1 The Hollywood Detective (18 page)

She gave me another tiny nod and tears started to form in the corner of her eyes.

Suddenly there were shouts out in the hallway. Men’s voices.

“What the hell’s happening out there?” Clara asked.

“I imagine they’re looking for me.” I glanced round the room and saw a chair. I grabbed it and wedged it tight under the door handle.

“What d’you do that for?”

“Buying enough time for you to tell me why you’re here.”

She shrugged. “Guess it’s pretty simple. I keep quiet about what happened to me. The studio fixes me up and they make me a star. It’s the Hollywood dream, ain’t it?”

“Who did that to your face?”

“That’s the part I can’t tell you, but like I said, Mary knows how it works. Studios take care of their stars.”

“So it was a star did this to you?”

“Uh huh.”

“Which one?”

“Wouldn’t matter if I told you because you’d never believe me anyway. Nicest guy in Hollywood, or so they say.”

From the hallway came the sound of doors opening as residents tried to find out what all the fuss was about. That watchman and his pal wouldn’t be locked up for long.
 

“Clara. I wish you were right. I wish the studio really did plan to make you a star, but the doctor isn’t fixing your face tomorrow, he’s frying your brain.” I took her by the arms, gently but firmly. “E.C.T. makes people forget a lot of things. That’s what they want.”

She shook her head and pulled away. A tear fell down her cheek. “No, no. You’re wrong. Why would Mr Strickling go to so much trouble if they just wanted to do that?”

“What trouble?”

“Getting Mary’s necklace back from that Butterfield tramp for one thing… And making sure…”

“What?”

“Making sure the papers won’t have nothing bad to write about me when I’m a star.”

“What do you mean?”

“Wilfred Tomasky,” she said, her voice breaking as she said his name. “Do you know what kind of pictures he takes?”

I nodded. A flash of shame spread across her face.

“Eddie got all my pictures back from Tomasky’s. Why would Mr Strickling do that if he didn’t plan on making me a star?” Her blue eyes pleaded with me to agree.
 

The noise outside got louder. I heard a door slam. Then one distinct voice shouting over the hubbub.
 

The watchman must have been freed.
 

Footsteps thudded purposefully down the hallway. I had to go. I moved over to the window and looked out. It was about ten, maybe twelve feet to the ground below. I opened it.

“What are you doing?”

“We can’t get out of here the way I came, can we?”

The door handle rattled. The chair held.

“I’m not leaving.”

“They’re going to steal your memories.”

Tears streamed down her bruised cheeks. “If I leave with you I got nothing. If I stay here I still got a chance of being a star.”

There was a loud thump on the door. The chair jumped.

“I gotta take that chance.”

“But—”
 

“I made my decision.”

I looked into her face and realized there was nothing I could do to persuade her. “The necklace,” I said. “Have you got Mary’s necklace?”

Clara nodded.

“Get it for me! Quick!”

She knelt down and reached under the bed. I levered myself up onto the window frame.

The door shook again as the watchman banged hard on it. “If you don’t open this door I’m going to shoot my way in,” he hollered.

Clara pulled out a small cardboard box. I folded both legs beneath me and got ready to jump.

“Hurry!”

She lifted the lid.

Out in the hallway the watchman hollered again. “I’m going to count to five and if you haven’t opened the door by then you better stand well back. One…”

Clara pulled out the necklace.

“Two…”

She ran over to the window and handed it to me.

“Three…”

I slipped it in my pocket.

“Four…”

I jumped.

I pulled my knees up and my elbows in as I dropped through the air. I landed hard, fell onto my side and rolled. I struggled to my feet and started to run. I heard a voice above and behind me but I didn’t turn round.

“Hey! Stop!” It was the watchman hollering from Clara’s window. He was too heavy to follow me out. But not too heavy to fire a gun. A loud crack echoed through the grounds. Then another. A bullet thudded into the lawn right next to my bare feet. I willed my legs to move faster. Another bullet drove into the turf. Then another. I pumped my arms. My feet felt numb. I tried to focus my mind on the gate. And freedom.
 

The next bullet grazed the right leg of my pants. I ran onto the cinder driveway. I heard another shot, this one much louder than the watchman’s pistol. A shotgun. A second round sounded out.

 
Just keep going
.

I turned the bend and the main gate came into view. Just twenty more paces. I increased my speed and hurled myself at the latticed metalwork, clawing my way up as fast as I could. I swung my legs over and dropped onto the sidewalk on the other side. My bare feet hurt so bad, but I had to carry on. If I could just get to some place where there were would be people, I knew they wouldn’t fire again. I turned toward the seafront.

Another booming shot rang out, then a second one straight after. They were firing through the gate at me. I tried hard to pick up speed.

Then I heard another noise—the crunch of gears and the roar of an engine. A moment later I was blinded by headlights as a car turned into the street. It screeched to a stop right in front of me. The passenger door flew open. I froze.

“For crying out loud, Spencer. Get in!”

It was Red. Beautiful, glorious Red.

I ran toward the open door. “What are you doing here?” I jumped in.

“Saving your life by the looks of things.”

She floored the Cadillac and I craned my head to see a patrolman at the gate lower his shotgun.

“Jimmy Stewart?” Mary Treen’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates. “Are you sure?”

“She said it was the nicest guy in Hollywood.”

“But Jimmy Stewart? I’ve worked with the guy.”

We were all silent for a moment.

“I heard a few rumors about him at the Cocoanut Grove,” Red said, as if that explained the unexplainable.

Mary still looked like she didn’t believe it could be true.

“Maybe Clara will tell you herself when she comes home.”
I pulled open my desk drawer and reached inside for the necklace. I placed it carefully in front of her.

