The Montana Avenue address was a fake adobe, one-story courtyard building with palm trees, a dozen apartments and a swimming pool the size of a bathtub. Cunningham’s apartment was easy to find. His name was on the door. I knocked. A gun would have been comforting, but the only one I owned was the missing 38.
The apartment was silent. I tried the door. It was locked. I pulled at the window and it gave a little. With a sharp push, I snapped the tiny hook that held the window. I stood still in the courtyard for a second or two to see if someone had heard the noise, but all was quiet. Stepping through the window, I pulled the drapes fully closed behind me and turned on the wall light.
The room was neat, like a hotel room the maid has just visited. Either someone came in daily to clean it or Cunningham had been a very dainty housekeeper. Searching was easy. There was one small bedroom, a smaller kitchen and a living room. The furniture was typical furnished apartment, once colorful, now fading. There was a camera and tripod in a closet and enough equipment to convert the bathroom into a makeshift darkroom. There were no photographs or negatives of Flynn and the girl, but there was a small photo in a dresser drawer. It showed Cunningham and a woman. They were on a beach, probably not far from this apartment. Cunningham and the woman were in bathing suits. He was waving at the camera making his left hand blur slightly. His right hand and arm held the woman. She was an extremely well endowed blonde with short, curly hair. She was wearing dark glasses and a sour expression and didn’t seem at all happy about having her picture taken. She looked vaguely familiar.
I took the photograph and added it to the one in my pocket, the head of the young girl. As I left through the front door, a woman came out of the next apartment. I turned my back to her and stuck my head back into Cunningham’s apartment.
“Is a no problem, Chuck,” I said raising my voice a few octaves in my best Chico Marx accent. “I’ll picka them up later.” The woman’s steps clicked past, and I withdrew my head.
The sun was out, and I was feeling unreasonably good. It was idiotic. My gun was missing; I was a murder suspect; I had fouled up a job and had my brains scrambled, but I felt cunning and powerful.
Back at the Warners’ gate, Hatch stuck his head into my car to greet me.
“What happened to your head?” he gasped.
“Twelve stitches,” I said.
“I’m really sorry, Toby,” he said, and I believed him. I was certainly a sorry sight.
“Hatch, I’m supposed to meet Errol Flynn and Sid Adelman on Stage Five.”
“Sure, Toby, go on in. You know the way.”
“Thanks, Hatch.”
In the rear-view mirror I could see Hatch’s hulking form aimed sadly in my direction for a second or two before turning to an arriving Cadillac.
Stage Five was where all the montage and special effects were shot at Warners. A paternal ex-cameraman from the silent days, named Byron “Bun” Haskin, ran the place like a separate kingdom. Montage, which the studio used a lot, was a series of short shots to show the passing of time in feature films. Maybe ten or fifteen shots of Wall Street crumbling and men taking dives out of windows with ticker tape in their hands, or eight shots of Jimmy Cagney walking up to doors that shut on him. That was montage. Big directors didn’t shoot that stuff, or inserts, shots of hands or objects. All that was done on Stage Five.
I found Sid Adelman on Stage Five sitting in a director’s chair almost asleep with his hands folded on his stomach. On the western saloon set in front of him, Flynn was solemnly throwing punches at a camera and missing it by inches. He was dressed in cowboy clothes and a broad, white hat. There were five people on the set. The montage director, a kid with curly, dark hair, a thin mustache and a worldly voice, called:
“Perfect, Errol. Let’s have the lights and take that.”
The lights went on. The cameraman took a reading. Flynn adjusted his hat. The cameraman crouched behind the big Mitchell camera, and the young director called “Roll and … action.”
Flynn punched viciously at the camera.
“Good,” said the director, “just keep it rolling. Try a couple more punches, Errol.” Flynn dutifully punched as the young man instructed.
“Cut,” called the director. “Thank you, Errol, looks fine.”
“Thank you, Donald,” Flynn said, spotting me and walking in my direction. “Toby, old man.” His hand went out to me. Flynn was about ten feet from me when the first shot pinged off the light near his head.
Nobody on the set paid particular attention to the sound, but I recognized it, and, apparently, so did Flynn. I dropped to the ground and shouted:
“Everybody down, get down. Somebody’s shooting.”
Adelman jolted awake and went comically on his hands and knees. The young director went flat, and his crew joined him.
Flynn neither went down nor looked for cover. From behind a prop box where I had rolled, I could see Flynn standing bolt upright and glaring angrily. The second shot hit somewhere near his feet.
“For God’s sake, Errol,” I shouted, “get behind something. He’s shooting at you.”
Near the darkness of the door I had come through a few minutes before, a figure moved. The door opened and closed. Flynn, his cowboy hat flying off, ran for the door. I got up and ran after him. My idea was to try to keep him from getting a bullet up his perfect nose, but he was moving fast and got to the door before me. I ran to his side and looked out. There was no one in sight.
“Cowardly bastard,” Flynn mumbled. “My life is a charade. I don’t even have a real gun to defend myself with.” He held up his studio six-shooter and shook his head, a wry smile on his lips.
We went back inside Stage Five, and I did not mention the likelihood of the recent shots being from my gun.
Adelman was shaking. The young director called out:
“Everybody all right? Equipment all right?”
“Maybe we better call the police,” Adelman whispered.
“What do you think, Toby?” asked Flynn.
“Errol, I think you should suddenly get sick for a few days and go to a hotel where no one can find you. Can you cover for him, Sid?”
A pale Adelman said yes.
“Now wait a minute,” Flynn said.
“Look,” I countered, sitting heavily in a chair on the saloon set while Flynn retrieved his fallen hat, “I admire your courage, but it’s not needed right now. I don’t know what’s happening, but I’d like to have a few days to work on it. Someone’s trying to kill you and drop Cunningham’s murder in my lap.”
“Toby,” said Flynn, clasping my shoulder, “I don’t like hiding.”
“Errol, it will keep you alive. Did you make that list for me, the list of people who knew the address where I went this morning?”
Adelman fished through his pockets and came up with a crumpled sheet of paper. There were three names on it.
“Sid, I and those three were having lunch together when the envelope arrived,” Flynn explained. “We had no idea what it was all about at first, and by the time it dawned on us, everyone at the table had seen the picture and the note with the address and meeting time. They all promised to forget it and Sid destroyed the picture.”
The list of names was:
Donald Siegel
Harry Beaumont
Peter Lorre
“O.K. Errol, now please go find a hotel for two days. Don’t tell anyone where you are. No one, not me, not Sid, not your best friend. Call Sid this afternoon and tomorrow afternoon. He’ll keep you informed. I know you don’t like it, but believe me, it’s the right thing.”
“All right. I believe you,” he said, touching his fingers to his forehead in a gesture of farewell. The opportunity for a dramatic exit probably turned the trick. “I’ll get in my car at once and go out the back gate.”
When Flynn left, I turned to Adelman.
“Sid, I have about $175 left from what you gave me. That should be enough, but …”
“Not another penny until you deliver the negative and print,” he said, “or proof that they are destroyed.” Scared to death and confused, he did not forget a $200 business deal.