“There was nothing like that in the note; what she had to say was more of a personal nature. I don’t have it with me, anyway. But her state of mind was just fine. She said she was moving in with Vance Calder.”
“I’m sorry, I thought you said she told you she was moving into her bungalow when you last saw her.”
Hank blinked rapidly. “I guess things must have progressed with Mr. Calder in the meantime.”
“What was there about the note that made you believe her state of mind was ‘just fine,’ as you put it?”
“It was just normal Susie stuff. She didn’t seem upset or anything.”
“When was the last time you saw Susan?”
“Oh, it was some time ago, before she went away on location for her picture.”
“Was she living in your apartment up until the time she went on location?”
“Yes.”
“And after she came back?”
Hank looked away. “No, she didn’t return to my place after that.”
“Did you two break up before she left?”
Now Hank began to look wary. “Break up?”
“What was the nature of your relationship with Susan?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How many bedrooms are in your apartment?”
“One.”
“And how many beds in that room?”
“Excuse me. I thought you said you work for Centurion, but you’re beginning to sound like a policeman.”
“I used to be a cop; I apologize if I sounded that way, but we’re very concerned about Susan. What was the nature of your relationship?”
“We were friends.”
“Were?”
“Obviously, if she moved out, we’re not as close now.”
“She had quite a few of her things at your apartment, didn’t she?”
“She had everything there.”
“But you haven’t seen her for a period of many weeks, and she only moved her things out yesterday. What did she do for clothes?”
“Well, I assume the studio supplied her with western wear in Wyoming.”
“Costumes, yes.”
“Perhaps she went shopping. I don’t know.”
“Did you drive her car to Vance Calder’s house some time yesterday?”
“Why, no.”
“So if we go over her car for fingerprints, we won’t find any of yours in the car?”
Now Hank was looking just a little flustered. “Well, I have been in her car in the past.”
“Have you ever driven it?”
“No. Susie always drove.”
“Then your fingerprints wouldn’t be on the steering wheel or the gearshift or the keys.”
“Well, I...”
“Hank!” an assistant director yelled from a few yards away. “We need you.”
“You’ll have to excuse me,” Hank said, looking relieved.
Tom gave her his card. “Will you call me if you hear from Susan?”
“Of course,” she said, then walked away.
Tom walked quickly back to his car. He drove back to the studio, lost in thought, and not good thoughts. Back in his office he checked his watch and called the restaurant Voisin in New York. A woman with a French accent answered, and he asked her to find Rick Barron and bring him to the phone. It took several minutes.
“Hello?”
“It’s Tom.”
“What’s up?”
“I spoke with Hank Harmon half an hour ago.”
“And?”
“All sorts of warning signs in the interview. You know what I mean.” Rick had been a cop, too.
“Yes, I do. What’s your best judgment, Tom?”
“I think Susan Stafford never left Hank Harmon’s apartment alive.”
“Tom,” Rick said, “call in the police.”
39
Rick left the phone booth and walked slowly back to the table, forcing himself to seem calm and unconcerned.
Vance leaned over and asked, “What’s up?”
“Just some studio business,” Rick replied and resumed his conversation with the Life people, while a photographer circled the table, looking for good angles on Vance.
In the car after lunch, Rick turned to Vance. “That was Tom Terry on the phone. He’s talked to Hank Harmon, and he’s suspicious.”
“Suspicious of what?”
“You have to understand how cops think. When questioning people they look for small signs of discomfort that shouldn’t be there. They try to trip up the people they’re questioning, get them to contradict themselves.”
“And after questioning Harmon, what does Tom think?”
“He suspects foul play; I told him to get the police involved.”
“Just what kind of foul play?”
“He can’t know that for sure; he’s just hoping for the best and doing everything he can to find Susie.”
“He thinks she’s dead, doesn’t he?”
“He thinks that’s a possibility. The other possibility is that she just had too much pressure on her last week, what with all the interviews and the opening, and she just felt she had to get away.”
“Susie is a strong girl,” Vance said, “and a responsible person. She wouldn’t just walk away from her work on the picture, especially since the worst was over. She was looking forward to coming to New York.”
“I can’t argue with that, Vance. I’m as much in the dark as you are.”
“I want to go back to L.A. Is the Centurion airplane still here?”
“No, it’s on the Coast. I’ll have the travel department get you on the first flight tomorrow morning.”
“Is there a night flight?”
“I’ll find out as soon as we get back to the Plaza.”
“Someone should speak with Susie’s parents.”
“I have their number; I’ll do that. We don’t want them to find out about this from the press.”
Vance left the hotel at eleven P.M. to catch a midnight flight from LaGuardia with a studio PR man who arranged for them to drive through a gate directly to the airplane, where Vance and his luggage were deposited at the steps to a TWA Constellation. He was the first aboard and was given two seats in the first row of first class.
As the other passengers got on board he began to notice something different: some of them were obviously recognizing him, perhaps having seen something in the papers or even having seen the picture. A couple of them complimented him on his performance. In the circumstances, he felt uncomfortable about this; he was unaccustomed to being recognized by anyone, and this was a new experience.
After a refueling stop, the airplane arrived at L.A. airport in the late morning, and another studio PR man came aboard to escort him to a car waiting next to the airplane.
“Has anyone heard from Susan Stafford?” he asked the man. He had a sick feeling in his stomach.
“No, nothing. I think you may want to go to the studio,” the man said. “The police are at your house with Tom Terry, our head of security, and sooner or later the press is going to start showing up there, if they haven’t already.”
“All right,” Vance said, “I’ll go to my bungalow.”
“Tom has promised to get in touch with you as soon as he knows anything.”
Having gotten little sleep on the airplane, Vance arrived at his bungalow exhausted. He ordered some soup sent over from the commissary and as he finished it, Tom Terry arrived and introduced himself.
“Have the police learned anything?” Vance asked.
“They’ve taken two sets of fingerprints from the driver’s side of Susan’s car, but as yet they have nothing to compare them with. Susan’s prints are not on record anywhere, and neither are Hank Harmon’s, and without evidence connecting her to a crime, they can’t force her to give them her prints.”