Way of a Wanton (13 page)

“Yeah?”
 

“Let's not talk about them, or about any murder, Shell. Is that really why you came to see me?”
 

Her breath was warm on my neck as she moved her lips closer to me. She pressed her lips gently against my neck and I felt the hairs on my skin start wiggling. She started nibbling on my ear. I let her nibble. What the hell, part of it was already gone, anyway.
 

Just to get all the business out of the way, so I could maybe do a little nibbling myself, I said, “Let's say that's part of the reason, Dot. After all, a detective is supposed to ask people questions. Part of the time, at least. But, uh, I think I've finished.”
 

She stopped nibbling and I turned to face her. Her mouth was six inches away, but she wasn't puckered. She was frowning.
 

“A what?” she asked me.
 

“What do you mean, a what?”
 

“A what. What did you say you were?”
 

“A detective. You know, a private detective. You
do
know ... didn't you know that?”
 

“A detective? A
detective?
Aren't you even an assistant director?”
 

The horrible truth seeped in through one of the cracks in my brain. This little tomato wasn't after my sun-bronzed body, not a bit of it. I wondered what had ever made me suppose she was. Helen and I had fallen into a pretty intimate relationship because of the circumstances under which we'd met, and the almost inevitable events that had followed, and Sherry and I had seemed to get along like bourbon and water. But that was no reason for me to suppose that all females of the opposite sex were going to start swooning as soon as I patted them on the head or somewhere.
 

Dot was still frowning at me, looking betrayed. I said, “I thought you knew what I was. I'm a private investigator, office on Broadway downtown. At your service.”
 

“Well!” She thought about that for a while. “Aren't you anything at Genova? Or anywhere?”
 

“That's a peculiar way to put it, Dot. I'm just what I said. But, no, I'm not any part of the movie industry. Dot? Hello?”
 

Her lip twitched slightly and she reached over and turned the radio up a little louder. While she was at it, I took a good look while I had the chance. It would seem my ear was safe from now on. After about a minute of rather deadly conversation I got up.
 

“Well, Dot, thanks very much for your time. And the help. I, uh, guess I'd better get back to work.”
 

She got up and smiled, pleasantly enough, but walked to the door and opened it. She said, from habit, I guess, “I had a lovely time. Good night.”
 

I almost had to laugh. Damn her, she was sure a cute little doll, no matter what. I walked by her into the hall, and right then I had a brilliant idea.
 

I turned around. “Say,” I said. “I just remembered. I am part of the industry after all. I've got some stock in ‘Jungle Girl.'”
 

“Oh?” She looked a little more pleasant. “How much?” I considered that one. “Not much, I guess. Not enough.” I walked down the hall as Dot shut the door quietly behind me.
 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Ten

 

I SPENT the afternoon talking to Jerri, the girl who had been at Raul's both Thursday and Sunday and who knew from nothing, stocking up on food, and finding out all I could about the various persons in the case from newspaper files, friends, and contacts I've worked up.
 

Swallow had been in town about a year and a half, brought here after “The Savage Christian” had stirred up some comment, and he'd worked for Genova on his previous movie, “Jungle Woman,” and on “Jungle Girl.” Apparently he hadn't done any other writing. Genova himself had produced only the two movies, and I was up on the story of those. Before succumbing to the lure of Hollywood he'd been vice-president of a trucking company—and boss of some pretty tough characters, from what I gathered. Then he'd worked a couple of years for one of the big studios. The more I learned of Genova, the more capable of murder he seemed. The only trouble was that murder, except for the professional kill, is committed by some of the most unlikely people imaginable. Zoe's murder had been no pro job, and it had been pulled off in a hurry when sudden opportunity was offered.
 

King, I learned, had been playing in B movies almost all of his adult life—that is, if he could even now be considered an adult. With the story of the Wild Party Murder on the front pages, it didn't look likely that King would stand a chance in his child-custody battle. I couldn't be sorry. It appeared that his wife had left him, claiming she was tired of his “Me Tarzan; who you?” conversation.
 

I called Bondhelm and reported that I was still alive and working, then worked my way through a prime-rib dinner. From there, after checking the address I'd got from Samson, I paid a call on screen writer Archer Block, the other writer on “Jungle Girl.”
 

He was a medium-sized guy, husky, with curly black hair, and a half-empty highball glass in his hand. I introduced myself and showed him my credentials, and two minutes later we were seated in his front room—both of us with full glasses. He was a pleasant character, relaxed and willing to talk, but there seemed to be nothing he could tell me that was any help.
 

After a few minutes he answered one of my questions by saying, “I just had that one job with Genova. I'm presently between engagements, as they say.” He grinned. “Mainly all I did was write behind Swallow. Only reason I went there Thursday night was to help with the changes Genova wanted. But I never saw hide or hair of this Zoe. I left maybe thirty minutes after Genova.”
 

“Good enough, Block. Thanks. What'd you mean about writing
behind
Swallow?”
 

He cocked an eyebrow. “I take it you don't know much about writing in Hollywood.”
 

“I know from nothing.”
 

He pulled at his drink, leaned back, and crossed his legs. “Let me tell you,” he said. “It's my favorite subject. Well, next to one other, it's my favorite. Say the studio pays a fortune for a property—you know what a property is?”
 

“Not exactly.”
 

“God, you're ignorant.” He grinned. “Say they buy a book. Here's about how it goes, with a few of my slight exaggerations. First thing, you got to change the title. That's imperative. Then the studio gets about seven hundred writers to work on the book, make adaptations, put together a screen play. You take out some of the characters and put in others, see? If there's any sex in it you take it out and put in Love—or a pie in the face. You take out everything else and put other things in the script in place of it. Then you change the title again. The idea is to make the book completely unrecognizable. This is very important, because otherwise the film wouldn't stink. You following me?”
 

