Dream Town, page 24
He parked in front of Danforth’s house, got out, and knocked on the door. He heard the pitter-patter of her little feet and the door opened. She had on a creamy white day dress and slippers. Her fake hair was in a bun and she had reading glasses on and a Life magazine in her hand. Two cats trailed her.
“Mr. Archer, you’re back.”
“I am. Can I come in and ask a few more questions?”
“Certainly, certainly. Would you like something to drink? I have lemonade, coffee.”
What, no scotch? “Lemonade will be fine, thanks.”
She brought it to him in the same room they had sat in before.
He sipped on the drink for a moment as she perched in a chair across from him. Her cats formed a protective circle around her, though one did jump up next to Archer to make inquiries with a paw lightly tapping his arm. He responded by scratching its ears.
“I met Mr. and Mrs. Bonham.”
She took off her specs and stared at him dumbly. “You did? Did you go all the way to France? And you’re already back?”
“No. They’re back. You didn’t know that?”
“No.”
“He just drove off a few minutes ago in his Bentley. He actually got back into town on December thirtieth. The missus came in a few days later.”
“Why would they come back separately? And why come back at all? They’re usually gone much longer than that.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know that and they didn’t say. But maybe they’re worried about something. They do have a bomb shelter in their backyard.”
“A what?”
“A bomb shelter. You know, if the Soviets decide to bomb us they can go and hide in a little metal box underground.”
“I never heard of such a thing.”
“Yeah, I’m not sure how much protection something like that would be with an atom bomb dropped on your head.”
She let out a sigh. “Mankind has gotten so very sick. Sometimes I’m glad that I’m very near the end of my days on earth.”
“Don’t say that. What would your cats do without you?”
She smiled. “That is very kind of you to say. And for your information I’ve made suitable arrangements for each of them when I die.”
“That’s good of you. Look, it turns out that Peter Bonham was married before. At least that’s what his wife told me.”
“Really. To whom?”
“I don’t know. Why did you think he hadn’t been?”
“Well, he never spoke about another wife. I’ve been to their house several times. There were no pictures of his first wife or children from a first marriage or anything. And Bernadette never mentioned anything like that.”
“Well, he might not want pics of his first wife around for his second wife to see. You also told me they drove their car to the airport and left it there. Turns out they didn’t do that, either.”
“But I saw them drive off when they left. I waved to them. So where was the car?”
“Could have been kept any number of places. Look, I know you said you go to bed early, but late at night, do you ever hear noises?”
“What sort of noises?”
“Like a car or a truck coming up or down the road.”
“I don’t believe so. My room is at the back of the house.”
“Okay.”
“But it’s funny you asked that. I had a young friend of my granddaughter’s stay here with me during the summer last year. She was trying to break into pictures, like so many of them do and none of them succeed.”
“Right, so what about her?”
“She complained a couple of nights about hearing someone driving on the road, oh, around three or four in the morning. Her hearing is better than mine, and her room was nearer the front of the house.”
“Did she ever go out and see what it was?”
“She looked out the window. She said it was a truck of some sort.”
“Did she see where it went?”
“No, at least she didn’t tell me if she did.”
“Where is this girl now?”
“Back in Connecticut. She decided to become a secretary instead.”
“In the long run the money will be better and she’ll live longer.”
Archer took his leave and drove toward the ocean. He hit the coast road and turned left to head back to town.
Less than an hour later he was on Santa Monica Boulevard after having just passed Cahuenga. He drove by Hollywood Memorial Park, where the likes of Douglas Fairbanks and Rudolph Valentino were interred. Backing up to the cemetery on its southern edge was Paramount Studios.
And that was when Archer saw it. A movie theater where a film called On the Run was playing. The marquee said it was an MGM production and it starred a man Archer had never heard of. But he wasn’t interested in the man. He pulled to the curb and got out. He hustled over to the movie poster for On the Run, which was on the wall next to the ticket window.
The female star was Samantha Lourdes. On the poster, she was wrapped around the male star and they were looking deeply into each other’s eyes. Archer also didn’t care about that. What he cared about was that Samantha Lourdes had been the movie actress he had seen and spoken to at the Jade Lion.
Chapter 52
ARCHER HEADED WEST TO CULVER CITY, where the MGM studios were located.
He had learned from Callahan and his own work in Hollywood that MGM had been late to the game on talking films, but had quickly come to dominate the movie business in the 1930s with films such as Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz. They had also pretty much invented the studio system whereby stars were basically owned by their studios but could be loaned out to other studios by mutual agreement with cash or other benefits exchanged.
It was ironic, he had thought, that arguably the greatest studio in Hollywood had never been in Hollywood, but seven miles to the southwest in Culver City, closer to Marina Del Rey than Tinseltown. Archer also didn’t really care about that right now. He was interested only in Samantha Lourdes, MGM’s big star.
He pulled in front of the enormous edifice that occupied a chunk of Washington Boulevard’s frontage. The classical colonnade setup was barely a few feet deep, which was the most perfect representation of the town Archer had ever seen. There was literally nothing behind it except back lots with more facades and no depth, other than the actors acting, and even that was all over the place.
