke of luck,” she said. She was throwing herself into his predicament, and he felt himself drawing strength from her. She wasn’t part of the business; she had the touch of real life. She squirmed with anticipation, enthused with the idea of constructing their plot. “I’m launching a new mystery novel at the store tonight. Arch Crosby, it’s his fiftieth novel, and I’ve set up a cocktail party, he’ll say a few words and we’ll all look uncomfortably at trays of slowly drying canapés … he’ll sign a hundred books, he’s always been popular out here, writes about the Los Angeles mystique. He knows everybody in the business, and among those he knows is Jack Donovan, who will definitely be there tonight. Jack always likes it when I pay attention to him—I think it’s because of what he did to my father, he gets a kick out of talking a little risqué with the daughter. God, he’s a real prize! So, I can get you and Jack into my office. Alone. And, God willing, you take it from there. I’ll even have a tape recorder going if you want. … You read enough mysteries, you learn about these things.”

  Challis wandered back outside onto the patio while Morgan went to bathe and dress. Sirens drifted up from Sunset, and the wind was colder. The afternoon had gone quickly. He felt some raindrops riding on the wind, and finally, when it had, turned to a spray, he went back inside and turned on the television.

  Jerry Dunphy’s familiar rugged face appeared, pink and topped with all the curly white hair. “From the mountains to the sea, to all of Southern California—here’s what’s happening. Late this afternoon a mysterious development in the Toby Challis case … we’ve got Joanne Ishimine live from St. Christopher’s School to tell us all about it. … Joanne, what’s happening out there in Santa Monica?”

  The screen filled with the face of a pretty Oriental girl-woman who was as well known in Los Angeles as most movie stars. She was trying to keep from blowing away, wore a raincoat, and stood outside a high wrought-iron gate with a Spanish-mission-style school building behind her. A plaque beside her face was in focus enough to give the name of the school, a motto in Latin, and the inscription “Founded 1926.”

  “It’s raining cats and dogs right now, but the situation is this. You may recall that at the same time the plane carrying Toby Challis was down on the mountainside, we were also concerned about a group of children who had wandered away from a campsite in the same area, within just a few miles. Well, the children were found safe and sound at the lodge belonging to a woman … ah, Morgan Dyer. Now, at the time there seemed to be no connection between the children and Mr. Challis—this afternoon all this changed. One of the smaller boys mentioned to a teacher that something previously unreported had happened up there, and I’ve got the teacher, Eileen Wheeler, right here. … Mrs. Wheeler, what did the boy tell you?” Mrs. Wheeler moved into the picture, looking earnest, stocky, with lots of dark curls framing her face. A crew member was holding an umbrella over the two women now, but the teacher’s glasses were glistening with raindrops.

  “Stevie Faber mentioned to me—I guess I should say he blurted it out like it had been building up in him—he told me that a man covered in blood had found them, or maybe been found by them on the mountain, and that this man had led them to safety … he said that the man’s name was … Bandersnatch. That’s what he said, Bandersnatch.” She looked alertly at Joanne. “I thought I’d better call the police, and I guess that’s what brought you here. …”

  “How much credence do you put in what Stevie said? I mean, he wasn’t alone up there, what do all the other campers say?”

  “Well, this is very hard to tell—the others say they don’t remember …” She sighed like a woman who realized the difficulties in dealing with groups of children, who knew the kinds of peer pressure and intimidation and shame. “Of course, you talked with Ralphie …”

  “That’s the other thing, Jerry, we did speak with one of the members of the camping expedition, the oldest boy, Ralph Halliday, who’s nearly fourteen, and we’ve got that piece of film …”

  The screen was now occupied by the reporter and the large, tubby figure of Ralph Halliday. They were standing in a corridor, brightly lit for the cameras, with children milling about behind them, curious to see what was going on. Tired out and emotionally unwound by the rest on the couch, Challis felt tears filling his eyes at the sight of Ralph, who wore a Dodgers warm-up jacket over a slipover shirt that was tight around his ample waist. Ralph frowned intently at the microphone as he listened to the question.

