I looked at Barton but didn’t touch him. There was nothing around that seemed to help.
“Might have used a silencer,” I said.
“To kill quietly,” Rathbone said, looking down at Barton. “A particularly chilling concept.”
“He’s been dead for more than a few minutes,” I said. “Blood is starting to dry. So no one’s called the police, and I don’t think I’ll stick around to do it. They don’t like it when you discover two corpses in one day. How about we just leave here quietly and I make an anonymous call?”
“If you think it best,” he said, and we left. Rathbone had to get home and prepare for a dinner, so he drove me to Al’s garage, and I promised to call and keep him informed.
The bumper was back on and I was short of suspects. My favorite had just been shot. Maybe he had passed on the Hughes plans to an accomplice who was afraid he would talk and killed him. Maybe he had seen someone else in Hughes’ room and that person had killed him. And maybe one of these maybes had seen me and Rathbone coming out of Barton’s. Or just maybe someone who had nothing to do with the case had killed him, but that would have been one hell of a coincidence. I believed in coincidences, but I didn’t count on them. I always counted on my fingers and hoped I never had to go over ten on any problem, but this one required an adding machine.
I pulled in at a grocery store, picked up three boxes of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, 11 — ounce size for 17 cents, three bars of Lifebuoy for 19 cents, and one pound can of Campbell’s Pork and Beans for 7 cents. I also picked up a Weber’s bread and a can of Bab-o. That and a bottle of milk was my grocery shopping for the week. Then I called the cops with my best Italian accent and told them where they could find a corpse named Barton. Finally I called Norma Fomey at Warner Brothers. She didn’t want to see me and laughed when I said she might be a suspect. After she made a few smart cracks, I said she reminded me of a Warner Brothers version of Dorothy Parker. She liked that.
I drove to the studio where I had put in four years as a guard. I had time for both Superman and Don Winslow on the radio because of the traffic, and I pulled up to the Warner gate to the music of Bing Crosby singing “Shepherd’s Serenade.”
The guy on the gate was someone I didn’t know. I just told him my name and the fact that Norma Forney was expecting me. He told me she was in an office near Studio 5, and I didn’t wait for directions. I knew the way. The last time I had been there was to catch a murderer. I had left with the help of Errol Flynn and an ambulance. My memories of Warner Brothers were not the best, and I was anxious to be in and out of there. I found the building, parked in a space reserved for Hal Wallis, and hurried up to the office. There was no secretary. A woman was sitting behind a desk with a typewriter on it. Her hands were behind her head and a pencil was in her mouth.
“Norma Forney?” I said. She looked up.
“Peters?” she said through the pencil.
She was about thirty with a good-looking smart face and blue eyes. Her dress was dark, black, and made out of something shiny like satin. Her dark hair was cut short and she wore a small hat with a single long pheasant feather.
“You’ve got some inspiration?” she asked. “I could use it. I’m supposed to be adding gags to this script, The Male Animal, but I’m not feeling funny. I haven’t felt funny since my gall bladder operation. Tried to make gall bladder jokes. There aren’t any. What can I do for you-quickly?”
Since I wanted to be away from Warner’s as much as she wanted me away, I talked fast, telling her about my investigation of the Hughes’ theft, or possible theft, and left out the two murders.
“Can’t help you,” she said. “I wasn’t even a potential contributor to the festivities, though I probably talked too much. I usually do. I got the reputation that I was a witty kid when I wrote my first and only play. I’ve been trying to live up to it ever since. That is one hell of a burden to carry, Peters.”
“There are worse,” I said. “Then why were you there?”
“I went with Ben Siegel. It was him that Hughes wanted to meet.”
“Why?” I asked.
“If you’re working for Hughes, why don’t you ask him, or is he on his way around the world on a kite?” she said.
“Mr. Hughes doesn’t talk very much,” I said, and she nodded in agreement.
“O.K.,” she said. “Hughes said that when the war broke out, he wanted Ben to organize some friends in Europe to act as a kind of information network. We were going to talk about it that night, but Hughes broke up the party.”
“What kinds of friends does Siegel have in Europe?”
She looked at me as if I were from the hills of Dakota.
“Criminals,” she said, “drug dealers, killers. Bugsy Siegel knows a lot of people.”
“I didn’t know it was that Siegel,” I said.
She gave me a broad fake grin.
“You are one hell of a detective, Peters. Remind me to call you if I ever lose my mind. Now if you’ll let me get back to my nonwork…”
I left, promising that I might be back. She said she was looking forward to it, but her eyes said she wasn’t. You can’t charm them all. I left without seeing a single movie star or anyone I knew, which was fine with me.
My next stop was Bugsy Siegel’s. I had a pair of addresses and some phone numbers. I called the first and got no answer. Then I called the second and got someone with raw fish in his mouth. I said I wanted to talk to Siegel. I don’t know what he said, but he went away, and a few minutes later another voice came on.
“What do you want with Mr. Siegel, and how’d you get this number?”
“I’m working for Howard Hughes, and this has something to do with national security. I’d like to see Mr. Siegel for a few minutes, tonight if possible.”
Someone on the other end covered the mouthpiece, and I could hear muffled voices. Then the talker came back. He gave me the address of a small night club on the Strip and told me to be there at five. I said I would and hung up.
I went to Levy’s Grill on Spring, ordered the brisket special and said sweet nothings to Carmen the cashier while I waited for my order. Carmen was looking very ample and busy. Levy’s was crowded. I hovered near the register eyeing her, the customers and the candy on the counter. I even bought a box of chocolate babies and popped them in my mouth for an appetizer as we talked between customers.
“How about wrestling next Tuesday?” I said.
“I don’t think I’ll feel like wrestling next Tuesday,” she said without looking at me, as she checked the total on the tab before her. The little guy who handed her the check counted off bills without looking at her or me.
“I meant we’d go to the East side and watch them,” I explained.
“I know what you mean,” she said, glancing at me with her soft cow eyes. “Where have you been?”
“Busy,” I said. “Big cases, lots of money. Fame, fortune. I met Basil Rathbone today.”
“You didn’t!” she said, always impressed by movie stars.
“I did,” I said.
“Next Tuesday?” she said. I leaned forward with a pleased nod.
“Dinner and wrestling,” I said.
“All right,” she said. “Now leave me alone and stop trying to look down my dress. I’ve got a job.”
Feeling better, I ate the brisket special, left a big tip and gave Carmen a smile when I paid my bill. Then I headed for the Strip and Bugsy Siegel.
A black Caddy pulled into traffic behind me with two guys in it. Maybe I was being followed. Maybe I was just jumpy. I decided not to take a chance, so I circled the block twice, and they were gone. At least I thought they were gone, but as I later discovered, even a sharp-eyed investigator like Toby Peters makes mistakes.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I was driving slowly down Hollywood Boulevard with an hour to kill when the hour decided it might prefer to kill me. The black Caddy showed up three cars back in the bright sunlight, sending a mirror of buildings and trees back at me and hiding the faces of the two guys in the front seat.