“You listen to me, Mr. Down-in-the-Mouth, you’re no quitter.” Sol paused in thought. “Well, you did quit drinking, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Anyway, if you quit Roberts you may as well quit the law business altogether, because you won’t be worth a damn after that. You’ll quit again the next time the going gets tough-and they’re all tough. Now, what’s Mabel’s phone number?”
“Why?”
“What’s her goddamn phone number?” he asked while signaling the waitress to bring him a telephone.
“You not going to call her, are you?”
“This is the third time. What’s the fucking number?”
I rattled off Mabel’s home number and at the same time Jeanine, the waitress, plugged the phone in at our booth. Sol started to dial.
“Sol, damn it. It won’t do any good. Her mind is made-”
“Hi, Mabel, this is Sol. Listen, sweetheart, Jimmy wants you to come back to work. He misses you desperately. He’s like a lost little boy without you. Now, I’ve had a firm talk with him, and from now on he’s going to treat you with the respect you deserve. He’s even offered to give you a raise-that is, as soon the Roberts case is over. You know, Mabel, when he gets that poor schmuck out of the jam he’s in, Jimmy will be famous. The phone will ring off the hook-”
He listened for a moment, then said, “Hey, sweetheart, I know you guys haven’t got any money, but hang in there with the kid-”
Another pause. “Well, goddamn it, Mabel. I’m going to float him a loan.”
Pause, then, “You too, dear. Goodbye.” He hung up. A wide grin spread across his face. “She’s on her way back to the office.”
“I can’t take your money.”
“Shut up. You’ll take it and like it.” He laughed. “That’s a line from The Maltese Falcon.”
After a few minutes, I couldn’t argue anymore. The firm desperately needed money, especially to cover the payroll coming due at the end of the week. It wouldn’t be fair to Mabel or Rita to turn down Sol’s offer. But I made a silent vow to pay him back, even if I had to dig ditches. He wrote a check and handed it to me.
I glanced at it and started to hand it back. “Sol, it’s way too much. I can’t-”
“What kind of lawyer are you, giving money back?” he interrupted. “Seriously, you need it. There are a lot of people depending on you to come through, now and in the future. You can make a difference. So take the money in good health and get back to work.”
I tucked it away, mumbling my thanks.
“Want some more Sol’s Delight?” he asked, pointing at the remaining few canapes on the plate.
“Nah, I’m full, but thanks.”
“Well then, do you want to hear the news about that sports car with the foxy driver?”
“Of course.”
“Oh, okay. Did I mention that the owner of the red Mercedes is Francis Q. Jerome?”
CHAPTER 29
Sol had me on the edge of my seat. The news that he’d found a link between the Mercedes and Jerome meant that the actor was in fact connected to the mystery woman, just as I’d figured.
“You see, Jimmy, after we ran the plate number and discovered that the car is registered to Federal Carbide we did a little digging. Guess what we came up with.”
I leaned forward. “What?”
He took a cigar out of his jacket pocket and fiddled with the wrapper. “Go ahead and guess.”
“Ah… Jerome owns the company?”
“Not bad. Not bad at all, but you’re wrong. Wanna guess again?”
“Damn it, Sol, you got me crazy!”
“We did a background check on Jerome and learned that his father had founded the sandpaper business back in the late 1800s.”
“Then I was right. His father died and left him the company.”
He lit the cigar, took a puff, then examined the glowing tip. “Not quite. The corporation’s stock is held in a trust for Jerome, and the trust pays his bills. Sure, Jerome was a big-time movie star, but he squandered his money faster than he could make it-booze, a little gambling, and broads. He was a sucker for a pretty face, as you well know.”
“Yeah, he was married four or five times. Mostly to young blonde ingenues, like Sue Harvey.”
“Anyway, his father realized his life’s work would go up in smoke if he left the money to his son. So he set up a fund to administer the inheritance. Part of the deal was that all of Jerome’s wives had to sign an agreement, you know, a pre-nuptial. But here’s the kicker: if Jerome wants to make a major purchase, such as an expensive car, then the trustees must approve it in advance. And if approved, the trust retains ownership of the asset.”
“That’s why the Mercedes is registered to Federal Carbide,” I said, “but for all practical purposes, it’s Jerome’s car and he’s just letting the mystery woman use it. Christ, he’s too old to be putting the make on her. Don’t you think?”
“She could be working for him,” Sol answered. “Could be his personal assistant, eyes and ears to the outside world, something like that.”
“If the trust handles his money, how could he have been paying someone to work for him?”
“Oh, he still has other income that’s not controlled by the trust-royalties from the movies he made, that sort of thing-which would be more than ample to pay her.”
“Then if she’s working for him, that could that mean the goons in the black Buick work for him too. Could be taking their orders from the babe.”
“It’s a possibility.”
“And now he’s using the hired muscle to take care of those little odd jobs that pop up from time to time,” I said.
“Yeah, like trying to shake you off the case by beating the crap out of you.”
“They just got the jump on me, that’s all. But anyway, it didn’t work. I’m still on the case. Nothing’s going to stop me now. I don’t give a damn who or what he sends.”
“Let him send the goddamn army. You’re no quitter,” Sol said.
My mind was spinning. Jerome had the morals of a turkey buzzard and now it appeared he had leg-breakers on the payroll.
“Jerome is desperate to stop me from digging deeper into the case. But why?”
“That’s the sixty-four dollar question.”
“You know, Sol, he could’ve been the one who murdered Vera back in the forties. He was young and vigorous then. Remember, before the murder she’d made several phone calls to MGM, the studio where Jerome had worked. Might have had something on him, something documented in those papers. She might’ve threatened to ruin his career.”
“She could’ve tried to blackmail him, wanted a heap of cash to keep quiet. Which he didn’t have,” Sol said.
“Yeah, so he had no choice. He had to eliminate her. Then Mrs. H found the papers and she started in on him. But she only wanted five hundred a month, which he could handle.”
“No need to take the risk of getting caught trying to commit a second murder for a lousy five hundred,” Sol said.
“He got away with it once. Maybe it shook him up.”
“Maybe Mrs. Hathaway decided, after all this time, to raise the stakes,” Sol said. “Pressure Jerome to give her more money, maybe a lump sum, who knows. But don’t forget, the trust controls his cash. Oh, they pay him enough to live real comfortable. The five hundred per month wouldn’t be noticed, but if he needed big dough-”
I finished Sol’s sentence. “He wouldn’t have been able to get it. Then somehow he found out that she kept Vera’s papers hidden in the tool shed.”
“So maybe he had the goons go out to the motel and search for the documents. Maybe the old lady spotted them rooting around in her shed. So naturally, they had to kill her.”
“Jesus Christ Almighty, Sol, I think you solved the whole damn thing!”
Sol leaned back with his cigar and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. “Now, all we have to do is prove it. Everything we have is just conjecture. We need evidence.”
We didn’t say anything for a moment. I tried to figure out how we could come up with something concrete. I couldn’t take our theory to the cops yet, not until I had rock-solid proof. They’d laugh me out of police headquarters.