Hollywood Gothic

by Thomas Gifford

  “Do you have a good memory, Mr. Graydon?”

  “Why, yes, miss, I pride myself on my memory. Runs in the family—my father was a dustman in Wolverhampton, then London, and he never forgot a client, regulars on his route—and I’m the same way, if I do say so myself.”

  “All right,” Challis said. “Tell us about Morty and Priscilla Morpeth.”

  “Love a duck!” he exclaimed, jowls quivering. “That’s a bit close to the bone, it is … you’ve heard about the man who befouled his own nest? Well, then, there you are!” He puffed intently. “That’s all best forgotten, sir. Long, long time ago, it was. What’s it signify for you, eh?” The eyes watched alertly from the massive face. The pipe stem clicked against his teeth.

  “Herbert, listen to me. It’s a long story and there just isn’t time to go into it. But I’ve talked with Vernon Purcell and Simon Karr today—”

  “Simon Karr—good Lord in heaven, surely he’s dead! He must be dead.”

  “Not quite yet. But the point is, everything I need to know to get me out of this mess points back thirty years, to Priscilla Morpeth—I don’t know how or why, I don’t know what the connection is, but it has to do with Priscilla Morpeth and maybe her husband. Simon Karr told us that you were close to them, that you went with Priscilla and identified the body. Herbert, just tell us about it … I really haven’t got anyone else to go to and I’m pretty well worn out. The cops are getting closer, Donovan’s dead and they’re gonna think I killed him, and I’m running in circles. Vito Laggiardi wants to cut my eyeballs out …”

  “The man is a cur,” Herbert said, “an irredeemable cur. You have my word on that.”

  “I don’t need your word on that, Herbert, only on the Morpeth—”

  “All right, then! You shall have it. After the war, we had something of an English community here in Hollywood, as you know. We would meet, talk over old times, mostly theater and film woolgathering, somebody would do up fish and chips, and we’d natter on about things in general. Morty Morpeth was a young fellow but he had a certain quality about him, he was like a fictional character, if you see what I mean. Some of the actors watched him, went to school on him, as we used to say … if he’d been a character in a film, Niven would have made a good Morpeth. Or Ray Milland … good-looking, dashing—he really was one of the Desert Rats, y’know, plenty of decorations, had been at El Alamein with Montgomery. But he was shady, which is what gave him so much charm, what? Isn’t that so often the way? He made no bones about having been in the black market in Cairo and Alexandria, for example. And the stories the chap could tell—curl your hair … said he’d become an accountant before the war because he liked playing with sums. You’ll never get any of the money, he used to say, unless you get close enough to the money to smell its breath. Well, he was a charming, colorful bloke and the actors took to him … and Aaron Roth was quite amused by him—I think Aaron saw a kind of daring in Morty that he didn’t have himself … that sort of sneaking admiration can draw men together. I saw the two of them out drinking together a few times, very odd thing for a man in Aaron’s posish to do, out mucking about with Morty. Morty was always out on the town with men you’d have thought wouldn’t have time for him. But they genuinely liked him. Errol Flynn, for instance, he was always buying Morty drinks and they’d gab on and on for hours. …

  “He had this peculiar little wife who came along sometimes, she was English, too. I think he’d married her in Cairo or someplace like that right after the war. Anyway, she had curly red hair, like coils of copper wire, big floppy lips, a robust figger, a habit of wearing rather more jewelry than was good for her, strange blue eyes that could stop you cold and make a believer of you … an odd woman … those eyes, she claimed she could see the future and she enjoyed quite a vogue at various times, as a kind of seer—at regular intervals, y’know, Hollywood goes quietly mad over the latest seer. Used to, anyway. … God, the memories, please forgive me.” The pipe smoke curled around his face, hung in the still dry air. A Meissen clock ticked on a bookshelf. He had touched a button on a small tape deck and Chopin waltzes tinkled softly, very softly in the background. “She was having one of her periods of success … and then Morty disappeared and the next thing we all knew he was dead. It was all very shocking because he’d been so extraordinarily alive, but when you got to thinking about it, it wasn’t so surprising after all. Remember the black market? Remember wanting to be near the money? Well, you see how it all began to make a kind of sense … the story made the rounds among the movie people that he’d embezzled a lot of money from Maximus, and Aaron was in a certain amount of hot water with Solomon Roth for having hired him in the first place. Admittedly, Morty was not the old man’s kind of bloke. And then Simon Karr was hired to keep it all quiet—he came to see me because I’d identified the body, seen the bullet wound, heard them talking about it at the morgue—Simon asked me to please not discuss it with anyone, particularly the columnists and such.”

