1 The Hollywood Detective (14 page)

Small talk about Jimmy Stewart was getting me precisely nowhere. “Tell me about Clara Lockhart. When did you speak to her?”

“I’m sorry, but I never heard of the gal.”

“Then how did you come to be wearing her necklace?”

“I found it. I swear. I told Howard—”

“Mr Strickling,” Pearce corrected.

“I told Mr Strickling I didn’t steal it… but it didn’t stop him getting mad at me.”

“Where did you find it?”

“It was on the big old swing seat Powell has. It had fallen between the cushions. I only picked it up because I thought I might be able to find the girl it belonged to. I thought it was real smart of me to wear it at the premiere, with all those photographers around. I knew my picture would be in the paper and that way its rightful owner would see it.” I wasn’t sure I believed her. It sounded like a story she’d invented to cover herself. “Only Howa— Mr Strickling sees it different.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Put it this way,” said Pearce, “you may be the last person alive to see Gloria Butterfield.”

I looked at Pearce then back at Gloria. “I don’t understand.”

“Mr Strickling made it clear you couldn’t cause as much trouble as I had and not pay the price.”

“He said he’d make sure she never worked in this town again.”

“Just for taking the necklace?” I couldn’t believe it.

“Uh huh. So Monty here is taking me to a place in Palm Springs. I’m going to get a new nose and a new chin, and one day, when I’ve changed my name and I’m a big star, I’m going to tell everyone what Howard Strickling does to girls who disobey him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not the first girl he’s made disappear.”

I was starting to wonder if maybe I should tell the cops what I’d learned. It seemed pretty clear that Howard Strickling had used Eddie Mannix to silence Clara. Whether that meant taking her to a surgeon in the desert, or dumping her body in the ocean, I had no way of knowing. But I just didn’t trust the cops to get the job done. I still owed Mary Treen eleven hours of my time and if I had to spend every second of it tracking down Mannix and his Cadillac, then that’s exactly what I was going to do. One way or another, I was going to make him tell me what had happened to Clara.

I took Red’s Pontiac over to Culver City. The Plymouth was too smashed up to rely on, and besides—Mannix would recognize it straightaway. Though tailing him before had ended badly, right now it was my only option. All I could do was hope that if I stayed on his tail long enough, he’d lead me to Clara.

Around twelve-thirty in the afternoon his Cadillac pulled out of the gates. I followed at a safe distance behind, not wanting a repeat of the previous night’s encounter. I couldn’t believe the guy’s bravado, sailing around Los Angeles as if his conscience was clear. I watched as passersby pointed at his car, and I imagined him lapping up their attention. He must have had an ego the size of Clark Gable’s.
 

He moved north before heading west and I soon found myself on the road out to Oxnard. I thought briefly about the ten footer that was still unwrapped in the corner of my office and promised myself I’d break it out over the weekend—after I’d found Clara, or earned Mary’s cash—whichever came sooner.

I had figured Mannix was heading out to Goebel’s Lion Farm, so I was surprised when he drove straight on past. After another five miles, he took a turn and led me up into the Santa Monica mountains. Once we’d left the freeway, I had to be careful. There were now just a handful of cars on the road and I didn’t want to give him any reason to suspect he was being followed.
 

We’d climbed a few hundred feet before I noticed something truly alarming. Red’s unfamiliar instrument panel was telling me I was nearly out of gas. The car was on a steep incline, so I hoped that if I got back on the level the gauge would register more in the tank, but as we kept climbing I checked the needle every couple hundred feet. I’d never been in a car that had run out of gas, and I didn’t know what would happen. Would it just stop? Would something burn out? Or blow up?

I peered through the windshield and tried to work out Mannix’s final destination. The route through the Santa Monica mountains is one of the most beautiful in California. The roads twist round in a series of hairpin bends that give you a glimpse first of the ocean to the west, then the lush green slopes to the east. The route has another distinction too: it has to be the worst place within a hundred mile radius to conduct a tail. Not only are the roads more or less empty, especially at this time of year, but they’re so narrow there’s no way to overtake. And for half the journey you can’t even see the guy you’re tailing because he’s round the bend ahead of you. That’s when you tend to speed up, or lose concentration, because you’re worrying about never catching sight of him again.

