The Monet Murders (23 page)

“Do you believe in coincidences?”

“Only in Charles Dickens.”

“Good for you. Let me think about this bit of news. Meanwhile, lemme know if you run across any more coincidences.”

He even sounded appreciative.

Next, I called Manny Stairs's private number. He actually sounded happy to hear from me. It seemed that today would be a good day for me to enter a popularity contest.

“How's life treating you?” he asked.

“Not bad. But I'd like to ask a favor.”

“If I can.” By which he meant, if he felt like it.

“I'd like to get ahold of Catherine and ask her a couple of questions about her time out on the
Lucky Lady
. She might be able to give me some insight into a case I'm working on.”

Manny paused to think it over. “I guess there's no harm in that. She's at my house.” He gave me the number.

“How's everything working out between you?” I asked, just to be polite.

“Smooth as silk,” he said. “First-rate. Take my word for it.”

Of course I didn't have to take his word for it, but there was no sense going into that.

“Hiya, Sparky. How's tricks?”

“Not bad.” It was Catherine, making her entrance into the Polo Lounge, where I was waiting for her. It was the following day. Meeting there was her idea. She seemed to think it was appropriate, now that she was in the movie business, almost.

She was wearing a diaphanous white silk dress, a rope of perfect pearls, and a diamond-crusted Cartier watch—altogether an outfit that conveyed two points she wished to make: she was being well kept by a rich man, and the rich man was getting his money's worth. The men in the room and a few of the women watched her entrance with understanding and appreciation. As usual, she had decided that
underwear was superfluous and even might get in the way of her message.

She sat down at my booth and gave me a hundred-watt smile.

“So? To what to I owe the pleasure of this meeting?” she asked in a mock grande dame accent. “Did you fall in love with me like I told you not to?”

“Not yet. This is more in the line of business.”

She looked at me skeptically. “Monkey business, I'll bet. But I don't mind. Manny's going out of town today. There's a western being made out in some godforsaken hole in Utah, and the director's gone way over budget. Manny's going out there to knock a few heads together, if he can reach them. So I'll have a break for a few days.”

“I imagine you can use it.”

“Tell me about it. How do you like my new jewelry?”

“Beautiful. Like the one wearing it.”

“Smooth talker. So, what's on your mind?”

“As I said, it's business.”

“And to think I went to all this trouble getting dolled up. Well?”

“How long did you work on the
Lucky Lady
?”

“About a week. Seemed longer. Why?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“No.”

“It doesn't matter, I guess. I'm working on a case involving Charles Watson. Does the name mean anything to you?”

“Not offhand.”

“His wife shot her boyfriend and then killed herself. It was in the papers.”

“If it ain't in
Variety
or the funny papers, I don't read it. Or the rotogravure. That's where the celebrity pictures are.”

“Well, the story is this guy Charles Watson is a local real estate developer and a high roller. Runs with the Hollywood crowd. And likes to gamble. Now and then, these guys would go out to the
Lucky Lady
and Tony would set up something special for them—a private room, drinks, other treats.”

“Oh, I know what you're talking about. Some of the other girls got involved. So?”

“Charles Watson was out there on the
Lucky Lady
the night his wife shot herself after killing her boyfriend.”

“Seems like a waste. I can see killing a rat, assuming he was a rat, but why kill yourself?”

“I see your point, but that's what happened.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“I'd like to know anything you can tell me—or find out—about the relationship between Tony and Charles Watson. Or anything about Watson, alone. Anything at all.”

“What's in it for me?”

“I promise not to fall in love with you.”

“That's it?”

“Well, a fair-minded person would also understand that I have been the Cupid in your new and profitable arrangement.”

“You're saying I owe you one?”

“Kind of. And don't forget who rescued you from the pool at the Garden of Allah.”

“I thought I paid you back for that sometime around three
A.M.
“

I had to admit she had a point. “All right. So let's just say I'd like you to do me a favor.”

“Okay,” she said with a grin. “I'm as fair-minded as all hell. And speaking of profitable, these are real.” She fingered her pearls. “I checked.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“That I checked or that they're real?”

“Both.”

“Well, I don't mind playing junior detective for you. The fact is, now that Manny's going to be gone for a few days, I was planning to go out and see Tony anyway.”

“Wanting to keep your fallback position in place?”

“Something like that. A girl's gotta look out for number one. But how am I supposed to ask Tony about this bird? I assume you don't want him to know it's part of a case you're working on.”

“If at all possible, no. But I haven't come up with much of a cover story. I thought maybe we could discuss it.”

She thought for a moment or two.

“I got it. I don't talk to Tony about it at all. I talk to one of the dealers. There's a guy named Al Cohen who's Tony's top dealer. He'd be the one to handle those high-roller private games. He knows more Hollywood dirt than Louella Parsons. And he likes me.”

“Who could blame him?”

She batted her eyes with no trace of demureness, if there is such a word.

“Smooth talker,” she purred. “So. Whaddayah think of my idea, huh?”

