The Monet Murders (6 page)

The elevator operator was an ancient character with a nasty squint. He wore a shiny maroon uniform topped off with a bellman's cap. The brass buttons had lost their shine back during the Spanish-American War. He smelled strongly of cigars and misanthropy. Well, I couldn't blame him much; what kind of life would it be, spending all day in that windowless cell, going nowhere but up and down—a metaphor that even the meanest intelligence would appreciate? I mean, when you think about it, you have to wonder how some people, most people, probably, manage to make it through the day. Who was it that said most people live lives of quiet desperation? Thoreau? Yes. Well, he had it right. And wouldn't my old English teacher, Granny Graves, be proud of me. Truth is, though, I didn't care much for Thoreau. I like a little style with my philosophy.

I got off on the third floor after giving the elevator operator a quarter. The office was halfway down the hall. The door was one of those half-wood, half-frosted-glass standard office doors. The letters on the frosted glass said
HARVEY MILES, LIFE INSURANCE AGENT TO THE STARS
. That was not surprising. Everyone was something to the stars in this town—wiener maker to the stars, trash collector to the stars, periodontist, undertaker, toupee maker, you name it. Even my card said that Bruno Feldspar was private detective to the stars. They have a similar thing in England where every purveyor of anything wants to get a royal warrant. “By appointment to His Royal Highness, chamber-pot maker.” Well, the stars in Hollywood are this country's royalty—everyone knows that,
and in my view they're lots more useful; they entertain and they can't start wars, two things that put them ahead of any king and his family.

Of course, most of the stars are preening dimwits and worse, but that just makes them less dangerous. Just think what might happen if they got involved in politics. I remembered Manny's comment about most of them being Reds, but I put that down to fashion and the herd instinct, which I guess are essentially the same thing. They were all for the masses because they didn't have to associate with them.

The receptionist looked up and smiled when I walked in, which you would think should be standard procedure, but I've walked into plenty of offices where they don't pay any attention to you until they're good and ready. It's a way of pretending to be in charge.

The receptionist was about as homely a creature as I had ever laid eyes on, so maybe that's why she was pleasant. She was wearing a blue polka-dot dress of the kind you remember your grandmother wearing, and her hair was pulled back into a tight bun. She had a single eyebrow and a Cyrano nose. And she was as thin as Olive Oyl.

I returned her smile without any effort.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“I hope so.” I gave her a business card.

“Oh,” she said, visibly impressed, a sign that she'd seen too many movies or had too many fantasies.

“Is Mr. Miles in? I'd like to have a quick chat with him. Won't take long.”

“Oh, I'm afraid he's not in today. There's a big convention of general agents in San Diego. He's down there all this week.”

“So you're holding down the fort.”

“Yes. There's no one else in the office. Mr. Miles works alone. Is there anything . . . I can help you with?”

The usual way of handling this question from a woman is to smile roguishly and see what develops, but in this case she was being utterly sincere in a professionally friendly way. She had looked in enough mirrors to understand that flirtatiousness wouldn't be her strong suit.

“I hope so. I'm on a private case trying to trace a woman who used to work here—Catherine Moore.”

“Oh, yes. She left last week. She said she was going to get married. But you know, there were some police earlier this week looking for her, too. Has she done something wrong?”

“Nothing illegal. She's not in any trouble. It's more in the line of a personal situation.”

“Oh, I see.” She lowered her voice and became confidential. “You know, if those policemen last week had only told me that, I would have been, shall we say, a little more cooperative. But they were rude characters.”

“They weren't real cops. Just studio security.”

“Oh. Well, perhaps that explains it. One can't expect much from those kinds of people. Anyway, I just said nothing and sent them away with a flea in their ear. Mr. Miles was out on a sales call, and they didn't wait. It wouldn't have done any good anyway, because he doesn't know anything about where she went.”

“But you do?”

She shrugged knowingly. “I have an idea.”

“Care to share it?”

“I might.” She paused and looked at me with a pretty good imitation of slyness. “But you know, times are hard, and a secretary doesn't make much money.”

Life is full of surprises. It's not every day you get shaken down by a secretary in a polka-dot dress.

“Would five bucks help?”

“Yes, but ten bucks would help twice as much.”

Well, it was Manny's money. I gave her two fives, which she folded primly and tucked away in a plastic change purse.

“Well?”

She lowered her voice even lower, even though there were just the two of us in the room.

“That whole story about getting married was a lie. She just wanted to get out from under . . .” Understanding the double entendre, she smirked and didn't blush. “Get out from under a relationship with some man who was rich but not especially . . . simpatico. I suppose that's who you're working for.”

“Could be.”

“Is your client simpatico?”

“Not particularly.”

“I'm not surprised. Catherine was not very bright and she was not very efficient, but she was very good-looking in a trashy sort of way. She knew when she was being taken advantage of. She looked exactly like a former movie star. Minnie David.”

“Really? Do you think she's still in town?”

“She told me she was going to quit this job and go out to one of the gambling ships and work as a cigarette girl. She said she could make twice as much money from tips alone, looking like she did. And I wouldn't put it past her if she found a little sideline, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean. But if she was that, shall we say, mercenary, I'm surprised she ducked out on her steady client.”

