chunk was missing from the wall where a bullet had hit. Mrs. Eastwood’s inventory had been correct.
Lynn Beaumont caught me looking at her.
“This place is a mess,” she said with distaste. “Do you live like this?”
I sat up in bed, running a hand over my face and tasting the dryness in my mouth.
“Sorry, I would have told the Mexican maid to tidy up if I knew you were coming.” I pulled my legs over the side of the bed.
“I called you during the day and last night,” she said, glaring at me. “You didn’t answer.”
“I had a very busy night. Somebody tried to kill me.”
She was unamused.
“Can you make coffee?” I asked, heading for the bathroom.
She couldn’t. I tried toast. She thought she could handle that, but I remembered that I had no bread. There were no eggs either. There was some milk and a lot of cereal. I love cereal. I made the coffee while she glared at me.
I took a good look at her. She looked cute, clean and serious. Her dark hair was short and straight, and her dress was blue and conservative schoolgirl. She didn’t fit the image of the girl in the picture with Flynn.
While I brushed my teeth and washed, I screamed some questions at her. She screamed back. She had tried to reach me at Warner Brothers. They had told her I didn’t work there. Then she had tried my name in the phone book. I was there, the only Toby Peters. She had called. I hadn’t answered. So she got in a bus and came over from Beverly Hills. It wasn’t a long ride.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Lynn?”
“Please call me Miss Beaumont.”
“Miss Beaumont.”
Her glare was steady and stern. She looked determined and strong willed. Maybe that’s what comes of having parents who are actors. The question was whether she had the strength of her mother behind it or something her father passed on to her.
“I don’t want you to see my mother any more.”
“Have to,” I said, going for the coffee and pouring her a cup. “Part of some work I’m doing.”
“What is your work?” she said sarcastically, accenting the word “work” with a slight sneer.
“I’m a private investigator.”
The coffee was good and strong. She hated it. I poured us bowls of Shredded Wheat. She refused hers, and I ate both while we talked. I looked at the picture of Niagara Falls on the box. It looked cool, clean and far away.
“Mr. Peters, I know what you and my mother were doing in the pool house.” Her hands were folded on the table. I poured out the last of the coffee. “My parents are getting a divorce, but I don’t want … I mean, I don’t think she …” She looked as if she were either going to hit me or cry.
“Miss Beaumont,” I lied, “my interest in your mother is strictly professional. In fact, I’m on my way to see your father this morning about the case I’m on.”
She didn’t believe me.
“Have you made other visits like this to friends of your mother?” It was a long shot, but it couldn’t hurt.
“Other visits?”
“You know a man named Charles Cunningham?” I watched her eyes. They filled with anger. “You know a man named Charles Cunningham.”
“He is, was, a friend of my mother … like you.”
“Was?” I said.
“They are not friends anymore. He promised …”
“What did you do to get him to promise?”
“Do? Nothing. I just talked to him and told him I’d tell my father and grandfather.”
She seemed to be telling the truth, but she might also be a good actress.
“Was Cunningham friendly to you?”
“You mean did he try to get me in bed?”
“Something like that.”
“I think he had something in mind, but I didn’t let him get started.” She looked firmly at me, but the tears weren’t far.
“Have you ever done it with anyone?”
She shook her head no. I went on, finishing the coffee.
“How many times did you go to see Cunningham alone?”
She said she had gone to his place only once. He had made the one try and then had given up and tried to be friends.
“Did he give you anything to eat or drink?”
“Like coffee and Shredded Wheat?”
“Like whatever?”
The girl was beginning to think I was a lunatic. She looked around the mess of the room again and then at my face.
“He gave me a couple of Cokes while we talked.”
“When was this?” I finished dressing; and she followed me, curious about the questions, as I looked at myself in the mirror. I still had a good chunk of the $200 left. Before I saw anybody else I had to buy a new suit, a shirt and a tie at a ready-to-wear place I knew on Hollywood. A former client owned the place. I had run a stake-out for him for five days. Someone was stealing his merchandise, one suit at a time. It was his brother. I got my $15 a day for the five days and two new shirts. I remembered it fondly as one of my better weeks in the business.
“Couple of weeks ago,” the girl said.
“You got sleepy after you had the Cokes.” It was my turn to glare at her.
“How did you know? I was sick. My stomach. It was a hot day.”
“I’ll bet it was,” I answered.
“Huh?”
“Skip it,” I said, “I spend most of my time talking to adults who keep trying to prove they’re a little sharper than each other. It rubs off.” She looked puzzled. “I was trying to be a wise guy,” I explained.
To prove my good faith, I called Warner’s while she sat there. Beaumont was not back from location on the Walsh film near Santa Barbara. The rain had hit all along the coast and ruined the shooting. They were going to stay one more day. I got the location and told Lynn Beaumont that I was on my way to see her father.
While she waited, I coaxed Bruce Cabot’s phone number out of a secretary at the studio. Sid Adelman would have given it to me, but I would have had to take a lecture with it.
The girl continued to glare at me. While I gave the operator Cabot’s number, I handed her a magazine. She put it down.
From Cabot, I got the name of the hotel where Flynn was staying, The Beverly Wilshire, and the name he was registered under, Rafael Sabatini. There were 800 hotels in Los Angeles. The one Flynn had picked was in the heart of the city on Wilshire Boulevard. It was not what I had had in mind as a hiding place.
Lynn Beaumont gave a maybe-I-was-wrong-about-you look, and I tried to look as innocent as my gnarled face would permit. I told her I had someone I wanted her to meet, and then I’d drive her home.
“Part of the case,” I added.
“You have a gun?” she asked, still not sure I was what I claimed.
Looking as tough as I could, I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the Woolworth special. She was impressed. I slipped it back.
Fifteen minutes later, we were side by side while I knocked at the door to Rafael Flynn Sabatini’s hotel room.
“Come in,” he shouted cheerfully.
We walked in. He was being about as careful as a drunken mouse at a cat convention.
The room was big, but not a suite. The bed was massive, plenty of room for Flynn and the two women who were in it. They were both dark and looked like twins.
“Toby,” Flynn smiled. He was wearing no shirt but fortunately, his lower torso was under the covers. “What