I swung the Pontiac around another sharp bend and glanced at the instrument panel. According to the gauge, I was running on empty. Maybe it was broken. Maybe the tank was half full. As we continued to climb I wondered just where Mannix was headed. There weren’t too many options.

Compared to the Hollywood Hills there are very few properties in the mountains, but the houses tend be large, expensive, and owned by people who are prepared to pay a lot of money for privacy. A secluded villa would be an excellent place to hide Clara.

I couldn’t be sure, but I thought Mannix had slowed down. I was so concerned about the fuel gauge that I hadn’t been concentrating on the speedometer, but I felt I was incrementally gaining on him. That wasn’t a good sign. If I slowed down too, he’d know I was following him. Overtaking, if I could find a place to do it, was my best option. I was two hundred yards behind, then a hundred, and soon I was close enough to admire Mannix’s garish paint job.

He turned another bend and for ten seconds was lost to me. When I turned the same bend, I had to slam on the brakes: the Cadillac was now parked across the road blocking my way. Eddie Mannix climbed out. My heart pulsed hard inside my chest, my ribs thumped against the Colt.

I opened the door, stepped out into the arid mountain air and realized too late what was in Eddie’s hand.
 

“You’re the guy from last night.” He held the tire iron in his left hand, and spat into the palm of his right.

“Nice up here, isn’t it?” I asked. “Not too many folk, no one to witness a crime.” I reached inside my jacket for the Colt. He didn’t give me a chance to pull it out. He lunged at me, swinging the iron like a baseball bat. I ducked out of the way leaving the hood of Red’s Pontiac to take the blow. I reached again for the Colt as I stepped sideways and out of his reach. Mannix followed me round the side of the car. He brought the length of metal down again, this time smashing it into the roof of the Pontiac.
 

I aimed the gun at him.

“Drop it!” I hollered.

He ran at me, the iron high above his head.

I stumbled backward and pulled the trigger. My bullet whizzed off into the scrub. Mannix lunged at me, but he stumbled in the loose dirt, his feet slipping beneath him. He dropped down and fell forward.

Gripping the Colt with both hands, I hurried over to him. He wasn’t moving. For a moment I thought I’d actually hit him, the bullet somehow grazing him before it skidded away. A trickle of blood seeped out from under his cheek. Then I realized why: he had fallen on the tire iron. I checked his pulse. His heart was still beating.

I looked around. We were completely alone. No sign of any other cars on the road below, no houses overlooking us. And here I was standing over a guy I’d somehow managed to knock out without laying a finger on him.

I considered my options. There wasn’t enough gas in Red’s car to get me back to the city. I couldn’t go forward because the road was blocked by Mannix’s Cadillac. I holstered the Colt and opened the trunk of the Pontiac. It looked big enough for my needs. I stepped around the car and stood over Mannix. I took a deep breath, looped an arm under each of his and hauled him up. I heaved and managed to drag him three whole feet along the road. I heaved again and managed to get a little momentum going, this time I made it all the way to the trunk of the Pontiac. Another deep breath and I pushed his top half into the trunk. He was bent forward, face down, his legs hanging out the back of the car. I turned him over and I lifted one leg at a time, folding them into the trunk.

I hesitated. Should I shut the trunk? If I did he might not have enough air. I didn’t want to kill him, I just wanted him out of the road so no one would run him over. After a moment’s consideration I elected to leave the trunk open, then parked the Pontiac as close to the side of the road as I could so there was just enough space for another vehicle to pass. Then I threw the tire iron over the side of the road and watched it tumble down through scrub, bouncing off rocks and trees as it went.
 

I ran over to the Cadillac and climbed inside.

I carried on up the road in the hope that I’d stumble across Mannix’s intended destination. In a place like this, there weren’t too many options, so I continued to zig zag higher. The air felt a little thinner as it cooled with the altitude; or maybe my nerves were playing tricks on me.