“She said some things are not worth any amount of money. Besides, he may have been rich, but he was cheap, you know? She had those bracelets and that pin he gave her appraised, and you know what? They were fake. Not worth fifteen bucks. She said guys like him never married girls like her. They only wanted one thing. Well, that was all right as long as the diamonds were real. But when they gave you fake stuff, they were just taking advantage.”

“What about the evening gowns?”

“Department store. Nothing special. Just copies of the real thing. She could make anything look good. Some women are like that.”

Yes, some are.

“But those dresses were another signal that this arrangement was not only temporary, but not very profitable. You know?”

I knew.

“And there was something else. He never offered to get her a screen test. She kept waiting but he never did, until finally she asked him about it straight out and he said she wouldn't like the business. She was too classy. Can you believe that? If there's something she wasn't, it was classy. But he just wanted to keep her for his girlfriend. If he'd offered to make her a star or something, she would've listened and maybe stuck around even with the phony jewels.”

Well, none of this seemed to say much for Manny's prospects, even assuming I could track her down, which seemed likely enough. It made me wonder, though, how sincere Manny's passion could be. A man who seemed so overthrown by love would not have tried to get by with fake diamonds and store-bought evening gowns, would he? Then again, maybe
he would. Maybe in the back of his mind, he was saying “The schtupping is fantastic, and what's more, the price is right.” But why hadn't he used the producer's standard hole card—a screen test? That could have bought him another year or so. Maybe he thought the girl was too dumb to catch on. If so, he was being naïve: no girl is
that
dumb. But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like the answer was really very simple. He didn't want to turn her into an actress and expose her to all the temptations Hollywood could offer. He was in love with her and wanted to keep her all to himself.

“Do you happen to know which ship she went to?”

“No. She didn't know herself when she left. She asked me not to tell anyone about this, because she didn't want Mr. Unsimpatico to follow her. I didn't make any promises, though.”

“Instead, you made ten bucks.”

“Yes. We weren't really that close. We traveled in different circles.”

That I could believe.

I went back to the elevator, pressed the button, and summoned the old guy in the old uniform.

I don't know why it happens, but it does. Something triggers it. Hard to believe it was an encounter with a homely secretary or a broken-down elevator operator. Maybe that didn't have anything to do with my mood, although the thought of what their lives must have been like was certainly a little depressing. Or maybe it was the thought of Manny Stairs aching for this woman who was willing to pass on a potential
gravy train because Manny was not simpatico, which boiled down to the fact that the sight of him in his shorts, or worse, was not worth any number of diamond bracelets, even if they'd been real.

Anyway, when I got back to the Garden I felt a rush of sadness for Lily and for that lost opportunity, though I knew she wasn't really worth it. No, that's probably wrong. She was worth it. In fairness to her, she hadn't really had many options.

What's worse, I missed Myrtle. I'd hated the thought of turning her over to the studio hacks. It was turning her back on her authenticity. And most of all, I didn't like not being able to sleep with her. I missed her talking Croatian in her sleep. As well as everything else.

Well, whatever their reasons, Lily and Myrtle had made their choices, and I was without either of them. It was time to do some serious drinking. As usual, there was plenty of company around the pool to join in when I got back to the Garden, but I didn't need any company, because serious drinking is what you do alone. Otherwise you run the risk of making a fool of yourself. When you're alone, no one counts the number of drinks you've had, and there's no one to fight with. And there's no one to tell you that you're a pathetic loser. You can tell yourself that, but you won't believe it in the morning and you won't have made any enemies. And if you want to get maudlin, there's no one to laugh at you. No, the best way is to put some sentimental music on the victrola, pull the blinds, and settle into a comfy chair with plenty of ice in the ice bucket. In the morning, you may have a wicked hangover, but you won't have any apologies to make—or any scores to settle.

I missed Myrtle, though. The bungalow seemed especially empty now. Can you be in love with two women at the same time? Sure. Why not? After the second drink, it seemed that Myrtle was also a lost opportunity. At which point I told myself I really was a pathetic loser. Luckily, no one was there to confirm that judgment, and in the morning I decided I'd been wrong about that. Myrtle was only a few beach miles away, and I decided I'd drive out there that evening. She had called my office the day she moved out and left the Malibu address with Della. I did have a bad hangover, but time heals all hangovers. That and Goody's Powder.

I telephoned Manny Stairs from my apartment and told him I had a small lead and asked if he wanted me to stop by and give him a situation report.

“No, I'm busy. Just spill it over the phone.” He sounded more peevish than I appreciated, and it changed my mind about how to break the news to him. I was going to try to let him down easy, but now I figured what the hell.

“Well, first of all, the information I have is second-hand, but I think it's accurate.”

“And? I haven't got all day.”

“Well, for starters she isn't married.”

“Good!”

“That was just a story she made up. She quit her job as a secretary to go out on one of the gambling ships to work as a cigarette girl.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Why would she do that?” he said after a long pause. His tone was decidedly less abrasive. It was as if he was asking himself that question. I let him answer it to himself. If he hadn't been so peevish, I would have covered him.

“Better money, I suppose,” I said, finally, after a pause.

“Why would she need better money?” He sounded genuinely puzzled. “She must have understood that I was serious about her. I bought her things.”

I hesitated for a moment, trying to decide what and how much to tell him.

“I don't know.” I let him down easy after all. “But I can find out if you want me to. I don't know which ship she's on, but it shouldn't take too long to find her.”