Murder on Location (29 page)

“Why make the change? What difference does it make? The only thing that I can think of is this: if Peggy was born in December, and not October, there is no way that her real father could have been James A. Sayre.”

“What?” Savas looked really surprised. I didn't often see that expression of sincere incredulity written on his face.

“That's right. Sayre finished work on
Donnybrook
in the early winter of '53–'54. He told me he was gone by February '54. He could have fathered a child born to Claudia in October. When I talked to her long distance in La Jolla last week, the subject of Jim Sayre was still a sore one. But apart from the slip about her sign of the Zodiac, she didn't drop her guard. She said that it was the
younger girls who played around not her. By disguising the birthday she was able to keep the truth from Sayre. But I think he found out about it years later. That's why he has stood up for Peggy, that's how she got her start in his movies. He probably felt rotten about not being in on the birth of his daughter but he tried to make up for it.

“Who else knew about Sayre and Claudia Horlick? Not her husband. Not the studio brass. But the other girls knew. They could count backwards on their fingers faster than a cash register can ring up No Sale. One of these girls, Blanche Tyler, became the first wife of Neil Furlong of blessed memory. Is it likely that Blanche would keep a juicy piece of gossip about the origin of one of the youngest and brightest stars in years a secret? She knew that Furlong lived on gossip, filled his plays with it. Maybe she thought that it would bind him to her for a little longer. I don't pretend to know that.

“Sayre is a gentleman of the old school, in spite of his tough-guy front. I think he enjoyed playing a secret role in Peggy's life. He wanted to be her Daddy Warbucks, her Daddy Longlegs.”

“But why?” Why did he want to keep in the background?”

“Because Peggy'd had a happy upbringing. She loved her supposed father and doted on the whole family connection with show business. He didn't want to rain on her strawberry festival. He was glad to see her getting on in pictures and happy to see her about to team up with Hamp Fisher. Sure, Fisher was known as an eccentric, but
nobody ever said anything low or mean about him. So what if he did have a peculiar fear of microbes? I don't care that much for them myself. A bit of an oddball, but solid in a business way, and, most important, nuts about Peggy. As a father, Sayre approved the match.

“But then along comes the spoiler: Neil Furlong. He knew all about the past and tried to get Sayre to help him with his own suit to Peggy O'Toole.”

“That's plain crazy! He was still married for one thing.”

“Yes. Just another good reason for including Miranda in his scheme to rid the world of David Hayes.”

“You're saying Furlong tried to pressure Sayre into helping him with Peggy, or he'd reveal to Peggy that Sayre was her real father?” Chris asked carefully.

“That's it. He wanted Peggy so bad he couldn't wait. And the sight of Hamp Fisher on the scene meant he had to act fast. He asked Sayre to help him or else. Sayre saw red, and, not having a bull whip handy, drove Furlong to try to make a getaway.”

“But why did the bastard think Sayre would help him?”

“He knew Sayre liked playing Dutch uncle to Peggy. He knew that Sayre wanted to suppress the real story of her paternity. He wanted to protect Peggy, her mother and her career. He didn't want to cause Peggy to feel any differently toward her early life or her parents. He carried a lot of guilt around with him. Furlong couldn't have
touched a nerve more tender than that one. And he paid for it with his life.”

“But Furlong didn't have a chance with Fisher around.”

“Sure, and the choice would always remain Peggy's, but Furlong knew Fisher would run off like a startled rabbit if any story suggesting Peggy's promiscuity got to him. He is one of those guys who lives in constant fear of picking up a dose. All Furlong had to do was bring that kind of report to his attention, and then open out his welcoming arms to pick up the pieces. Also all Fisher needed to hear was the story that Peggy was a bastard and that would have queered any marriage. He was all heart, was Furlong.”

“Pretty hare-brained all round,” Pete said. “I guess he was getting desperate.”

