Beverly Hills Dead (29 page)

"I'm not going to rat anybody out," Sid said and turned back to his chowder.

"So, you're a liar as well as a rat."

"Did you hear what Billy Wilder said about us, Fred?"

"Huh?"

"Wilder said, 'Of the unfriendly ten, only two had any talent; the others were just unfriendly.' There's not much doubt which group you belong to. You have nothing to lose, because you were doing shitty work all along. Somebody always had to be hired to clean up after you."

Blair stood up and squared off. "You lousy son of a bitch. Stand up, and I'll make you eat those words."

Sid ate the last spoonful of his chowder, laid a dollar and a half on the counter, stood up and faced Blair. "Why don't you grow up, Fred?" He brushed past Blair and walked out of the diner.

Blair caught up to him in the parking lot. "Just a minute, you coward," he yelled and grabbed at Sid's shoulder.

Sid took a step away from him and turned; he saw it coming. Blair started at him and drew back his right hand. As he swung, Sid stepped inside the punch, blocked it and drove his right fist into the man's solar plexus.

Blair sat down on the pavement, clutching his midriff, and vomited into his lap. Sid wanted to hit him again, but he was too pathetic. He turned and walked toward his car, mentally thanking the instructor at the Lower East Side settlement house who, when he was twelve, had taught him to box, a handy skill for a Jewish boy in a public school.

"We're gonna get you!" Blair yelled from behind him.

Sid turned and used his whole arm in a very satisfying obscene gesture. He got into his car and drove away, thinking that any remaining doubts he had about testifying had been resolved.

Hank Harmon left her upstairs bedroom in her friend Sylvia's house and went downstairs in search of a pen. She went into the den and began opening desk drawers, finding all sorts of things, including a snub-nosed revolver, before finally finding a pen. She borrowed some stationery, went back upstairs and peeked through the drawn venetian blinds. They were still out there with their cameras. She sat down and started writing.

She had written, sealed and stamped her letters when, a little after six, she heard a car door slam outside. She peeked outside again and saw Sylvia elbowing her way through the little mob of reporters, then she heard the front door slam. Hank went downstairs.

"Hi," she said to Sylvia. "Did you have a good day?"

Sylvia sank into the sofa, not looking at her. "Sit down, please, Hank."

Hank sat down.

Sylvia looked up. "To answer your question: no, I didn't have a good day. First of all, when I left for work this morning, I had to wade through that bunch outside. Then, when I got to work, my boss showed me a newspaper article by Hedda Hopper that mentioned my name and address and that said you were hiding out here. I was pretty much told that if he read anything like that again, I'd be out of the studio on my ass."

"Sylvia..."

"I'm not through. Then I came home from work, and I had to wade through the reporters again." She held up a batch of mail. "I never get this much mail." She riffled through the envelopes. "All of it is from my neighbors on this street." She chose one and ripped it open. "Dear Miss Pound," she read, "We would appreciate it if you would come to a neighborhood association meeting at the school at seven-thirty this evening to discuss with us the ruckus outside your house and your choice of houseguests. And I would advise you to read the bylaws of the neighborhood association before you come." Sylvia tossed the letter aside. "I'm sure the others say pretty much the same thing, and I don't need to read the bylaws to know that there is a clause stating that any resident who is a bad neighbor for any one of a number of reasons can be voted out. They can actually force me, legally, to sell my house."

"Sylvia..."

"I'm not finished. When you called and said you needed a place to stay, you didn't mention that you were the chief suspect in a murder investigation and that the press would follow you to my house."

"Sylvia, I'm so sorry."

"Hank, I'd like you to leave tonight. You can go late, when those people have finally decided to go home and go to sleep." She went to her desk, rummaged in a drawer, came back with a brochure and handed it to Hank. "That's a seaside hotel in Santa Barbara that is friendly to sisters; I'd recommend it as a good hiding place until all this dies down."

Hank nodded. "All right. I'll go tonight. There's something I want you to know, though."

"What's that?"

"I didn't kill Susie."

"I never thought you did, Hank, and I would have been happy for you to stay here if you hadn't brought the entourage with you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to have a shower and wash my hair before this meeting tonight, and I think I'm going to have to wear a skirt, too, and my wedding ring. The neighbors all think I'm a divorcee." She got up and went upstairs.

Hank slept until the alarm woke her at two A.M. She got up and peeked through the blinds. The front yard and the street in both directions seemed clear. She got dressed, carried her bags downstairs, went into the garage and put them into her car. She put the top up, then went back inside for her handbag, which she had left on the desk in the den. She picked it up, then stopped and thought for a moment. She turned, opened a desk drawer, took the snub-nosed revolver and put it into her handbag.

She went back to the garage and opened the door. She backed out her car, got out and closed the door, then backed into the street and drove away. On the main road she found a mailbox and mailed her letters.

At the top of the mountain, instead of continuing down the other side, she turned right on Mulholland Drive.

54

Rick and Eddie were going over budgets in Rick's office when his secretary buzzed him. He pressed the button. "Yes?"

"There's a Lieutenant Morrison of the Los Angeles Police Department on line one," she said.

Rick picked up the phone. "Ben?"

"Yes, Rick. I'm sorry to disturb you; I tried Tom Terry first, but he was out, and I thought you should know about this."

"Know about what?"

"This morning a sheriff's patrol car found a car parked way out on Mulholland where that dump was where Susan Stafford's body was found. Inside was a young woman, dead, apparently of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. She's been identified by the contents of her handbag as Hank Harmon."