He wrote a note on a slip of paper and handed it and a five spot to the guard at the gate. The guard was tall and thin and old and looked beaten down, barely able to carry the weight of his cap and uniform or his holstered Colt .45. He looked at Archer warily when he told the man whom he wanted the note delivered to and that he was a friend of hers.
“You know how many of these I get a day for that gal?” he barked. “You know her like I know Dwight D. Eisenhower, fella. And for the record, I’ve never met the man.”
“Lourdes owns a silver Rolls-Royce and her driver is an old guy named Alan. She knows me, pal. Bet on it. And that note will bring a smile to her face. Who knows, you might even get a little kiss out of it.”
This new information seemed to clinch the deal. “Okay, buddy, she is here today. But they’re filming.”
“They have to turn off the cameras sometime. And what do you have to lose?”
The man called another guard over to work the gate and stalked off while Archer waited.
And waited. An hour, two smoked cigarettes, and vigorous fedora twirling later, the man came back. He seemed amazed beyond all reckoning.
“Damn, you were telling the truth, fella.”
“I try to at least once a day, Pops.”
The man gummed his lips in his astonishment. “Miss Lourdes said she’ll meet you at the Formosa at seven o’clock tonight. You know it?”
“Yeah, it’s on Santa Monica across from Sam Goldwyn Studio.”
“She said to wait for her in the trolley car and order her a Gibson with three pearl onions. Trolley car? Do you know what that means, because I sure as heck don’t.”
“I do. Thanks.”
Archer checked his watch and contemplated what to do until then.
He dipped into a drugstore and called Dash’s room at the motel where they were staying. There was no answer, so he called Connie Morrison long-distance and told her everything he had learned both in town and out in Malibu from Peter Bonham and Sylvia Danforth.
“Fill him in when you can. If I see him, I’ll do the same. He mentioned going to see Jake.”
“This case is getting curiouser and curiouser,” commented Morrison.
“Just what I needed today, a little Alice in Wonderland,” replied Archer, which made him think of Alice Jacoby and all her lies.
He drove to West Hollywood and then north to Sunset. He had a late lunch at Greenblatt’s Deli and took his time over a sandwich, fries, and coffee.
He knew F. Scott Fitzgerald had walked into Greenblatt’s in 1940, bought a Hershey bar, carried it back around the corner to the apartment where he was staying, and dropped dead of a coronary next to the fireplace mantel. He wondered if the man had any inkling his end was coming.
Archer took a bite of a fry and contemplated his own sense of doom.
I almost died in the lousy desert. Maybe I’m not good enough to make it in this racket. Maybe my end is coming faster than I would like it to.
He paid his bill and made a call to the Ambassador Hotel from a phone booth. The maid answered and relayed Archer’s request to Gloria Mars. The maid came back on the phone and told Archer that Mars would see him now.
He cut a diagonal across midtown to Wilshire, wondering what sort of reception he’d get from the woman.
Maybe the warrior will run me through with her lance.
Chapter 53
HE TOOK THE AUTOMATIC ELEVATOR UP and walked down to the penthouse suite. One of the double doors was open, and there stood Gloria Mars. Her dress was red and tight and slitted, the heels were high and the fishnet stockings midnight black, lending a remarkable contrast with the sunset burn of the dress. Her auburn hair was piled on top of her head except for a few curlicue dangles around her cheeks. She looked him up and down like he was an object of purchase at the Farmer’s Market.
Archer was afraid that something had gotten seriously lost in translation with the maid.
“Archer, I was wondering when you were going to make your way back to me.”
“Well, here I am.”
She slipped her arm through his. “Yes you are. Let’s have a drink.”
She led him into the penthouse.
“Your husband around?”
“I’m not really sure where he is.”
“How about Vegas with the other Musketeers?”
She glanced at him, sharp as a tack. “How do you know about that?”
“Just heard it on the street.”
“Some street. So he’s in Vegas?”
The lady did not appear to be happy about that, thought Archer. “My best guess,” he replied.
She mixed them martinis and she placed Archer on a blue chesterfield while she perched close to him. “What other helpful information do you have for me?”
“You went to Wellesley. You were in the same class as Eleanor Lamb and Alice Jacoby.”
Mars sipped her drink. “I already knew that,” she said, not looking pleased.
“You never mentioned that when I was talking to you about Lamb.”
“What was there to mention? I didn’t even know her.”
That doesn’t match what Jacoby told me. “But you know Alice Jacoby?”
“Yes. She was Alice Buckner back then. From West Virginia, if you can believe it.”
“We’re all from somewhere.”
“I understand that Lamb is missing.”
“How do you understand that?”
“That same street you walk on, big fella.” A young maid passed by them, her gaze averted. Mars added, “But let’s find a place a little more private than this.” She rose and pulled him up.
Before Archer realized it, they had passed through a door and into a bedroom that was about twice the size of his entire apartment back in Bay Town, and very feminine in its décor.
