runs outside, looks through the window and sees Marilyn looking strange. She phones Dr. Greenson, alarmed. Greenson rushes over and finds his patient already gone. Dr. Engelberg comes right over and pronounces Marilyn dead at four A.M. The police are called shortly thereafter.” He took his eyes off the ceiling and sent them my way. “The end.”
“Okay,” I said, nodding. “But I heard the housekeeper told the first cop on the scene that she found Marilyn at midnight or earlier.”
“Doesn’t matter. That first cop isn’t in charge. Your ‘friend’ Captain Hamilton is.”
“Which must mean Chief Parker’s given his blessing.” I shook my head. “Must’ve been wild, those four hours or so, before the police were officially called. Fox fixers crawling all over the joint, making sure nothing unflattering turned up. House getting searched stem to stern. You and Pat Newcomb and those doctors and, Christ, trying to help that flaky Murray woman get her story straight and keep it straight. And somebody must have been looking after Bobby’s interests. Don’t tell me you had FBI stepping on your toes, too. Must have been crazy.”
Well, this time I had overstepped.
Jacobs was looking at me with eyes turned unblinking and cold. He even stamped out that expensive, barely smoked cigar.
I risked half a smile. “If I’ve said too much…”
“Mr. Heller, why are you here?”
“I told you. For Marilyn’s sake.” I dropped the pretense. “So what time did you get there, Art?”
“Who says I was there at all?”
“You didn’t deny it earlier, when I brought it up. Pat Newcomb told the West LA Detective Division boys that you were there-I heard her. So it’s in their notes and records. Maybe you better warn Hamilton to take his eraser over there.”
Scorn met defensiveness in his tone. “Not that it’s any of your business, Mr. Heller, but I was at the Hollywood Bowl Saturday evening, with my fiancee, till quite late. The Henry Mancini concert? I was seen by hundreds of people.”
“I don’t remember saying you needed an alibi.”
His eyes left me and he was straightening a pile of papers in front of him. “I do have a few more minutes of work I need to get done today, Mr. Heller. Anyway, you were just going.”
“Yeah,” I said, getting up. “I was.” At the door, I threw back: “Does Bobby know you’re smoking Castro- brand cigars?”
That wasn’t the best exit line I ever came up with, but probably better than nothing.
And much better than nothing was the piece of luck I caught (rivaling my having gotten a parking place on the strip) just as I was exiting the glass-and-steel building.
I practically bumped into her. About to go in was a lovely strawberry blonde with light-colored eyes and freckles and a great smile. She was wearing a simple yellow dress that her slender yet curvy figure did wonders for.
But seeing a great-looking girl in her early twenties didn’t require any luck on the Sunset Strip. Running into Natalie Trundy, Arthur Jacobs’ young fiancee, did, especially since we knew each other a little. I had dated a girlfriend of hers.
“Nate!” she said. “You’re looking well.”
“You look gorgeous. Which is par. Going in to see Arthur?”
I maneuvered to keep her out on the sidewalk, just outside the building. The sidewalk was wide enough for a conversation without interfering with beautiful out-of-work actresses and actors strolling by.
“Yes,” she said. “Art and I are having an early dinner. We have to take in a premiere tonight for one of his clients.”
I snapped my fingers. “Say, didn’t I see you at the concert the other night? At the bowl?”
“Well, I was there. I don’t remember seeing you, though.”
“I waved. Thought you had. Anyway, that Mancini’s great, isn’t he?”
“Oh yes. And with Ferrante and Teicher, those dueling pianos! Really wonderful, and in the open air. Of course, we missed the last part.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” She gave me a you-know-how-it-is shrug. “Art got a phone call and had to go.”
I nodded knowingly. “Sure. Marilyn thing.”
“Right.” Her eyes narrowed. “You know about that…?”
“Uh-huh, I was just in talking with Arthur about her. Comparing notes. I’d been doing some work for Marilyn lately.”
Another shrug. “All I know is some guard came and got Art, and he came back and said he’d got a call from Mickey, saying poor Marilyn was dead, and he had to go handle it.”
“Marilyn’s lawyer, Mickey Rudin, you mean?”
Her head bobbed, making the strawberry blonde locks shimmer. “And then we were out of there like a shot. I was home by eleven and didn’t see Art till the next evening.”
“A hell of a thing.”
“ Terrible tragedy. I liked her. Really liked her. Art and I spent a lot of time with Marilyn, trying to support her through some… some tough times.”
I gave her a worldly-wise nod. “I know all about Bobby.”
She smiled bravely, crinkling her chin; her eyes were moist. “Poor thing really thought she’d be First Lady someday. But I agree with Arthur.”
“Yeah?”
“She didn’t commit suicide. It was accidental. So tragic… Nice to see you, Nate. You know, Melody got married.”
“I heard. I was too old for her anyway.”
Her smile was teasing. “That’s funny. She said she found you immature.”
She and her delightful smile went inside to meet her fiance. At least he was mature. Twenty years more mature than she was, anyway.
I headed to the A-1 and filled Fred Rubinski in, but just the broadest outlines.
“I don’t want you or the A-1 directly involved in this,” I said to him in his office.
Behind his desk, Fred was smoking a cigar that he wished was a Havana. He wrinkled up his Edward G. Robinson puss and said, “Nate, you are the A-1. Christ, after all these years, are you gonna finally manage to get yourself killed?”
“Don’t be stupid. But I guess I might as well use some of our agents for simple legwork stuff. Fact-checking. Like trying to locate the guard at the Hollywood Bowl who paged Jacobs for that phone call.”
“Sure. We’ll just keep the boys blissfully ignorant of context. You can pay for it out of the Kilgore dame’s mazuma.”
“Damon Runyon is dead, you know.”
“I heard.”
By the time I got back to the Beverly Hills Hotel, I was feeling pretty cocky. My investigative skills seemed intact, after several years of mostly PR and management duties.
I stepped into the darkened bungalow, reaching for the light switch, wondering why housekeeping hadn’t left a goddamn lamp on at least, when a hand clamped onto my right suit sleeve, followed by a hand on the other side doing the same with my left.
I moved forcefully forward and walked out of the suit coat and left the two big boys holding onto either empty sleeve, like they were fighting over a sale item. The guy who’d grabbed me first-they were both just dark shapes, but big dark shapes-I swung my elbow around and caught on the left side of his face. As he was going down I flat- kicked him in the stomach like I was putting out a fire.
The other one was coming at me from behind and I gave him a backward elbow sharp in the chest. His pal was still doubled over and deciding whether or not to puke, and Christ I hoped he wouldn’t because that smell would linger, when the other one, who’d taken a couple steps back, got a gun out from somewhere, off his hip I guess, and showed it to me. It was dark in there but not that dark. I knew a . 38 revolver when I saw one. Even in silhouette.