  “You’re the oldest of the campers, all the others seem to look to you as the leader—you’ve heard what Stevie Faber has said about the blood-covered man on the mountain, the man whose name he says was Bandersnatch. Now, did you see this man Bandersnatch, too?”

  “It’ll be the Abominable Snowman next,” Ralph growled like Edward G. Robinson. “We’re up on the mountain, see? The littlest kids are cold and hungry, but I’m not worried. I find us a nice cave, build a fire, make some coffee, divvy up some candy bars, turn on the radio—it’s no big deal, see? I had the whole thing under control. I had a compass, I knew where we were … more or less, anyway. But kids like Stevie—well, Stevie’s a nice little kid, but he’s not playing with a full deck, y’know what I mean?”

  “But Bandersnatch—if he didn’t see a man covered in blood, what did he see?”

  “That’s his imagination, see? I had all the kids marching along reciting Lewis Carroll’s poem, the ‘Jabberwocky’ poem—you know that poem? Okay, there’s that part about the frumious Bandersnatch, and Stevie wanted to know about what one was, and everybody was telling him, making up this terrible stuff—well, then, I suppose Stevie got to dreaming about it, see? And here we are—me on television!” He suddenly grinned broadly into the camera and said in a perfectly normal voice: “Here I am—cast me!”

  The film ended, and Dunphy and his co-anchor, Christine Lund, who was not only as well known as the movie stars but substantially better looking than almost all of them, were laughing and shaking their heads. Christine Lund, her mouth moist and tantalizing, her blond hair in the trademark shag, said: “Joanne, we realize the story isn’t funny, but that boy, he’s really—”

  “He’s on his way,” Dunphy said. “What’s going to happen next, Joanne?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know. At this point, Ralph Halliday—who’ll probably have his own series by the time this is over—and Stevie Faber are at odds and the other kids aren’t talking. But the police were here most of the afternoon talking to Mrs. Wheeler and the boys who were up on the mountain, and I was assured that they’ll be following up on all the leads they get. And I’ll be in touch and keep you posted. For KABC News, this is Joanne Ishimine at St. Christopher’s School in Santa Monica.”

  Christine Lund reappeared, the smile wiped off the glistening lips. “In a moment … more storm damage last night in Malibu and an interview with the man in charge of the Hillside Strangler Task Force.” A commercial clicked into place, and Challis realized that Morgan had come back, was standing behind the couch.

  “Damn,” she said. “They’re not going to just forget about what Stevie said, regardless of how many stops old Ralph pulls out—what an amazing kid!”

  Challis wiped at his eye, nodded. The hanging ferns swayed in the wind. Thunder rolled somewhere up above Mulholland Drive, and rain pattered in the trees outside. The sky had gone completely dark. Morgan went to the sliding screen door, flipped a switch, and a couple of floodlights came on, casting huge ominous shadows across the lawn. She was wearing a khaki gabardine pantsuit with a pale orange scarf. The pants rode high and tight, made her legs look even longer, and the jacket was fitted at the waist, flared across the fi
rm, round swell of her hips. Challis got up, went to her, stood behind her, and put his hands on her shoulders. She leaned back against him, her thick hair against his cheek. His hands were shaking.

  “I should never have gotten you into this,” he said. “Jesus, it’s getting worse and worse … now this Bandersnatch thing …” The smell of the rain and her perfume mingled, gave him a lightheaded feeling.

  “Don’t be silly, don’t talk like this,” she whispered. “If you start to give in now, you’re a dead duck. Look at my position if you want to see something idiotic. I’ve got to keep from letting myself go with you, I can’t give in to the normal urges I feel. I’ve never been able to just let myself be serviced, like an animal, because I need it, because it would feel good and calm me down … no, not me. I have to care about a man, and even I can look at you and see I ought to be careful, you’re not a really great bet, not yet. Still, still … I want to be with you. I want to go to bed with you. But what if they catch you, what if you can’t find your way out of the mess—I don’t know what I’d do. I’m not tough. I try to take charge, stay busy, but I’m not tough, Challis, I’m just not tough.”

