The Prince of Beverly Hills (25 page)

“What can I do you for?” the man asked.

Rick looked at the business license hanging on the wall nearby. “Are you Melvin Carson?” he asked.

“That’s me. If you’re selling something . . .”

“I’m not selling, I’m buying.”

Carson looked at him narrowly. “Buying what?”

“Information.”

“Information about what?”

“Let me lay it out for you, Melvin,” Rick said, retrieving a fifty-dollar bill from his pocket and laying it on the counter. “That’s two weeks’ rent for any room in the place.”

Carson looked interested. “So?”

Rick produced his lieutenant’s badge, showed him the handcuffs and gave the man a hard look. “Here’s the alternative,” he said. “Arrest, trial and conviction in a blackmailing scheme.”

“What are you talking about?” Carson asked indignantly.

“Let’s you and I take a walk. Come on.”

Carson got up and lifted the flap of the counter. “Where we going?”

“We’re going to look at the two rooms my suspect rents when he wants to take pictures.”

“Now wait a minute, mister . . .”

“Lieutenant.”

“Lieutenant, then. You’re a little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?”

“I’m a deputy sheriff, too.”

“Well, you ain’t got nothing on me.”

Rick slapped the man across the face with his open hand. “I don’t want to hear one more word of denial out of you, Melvin, because I’ve got a stack of photographs in my desk drawer that shows a lot of detail about the furnishings of one of your rooms, and I’ve got a witness, a victim, who is ready to testify in court that she was brought to this place against her will. Now, do you want a piece of a kidnapping and blackmailing charge? Because you’re going to do the same time as the other guy.”

“Which other guy is that?” Carson asked.

“That’s Chick Stampano,” Rick said. “Why? You got any other ‘business partners’?”

“Look, that guy is connected, you know what I mean?”

“His connections are nothing compared to mine. I’m connected to the district attorney and to the warden at San Quentin. How does twenty years sound?”

“You’re putting me in a spot, Lieutenant.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Melvin. Now, which room did Stampano use?”

“Down at the end,” Carson muttered, taking his passkey from his pocket. He led the way to the last room in the row and opened the door.

Rick followed him into the room and had a look around. It was seedy but clean, and the furniture could have been worse. He walked over to the mirror over the dresser, facing the bed, and peered into it, then he lifted it off the wall and had a look behind it. There was a hole in the wall, about four inches in diameter. Rick held the mirror up and looked at the reverse side. He could see clearly right through it. “Very cute,” he said.

“Look, I didn’t do that, and I don’t know who did.”

“Let’s take a look next door.” He followed Carson into the next room and found an identical setup. “Very nice. You can shoot from either room into the other.”

“I swear I didn’t know nothing about that.”

“Let’s go back to your office, Melvin.” He situated Carson at his desk. “I’ll bet you’ve got some stationery with the motel’s name on it, haven’t you?”

“Yessir.”

“Get out a couple of sheets.”

Carson opened a desk drawer and removed some stationery.

“Now, I want you to write me an account of how Chick Stampano came out here and made his deal with you. I want to know how many times he came, and who came with him, and don’t leave anything out.”

“Look,” Carson said, “I’d like to help, but that guy wouldn’t think twice about killing me.”

“He can’t kill you from San Quentin, so don’t worry about it. Anyway, I’m sure Stampano threatened you in some way to get you to do this awful thing. Maybe he even beat you up.”

“Well, yeah, that’s how it happened.”

Rick stood over him and supervised a first draft of his statement, then made him make a clean copy.

“Your fifty is on the counter, Melvin,” Rick said, “and it would be a very big mistake for you to get in touch with Stampano, you understand?”

“Yessir, Lieutenant,” Carson said.

“Enjoy your time as a free man, Melvin, and remember, it could come to an end at any time if you screw around with me.”

“I won’t say a word, Lieutenant.”

“And don’t leave town.” That always sounded good.

“No, sir.”

