“All right. I’ll meet you downstairs at twelve-thirty.” He said good-bye and hung up.
Vance tried to read, then gave up and ordered dinner from room service. He was in bed by ten, after a final call to the operator. It took him a long time to get to sleep.
The phone in Rick and Glenna’s suite rang at ten-thirty the following morning, and Rick answered.
“Rick, this is Barry Feldman from studio publicity. I’m at L.A. Airport. The studio driver went to pick up Susan Stafford at Vance Calder’s house half an hour ago, and she wasn’t there. He paged me at the airport.”
“Maybe she forgot about the driver and took a cab,” Rick said.
“I don’t know why she would do that; she’s been driven to every appointment all week by the same driver, and she had asked him to pick her up at the house at six-thirty. Her plane takes off in twenty minutes, and I don’t know if I should try to hold it. I mean, if I knew she were on the way I could throw myself on the runway in front of it, but I’ve no reason to think that.”
“Did the driver ring the bell at the house?”
“Repeatedly and at every door. He said her car was parked out front with a lot of boxes and a suitcase in it, and the keys were in the ignition.”
“She was moving some things from her old apartment yesterday afternoon, so she must have come home. Can you reach the driver?”
“Not until he calls me back.”
“When he does, tell him to break into the house, if necessary, and if the cops come, to call me here for an explanation. She could be ill and unconscious.”
“I’ll go over there myself.”
“No, Barry. You stay there, in case she arrives.”
“Shall I try to hold the airplane?”
“What time is the next one?”
“Twelve-thirty, and she’d get to New York very late, what with the time change.”
“Don’t try to hold the plane. Just book her on the next one and wait to hear from either her or me. What number do I call to page you?” Rick wrote down the number and hung up. He called the studio and got the front gate.
“Hello?”
“This is Rick Barron. Have you seen Susan Stafford either come or go this morning?”
“No, sir.”
“How about yesterday?”
“I’ll check the log.” There was a moment’s pause. “No, sir, she wasn’t logged in or out yesterday.”
“Transfer me to the studio police line.” He waited, and a man answered.
“This is Rick Barron. You have pass keys to all the bungalows, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, we do.”
“I want you to go first to Susan Stafford’s bungalow, open it and see if she’s there. If she is, she’s not answering the phone. Then go to Vance Calder’s bungalow and check there. I’m in New York; call me at this number from Vance’s bungalow.” He gave the man the number.
“Yes, sir. It should take me ten or fifteen minutes.”
Rick hung up.
Glenna, who had heard his side of the conversation, came and sat on the bed. “What do you think is going on?”
“I have no idea, but I’m worried.”
“Susie doesn’t seem like a prima donna. She wouldn’t just disappear, would she?”
“I don’t think she would; she’s always seemed very level-headed.”
“I’m going to shower while you wait for the call.”
“Go ahead.” Rick picked up the Times and tried to read it. Ten minutes later, the phone rang. “Hello.”
“Mr. Barron? This is studio security. I’m at Mr. Calder’s bungalow. Miss Stafford isn’t here, and she’s not at her own bungalow, either.”
“Thanks.”
“Anything else you want me to do?”
“Tell the front gate if she turns up at the studio to call me at this number.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rick hung up and called Vance’s room and brought him up-to-date.
“Something’s happened,” Vance said. “Susie wouldn’t do this.”
“I agree. Do you have the name and address of the girl whose apartment she was supposed to visit?”
“Her name is Henrietta Harmon, and she’s called Hank. She’s a script girl at RKO. I don’t know her address, but it’s in West Hollywood; she could be in the book. Shall I call there?”
“No. Let me handle it. I’ll call you when I know something.”
“Is our lunch still on?”
“I don’t want to cancel an interview with Life, then find out there’s some simple explanation for all this.”
“All right, I’ll get dressed and wait to hear from you.”
Rick hung up, got out his address book and called Tom Terry at home.
“Hello?”
“Tom, it’s Rick. We’ve got a problem.”
37
Tom Terry checked the phone book and found Henrietta Harmon in West Hollywood, off Sunset. He made a note of the address and phone number, then got dressed, got into his car and drove quickly to Vance Calder’s house in Beverly Hills. As he pulled into the driveway he saw two cars ahead: a prewar Chevrolet coupe and a big Packard sedan. That would be the studio car.
He pulled up, and the studio driver got out to meet him. “Good morning, Mr. Terry,” he said.
“Morning, Jerry. I’ve heard what’s going on. Have you been in the house?”
“No, sir. I just rang the bell.”
Tom went to the front door, rang the bell, then tried the knob. It was unlocked. He turned to the driver. “Jerry, follow me, and stay in my tracks. Don’t touch anything.”
“Yessir.”
Tom went from room to room and found everything in order. He went upstairs, found the master bedroom and looked in both dressing rooms and baths. In one dressing room he found several pieces of a woman’s clothing and underwear in the drawers. On the floor there was a cardboard box containing sweaters and blouses. In the bathroom, there was makeup in the medicine cabinet and on the sink.
“There’s more boxes and a suitcase in the coupe,” Jerry said.
“Yeah? Then it looks like she unlocked the front door and brought one box inside, then went back for more, then...”
“It don’t make any sense,” Jerry said.
“No, it don’t,” Tom replied. “Something must have happened before she could bring in more boxes.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.” Tom went back downstairs and checked the interior of the car and the trunk, which was unlatched and contained more boxes. The car keys were in the ignition, and there was what looked like a couple of house keys on the key ring.
“What do you want me to do?” Jerry asked.
“Who are you reporting to today?”
“One of the publicity guys. He’s at the airport waiting for Miss Stafford to show for her plane.”
“I don’t think she’s going to make the plane, Jerry. Go back to the studio and report back to your boss. He can get in touch with the publicity guy.”
“All right, Mr. Terry.” He got into the Packard and drove away.
Tom got into his car and headed for West Hollywood, stopping at a corner pay phone to call Henrietta Harmon’s house. No answer; the girl must be at work.
Tom found the building and parked out back. He ran up the main stairs and rang the doorbelclass="underline" no answer, so he got out his kit and picked the lock. Inside, he closed the door softly behind him and looked around. He was standing in a small entrance hall. On a table in front of him was an envelope that had been torn open, and on the front was written one word: Hank. He replaced it, then tiptoed into the living room. It was nicely furnished and perfectly neat. He found the only bedroom, and it was in the same condition. The walk-in closet had a full rack of jackets and trousers on one side, but they looked more like the clothes of a slender man than those of a woman. There was nothing but hangers on the opposite rack.