In answer to his look, she said, “Danny and I maintain separate bedrooms. I like my own space. His bedroom looks like a combo hunting lodge and bar. Give me a minute, Archer.”
She disappeared into an adjacent bathroom and closed the door.
While she was gone Archer looked around. There was a large armoire about the size of the one in Jacoby’s office. He eyed the bathroom door and then tried to open the armoire. It was locked. That intrigued him enough to use his knife to push the bolt back and look inside. There were just piles of books. But then he looked at some of the titles and came away surprised, knowing what he did about Mars.
He closed the armoire and moved over across from the bed, but keeping his distance from it.
About thirty seconds later Mars came out of the bathroom with her hair down around her shoulders and her lipstick freshly applied. She smelled of vanilla and honeysuckle.
“You look more relaxed,” she said.
“Do I? Not really feeling that way.”
“Let me see if I can help.” Mars glided across and kissed him on the mouth. She pulled slightly away and gave him a searching look. “Well?”
“That helped,” he said.
“Well, let’s keep working on it.”
Mars led him over to the bed and put her drink down. She reached behind her, slid her zipper from her shoulders to her bottom, and stepped out of the dress. Underneath she had on a lacey lavender bra, white, high-cut underpants, and a black garter belt holding up her stockings. She stepped out of her heels, which brought her three inches closer to the earth.
“I don’t do this for just anybody.”
“Which makes me wonder why I’m so lucky.”
“Because you’re young and tall and handsome, and I like all those things in a man.”
“Your husband is a lot taller than me.”
“But he’s not young and he’s not handsome and he’s certainly not interested in this anymore.”
“Then maybe he should go see a doctor.”
“And you can sweet-talk, too. Even better.” She kissed him again, this time with her tongue, but didn’t get the reaction she wanted. She stepped back and looked up at him. “Is there something wrong?”
“I actually came here to ask you some questions, not jump into bed with you. I’m sorry if I let this get out of hand, but you threw me some curves I didn’t quite know how to handle.”
“Can’t you ask your questions while we do it? Interrogation while having intercourse, it might be kind of sexy.”
“You’re married,” he said.
“It’s 1953, for God’s sake. And do you really think Danny isn’t sleeping around?”
“I’m working what is now a murder investigation. In fact, I was almost murdered up in Vegas while I was checking on Lamb’s disappearance. It makes a man think. It makes a man careful.” He eyed her up and down. “All the time.”
She gave him a hard look right back. “Are you sure you want to forgo this opportunity?” She fiddled with her bra strap, apparently still trying despite his earlier rejection. “It might not come around again.”
He eyed her soft breasts. “Trust me, it’s a difficult decision. And a few years ago we’d already be in that bed over there. But it’s not a few years ago. So put your dress back on and let’s talk.”
She didn’t look pleased by this, but she didn’t slap him or order him to get out, either. What Mars did was step back into her dress, sit on the bed, and rub at one stockinged foot. “You said a murder investigation? Lamb isn’t dead, is she?”
By her tone, Archer didn’t think she cared one way or another. Yet when he looked at the woman’s tensed features, he thought he might be wrong about that.
“No, a PI from Anaheim named Cedric Bender is.”
“What’s the connection to Lamb?”
“His body was found in her house.”
“Maybe she killed him,” said Mars.
“Maybe.”
“What questions do you have?” Mars asked.
“Did Alice Jacoby ever strike you as being addicted to drugs?”
“Alice? She’s as straight a shooter as I’ve ever seen. I doubt she even takes aspirin.”
“Jacoby was friends with Lamb, so it seems odd that you didn’t know Lamb, too. Jacoby seemed to think that you two did know each other.”
“What can I tell you? She was wrong. We all had our little cliques, Archer, and Lamb was not part of mine.”
“Lamb was a political science major. Which makes sense because her father was in the diplomatic corps. She traveled all over because of that. Speaks multiple languages.”
“How interesting,” said Mars, who looked bored and distracted. She walked over to a side table, plucked a cigarette out of a bowl, used a chrome lighter next to the bowl to light up, and resumed her seat on the bed, her legs drawn up under her. She said in a prompting manner, “My attention span is waning, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“How much did the casinos tap you for Danny’s gambling losses?”
She puffed on her smoke without taking her unblinking eyes off him, a remarkable feat, he had to concede. “How do you know they did?”
“He’s still alive. And so are you.”
“I’m just a bit thrown here, I have to admit. I was ready for a very different afternoon with you. No talking, no thinking. Just some time with me, right here,” she said, patting the bed.
“So, the debts?”
“What possible business is it of yours?”
“If it makes you feel better, Mallory Green and Alice Jacoby have the same issues with their husbands. Bart Green’s is just on a bigger scale.”
“Well, I’m sure Mallory will be able to handle it.”
“He’s lost millions of dollars gambling, Gloria. Now, maybe you could pay that back with your J. P. Morgan and U.S. Trust inheritance. But Mallory doesn’t have those kinds of assets.”