  “Did he offer you any money?”

  “No, Toby, he didn’t, though I think he would have if I’d hinted a bit. But I’d done some pictures at Maximus, always been well treated there, and I saw no reason to noise the story about … and the Roths never forgot my attitude, though they’d never spoken about the matter to me. When I let it be known that I was considering going into service if the arrangement was one I liked, Solomon Roth called me, said he would consider it an honor if I would even entertain the idea of coming here … well, I was flattered and I’ve never regretted it. There have been some difficult times, of course, particularly when Mrs. Roth—the first Mrs. Roth—was unwell, but every family has its unhappy moments, I’m sure.” He cleared his throat, relit the meerschaum. “It was at the time of Morty’s murder that I also met Tully for the first time … he was very helpful to the family, I understand. Certainly the story never made any headlines, and I’m sure Tully was right—Morty was greedy, got his hands on the money, and had a falling-out with his gangland chums … his reward, a bullet in the brain. Very sad.”

  “Did you still see Priscilla?” Morgan asked.

  “Oh, my, yes, frequently for a time. She had another vogue a year or so after Morty’s death, and, vogue or not, she was always there, on the fringe. Hollywood’s full of those people, has been for as long I can remember. She used to go to parties which, for one reason or another, I’d also attend. I remember she had a crystal ball, the complete paraphernalia, and was still in the fortune-telling business—I saw her once at Eddie Robinson’s house, she was set up at a table with the crystal ball, wearing a kind of costume, and all of Eddie’s incredible paintings on the walls … Manet, Monet, Degas, Utrillo—what a setting! I liked Priscilla, I liked the way she made a go of it on her own. I’d drop in at her shop on Sunset for a cuppa now and then, she always had the teapot on a little gas ring, and I’d tell her about my career, tell her if I was worried—oh, yes, I admit it, I asked her about the future—and she advised me a bit, told me finally that it was TV or nothing. I couldn’t face that. I even took Treacher with me to see her once, but you know him, looking down from this great height and telling me I was an imbecile to put any faith in the word of someone who belonged in an asylum, but that was just the way he was, y’see. She’d go into a bit of a trance and maybe she was batty, but we were close friends for a few years … after Morty’s death she turned to me, maybe because I wasn’t a big star, I can’t say. Very fond of her, I was. Another peculiar thing, for some years after Morty’s death, she told me she was communicating with him from the great beyond, that’s what she called it, as if it had capital letters, the Great Beyond, and she said he had terrible things to tell her about his death, awful things, but she never told me what they were. … Then, you know how it is, the years passed and made fools of us all, eh? What difference had any of it made, that we’d been here at all, eh? I lost touch with Priscilla, oh, I heard of her now and then, but once I was out of the business and my old friends began to die off, well, it’s the old sto
ry, isn’t it? Let’s see, I last saw Priscilla about ten years ago. Ran into her on Hollywood Boulevard, she was coming out of Larry Edmunds’ Cinema Bookstore—she had her arms full of a great number of books about the movie business, said she was thinking about writing her memoirs and wanted to read some, sort of get the hang of it—she sounded a little bit crazy, that high-pitched voice of hers, but those blue eyes were bright and clear. She was about fifty then, I expect, wearing an old fox fur around her throat, a flowered print dress, hair all curly and red but with a little gray in it … she looked just like a weird middle-aged woman who belongs on Hollywood Boulevard.”

  “Then she’d only be sixty now,” Morgan said.

  “Where is she, Herbert?”

  “Well,” he said, “it was ten years ago, and you know how people move around out here. But she said she’d just left a trailer park down in Orange County and headed up the coast past Malibu … she said she’d found a fine place.” He paused and tugged at his pipe with a smooth, powerful fist.

  “Come on, Herbert, goddammit.”

  “Coincidence always makes me nervous,” he said. Fingers of rain tapped at the window. “She said her trailer park, the one she was newly settled in, was up in the hills above the coast, halfway between Esterville and … Castle Moon Bay.”

  Morgan said, “You don’t know how little we have to go on, Mr. Graydon. Anything is … something. Now we’ve got two connections between Donovan and Priscilla, the checks and Castle Moon Bay.”

