“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?