Bullet for a Star

morning.”

The man walked past me, and Sid looked after him shaking his head.

“That’s Mike Curtiz,” said Sid seeing me. “He’s directing Santa Fe Trail, the picture Flynn is supposed to be on. You heard. He wants him back. Jesus. Come in. Come in.” Sid ushered me past Esther, who didn’t look up, and into his office.

Bill Faulkner wasn’t at home. Sid parked himself behind his desk and started to fidget with his pens and pencils.

“You owe me two hundred dollars,” I said sitting.

“You’ve got the negative and my money back?”

“No, but I found the girl in the picture. She doesn’t know Flynn, and he doesn’t know her. The picture is a fake.”

“You can prove it?” said Adelman eagerly.

“If we have to, with a doctor. The girl’s a virgin.”

“Virgin?”

“Yes,” I said. “So, if your blackmailer calls, we’ll work out something to trap him.”

“Who’s the girl?” said Adelman, gazing at the photo of Roosevelt.

“She stays out of this,” I said. “She didn’t know what was happening. Cunningham drugged her and faked the picture. Now about my two hundred dollars.”

“No negative, no cash, no two hundred,” said Adelman. He actually rubbed his hands together. “Now we can get Flynn back here. Curtiz will get off my back and …”

“Hold on, Sid. I still don’t know who killed Cunningham and who tried to kill Flynn. Whoever it is may make another try at Flynn.”

“We’ll give him protection,” he shouted, adjusting his tie. “I’ll send a couple of studio security men to watch him. Where is he?”

I told him and said the next step was finding Harry Beaumont.

“Why? What’s the klutz got to do with this?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve got to ask him some questions.”

“So go ask him,” Sid said standing. “He’s doing a short over on the back lot.”

I went for the door before Sid could say anything more.

“Esther, you look beautiful,” I shouted. “A double for Constance Bennett.”

The back lot at Warner Brothers was a series of exterior sets that ran into each other. There was a fake city street that could be anything from Chicago to London. There was a Western street right around the corner and a fake tenement block a little further on. Shooting was going on on every set. At the edge of the lot, in a corner, I spotted the deck of a pirate ship. A camera crew was shooting two men on the deck. The two men were sword fighting. One of the men was a little comedian whose name I couldn’t remember. The man he was fighting with was Harry Beaumont.

I came up to the group slowly, trying to stay out of the line of Beaumont’s vision. Beaumont was wearing a pirate costume including a bandana and red-and-white striped shirt. He looked mean. When the director called out, Beaumont added a sullen look to the mean one.

“Come on, Harry,” the director shouted, “put some life into the shot.”

“You’ve got all the life you’re getting out of me for a lousy two-reel comedy,” Beaumont answered angrily. “I’m not doing another take.”

“We haven’t got the budget for another take,” said the director, who shared sympathetic looks with the little comedian and called a break.

Beaumont was clearly on the way down. Last year, second leads in A pictures and a few leads in B’s; this year, the villain in a two-reel comedy. Next year, a character actor in summer theater in Fresno. Beaumont moved alone to the rail on the ship and leaned over to look at the sky and mountains. The crew wandered away.

As quietly as I could, I moved behind Beaumont and then next to him at the rail.

“Future doesn’t look too good does it, Harry?”

He turned to me suddenly, but I was ready and had my arms loosely at my side.

“Harry,” I whispered, “we can talk quietly or fight. I’d rather fight.”

“What do you want?”

“Did you kill Charlie Cunningham?”

The hatred in his eyes was no act. I was threatening what little he had going for him, and he wasn’t about to give it up easily.

“I didn’t kill Cunningham.”

“Can you prove that?”

“Yes,” he said with a twisted smile. “At two in the morning yesterday I was with a young lady who will be happy to testify to that effect.”

“Who said he was killed at two,” I asked.

Maybe he was starting to sweat from the question. Maybe it was just the aftermath of the fake fight with the comic.

“You told Brenda, my wife, and I saw her yesterday. She told me.”

He had been to see his wife. I was his witness for that, but I couldn’t remember whether I had told her when Cunningham was killed. I didn’t think I had.

“Next question,” I went on, “when you stopped at the apartment you’re renting under the name of Simmons, did you pick up something and take it with you?”

“Like …”

“A gun, a negative of your daughter and Errol Flynn, five thousand dollars,” I said.

“No,” he said, looking away. He played bored, but I wasn’t buying it.

“Then you won’t mind my searching your clothes and having a look in that Caddy you drive?”

That did it.

“If you wish,” he said, turning slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. It was the same turn he had made in the farm at Buellton. His repertoire was limited. He turned fast with something in his hand and swung it at me. I ducked and came in with a hard left just below his ribs. It felt good, but he didn’t go down. Instead, he hit me in the shoulder with the block of wood he had lifted from the rail. I came back with a right to the side of his head that made one of my knuckles pop and swell.

Beaumont grunted and ran at me. His head caught me in the chest, throwing me backward.

The crew for the short was moving toward us. A few of the people, including the director, cheered me on. Beaumont turned and ran.

In the next few minutes, we destroyed a lot of good footage and confused some of the best talent in Hollywood.

A troop of soldiers was marching down a muddy street. Beaumont plowed into them, and someone screamed “cut”! I followed Beaumont through the mud. End of new suit and last pair of shoes.

The soldiers stopped and watched while Beaumont panted his way around a corner. I was about twenty yards behind him. When I turned the corner, he was gone. I hurried down the space between the two buildings where he disappeared and found a door. The shooting light was on, but I went in. I heard familiar voices in the darkness and made my way through the shadows toward the light of the set. Beaumont was standing among extras looking over his shoulder for me. He stood out like a pirate among tuxedoed politicians, which is exactly what he was.

He spotted me stepping into the light and turned to run, but his path was blocked by the extras. I started after him, and he ran right into the set.

It was a fancy home. Edward Arnold was behind a desk wearing a tux. Gary Cooper, wearing a rumpled suit, was carrying on a conversation with him.

Just as Arnold said, “Listen here, Doe” to Cooper, Beaumont started across the set. I went over an assistant director’s back and tackled Beaumont, who thudded against the desk knocking it and Arnold over. I didn’t see what happened to Cooper.

Beaumont had turned and had his fingers around my neck. I butted him with my head and punched him with my left hand. The right one throbbed from the earlier punch.