  “Maybe I’m like you,” he said after a moment, feeling the weight of her body against him. Her hips pressed against him, and finally, calling on an effort of will he wasn’t sure he possessed, he pushed her gently away, turned her around to face him. Her wide pouty lips parted, and he heard her breathing. She looked at him levelly, her eyes enormous and open wide, pale green jewels.

  “I will, though,” she said softly. “I will right now … I can’t convince myself I’m not alive, I am alive, I’m ready for you.”

  “But I’m like you,” he said. “I can’t let go and forget about it. I’d care, really care, and if they do catch me, then I’d go crazy. … Let’s just try to get through it the best way we can, then we can see … I’ve had a dream for as long as I can remember, a man in a white suit looking out across the water …”

  She nodded, sniffed. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.” She tried to laugh, looked up at him. Then she pulled away. “My God, Challis, I’m behaving like a frustrated spinster. The truth is out. I’m not a seventies girl, I guess. Now, let’s straighten up and behave ourselves and go to my party—”

  The doorbell made an erratic, malfunctioning buzz.

  Challis remained by the sliding door as Morgan went to answer it. He could see over her shoulder when she opened it. There were two men in damp raincoats, and Challis never doubted for a moment who they were.

  Cops.

  Morgan led them in, her face expressionless as she walked toward Challis. “Darling,” she said in a voice he’d never heard before, “these two gentlemen are from the police.”

  A tall man who looked like a leathery, thin-faced cowboy pushing sixty came first and extended a large bony hand with his buzzer in it. “Otto Narleski,” he said, and nodding toward the stocky, younger man who looked around as if he hated to intrude, “and Sergeant Overmeyer.”

  “Ed Streeter,” Challis said, for some reason remembering the car parked outside and the chance that it could be checked on from the license plate. “Miss Dyer and I were just leaving …”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Morgan said. “We just saw the television news—it wouldn’t take a genius to realize you fellows were going to be stopping by.” Detective Narleski stood quietly in front of the fireplace letting her talk. “I’m assuming this is about the—what was it?—the Bandersnatch man?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Narleski said. “The Bandersnatch man—where are you going, Sergeant?” Overmeyer had slid the screen onto the patio and was going outside.

  “I just wanted to see the view, Otto. Anything wrong with that?” Overmeyer sounded innocent rather than naive, but Narleski looked at Challis, closed his eyes, and shook his head.

  “Sit down, Detective,” Morgan said. “Can I get you something? Coffee? Iced tea?”

  “No, nothing, thanks. I just wanted to ask you about this Bandersnatch thing—the little boy, Stevie, is adamant about seeing this guy covered in blood.” He cleared his throat. He was still standing. Challis saw Overmeyer moving in the dark and rain out past the pool, out of the glow of the floodlamps. “You said nothing about any man accompanying the children when they arrived at your lodge. I would like you to look back, Miss Dyer, and take another crack at that, ma’am?”

  “There’s really nothing to go back to,” she said. She sat down on the couch, calmly shaking her head, the blond hair swaying, leaning back, the picture of relaxation. “I either saw a man with the children or I didn’t, it’s not something I could have been mistaken about, is it? The children got into my house by the back door. I was drying my hair after a shower. By the time I was aware they were inside, they’d found the living room and were just sort of standing there being very dear and unsure of what to do next—there was no blood-drenched man, just the kids … a sort of fat one, older, called Ralph, was the natural leader … they just interviewed him on TV.”

  “But no man,” Narleski said quietly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But no man.”

  Narleski put his hands in his raincoat pocket and looked glum. “We haven’t found a trace of this Challis fellow, the murderer. No leads, and the weather’s so bad on the mountain we can’t do any tracking up there … we’ve tried to throw a cordon around the mountain, but it’s a waste of time now. It was probably a waste of time by the time the storm that brought the plane down subsided. He’s either dead in the snow or off the mountain.” He sighed and looked from Morgan to Challis. “What the devil is Overmeyer doing out there?”