Rick got back into his car and drove back toward Santa Monica. At the place where the Pacific Coast Highway met Sunset Boulevard, he pulled into a parking lot next to a public beach, parked and got out. The beach was doing a little business today, with a lifeguard on duty and a few dozen people sleeping in the sun or bathing. There was a small brick building with a flat roof, situated maybe eight feet above the beach, that housed a men’s room at one end and a ladies’ at the other, and next to it stood two public telephone booths. He made a note of the numbers.

He turned around and looked at the hillside behind him. The houses were close together here. There was no really good spot. He turned and looked at the little building again, then he dragged over an empty garbage can, turned it upside down, climbed on top of it and had a look at the low roof. There was a parapet about eighteen inches high. That would do, he thought.

He had one more look at the view from the building down to the beach, then he got into his car and headed for Melrose Avenue, where he had two appointments to keep.

53

RICK GOT TO JIMMY’S before the others. He went to the pay phone and called Al, across the street in his gun shop.

“Hi, Al, it’s Rick Barron.”

“How are you, Rick?”

“Just fine.”

“You enjoying my little .45?”

“Well, I haven’t killed anybody with it yet, but you never know. You going to be around the shop for a while?”

“I close at six.”

“Wait for me until I show up, will you? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Rick thanked him and hung up, in time to see Ben Morrison and Tom Terry walk in together.

“You two know each other?” he asked them, shaking hands.

“We’ve met a couple of times,” Morrison said.

Rick took them to a booth in back. “What are you drinking?”

“Some of that twelve-year-old scotch, if you’re buying,” Morrison said.

“Same here,” Tom said.

Rick got the drinks and brought them back to the booth. They raised their glasses.

“Now, what’s up?” Morrison asked.

“Stampano.” He gave them a brief rundown on Glenna’s experience with the man, then he showed them the motel owner’s statement and the photograph of Stampano with the Keans and Glenna, with her face cut out. “He wants twenty-five grand for the negatives.”

“You going to pay?” Tom asked.

“I haven’t decided yet. Ben, do you think you could get a conviction of Stampano on the murder of the Keans and the kidnapping of Glenna with this evidence?”

“No, I don’t,” Morrison said. “All right, sure, he’s got a motive for the Keans, what with their holding out on him and all, but I can’t put him at the scene, and the guy in charge of that investigation says there’s no physical evidence. As for the kidnapping, the motel owner’s statement was written under duress, right?”

“Sort of.”

“So we’re nowhere.”

“I thought so,” Rick said.

“So why are we here?”

“If I can’t get the guy sent up, then I want to make him harmless.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I think Glenna hasn’t been his only victim,” Rick said. “My guess is that he’s got photos and negatives of other actresses from other studios and that he’s making very nice money from it. But none of them is ever going to testify against him. What I want is for you two guys, with whatever help you need, to steal the material from him while I keep him busy.”

“You know where he’s keeping them?” Tom asked.

“I think in one of four places,” Rick said. “His home, his office at the liquor distributor’s or the office at the Trocadero.”

“That’s only three.”

“The fourth is a darkroom somewhere on the premises of the Trocadero.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Where is Stampano going to get the film developed? He can’t take it to a drugstore or to a photo lab—they’d call the cops as soon as they saw what was on the film. But Ben Siegel runs the Trocadero, and there’s a woman there who goes around taking pictures of the guests, then developing them on-site.”

“Sounds good,” Morrison admitted.

“You know where Stampano lives?”

“Yeah. He’s got a house up in the Hollywood Hills, not all that far from your place.”

“Good.”

“I don’t think the liquor distributor is a good spot to search, though,” Ben said. “Stampano doesn’t have an office there, and I’ve never known him even to visit the place.”

“Okay, then we’re down to three spots.”

“When do you want this done?”

“Probably at dawn tomorrow morning.”

“Well, there won’t be anybody at the Trocadero at that hour, but how are you going to get Stampano out of his house?”

“You leave that to me. I want you to stake out his place from about five o’clock tomorrow morning, and as soon as you see him leave the house, get in there.”

“Do you know where he keeps the prints and negatives?”

“My guess is he has a safe, so I want you to take a safecracker with you. You know Hans?”

“The little German guy? Sure. Will he do it?”