I could see a house up ahead. As the crow flies it was only a mile away, but the switchback roads meant I drove for another three miles before I got there. The closer I got, the more I could make out. It was one of those hacienda villas, draped in bougainvillea and topped off with terracotta roof tiles. It was bigger than most apartment blocks in the city. When I was about fifty yards away, I noticed that its iron gates started to slowly open. When no car pulled out, I realized someone must have been checking the road for the arrival of a maroon and green Cadillac. I pulled in and parked at the top of a long driveway.
 

When I climbed out of the car, I noticed just how quiet the place was. Apart from a lark somewhere up high, everything was still. I glanced up at the second floor windows, with the forlorn hope I might see Clara watching me as I walked up the drive. The front door opened before I reached it and a young Negro man in a butler’s uniform stepped out into the sunshine.

“Hey! Where’s Eddie? He all right?”

“He… ah… he couldn’t make it.”

“Not like Eddie to miss an appointment.” He looked me up and down, unashamedly.

“He was real sorry he couldn’t make it.”

The man—not much more than a boy—stepped down from the porch to join me. His movements were labored, almost painful.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

“My legs are a little busted. Sorry to hold you up.”

I held out my hand. He seemed surprised but took it. “Spencer,” I said.

He smiled at me. “Tracy.”

“You’re kidding me!”

“That’s my name.”

“Well, I gotta say, that’s never happened to me before,” I said, laughing.
 

“Spencer. Tracy. Spencer. Tracy,” he repeated the words over and over, shaking his head and smiling.

“Nice place up here. Get many visitors?”

“Oh, yes, plenty. Lot of people need to see the doctor.”

I absorbed the new information and tried to keep my face blank. “Is the doctor in right now?”

Tracy gave me a questioning look: I must have said the wrong thing. I tried to back pedal. “Eddie didn’t really tell me who I was meeting up here, just gave me the address, you know.”

“He give you a parcel?”

A parcel? “Ah… sure. I’ll go get it.” I ran back to the Cadillac and opened the driver’s door. I could see nothing on the passenger seat, nothing in the footwell and nothing in the back. I shut the door. “He must have put it in the trunk,” I hollered over to Tracy. I popped the trunk where I found a long bore rifle—making me instantly grateful Mannix had plumped for the tire iron—and a brown paper package that was slightly bigger than a shoe box. I picked it up and read the label: Dr Vanderspoel. It was heavier than I’d expected. “Got it right here.”

Tracy smiled as I handed it over. “I’ll get Mr Channing to count it. You better wait here.”

“Any chance I could use the bathroom while I wait?”

Tracy looked at me as if I had asked to borrow twenty bucks. “You better be quick. Mr Channing don’t like guests.”

I followed Tracy into a lobby decorated with terracotta tiles and potted palms.
 

“It’s through there.” Tracy directed me to the bathroom which was only ten feet from the front door. I’d hoped to use the opportunity to do a little snooping. I closed the door firmly behind me and listened. There were footsteps in the lobby outside and hushed voices, nothing loud enough for me to make out distinct words. Even so, if somebody had mentioned Clara’s name, I think I would have been able to tell. I figured if she was being held at the hacienda, she was in a distant part of the building, well away from the prying eyes of visitors. I waited a minute then I yanked the chain. I turned the tap before returning to the lobby.
 

Tracy had company.

“Good afternoon.” A man in his early fifties, wearing a dark suit nodded to me. There was something effeminate about him. He seemed to be one of those men who start to look like women as they get older.

“Hello.” I extended my hand. “Spencer.”

“Where’s Mr Mannix?” The guy refused my hand and spoke deliberately and slowly, like a schoolteacher talking to the class dunce.

“He got held up.” It occurred to me maybe I should have tied Mannix’s wrists and ankles. He could be on his way up here right now.

“I spoke to him two hours ago.” He sounded suspicious.

“He got a call from home,” I said, saying the first thing that came into my head. “Family trouble. I don’t know the details.”

“There was more in the package than we were expecting. Did he explain that to you? Do you know what else he wanted?”

I hadn’t got a clue what he was talking about or how I should respond. I decided to keep it vague. “Guess you better take it up with him. Maybe leave it till tomorrow, on account of his family troubles.”

The older guy turned to Tracy and muttered something. Tracy turned and disappeared down a long hallway.