I returned his grin. “Vaguely.”
 

“Well,” he said, “that's just the beginning. You know something, Scott? The funniest script ever written in Hollywood can't be filmed: It's the Production Code. Only nobody laughs at it, unfortunately. You got to make all the scripts agreeable to the Breen office and the Code, and this makes the Legion of Decency happy. And practically everybody else unhappy. Including me. Then you sort of wrap the script around the stars and cut holes in it so it fits. Then you put in any ideas the executive head of the studio has and any ideas the producer comes up with.” He wagged his head sagely and finished his drink. “You can see immediately how sensible this is. Well, on this ‘Jungle Girl' cliff-hanger, I wrote behind Swallow—that is, I took his original and polished it up and added sparkling dialogue, put in some laughs. For this I get paid. And get drunk.”
 

He fell silent for a moment and I said, “I take it you're not overjoyed with the system. But Swallow doesn't seem to mind.”
 

“Why would he? He can't write his name. Believe me, on this stinker he can have all the credit. I don't even want any.” He laughed, but there wasn't a lot of mirth in it. “Why ruin my glittering reputation? I got two credits. B pictures. Glittering. And Genova isn't going to win the Thalberg Award. Not this year. Sonofabitch.” He lifted his glass, saw it was empty, lowered it again. Looking at the glass he said, “They don't pay you to write in Hollywood, anyway; they pay you for obedience.”
 

He stopped talking and seemed to be all through, so I got up. “Thanks, Block. I'll buy you a drink sometime.”
 

“I'll take it.”
 

He walked to the door with me and told me good night pleasantly, and I went out to the Cad. I couldn't figure the guy. He'd sounded like an angry young man, but I wondered if he'd also talked like a man with bourbon on the brain. He'd sure got going in there. The funny thing was, he'd seemed completely sober.
 

It was a little past seven P.M. by now, so from a phone booth I called Helen Marshal.
 

“Hello. Helen? This is Shell Scott.”
 

“The late Shell Scott, I presume.” She still wasn't hilarious.
 

“I hope you mean what I think you mean. I'm still alive.”
 

“That's not what I meant.”
 

“I had a hunch it wasn't. Sorry I took so long with Bondhelm last night, Helen. I drove seventy all the way out and back.”
 

“Well,” she thawed a little, “that helps.”
 

“Look, what say I come up and see you? I'd like to ask you some questions.”
 

“Can you give me a hint?”
 

“Yeah. I want to ask about Zoe—and maybe some questions like ‘How did you get so tanned?'”
 

“Well ... you coming right up? I mean, you won't get sidetracked on the way?”
 

“Be there in five minutes.”
 

“Come on.” She hung up.
 

I was there in six minutes. She lived in the Lexington, a small apartment hotel on Wilshire, and she opened the door right after I rang. She smiled at me and brushed her silvery hair with graceful fingers. “You made good time.”
 

“Good Time Scott, that's me.” I went inside and she shut the door. She locked the door. She dropped the key down the front of her dress.
 

“Cagey,” I said. “Does that mean we're still friends?”
 

She leaned back against the door. “We'll see.”
 

She was wearing a bright red skirt and a flowing white blouse with long sleeves and a Byron-type neckline that looked better on her than it ever did on Byron. High-heeled shoes and sheer stockings completed her outfit, at least as far as I could tell.
 

She said, “Come on in the kitchenette. You can ask me questions while I mix us some drinks. If you want a drink.”
 

“I could use one. Thanks.”
 

She walked away from the door and I followed her into a clean white and tile kitchenette. She took liquor and ice cubes from the refrigerator and got busy while I watched.
 

“Want me to do that, Helen?”
 

“No. Get your questions out of the way.” She looked sideways at me from dark brown eyes, then poured several fingers of bourbon into a glass. Looked like she poured a whole hand in there.
 

“First question,” I said. “You trying to get me plastered with one drink?”
 

She laughed. “Too much?”
 

“Well, just so there's some water. Second question. Give me all you can on Thursday night. I know Zoe probably got to Raul's a little after eight. Who was where, when and doing what, and so forth?”
 

She poured me my drink and fixed her scotch and soda while she talked. She didn't give me much I hadn't picked up somewhere else. She did say, “I was with King all evening after the business conference, till the party broke up.”
 

“When was that?”
 

“Around ten. Not much later.”
 

“And Swallow was conked out?”
 

“All the time. King had to slap him with a wet towel to wake him up.”
 

“Could he have been faking? I mean by that, could he have sneaked out when nobody was looking, strangled Zoe, then come back in and plopped on the floor?” It sounded mighty silly even to me.
 

She shook her head. “He was passed out, all right; drinking like"—she smiled at me—"like one of your fish. Suppose he did come to and sneaked out; it would have been pretty much of a coincidence if he'd staggered out just at the same time Zoe showed up, wouldn't it? And King and I were in the same room with him most of the time.”
 

That sort of narrowed things down. Maybe. At least it did if Helen was telling me the truth, and I had no reason to suppose she wasn't.
 

“Come on,” she said, and pulled me by the hand into the front room, where we sat down on the couch.
 

We'd stood in the kitchen for about ten minutes while she talked, and I'd found out about all I could concerning the case, so now when she said, “Any more questions?” I answered, “One. How did you get so tanned?”
 

She laughed. We were on the big couch, which was larger than most and had three or four pillow-like cushions scattered on it. We sat at opposite ends, half facing each other, with pillows behind our backs. “I'll tell you the truth,” she said, smiling. “About half of it's from the sun; the rest is General Electric's sun lamp. I lie on the bed and nap for half an hour or so while I get brown. Simple.”