“Show him a badge, and he’ll do it.” Rick peeled off five hundred dollars and gave it to Morrison. “Give Hans a hundred, and you guys split the rest.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll call you tonight and confirm that I have Stampano set up.”

“Okay.”

“And, Ben, Tom: Don’t get any ideas about hanging on to some of what you find for entertainment purposes, you understand me?”

“Rick, you wound me,” Ben said.

“I want all of it, so that I’ll know it’s been destroyed.”

“Of course.”

“How you going to get Stampano out of the house?”

“I’m going to offer him money.”

“That ought to do it.”

“Okay, fellas, go home and wait for my call.” He got out his notebook and wrote down two phone numbers. “And when you’ve finished the job at all three places, call me at one of these numbers. Let it ring once, then hang up. Then call again and let it ring twice and hang up. Then I’ll know you were successful. If you don’t find the stuff, just let the phone ring until I pick it up, and that may take a lot of rings.”

“Whatever you say, Rick.”

Rick tossed off the rest of his drink. “I’ve already paid for another round, so take your time.” He shook hands with them, then left Jimmy’s and walked across the street to Al’s gun shop. The lights were still on.

Rick let himself into the shop and looked around. Al waved from his desk at the rear of the shop. He was the only one in the place. Rick locked the door and turned around the CLOSED sign, then walked to the rear.

“Have a seat,” Al said. “You want a drink?”

“I just had one, thanks.”

“What’s up?”

“Let me get right to the point: Eddie Harris has told me I can call on you for, ah, extracurricular work.”

“He did?”

“He did, and I need some done.”

Al regarded him evenly, then he sat back in his chair. “Who do you want killed?”

“Nobody yet, I hope. But I need you just the same. What kind of shot are you with a rifle?”

“I can shoot the eye out of an owl at three hundred yards,” Al said. “If it ain’t too windy and I can choose my weapon.”

Rick explained what he wanted done. “What kind of weapon would you use?”

“For a long-range kill?”

“No, for short range—say, twenty-five yards, and to frighten, not kill, unless it becomes necessary.”

Al beckoned for him to follow, then led him downstairs to the basement, where he had a firing range. He took a big rifle from a rack and handed it to Rick. “I’d use that,” he said.

“Pretty heavy,” Rick said, hefting it. “What is it?”

“A BAR—Browning Automatic Rifle. The army used it in the last war. It’ll fire semiautomatic, or full automatic, five hundred and fifty rounds a minute. Takes a magazine of twenty, fires a 30–06 round. Highly accurate with a scope, highly frightening without one, on auto.”

“Sounds perfect,” Rick said. He told Al what he wanted done. “Here are the signals I’m going to use.” He showed Al the signs.

“Got it.”

“And if anybody so much as points a gun at me, kill him.”

“I’ll want a grand to be there. If I have to kill anybody, it’s five grand apiece.”

“I’ll bring cash,” Rick said. He gave Al a full briefing, then left the shop and returned to the studio.

Glenna was still sleeping peacefully, and he did not disturb her. He went to his own office on the stage and dialed Stampano’s number.

“Hello?”

“This is a friend of Glenna,” Rick said. “She’s asked me to deliver your money.”

“It’s Barron, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. If you want the money, there are rules to follow. Deviate from the rules and you don’t get paid. Is that clear?”

“Tell me your proposition.”

“There’s a public beach where Sunset ends at the Pacific Coast Highway. Know it?”

“Yeah.”

“You show up there tomorrow morning at six o’clock sharp, and I mean sharp. Come alone. You park at the extreme south end of the parking lot, walk down to the beach and walk north on the sand. I’ll be walking south on the beach. Got that?”

“Why the beach?”

“So that I can see you’re alone. You bring all the negatives and prints of any photographs showing Glenna. I’ll bring twenty-five grand. You hand me the prints and negatives, I hand you the money. We both walk away. Glenna never hears from you again and no photograph of her taken at the motel is ever published anywhere. That’s it. Take it or leave it.”

There was a silence.

“Well?”

“I’m coming armed.”

“That’s okay, so am I, but you’d better not have anything in your hand at any time.”

“I don’t like the sound of all this.”

“Then go fuck yourself.”