land and an ornamental steel gate and fence. The gate was open. I parked and walked up the driveway. Then I froze. Two massive Doberman Pincers had dashed at me from around the house. They sniffed at me growling, showing teeth and generally suspicious. I tried to say gentle things, but they weren’t buying any.
After a full minute of this, a woman’s voice called from the house:
“Jamie, Ralph, come.”
The dogs backed off reluctantly eyeing my juicy arms and disappeared around the house. I walked slowly up the drive and to the door.
A woman in a light blue dress stood there with her arms folded. As soon as I looked at her, I had the answers to several questions.
The beautiful blonde woman in front of me was Brenda Stallings, a wealthy society deb of a little more than a dozen years earlier. She had doubled for Harlow and then had a short, successful film career before marrying an actor. The actor, I now remembered, was Harry Beaumont. Her money accounted for the home.
I had not seen all of her pictures, but I had seen her in the one in Charlie Cunningham’s apartment that morning. The photograph of her and the dead blackmailer was in my pocket, and I touched it for luck. I also smiled.
“Yes,” she said coldly.
“My name’s Peters. I’m working for some people at Warners on a rather delicate matter. I’d like to talk to Mr. Beaumont.”
“He’s not in,” she said starting to close the door. I stopped the door from closing with my hand.
“Then I’d like to talk to you.”
“Remove your hand or I’ll call the dogs.”
With my free hand, I pulled the photograph of her and Cunningham and held it up so she could see it. She looked at it soberly and let go of the door.
“Please come in, Mr. Peters,” she said. I did.
4
Brenda Stallings Beaumont walked ahead of me without looking back, which suited me fine. I enjoyed watching her. Her legs were great and her yellow hair bounced softly on her neck.
Every inch of the floor was carpeted, thick white carpeting. We moved from room to room. The house was big, and each room was streamline decorated in brown, black or white or combinations. It looked like an R.K.O. set.
Everything was soft, plush and looked unlived in or on.
We stopped in a room the size of a tennis court. It was a kind of living room with two extra-long white sofas, three soft white chairs and a couple of black tables. A gold Oscar stood on one of the tables.
On the wall above a white brick fireplace were two huge painted portraits. One was of Brenda Stallings, bronzed and queenly in white. The other portrait was Harry Beaumont wearing a white jacket and a red scarf around his neck. He was looking down at me with his trademark, a combination of smile and sneer.
Brenda Stallings dropped lazily into an armchair and motioned toward one of the sofas in front of her. I sat.
“Well,” she said looking at me, “I assume you are not soliciting for campaign funds for Wendell Willkie.”
I had sunk uncomfortably deep into the sofa. I felt out of place.
“You said something like that in
“Something like that,” she said without a smile, “but it was to Franchot Tone. You have the wrong studio. Now, what do you want?”
“Blackmail,” I said.
Without looking at me she plucked a cigarette from a silver box on the table in front of her and put it to her lips. Then she reached for the Oscar which stood on the table in front of her. She raised it, touched something on the back and a flame spurted out of Oscar’s gold head. She lit her cigarette.
“I didn’t know you or your husband ever won an Academy Award? Is that a fake or did I miss something?”
She looked at the statue and not at me and blew a cloud of gray smoke.
“It’s real, belonged to an actor who pawned it two years ago. We bought it and had it converted to a lighter to remind us how quickly fame and respect can be lost.”
“Blackmail,” I repeated, trying to shift to a comfortable position. There was none.
“I heard you,” she said. “I have no intention of paying you for that photograph.” She looked at me. Her eyes were cold blue, and very beautiful.
“You don’t care if your husband sees it?” I said.
“Not in the least. Harry and I are separated and have been for some time. If you read the columns you would also know that we are past the verge of divorce. I don’t think Harry would have the slightest interest in the photograph. I am willing to give you, say, $100 nuisance payment, but not a cent more, and if you don’t want it …” She shrugged and pouted slightly.
I grinned. “You pouted like that in
“A fan,” she said dryly.
“Why haven’t you asked me where I got the picture?” I continued.
“You got it or stole it from Charlie,” she said. “I rather expected something like this from him. Did he put you up to it?”
“I took it from his apartment,” I went on.
“He won’t like that Mr..…”
“Peters, Toby Peters. I told you at the door. Charles Cunningham is dead, murdered, a 38 slug in his eye.”
I watched her face. She took another gentle drag at her cigarette and looked at me without emotion. She shrugged again.
“I knew him for a few months. At first he was interesting. I liked his looks, his ambition and his confidence.”
“And you got him a job at Warners with Sid Adelman?”
“Yes,” she sighed. “Charlie Cunningham’s death is of little interest to me. In fact, I am.…” She stopped and rose with her arms folded.
“You are what? Happy? Relieved?” I tried to stand gracefully, but sank awkwardly back into the sofa.
“I am going to ask you to leave. You can take the photograph or the $100.”
“You misunderstood me.” It was my turn to sigh and shrug. “I didn’t come here to blackmail you. I work for Sid Adelman, and I am here to talk about blackmail, but not yours.”
She sat again, cocked her head at me with curiosity and began to play with the Oscar lighter.
“Your husband was at lunch a few days ago with certain people at Warners when one of them received a blackmail threat from Cunningham complete with a photograph, not the one of you and Cunningham. Didn’t your husband tell you about this?”
“We are separated, Mr. Peters, remember. Harry has not lived here for six weeks, and I doubt if he ever will again.”
“Well,” I said, finally pulling myself out of the seat, “I guess I’d better go find Mr. Beaumont. I may have to talk to you again. It strikes me as quite a coincidence that Cunningham was trying blackmail, that you knew him well, and that your husband happened to be at the table when the blackmail note came. Did you know Cunningham went in for blackmail?”
“No,” she said, putting out her cigarette, “but I knew that he was ambitious and a miserable character in addition to being a liar.”
“And a photographer,” I added. She looked at me puzzled.
“Do you mind telling me your husband’s financial situation?”