“It hadn't been his week. First Billie came back making demands, then Hayes made bigger ones. He killed Hayes and then Miranda. I think he was proud of his performance there: two perfect crimes, and one cancelling out the other. But he hadn't figured on Sayre. Sayre wanted no part of Furlong's scheme. Furlong was about to blemish the one thing in his life that he had tried to keep pure: Peggy. Sayre didn't want to see Furlong's shadow pass over her; he wasn't going to let the arch-spoiler claim another unearned victory. So he got Furlong mad and followed him out on the ice waving that gun around like a sheriff in a western.”

I heard my mother's footsteps on the carpeted stairs. She came into the room with a tray of instant coffee which she'd poured into a Silex to improve its provenance. She was beaming.

“Don't get up,” she said, and Chris and Pete began at once to climb out of their deep chairs. “I'll put the tray down on top of the magazines.” I helped clear a place. “I'm getting used to having a house full of people again. It's like when the boys were young. The house was always full of their friends. I used to wonder. ‘Don't they have families?' I think it was the Baked Alaska. I never got it right. But then they kept coming back just the same.”

Ma had got dressed and was even looking glamorous for a change. She sat down and let Chris and Pete exchange awkward glances. When you could almost hear the clock ticking next door, she asked: “So, you are friends of Benny? You live in town here?” Savas and Staziak answered together so you couldn't make out what they said. I tried to get into the act:

“Pete and I were at the Collegiate together. I was in a play with his sister.” She nodded the way she does when she's after deeper truths than the ones I'm relating.

“We're with the Niagara Regional Police,” Chris confessed.

“Oh!” she said with her eyebrows, and repeated the information as though that made it come true. “Benny's in that line too, aren't you, Benny?”

“In a way, Ma. But Chris and Pete are very high up in the Criminal Investigative Branch. They're working on a case.”

“I see, I see. They're with the city. They get salaries, and overtime and pensions. They've got the right idea.” Turning to Chris and Pete she said, “Maybe you could talk my son out of being the lone ranger all by himself. A freelance policeman? What kind of life is that?”

With no luck at all I tried to get the conversation back to the weather. When I left them, they were all discussing a recent rash of hospital deaths in Grantham. Ma had her theory and I left Chris and Pete to hear her out.

TWENTY-FIVE

I didn't honestly care if I ever saw the Falls again. The river-front felt like a relative you know better than you want to. I wandered around the trapline I'd set in the bars and coffee shops of the two big hotels, chatted with the house men, and gossiped with some of the movie people. Wally Skeat bought me a drink. Peggy introduced me to her intended. But nowhere in all my peregrinations from Table Rock to the Rainbow Bridge, or from the Surf Lounge to the Pagoda did I find a trace of the fine tawny hide of Billie Mason. After dark, I called it a day and came back along the familiar highway to Grantham.

In the United I was dozing into a daydream which featured me and a cast of refrigerated extras crossing the ice bridge. If I don't watch myself, I slip into fantasies so worn they have toe-holds built into them. In front of my coffee I could hear the voice of the waitress: “What's got into you lately? How come you stopped the back-chat?” I brought her into focus. The name “Irene” was clipped to the nicest part of her, and she was slipping a toasted
chopped egg sandwich in front of me next to a tall glass of milk.

“Huh?”

“Never mind. You're just different, that's all. I get more conversation out of the mad scribbler than I do out of you these days. Never mind. Never mind.” She walked down to the other end of the counter and another failure was added to those of the afternoon. I tried to think of something bright. All I got back were glimpses of Billie hiding between the napkin holder and the ketchup. It wasn't my day, and I slunk back to the office.

Ma phoned to announce that Linda Levin was seeing a computer programmer from Buffalo. She told me twice in the same five-minute conversation and was going around for the third time when I told her I had a client. It was a lie when I said it, but a rap of knuckles at the door made it true about thirty seconds later. I was looking at an offer to try handcuffs on a thirty-day-no-money-down basis when I saw Billie Mason walk into the room. I picked up my fallen cigarette and replaced it in my mouth.