“It sounds good,” I said. “At least it's a discreet place to start.”

“Well, you know me. I'm discreet as all hell. Now let's eat. I'm starved. All I ever get for breakfast is lox and bagels served on a tray. And fruit. After a while, a girl wants some bacon and eggs.”

I went back to the office. Della was there reading the paper and smoking.

“Hiya, chief.”

“Good afternoon, loyal employee. No writing today?”

“I got writer's block. Say, did you see this piece in the paper?
BODY WASHES ASHORE IN MALIBU. VICTIM APPARENTLY BRAINED AND DUMPED AT SEA
.”

“What?!” A bolt of panic shot through me.

She lowered the paper and grinned maniacally. “Just pulling your chain, chief.”

“Jesus, Della, I didn't need that.”

“How's Myrtle doing?”

“Better than you might expect.”

“I'm not surprised. She's got some deep currents, that girl.”

“You have no idea how deep,” I replied. “Any calls?”

“Some guy named Bunny, if you can believe it.”

“I can.”

“Sounded like one of those English pansies who are overrunning our fair city.”

“He's English, but that's the extent of it. Teaches art at UCLA. Did he say what he wanted?”

“No. Just that you should call him back.”

Bunny answered after the first ring. “Finch-Hayden,” he said.

“Bunny, it's Bruno Feldspar.”

“A.K.A. Thomas Parke D'Invilliers?”

“The same. But you can call me Tom. What can I do for you?”

“I came across a bit of information that will be of interest to you. It's not the sort of thing I'd like to discuss over the phone, though. Could you manage to stop by my office? Whenever it's convenient, of course.”

“I could come over there now.”

“Splendid. I'll be here all afternoon, so just turn up whenever you like.”

“I'm on my way.”

I drove down Hollywood Boulevard to Santa Monica Boulevard and turned right on Wilshire past the Los Angeles Country Club. I could see a couple of foursomes in plus-fours and sweaters and neckties. Most were hacking futilely at balls in the deep rough or pushing putts five feet past the hole. A lot of them were short and pudgy. The rest were tall and pudgy. I envied them their membership, but not their golf swings. Well, maybe someday, although I knew being a private detective was not the avenue to membership. The committee would regard that as putting a fox in the henhouse. But I didn't intend to be doing this forever. And I fancied myself in plus-fours and a necktie. I wasn't the least bit pudgy.

It was another perfect day for having a convertible. In fact, so much of Los Angeles was beautiful—the palm trees, the sunshine, the clean smell of ocean air, the mountains to the east that looked closer than they were—and yet here I was; my reason for being in that paradise was to investigate multiple crimes and misdemeanors—murder, suicide, theft, forgery, gambling, clandestine sex of all descriptions.

Well, the common denominator in the seamy side of life was always people. The more beautiful California was, the uglier the human inhabitants seemed to be. I'm not talking literally here, you understand. Obviously there were more physically beautiful people in L.A. than in any other place on the globe, although it had its share of gargoyles too, mostly people who worked behind the cameras. But there was something missing here that was always missing wherever
numbers of humans congregate. Mark Twain said that God invented man because he was disappointed with the monkey, and I never argue with Mark Twain. Of course, there's the dissenting view—“What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In form, in moving, how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god!”

Well, maybe somewhere. But not in L.A. (If you're wondering how I came up with that Shakespeare quote, it's easy to explain—I was helping Myrtle out with one of her homework assignments.
Hamlet,
if you can believe it. Based on our practice sessions, she wasn't ready for the Bard quite yet, but she was coming along.)

Having helped cover up a homicide, I, of course, had no grounds for moralizing, and I understood that I was not much different from everyone else. But I could live with it. And then there was the undeniable fact that all the various foibles and sins committed in this paradise were good business for me.

I parked near the UCLA art museum and walked through the crowds of depressingly beautiful coeds, bright and fresh. They were part of the good scenery of California. They hadn't been corrupted yet. At least they didn't look like it. But then you couldn't always tell by looking. One or two gave me a sly smile that indicated they might be in the starting gate.

I knocked on Bunny's office door and heard his cheerful “come in.”

“Hello, Tom,” he said. “Or have you changed your name since we last talked?”

“Not yet. I'm thinking of going with Felton Hardy, but I haven't quite decided.”

“It would be a sad step down from D'Invilliers. I advise against it. Have some coffee?”

“Sure. But I thought this was always the time of day the Brits had high tea.”

“It is. But I'm an iconoclast.”

“I'm a Presbyterian, myself.”

He smiled, indulgently, like a fond parent regarding an imbecilic child. And I admit, as witticisms go, mine was pretty lame.

Once again his prim secretary materialized with a tray and the inevitable macaroons. That aroused a sleeping black Labrador retriever, who waddled over to the tray and sniffed appreciatively.

“This is King Arthur,” said Bunny. “Goes by Tom. Seems to prefer it. Not one to stand on ceremony, our King Arthur. ‘Large, divine, and comfortable' about describes him. Do you know the line?”