"Oh," Rick said, unable to think of anything else to say.

Eddie spoke up. "What is it?"

"Hank Harmon has committed suicide." He turned back to the phone. "Ben, is there any doubt that it was suicide?"

"None; everything added up. The gun belonged to a friend of hers, a Sylvia Pound. Harmon had been staying with her, and it was reported in the papers. I talked to Miss Pound, and she claimed ownership of the gun, said Harmon must have taken it from a desk drawer in her home."

"Do you think she did this out of guilt over Susan's murder?"

"No. There was a note in her handbag. She claimed she was innocent and her life was being ruined: lost her job, hounded by the press, et cetera. She left a list of phone numbers: her parents, a funeral home where she had made arrangements and her lawyer. It was all very well thought out and orderly."

"Was she your only suspect, Ben?"

"Yes, she was. I remain pretty confident that she killed Susan Stafford."

"Then it's over?"

"It is, unless some sort of exculpatory evidence comes to light, and that seems unlikely. I'll put her in my final report as the sole suspect."

"Ben, thank you for letting me know, and if anything else comes up, I'd like to hear about it."

"Of course, Rick."

Rick hung up the phone. He told Eddie about the note.

"I don't get it," Eddie said. "If she murdered Susie, why would she leave a note saying she didn't? Why not confess and save everybody a lot of trouble?"

"In my experience, some murderers have difficulty admitting their guilt even to themselves. I suppose it's natural to want to be remembered as innocent."

"Yeah. I guess so," Eddie said. "Well, it's a relief to know that this saga is over."

"I guess it is," Rick said.

As soon as Tom Terry got Morrison's message, he called him back and got the news.

"Tommy," Ben said, "I've got to ask you this: where were you from midnight last night until ten this morning?"

"Jesus, Ben. You think I killed her?"

"If it's not a suicide, then only a cop--or an ex-cop--could make it look that good."

"Well, I...I didn't kill her."

"You didn't answer my question."

"I went to bed at eleven last night, overslept, got to the studio a little before nine. My secretary will confirm that I was already here when she arrived."

"Were you in bed alone?"

"Yes."

"Tommy, I have to tell you, if any evidence turns up that this wasn't a suicide, you're going to be my first suspect."

"Aw, come on, Ben."

"You knew where she was staying, didn't you?"

"Well, yeah."

"Her friend says she left in the middle of the night to avoid the press and that she was heading for Santa Barbara. She would have taken Mulholland to Malibu, then gone on up the coast. You could have had her staked, followed her up there and pulled her over. You got a red light in your car, Tom?"

"Yeah, I do."

"You're my boy, Tommy."

Tom was starting to sweat, now. "Look, Ben, I swear to you that I didn't..."

Morrison burst out laughing. "Had you going, didn't I?"

"You bastard!"

"She left a note, Tommy. It was suicide; you're off the hook."

Tom loosened his tie and wiped his brow. "Did she own up to the murder?"

"No. In fact, she said she was innocent."

"Shit!"

"Don't you hate it when they won't confess, even if they're gonna off themselves?"

"Well, she did it. I don't care what she says in the note. What else did she say?"

"Just a list of people to contact. It was all very neat."

"Well, we can close the books on that one, I guess."

"I guess. Take care, Tommy." Morrison hung up.

Tom hung up, too. He had thought of killing her himself, but somehow he found it more disturbing that he might have hounded her into taking her own life.

The following morning, Vance Calder left his house, taking his mail and the morning paper with him. He drove to the studio to his bungalow and greeted his secretary.

"Good morning, Vance," she said.

"Anything that needs my attention?"

"No."

He dropped his mail on her desk. "Here are some bills for you to pay." He walked back to his dressing room, where his costume for the first day's shooting of
Greenwich Village Girl
was hanging, waiting for him. He got into the shirt, trousers and shoes, then sat down in the living room with the newspaper, to await the arrival of his makeup artist. He had learned that, although he wore almost no makeup, it was better to let her do something to him, just to keep her happy. After all, she wanted to get paid, just like everybody else, and who was he to deny her the work?

She arrived a moment later, and, taking the paper with him, he walked into the makeup room and sat in the plushly upholstered barber's chair. He glanced at the front page while the makeup girl did her work.

His secretary walked into the room. "Shirley," she said to the makeup girl, "Will you excuse us for a moment?"

"Sure, Connie," the woman replied. "I'll be outside."

"What's up, Connie?" Vance asked. She had a funny look on her face.

She held out a letter. "This was with your mail," she said.

55

Sid Brooks left his Washington hotel with an hour to spare before the hearing. He thought that, since he was early, he'd take a look around the Capitol. The only time he had been there before was for the first hearing.

It was rush hour in Washington, and cabs were scarce. There was a line of people waiting for the doorman to get taxis, so Sid walked up to Pennsylvania Avenue to look for his own cab. He did not notice that two men were following him.

He stopped at the corner and put a nickel into a newspaper vending machine for a
Washington Post
, and as he straightened up, something hit him on the side of his head, behind the ear. The blow staggered him, but he kept his feet and managed to square off against his attackers. They were both bigger than he and wearing business suits and hats, and both had clenched fists as they came at him again. He threw his newspaper in the face of one of them, and that gave him time to kick the other man in the knee, effectively taking him out of the fight. The other man recovered and came at him. He caught Sid high on the cheek, but Sid counterpunched with a straight left to the man's nose, hoping to draw blood. He had been taught at the settlement house as a boy that an attacker's sight of his own blood would discourage him, and it worked. The man ran, one hand over his face.