“I guess you're mad at me,” she said. Billie Mason was still the gorgeous woman I first remembered seeing in the eight-by-ten photograph her husband had shown me. Seeing her settle into the chair before my desk was an education in Technicolor. “For running away like that, I mean.” She was doing her best to look contrite, and her choice of outfit for the visit achieved something like the effect of a young girl's communion dress. I noted the
theatrical effort and decided not to be affected by it, then swallowed a lump in my throat.

“Not exactly mad, Billie. More like blind rage. Where the hell have you been?” She bit the nail of her right hand, while the snow on her open coat began to shine as it melted. I usually help clients off with their coats, but in Billie's case, she could manage or not manage. I was beyond caring.

“I had to go back to the Falls. I had to finish my business there.”

“You haven't been near the Falls. What are you talking about?”

“I had to see Ed Noonan.”

“I saw Ed Noonan. You didn't.”

“I had private business with Neil.”

“On an ice floe? Come on.” She looked at me with her head cocked, shoulders vulnerable. She was pulling out all the stops, but it sounded sour. I offered her a cigarette, but she shook her head like I'd suggested we go for a dip in the Eleven Mile Creek behind my office. I watched her. The word that came to mind was pouting. She was copping a plea, but I wasn't buying it.

“You've gone back to Lowell, haven't you?” She examined the worn edge of my desk, running a finger along it, finding more dust than she'd bargained for, stalling. “Well?” The prickle behind my knees was acute. “Well, Billie?”

“Oh, he isn't all that bad. I mean, Benny, he's not a bad man. He's no genius, and he's not always been straight, but he's mine.”

“He doesn't move in the crowd Furlong moved in. He won't ever be nominated for an Academy Award.”

“I know. And maybe he won't end up like Neil did. We had a talk, Benny, a serious talk. We should have years ago. He's going to try to break with Pritchett. He doesn't need anybody else and it's no loss to Tony: he thinks Lowell lost his nerve. Real estate's not so bad …” I let her drift away for a few seconds while I wondered what the CBC documentary Norman Baker was putting together would do to the reunited couple. I'd know in less than three months. It would certainly give Tony Pritchett new things to worry about.

“… It's a good living, really. And I'm pretty good at selling. I bet I could find you a better place than this office. And as for that hotel you're living in …”

“What did Solmi want you to do?” She frowned and I could see her face changing as she decided whether to tell me the truth or not.

“He wanted me to arrange a meeting between him and Tony Pritchett. I told him I would, just to get him to let me go. He thought that Tony was moving into the Falls area because I was there. He thought I was connected with money Tony'd put in the movie. I didn't even know about that. I didn't know it but Tony
was
planning to move into the Falls. I guess I tipped his hand. How was I
suppose to know? People should be franker with one another.”

“So, the English mob was about to push into the Falls and didn't want anyone connected with them to give the game away.”

“Funny, thinking of them all now.”

“Pritchett had money in the movie. You were seen with Furlong. Since he was the writer of the script, Pritchett must have thought you were spilling your guts out while he took it all down and divided it up into scenes. Did you know you'd been spotted?”

“Tony's man saw us at Hatch's place on New Year's Eve.”

“Tall, lank-haired stringbean?”

Billie nodded.

“As soon as Pritchett found out he put the gears to your husband. That's how I came into it. You understand now why Pritchett was worried about you having anything to do with the movie?”

“People are so materialistic.”

“There'll be more killed before this mob war you started cools down. Don't blame yourself too much. Things had been quiet for longer than usual. I played my nasty part in it too.”

“Blame myself? I don't understand.” Her eyes were round and big.

“Forget it. Just for the record, Billie, when was the last time you saw Dulcie Osborne? Do you remember seeing her the day she died?”

“Yes, I saw her. She knew I'd broken with Neil, and that Neil was planning to return to Toronto. She was in love with him.”

“Did you know that she was pregnant?” Billie's face turned toward the light coming in from St. Andrew Street. It was one of those grey winter days when the light is blunt and hard as metal.

“Yes, I knew. What does it matter now?”

“Not much, I guess. I'm just tidying up my desk. So Dulcie had a better argument than you had for Neil to stay in the Falls. You couldn't see him doing public relations for the railway for the rest of his life, but she could.”