«That’s her address,» he said. «I won’t give the phone number without her O.K. Now treat me like a gentleman. That is, if it concerns the station.»
I tucked his paper into my pocket and thought it over. He had suckered me neatly, put me on my few remaining shreds of decency. I made my mistake.
«How’s the program going?»
«We’re promised network audition. It’s simple, everyday stuff called ’A Street in Our Town,’ but it’s done beautifully. It’ll wow the country some day. And soon.» He wiped his hand across his fine white brow. «Incidentally, Miss Baring writes the scripts herself.»
«Ah,» I said. «Well, here’s your dirt. She had a boy friend in the big house. That is he used to be. She got to know him in a Central Avenue joint where she worked once. He’s out and he’s looking for her and he’s killed a man. Now wait a minute —»
He hadn’t turned as white as a sheet, because he didn’t have the right skin. But he looked bad.
«Now wait a minute,» I said. «It’s nothing against the girl and you know it. She’s okay. You can see that in her face. It might take a little counterpublicity, if it all came out. But that’s nothing. Look how they gild some of those tramps in Hollywood.»
«It costs money,» he said. «We’re a poor studio. And the network audition would be off.» There was something faintly dishonest about his manner that puzzled me.
«Nuts,» I said, leaning forward and pounding the desk. «The real thing is to protect her. This tough guy — Steve Skalla is his name — is in love with her. He kills people with his bare hands. He won’t hurt her, but if she has a boy friend or a husband —»
«She’s not married,» Marineau put in quickly, watching the rise and fall of my pounding hand.
«He might wring his neck for him. That would put it a little too close to her. Skalla doesn’t know where she is. He’s on the dodge, so it’s harder for him to find out. The cops are your best bet, if you have enough drag to keep them from feeding it to the papers.»
«Nix,» he said. «Nix on the cops. You want the job, don’t you?»
«When do you need her here again?»
«Tomorrow night. She’s not on tonight»
«I’ll hide her for you until then,» I said. «If you want me to. That’s as far as I’d go alone.»
He grabbed my card again, read it, dropped it into a drawer.
«Get out there and dig her out,» he snapped. «If she’s not home, stick till she is. I’ll get a conference upstairs and then we’ll see. Hurry it!»
I stood up. «Want a retainer?» he snapped.
«That can wait.»
He nodded, made some more wingovers with his hands and reached for his phone.
That number on Flores would be up near Sunset Towers, across town from where I was. Traffic was pretty thick, but I hadn’t gone more than twelve blocks before I was aware that a blue coupé which had left the studio parking lot behind me was still behind me.
I jockeyed around in a believable manner, enough to feel sure it was following me. There was one man in it. Not Skalla. The head was a foot too low over the steering wheel.
I jockeyed more and faster and lost it. I didn’t know who it was, and at the moment, I hadn’t time to bother figuring it out.
I reached the Flores Avenue place and tucked my roadster into the curb.
Bronze gates opened into a nice bungalow court, and two rows of bungalows with steep roofs of molded shingles gave an effect a little like the thatched cottages in old English sporting prints. A very little.
The grass was almost too well kept. There was a wide walk and an oblong pool framed in colored tiles and stone benches along its sides. A nice place. The late sun made interesting shadows over its lawns, and except for the motor horns, the distant hum of traffic up on Sunset Boulevard wasn’t unlike the drone of bees.
My number was the last bungalow on the left. Nobody answered the bell, which was set in the middle of the door so that you would wonder how the juice got to where it had to go. That was cute too. I rang time after time, then I started back to the stone benches by the pool to sit down and wait.
A woman passed me walking fast, not in a hurry, but like a woman who always walks fast. She was a thin, sharp brunette in burnt-orange tweeds and a black hat that looked like a pageboy’s hat. It looked like the devil with the burnt-orange tweeds. She had a nose that would be in things and tight lips and she swung a key container.
She went up to my door, unlocked it, went in. She didn’t look like Beulah.
I went back and pushed the bell again. The door opened at once. The dark, sharp-faced woman gave me an up-and-down look and said: «Well?»
«Miss Baring? Miss Vivian Baring?»
«Who?» It was like a stab.
«Miss Vivian Baring — of KLBL,» I said. «I was told —»
She flushed tightly and her lips almost bit her teeth. ’If this is a gag, I don’t care for it,» she said. She started the door towards my nose.
I said hurriedly, «Mr. Marineau sent me.»
That stopped the door closing. It opened again, very wide. The woman’s mouth was as thin as a cigarette paper. Thinner.
«I,» she said very distinctly, «happen to be Mr. Marineau’s wife. This happens to be Mr. Marineau’s residence, I wasn’t aware that this — this —»
«Miss Vivian Baring,» I said. But it wasn’t uncertainty about the name that had stopped her. It was plain, cold fury.
«— that this Miss Baring,» she went on, exactly as though I had not said a word, «had moved in here. Mr. Marineau must be feeling very amusing today.»
«Listen, lady. This isn’t —»
The slamming door almost made a wave in the pool down the walk. I looked at it for a moment, and then I looked at the other bungalows. If we had an audience, it was keeping out of sight. I rang the bell again.
The door jumped open this time. The brunette was livid. «Get off my porch!» she yelled. «Get off before I have you thrown off!»
«Wait a minute,» I growled. «This may be a gag for him, but it’s no gag to the police.»
That got her. Her whole expression got soft and interested.
«Police?» she cooed.
«Yeah. It’s serious. It involves a murder. I’ve got to find this Miss Baring. Not that she, you understand —»
The brunette dragged me into the house and shut the door and leaned against it, panting.
«Tell me,» she said breathlessly. «Tell me. Has that redheaded something got herself mixed up in a murder?’ Suddenly her mouth snapped wide open and her eyes jumped at me.
I slapped a hand over her mouth. «Take it easy!» I pleaded. «It’s not your Dave. Not Dave, lady.»
«Oh.» She got rid of my hand and let out a sigh and looked silly. «No, of course. Just for a moment… Well, who is it?»
«Nobody you know. I can’t broadcast things like that, anyway. I want Miss Baring’s address. Have you got it?»
I didn’t know any reason why she would have. Or rather, I might be able to think of one, if I shook my brains hard enough.
«Yes,» she said. «Yes, I have. Indeed, I have. Mister Smarty doesn’t know that. Mister Smarty doesn’t know as much as he thinks he knows, does Mister Smarty? He —»
«The address is all I can use right now,» I growled. «And I’m in a bit of a hurry, Mrs. Marineau. Later on —» I gave her a meaning look. «I’m sure I’ll want to talk to you.»
«It’s on Heather Street,» she said. «I don’t know the number. But I’ve been there. I’ve been past there. It’s only a short street, with four or five houses, and only one of them on the downward side of the hill.» She stopped, added, «I don’t think the house has a number. Heather Street is at the top of Beachwood Drive.»
«Has she a phone?»
«Of course, but a restricted number. She would have. «They all do, those — . If I knew it —»