  “I’m at a loss, Miss Dyer,” Graydon said. “And I wouldn’t put much stock in where she lived that long ago.”

  A knock rattled on the door. Graydon got up, opened it a crack, then let Tully Hacker come in. He was in his stocking feet, wearing a loose-fitting suede jacket, a brown hat, and carrying a pair of ornately tooled cowboy boots. At the sight of Morgan and Challis he frowned.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Toby? The coppers just—”

  “Yes, yes,” Graydon said. “I’ve told them.”

  “Well, pay attention,” Hacker growled. “You’re hot and getting hotter, Toby … and you, young lady, you’re keeping bad company.” The smell of leather filled the room. “I wanted to show Herbert my new boots … I’ve got a young fella in Tuscon makes ’em for me, see the iguana hide here on the toe and heel. Best boots money can buy.”

  “They’ve come about Priscilla Morpeth, Tully.” Graydon puffed deeply and sank back into his chair. He sipped Glenlivet while Chopin filled the silence; then Hacker sat down on the edge of the couch and whistled.

  “Shit, Toby, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Morpeth … for Christ’s sake. You’ve got more urgent things to worry about. Morpeth …” He opened his jacket. He wore a specially fitted harness and the immense weapon that became the symbol of movie tough guys and private security men all over the world. Challis’ knowledge of guns could have been engraved in triplicate on the head of a pin, but he was a screenwriter and every screenwriter knew about the Ingram M-10 LISP. Tully Hacker looked at the faces staring at him. “Excuse my gun, but I’m about to put these boots on and I can’t lean that far down with this thing on.” With a loud, solid clicking sound he ripped the gun from the harness and placed it, black and shining dully, on the couch beside him. “And where does Mrs. Morpeth fit into your worries, Toby? … Christ, I worry about you.” He slid his foot into the soft, supple boot and hooked his fingers into the straps, tugged.

  “All part of the big picture, Hack. I’m still trying to dig my way out of the hole, but I just keep getting in deeper.”

  “Morpeth is deep, all right,” he said.

  “I talked to Simon Karr this morning. He told me you were the one who covered up the Morpeth murder.” Challis tasted his Scotch, rolled it on his tongue, waited. Hacker got the first boot on.

  “More or less,” Hacker said. “Kept the lid on. No big deal … just kept Maximus out of the papers. Over the years it all adds up, a favor here, a favor there. Then one day you’ve got enough tucked away to buy an avocado ranch.” He started on the other boot. “Which is just what I did. But what it’s got to do with you and Goldie and now Donovan … well, I’ll be damned if I know.” He gave a final tug and stood up, stomping his feet down into the boots. He picked up the machine pistol, hefted it as if calculating its weight to the ounce, and carefully fitted it back into the harness. “Toby, I can’t make you do anything. I can’t do anything but give you my opinion … and that’s too bad, because you could still, just maybe, get out of this in one piece. Mr. Roth, Solomon Roth, is very worried about you, Toby … he has everything you need to get out of the country—passport, and transport ready when you are. He thinks of you as blood kin. You should already know that, Toby. He wouldn’t put it on the line for many people.” He buttoned the loose jacket and the gun disappeared. “He felt this way all through the trial, too. He likes you, Toby, he doesn’t want you to rot in a cell.”

  “Does he think I killed his granddaughter?”

  “I’ve never heard him say. I guess that that doesn’t really enter into it.”

  “Well, Hack, you’re a real sport. But we’ve got to get moving. Come on, Morgan.”

  “Sir,” Herbert Graydon said. “Why don’t you put yourself in Mr. Hacker’s hands?” His voice was soft, almost tentative, as if he feared he was overstepping the bounds of propriety.

  “I’m beginning to forget, Herbert. Maybe I’d be lost without the search … I’ll know when it’s time. Thanks, Herbert. I mean it.”

  “Take care of him, miss,” Graydon said, reaching for her hand.

  “I’ll see you out, Toby,” Hacker said. Herbert watched from the doorway as they went, puffing billowing smoke, brows furrowed.