  Challis looked, said, “He’s back by the hedge, looking at the view.”

  “It would have been nice if Bandersnatch had been real—he’d have been our man.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t have had to make it all the way to my house,” Morgan said. “Maybe they saw him, then separated from him before they got to my place …”

  “Doesn’t make any sense,” Narleski said. “Nope, there’s a flaw there. Ralph, this bigger kid, says there was no man, period. Stevie says there was. Nobody else is saying nothin’. So it looks to me like you’d have seen the man, if there was a man. And Stevie … well, he says the bloody man was with them at your house.”

  “I didn’t realize that,” she said.

  “No, how could you? But he does.”

  “Excuse me,” Challis said, “but if Ralph and Miss Dyer say there was no man, what’s the problem?”

  “Well, Mr. Streeter, the problem is that I wasn’t there, I didn’t see who was there … so somebody’s lying to me.”

  “Not necessarily. Miss Dyer and Ralph concur, little Stevie has his own story … it seems to me that Ralph’s explanation is pretty logical. An overworked imagination.”

  Narleski stopped pacing when he reached the sliding screen. “I suppose that’s the answer,” he mused. “There was no man, little Stevie’s not playing with a full deck. To quote Ralph.” But his voice said a lot beyond the words. “Overmeyer, get in here. You’re all wet, man.” He turned and looked at Challis. “Tell me, Mr. Streeter, have you ever been up to Miss Dyer’s lodge?”

  “Why, yes, I have. Just once. Last fall.”

  “Just once, you’re quite sure?”

  “Yes, last fall.”

  “You couldn’t possibly have been up there when the children arrived? That might explain things … say, Stevie got up to use the john in the middle of the night and saw you … say, he was the only one who saw you—that would be an answer, an entirely innocent, plausible answer that would put my mind at ease.”

  “I’m sorry,” Challis said. “I wasn’t there.”

  “Of course not, of course not. Just looking for the easy way out.” Overmeyer pushed into the room, stood blinking. “How was the view?”

  “Fine, sir. A fine view … helluva view. But the hillside’s giving away.” He wiped his face. “God, I’m dripping on your carpet!” He hurried across th
e tiled entryway.

  “We’ll be going now, Miss Dyer,” Narleski said. He looked sad. “We’ll be in touch if anything else comes up. Stevie’s story is the only one that constitutes a lead on Challis.” He shrugged. “What we’re going to do with it, I just don’t know.” Stopping at the door, he looked out at Overmeyer, who had reached the plain car and was sitting behind the wheel speaking into a two-way. “Thank you for your time, Miss Dyer, Mr. Streeter. Overmeyer thanks you, too. Good night.”

  Morgan and Toby watched him hurry through the rain and get in on the passenger side. Overmeyer was peering at the Mustang’s rear end and talking into the black mike. Rain streaked the windows, blurred their faces. Morgan waved and closed the door.

  “I feel like throwing up,” she said. “They believe Stevie.”

  “That’s fear talking. But if the rest of the kids blow, well, it might get pretty sticky … it’s up to Ralph, if he can keep them in line. I really mean it, I’m sorry you’re in on this and you’re getting deeper—”

  “Where did you get Eddie Streeter, anyway?”

  “It’s his car. He parks cars at the Beverly Hills Hotel. It’s a damn good thing I thought of it, too. Overmeyer was checking the plates just now. I don’t think I’m cut out for this sort of thing.”

  She frowned. “Who is?”

  14

  MORGAN LED THE WAY OVER the hump of the mountains and down into the valley, with Challis in the Mustang behind her. The rain couldn’t quite make up its mind, and the spray was just enough to keep the wipers going. The bookstore was on Ventura, and the activity inside lit up the street in front, threatened to spill out onto the sidewalk. Morgan drove slowly past, then around the corner and into the alley, where she pulled into a place next to a trash barrel behind the store. Challis sidled the Mustang up close and got out. They stood under the eaves beside the back door. They could hear the hubbub of the party inside.