Black Mask Detective (Vol. 34, No. 3 — May 1950)
Glitter Street Nightmare
by Robert C. Dennis
The glamorous bubble of Hollywood’s hottest night-spot was smashed to scandalous smithereens when its playboy owner mysteriously disappeared — and left bouncer Pete Sheffold to pick up the homicidal pieces.
Chapter One
No Body to Bury
Now, in the left-over glow of the dead afternoon, the Street no longer glittered. The long black limousines and chrome-plated convertibles held no radiance of their own. The modernistic facades of the night clubs, such as Julian’s, seemed sober and almost real. In the stony glare of the Hollywood sun they had resembled propped-up movie sets. An hour from now their lights would gleam, like heated zircons and fake rubies, across a velvet strip of night. But for a little hour this might have been any street.
Even the people looked very nearly like real people, Pete Sheffold thought as he neared the end of his two-mile walk along the Street. Such as the girl standing in front of Julian’s. Under the sun, her blonde hair would have been improbable. Now the purple after-glow had softened even the tense, artificial brightness of her smile.
A flash of emotion across her face revealed she had been waiting for him. She would have had no difficulty in picking him out of the crowd. He was a huge man, Pete Sheffold, almost a giant. Four inches over six feet he stood, and he weighed nearly two hundred and forty pounds. But unlike most large men past their early youth, there was no fat on him. He was simply big. When the girl slipped between him and the entrance of Julian’s, she seemed as fragile as spun glass.
“Can you give me a minute, Mr. Sheffold?” The brightness was apparent now. A blue coat was draped over her shoulders and she carried a big red purse. “I’m Laurel Owens.”
“What did you want, Laurel?” His voice was grave and not impolite.
She smiled the slow counterfeit Hollywood smile, as empty as yesterday’s vows. “Five years ago I wanted your autograph. I saw you play, Mr. Sheffold, and I’ve always thought you were the greatest halfback who ever lived.”
“I was a fullback,” Sheffold said, without emphasis. “And it was seven years ago.”
The smile faded away. “All right,” she said quietly. “The wrong approach... It’s about a job, of course. I’m a singer.”
“You want to see Julian Mena for that,” Sheffold told her. “Or Mr. Bannerman. I’m just the bouncer here.”
“I know that. But I was told—” She looked up at him quickly. Her eyes were deep blue and not yet too wise. Her mouth under the thick lipstick was vulnerable. Scrape off the artfully applied make-up, Sheffold thought, and she was still a nice girl from the Mid-West. “I mean,” she said, “Mr. Mena won’t see me — and Mr. Bannerman never seems to be around anymore.”
People were beginning to notice that, Pete Sheffold thought. Next came the rumors.
“Everybody says you’re very close to Mr. Mena. If you’d just put in a word for me... All I ask is a chance to sing for him.”
Sheffold’s dark eyes were thoughtful. “How long have you been in Hollywood?”
“Nearly a year.”
“No picture work?”
She shook her head. “No work, period.”
“Why don’t you go back home? Forget about it. Maybe you’d never get a job here. And even if you did, it wouldn’t be worth it.”
Her face was stiff, her chin up. She held the red purse between them like a shield.
“You wouldn’t like yourself then,” he said gently. “Take my word for it. I’ve been on the Strip for nearly seven years. The price is too high.”
“The sympathetic approach!” Her mouth curled. “Well, maybe I have too much pride and too little money to go home. So help a girl out — she might be grateful.”
Sheffold pushed her aside with a hand that was amazingly gentle for one so huge. He unlocked the massive, copper-riveted door. Without looking at her, he said, “Julian comes into the bar every night at exactly twelve o’clock. The cheapest drink here is eighty-five cents. If you have the price, you could be there when he came in.”
“I do have eighty-five cents,” she said quietly. “Thanks a lot. I won’t forget it.” Her footsteps started away.
“Laurel,” he called, still not turning around. The steps came back. “You don’t owe me any thanks,” he said, and went inside.
The empty, shrouded tables were the corpses of last night’s gaiety, and the echo of silent, bitter laughter was still there for ears that could hear it. In the dimness the silver and blue appointments were drab gray. It was as glamorous as a garret.
A lonesome bartender pointed a plastic swizzle-stick at one of the blue leather banquettes. “For you, Pete.”
A man in a pin-stripe suit lounged there. He had a gray triangular face like an old satyr. His eyes were tired, but he was possessed with a nervous energy that never gave him rest.
“Sit down,” he invited. “I’m Lee Krell. Been meaning to get around to you. I figure a guy in your job must pick up a lot of interesting news. I’ll give you five bucks for every item I can print. You know the type of stuff.”
Sheffold shook his head. “I’ve never read your column.”
“Everybody else has,” Krell said without rancor. He leaned forward. “I’ll give you the general idea. What’s this about Julian’s partner?”
Sheffold’s face was blank. “Bannerman?”
“I hear he hasn’t shown for a week. Not here, not at his apartment, not any place.” Krell watched him intently. “A guy like Bannerman doesn’t just blow away. What’s the story — a doll?”
“Why don’t you ask Julian?”
“Julian has been asked.” Krell smiled wanly. “He won’t talk about it. That’s indicative. Now his bouncer dummies up. That’s corroboration. You see?”
“I’ve often wondered how it worked. Is this why you get so many things wrong in your column?”
Krell grinned sardonically. “I thought you’d never read it.”
“Not after the first one,” Sheffold said. He got up and walked away. It won’t be long now, he thought, now the keyhole boys are on to it.
He went through the gleaming kitchen and out to the empty asphalt lot at the rear of the club. Jerry Sims, the parking attendant, grinned and unbuttoned his smock. Sheffold got a football from a locker. Without a word he walked to the far end of the parking lot.
Jerry’s grin died. He shrugged, but his face was worried as he passed the ball back and forth.
They tossed the ball till darkness closed in and the lights around the parking lot came on. Sheffold’s shirt was glued to his tremendous chest with perspiration. Beads of it clung to his coal-black eyebrows. A dull throbbing pain had begun to beat along his spine. He watched Jerry put the smock back on.
“Did you date that girl — Laurel?” he asked suddenly.
Jerry flushed. “So that’s what’s been eating you! Hell, I was only trying to be a good guy.”
“You tried too hard,” Sheffold said evenly. “But she just didn’t know enough about football. You haven’t answered my question.”
“She threw me for a loss,” Jerry grinned. “So I took five bucks for my trouble.”
“It was her last five.” That wouldn’t make any difference to a sharpshooter, Sheffold said in a low voice, “Don’t talk about me again. To anybody. If Julian isn’t paying you enough money, see Lee Krell.”