  In the foyer they saw Daffy pacing against the gray glow of the windows overlooking the terraces. She looked up, stared at them for a few seconds, then resumed her pacing without speaking. “As Herbert would say,” Hacker said, holding the front door open, “Mrs. Roth has the wind up. Aaron is wrapped up in the Laggiardi thing at the studio … big party this afternoon to introduce young Howard around … and Solomon is gone half the time and she doesn’t know what to say to him anyway. God, these boots feel like I’ve worn ’em all my lift;—the kid’s a genius.” They reached the car. “You know, Toby, they’re figuring it out, the coppers … they’re closer than you think, they know damn well you didn’t die on the mountain, they told us to be ready for you to contact us … so poor Mrs. Roth doesn’t know what the hell to think. Toby, think about Sol’s offer. You’re never going to get a better one. Stop and think what you’re doing, and tell me who cares what you find out, what good it’s going to do. If they don’t get you for Goldie, they’re going to get you for Donovan. No way out.” He held the Mustang’s spotty door. “It isn’t just Mrs. Roth. I’m nervous myself. I don’t get nervous much, but I’m nervous as a cat. It’s like I can almost hear sounds coming at me from the future, from out there in the dark. It’s funny, Toby. It’s like something’s building up out there in the future.” He chuckled self-consciously. “Pretty soon everybody’ll be able to hear it … or they’ll come and pack me away somewhere. Remember what Sol says, Toby. Be smart. …”

  25

  THE HIGH TAN WALLS, THE palm trees, the elaborate black iron—all you could see of Maximus Studios from the street was meant to look good in the sunshine, but in the rain the joint looked like hell. From Mulholland Drive you could look down and see the red-roofed soundstages looking like a bunch of Pinks’ hot dogs waiting for chili and onions. Once you threaded your way down the canyon to the valley, you couldn’t see the red anymore and there was nothing left but the tan concrete streaked with rain, the fancy gate, the palms drooping disconsolately. Maybe a factory, like any other. Then a glimpse of the parking lot with the acre or so of 450SL’s, the Rolls-Royces, the limos and Mark V customized convertibles. And on the gate, fashioned in wrought iron, the original Maximus log. The Roman warrior’s shield strapped on the brawny arm, the word “MAXIMUS”
in some forgotten studio designer’s idea of Roman script spread across the shield, the massive clenched fist. Solomon Roth’s idea: Challis had seen the original sketch framed on the wall in Sol’s office. Why not? It was Sol Roth’s studio. Somehow, from beyond the grave, it would always be Sol Roth’s studio.

  The guard gave the Mustang a faintly horror-stricken look, consulted his clipboard. “Come on, man,” Challis yelled past the rain and wind. “Regis Philbin’s in there doing Howard what’s-his-name, your new TV honcho, and we’ve got all of Philbin’s notes, background … Miss Dobson here is his secretary, she must be on your list—we gotta step on it, man.”

  “Okay, okay, it’s the Executive Building—”

  “Right, gotcha,” Challis said, heading down past Sound Stage One toward the yellow painted parking stripes, the reserved spots, where as Aaron Roth’s son-in-law he’d always parked with impunity. “Okay, now stick with me,” he said to Morgan. “You’re my witness.”

  “To what?”

  “Damned if I know. I just know I want a witness. Let’s go.”

  Everything about Maximus had been redone in the thirties, the interior design and decoration and furnishings. Then Sol Roth had seen to it that the clock stopped. Anywhere you looked there was Hollywood-modern blond wood, large rounded curves, the black and chrome and glass, the layered pastels and ornately trimmed archways of Art Deco classicism. Walking into the Executive Building was like entering a tomb, but the sounds coming from the reception room were somewhat livelier if every bit as ritualistic as what had gone on during an Egyptian entombment. The crowd meeting Howard Laggiardi was staying on following the one o’clock luncheon. The press had been joined by the studio execs, the casts of movies and television productions, assorted managers, agents, publicity men, and starlets; lunch had been served from a buffet of Rangoon Racket Club chili and curry; an ice sculpture of a swan melted, champagne and caviar warmed as the afternoon wore on. A well-known television macho hero made a discreet play for one of the waiters and an agreement was struck. A blond actress with huge nipples bulging through a clinging silk shirt opened to her waist hung groggily on the producer, his identical shirt open almost as far, who had used her in an S/M porno film ten years before and had engineered her career ever since. A week hence, he was telling everyone, she would be on the cover of People. Her new contract called for $40,000 per week, which would keep her in cocaine and pay for the inevitable reconstruction of her nasal passages.