“Agreed. First, do you recognize the girl in the picture?”
“No,” said Lorre, “never seen her. Doesn’t look like the type I usually see with Princey, but it’s hard to tell.”
“Can you tell me your feeling about how everyone reacted when the photograph showed up?”
“I was just finishing a rather mediocre goulash,” he said, “when the envelope arrived. It was addressed to Errol. He took it, grinned and handed it to Sid Adelman. Sidney turned many colors, the most becoming of which was magenta.”
I looked at him, but his face betrayed no hint of irony. I was sure he was enjoying himself.
“Well,” he continued, “I took the picture from Sid, glanced at it, thought it was second-rate pornography-I’ve seen infinitely better in Germany-and handed it to Harry Beaumont, who turned in one of the worst performances of an undistinguished career.”
“Siegel said he did a reasonably good job of hiding his reaction,” I put in.
Loire shrugged. “I found it too broad. Harry doesn’t think terribly well on his feet.”
“You’d say Beaumont was upset by the picture?”
“Oh yes.”
“Angry?”
“No, but upset, agitated. Donald took it next, seemed unimpressed and handed it back to Adelman. May I ask what has happened, or would it be none of my business?”
I told him most of what had happened, including the murder of Cunningham. I left out the session with Brenda Beaumont and the fact that the girl in the picture was Lynn Beaumont. I included the visit from Bruce Cabot and Guinn Williams.
Lorre sat quietly for a few moments.
“You know, Mr. Peters …” he began.
“Toby,” I said.
“Toby, I have been in a great many murder films here and in Germany. I’ve studied the criminal mind somewhat, at least the devious criminal mind, since I have frequently been called upon to play deviates-have you ever seen
“Yes,” I said. “
“Thank you,” he grinned. “That madman would do anything for love. I would suggest, from what you have told me, that someone wants the photograph not for blackmail, but to protect the girl in the picture.”
He had a point.
“But,” I said, “someone, supposedly the murderer, made another blackmail call today.”
“Ah,” said Lorre, “perhaps you are dealing not with one, but with two people.”
“Two people?” I said.
“The killer who wanted to protect the girl, and someone who got his wretched hands on the negative and is trying to continue Cunningham’s blackmail.”
“It’s certainly possible,” I said, “but in that case …”
“In that case,” continued Lorre, advancing on me and taking my arm, “the killer will want desperately to get the negative and that picture in your pocket. And I would suggest that the killer is someone who loves that girl very much. Enough to kill Cunningham and make an attempt on Errol simply to avenge her honor.”
We headed toward the darkness away from the dim night light of the set.
“Mind if I ask what this office is for?” I said, looking back.
“Not at all,” said Lorre. “It’s one of the first sets for a movie I’m doing. Should be shooting it in the near future. It’s called
“I saw the picture,” I said. “With Ricardo Cortez. Why make it again?”
“A very clever young writer named John Huston has convinced the studio to do it with him directing. I don’t know if it’s a good idea or not, but it has an excellent role for me.”
“This is something more like a detective’s office that the one in the Cortez pictures,” I said, “but it’s still a palace compared to mine.”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you about,” said Lorre, leading me to another set where he turned on an overhead light. It was a hotel room. “For background, can you tell me what it’s like to be a real private investigator.”
I sat on the sofa, and he sat next to me.
“By the way, this is a set for the movie,” he said. “The detective, Spade, will sit where you are sitting. There’s a very nice scene between him and-do you remember the Guttman character?”
“Yes,” I said, “the fat man, but he wasn’t fat in the Cortez movie.”
“He will be in this one,” said Lorre, “a very amiable gentleman from the theater named Green-street.”
“Who’s going to play Spade?”
“George Raft, I think,” said Lorre, rubbing his eyes. “Please forgive me. I’ve been working rather hard, and I have to get back to another set. But can you tell me something about being a private detective?”
I rubbed my back and straightened up in the sofa. Lorre was looking at me intently, but I didn’t have anything profound to say.
“It’s a job for a lazy man with muscles and not too many brains,” I said. “The pay stinks, most people think you’re a few levels below a pimp, and the people you usually meet are welchers, petty thieves, angry runaway wives and husbands who try to belt you, alcoholics and other not-very-pleasant social types. The cops hate you; the clients don’t trust you; and the people you look for or find would be happy to see you dead. I own an old car that’s falling apart. My clothes are falling apart. I’m falling apart. I get hit a lot and I eat badly.”
Lorre’s eyes were wide.
“Fascinating,” he sighed, “then why do you continue to do it?”
“Every once in a while, like now, it makes me feel really alive,” I said. “It’s something cops feel a lot, good cops, and private investigators feel once in a while.”
I took his hand.
“Be careful, Mr. Peters,” said the thin man holding on to my hand.
“I’ll be careful.”
The stage had been soundproof, and I didn’t know if it was still raining. My watch said 7:30. I stepped outside, and it was still raining, but not as heavily. The sky was still a mass of darkness threatening to go wild again, and thunder rumbled far away.
I had half an hour to get to my brother’s office. I decided to stop back to my apartment first. I should just about make it. I didn’t want to carry a toy gun and the two photographs into a police station.
As I drove through Griffith Park my back continued to ache, and the green Dodge kept tailing me. There’s wasn’t much I could do about either problem.
At my apartment building, I parked in an illegal zone in front of the door and dashed into the lobby. The green Dodge pulled past looking for a parking space.
It would have been nice to take a hot bath, but I knew I didn’t have the time. I didn’t want to keep Phil waiting. He wouldn’t understand. In addition, I didn’t want to be in the apartment long enough for my friend in the green Dodge to find me. I had no gun. He may have had my 38. I had some pictures. He may have wanted them.
I turned the key in my lock, and the door flew open. I was pulled into darkness. The small light next to my bed went on, and I was thrown on my unmade bed. The sudden pull and the hard board under my mattress had done my back no good, and I had a feeling things weren’t going to improve.
Three men stood over me around the bed. I’m giving them the benefit of the doubt when I call them men. One was short, shorter than me, but built like a dark mailbox. He was bald and had no neck. He looked quite stupid in spite of his suit and tie. The second man I saw was grinning, but there was nothing funny. He was tall and slightly on the thin side. He wore a jacket, no tie and the meanest odor I’d ever met. The third man was familiar, but I couldn’t place him. I wanted to remember their descriptions in case I survived. The third man was very big and broad, with grey hair and the smashed nose of a former fighter. It even beat my nose as a disaster area.
“No trouble, Peters,” said the former fighter holding out his hand. “You give us the photograph of the girl and