“Thank you,” Mary said absentmindedly. She was still getting to grips with Clara’s revelation.

“I want you to know how hard I tried to get her to leave with me, but she was adamant she wanted to stay.”

“And you say the—” Mary stalled. She took a breath. “The procedure, it will have taken place already?”

“It was scheduled for ten this morning,” Red answered.

“My my my.”

I looked at the clock on the wall: eleven o’clock. If this meeting didn’t take too long I could finally unwrap the new board and be in the ocean by midday.
 

“I guess we’ll only find out if Strickling was telling her the truth when her name crops up in
Variety
,” Red said.

“Do you think she’ll remember anything about what happened?” Mary asked.

“It’s a new kind of treatment,” Red answered. “I don’t think anyone really knows how it works.”

I shut the desk drawer and sat up straighter, hoping Mary would get the message I was ready to bring the meeting to a close.
 

“Now you know why I’m happy to stay out of the limelight,” she said and gave me a weak smile.

“This town sure will eat you up if you let it.”

Mary stared down at the necklace, but made no attempt to pick it up. “Do you know when Clara is expecting to return to L.A.?”

“Judging by her bruises it’ll be at least another week before they let her out of there.”

“My word,” Mary said. “She was that badly beat up?”

“I think she must have been in a lot of pain.”

“I guess you can understand why she didn’t want to… go against Strickling’s wishes. Who knows what the studio would do to her if she rocked the boat now.”

“I imagine Strickling’s acting on his own. I suspect the studio doesn’t know half the stuff he gets up to.”

“Well I’ve always found them real nice to work for.” She stared blankly toward the window.

“Will you be okay?” I asked.

Her eyes stayed focused on the middle distance, but then she pulled herself out of it. “Who, me? Sure. You know what they say? If you can’t stand the heat, get out of Los Angeles.” She stood up. “Thank you Mr McCoy, and Miss…?”

“Randall,” said Red, throwing me a look. “Rose Randall. Shall I send you the bill, or would you like to settle it now?”

Mary looked surprised. “I thought I’d already—”

“There have been quite a few expenses.” Red grabbed her notebook. “About ten dollars for gas, another six for the motel, oh and I’d say about fifteen for a new pair of shoes. And we’re not even including my lost car.” She threw another fierce glance in my direction.

“Your lost what?”

“Never mind,” I said.

Mary slowly opened her purse.

“Why don’t we send the bill, with all the receipts attached?” I smiled at her.

“That would be fine.”

“And of course there is the small matter of the extra hundred dollars. I believe you agreed to double the fee if Mr McCoy retrieved the necklace?”

“I did? Yes, yes I suppose I did. Add it to the bill.” She scooped up the jewelry and deposited it in her purse.

I shook Mary’s hand and showed her to the door. “I’m sorry this wasn’t quite the outcome you had hoped for,” I said. “But at least you know what happened to her.”

“If only that were some comfort. Goodbye, Mr McCoy.”

“Goodbye, Miss Summers.”

I closed the door behind her and smiled at Red. “You really are something. I would never have asked for the extra cash.”

“Oh come on, Spencer. That thing must be worth thousands, of course she should pay what she promised.”

“And charging her for my shoes? That takes a lot of nerve.”

“Nerve would be charging her for
my
shoes, but the cobbler thinks they can be fixed.” She looked around the room. “You really do need some help around here.”

“So you’ll stay?”

Before she could answer the door burst open and five cops rushed in.

“Spencer McCoy?” the first one inquired. He was twenty pounds heavier than the others and had at least ten years on them. His neck was wider than his head and he had sergeant’s stripes on his shoulders. “Answer me!”

I considered lying, but my name was painted on the door in two-inch high letters. “That’s me. And you are?”

“You’re under arrest.”

“Sure I am, great gag.”

A younger cop stepped toward me, grabbed my arms and slipped handcuffs on my wrists.
 

“Search the place,” his sergeant barked.

“Hey! What is this? What am I supposed to have done?”

“I can give you a list, but how about stealing a Cadillac convertible for starters?”

“I can explain—”

“Tell it to the judge.”

Red squared up to him. “You can’t just come in here and—”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Mr McCoy’s—”

“She’s my assistant, leave her outta this.”

“I suggest you leave, miss.”

Red stood her ground.
 

“Okay boys, search the place.”

Red looked on, open-mouthed, as the cops swiped books from shelves, emptied the file cabinets onto the floor, and ripped the brown paper from my surf board. Within ten seconds the place looked worse than it had a week ago.

“Found it.” One of the cops waved Vanderspoel’s cardboard box at his superior, then placed it on my desk. The thick-necked sergeant opened it up and peered inside.

“Spencer McCoy. You are under arrest for the theft of an automobile and the illegal possession of prescription narcotics.”

I took a deep breath, kept my chin high and stared right into the cop’s eyes. “I guess you knew just what to look for, huh?”

He tipped his head sideways and smiled at me. “Just a cop’s intuition.”

This had Strickling’s fingerprints all over it. Right now there was nothing I could do.

“Get him in the car.”

“Where are you taking him?” Red asked.

“Downtown.”

I looked at her. “Guess you’re in charge.”

They bundled me out of the office and down the stairs. There were three cop cars and a tow truck parked outside. I looked across the street. Every face in Joe’s diner was pressed against the glass. I glanced back at the office. I figured I might not be seeing it again for a while.

A window opened on the second floor and Red stuck her head out.

“Don’t worry Spencer,” she shouted down at me. “I’m not going anywhere. After all, somebody’s got to get you out of jail.”

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THE HOLLYWOOD DETECTIVE

MARTHA STEINWAY

First published 2013 by Venatrix

Version 1.1

Copyright © 2013 Martha Steinway

Robert Steinway has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission of the copyright owner.