“I’m not a jerk, Peters,” he said wearily. “Two of our best security men have been with him since we talked. Whannel and Ellis. You know them?”
“Good men,” I said.
“And tonight,” he went on, “Hatch and Kindem take over at midnight when they’ve finished their shift. You know them?”
“Hatch is a good man. I don’t know the other guy. Sounds fine, Sid.”
He thanked me nastily for my approval and told me to call when I had a killer in hand. Flynn was still holding up production on
I went down to the desk and asked Marjorie Main if I could get my suit cleaned and pressed and my shoes taken care of. I gave her all my gleaming teeth, and she blushed.
Fifteen minutes later an elderly kid came to my room and took my clothes and shoes. It would cost me fifteen bucks, he said. I told him it was fine and lay in bed listening to the radio.
On KFI, Jimmy Fiddler told me that Vivien Leigh and Laurence Olivier were just married and Humphrey Bogart’s career was skyrocketing.
H.V. Kaltenborn said there was good news: that we were almost certain to stay out of the European war, and that prosperity had returned. For about twenty minutes I listened to Sammy Kaye and his orchestra playing from the Make Believe Ballroom. Then there was a knock on the door. It was the elderly kid. He had my clothes. I gave him the fifteen bucks, and he waited for a tip. I knew he was keeping at least five anyway, but I was in no position to upset him. I flipped him two halves. What the hell. I was going to charge it to Errol Flynn for expenses, and he could afford it.
My suit was reasonably clean, and my shoes looked fine. I got dressed and went to the hall to call Flynn. He answered.
“Toby, there have been three more attempts on my life,” he said.
Tension ran through me.
“What happened?”
“Three women caught me in the hall and tried to tear me apart in ecstasy,” he said with a sigh.
“Very funny, Errol. Are the guards there from the studio?”
“Yes,” he said, “but I don’t like it. Bruce and Guinn went home and the two gentlemen are with me now. Toby, I don’t like being treated as if I were some delicacy. Tomorrow morning I am going back to work.”
“But …” I began.
“Jack Warner does not think me a particularly good actor,” he said soberly. “In some respects I agree with him though I am improving, and a few people like Raoul Walsh keep telling me I’m good. In any case, I’ve at least been reliable.”
“Harry Beaumont was murdered this afternoon,” I tried. “It was probably by the same guy who killed Cunningham and tried to kill you.”
“Yes,” he said, “I’m well aware of all that, but tomorrow morning I will leave here, go to the studio, put on my cavalry uniform and join Ronald Reagan in confronting Raymond Massey in the guise of John Brown. Right now I am going to have a small drink with Mr. Whannel and Ellis from the studio and excuse myself to entertain a lady. Take care, Toby,” he said sincerely and hung up.
He was certainly likeable even if he wasn’t the most reasonable person I had ever met.
It was 7:30. I decided to visit Brenda Beaumont an hour or so earlier than she had invited me. It might be much safer that way. There was nothing for me to pack. I left the key at the desk with the woman and said I didn’t know what time I would be back. She said goodby, Mr. Sklar.
A few minutes later I was in a Black and White cab on the way to Beverly Hills. Black and White cabs were “confined to Negro districts” according to the Chamber of Commerce. But the Negro drivers sometimes took a chance. I gave the driver an address a block away from the Beaumont house. I didn’t know if there was such an address. The driver was quiet, and that was the way I liked it.
He stopped at a big house in Beverly Hills about fifteen minutes later. The address was wrong, but I said it was the right house. I overtipped him and crossed the road walking in the twilight toward the Beaumont house. If it was being watched or guarded, I wanted to know.
For ten minutes, I stood quietly under a tree. It looked all right. There were a few lights on downstairs and one or two upstairs.
I went all the way around the big street to the back of the house and found the gate where Brenda Beaumont had tried to get me out during my other visit. The pool house was a fifteen foot run from the gate. I hoped the door was open. There was a light on near the pool, but no one was swimming. The lock on the gate was good, but old. I backed away and gave it a kick. From the front of the house I could hear Jamie and Ralph barking. Their barks got close faster. Dogs from nearby homes joined in the noise. I pushed the gate open.
I ran for the pool house and was a foot from the door just as the two pincers came around the edge of the pool house. I caught only a glimpse of them as I hit the door and went in. I kicked the door closed with my foot and almost caught one of the dogs in the snout. By the outside light I went to the front door. I took a deep breath, opened it a crack and went to the rear door, where the dogs were barking and clawing. I put a chair lightly against the door and ran for the front door. The dogs leaped in pushing the chair away as they sprang. They couldn’t have been more than three feet behind me when I went through the front door and closed it.
Without stopping, I ran around the pool house toward the back door. I didn’t know how smart Dobermans were, but I hoped I was a step or two smarter. When I got to the back door, they had just figured the whole thing out and were dashing back toward me. I slammed the back door and leaned against the wall trembling.
I had them trapped in the pool house, and they were none too happy about it.
Moving to the pool, I stood and looked at the house for a few minutes. Nothing moved. Maybe Jamie and Ralph were frequent noisemakers. Since they were still barking, the people in the house probably thought they were all right, and things were in hand. At least, that’s what I was hoping for.
As it turned out, I was wrong. I was greeted at the back door leading from the living room to the garden by Brenda Beaumont. She was wearing black, a black suit and a small, black gun. She fit the room perfectly as she turned on the lights. She looked beautiful.
“Mr. Peters, you’re early.”
“I was in the neighborhood,” I said. “But I can come back later if it’s a bad time. I don’t want to disturb you and Lynn and the maid.”
“Lynn is staying overnight at a friend’s, and Juanita has the night off. We are quite alone,” she said grimly.
“Very romantic.”
“You are not charming,” she said leveling the gun at me. “Now you will give me the picture you have of Lynn.”
I took my wallet out carefully and handed her the picture of the girl.
“All this isn’t necessary,” I said. “In the first place, someone has the negative and can turn out hundreds of pictures.”
“I know who has the negative,” she said, “and it won’t be used to hurt Lynn or anyone else. It will be destroyed.”
“That makes things a little difficult,” I said. “The person who has that negative killed your husband this afternoon.”
“The police have already been here,” she said, sitting carefully, taking a cigarette and reaching for the Oscar lighter. She was trying to get up enough courage to do something, and I didn’t like what I thought it might be.
“Lynn’s a nice kid,” I said.
“I don’t need your opinion.” The gun came up, and I held my hands in front of me.
“Wait a minute,” I said amiably, “it’s not going to do her much good to have her father dead and her mother on trial for murder.”
“I won’t be on trial for murder,” she said. “We’re going up to my room. We are going to throw a few things around so it will look as if we had a struggle. You came here demanding money.”
“For what?” I said. “You’re not going to get Lynn involved.”
“No, but I have a very nice print of the picture of me and Charlie Cunningham. The police, I understand, know
