The Monet Murders (14 page)

I got my drink and went back to the table. A few other men had arrived by now, so I merely tapped the beauteous Catherine on the bare shoulder and handed her the card. She glanced at it briefly, read what it said, and thought for a minute. Then she looked at me with narrowed eyes, obviously trying to decide whether this was legitimate or just another cheap trick. I looked her straight in the eye with no hint of flirtation and then nodded.

“For real,” I said. I stood there emitting sincerity and seriousness of purpose. I can pull that off sometimes.

She studied me for a few moments more, made her decision, and then suddenly smiled. It was that smile that made me understand a little better why Manny Stairs was infatuated with her. She was nothing more than another pretty woman when she was playing a sullen shill; but when she smiled, she was radiant. All her perfect body seemed to come into sharper focus—at least from where I was standing, which was behind and above her. Always a good vantage point. I began to have impure thoughts.

She nodded discreetly, turned and winked at me, and I took my cue to leave and take my impure thoughts with me. I had done the best I could under the circumstances. It was pretty clear that it would be a lot easier to make Manny's case in the privacy of a phone conversation than in this madhouse of hopeless hope, with bouncers and dealers all on the
qui vive
for smart guys trying to make the boss's girl. I didn't see whether the dealer noticed anything. With luck, he had been paying attention to the new arrivals. But even if he had, the simple business proposition was perfectly innocent, wasn't
it? Catherine might even tell Tony about it, and it was just possible that he wouldn't object. He had a taste for actresses, after all. What's more, he was well acquainted with the big shots in the business. Most of them at one time or another had enjoyed his hospitality at the high rollers' table. None of them would have seemed a threat to Tony, most likely. Gangsters generally have good-sized egos.

Maybe when Catherine thought about it, she'd figure out who that interested producer might be. But that didn't necessarily queer the deal, because the screen test was what she had wanted all along—that and some real jewelry. The combination might push Manny's simpatico quotient just over the bar.

I took the water taxi back to Santa Monica. From there, it was only a short drive to Malibu.

CHAPTER SIX

T
he next morning, Della was pounding away at the typewriter when I got to the office.

“Mornin', chief,” she said without breaking stride. She had the eternal Pall Mall dangling from the corner of her mouth. Her daily quota was about three packs, which no doubt accounted for her baritone voice.

“Good morning, loyal employee. What's happening?”

“Bugger all.”

“Still working on the detective novel?”

“Yes.”

“How's it going?”

“Okay. I'm doing a chapter on the smart aleck detective's visit to a gambling ship.”

“What's he doing out there?”

“Looking for a dame. What else?”

Apparently she and Perry had been having a pillow talk.

“Sounds good. Let me know if you need any local color.”

“Perry's as much local color as I can stand. By the way, Manny Stairs called. Wants you to call him back. Also, some guy named Marion Mott called. Said he had some info for you.”

“Good. I thought you said nothing was going on.”

“I was just pulling your chain.”

“Consider it pulled. If a woman named Catherine Moore calls and asks about a screen test, don't tell her she's got the wrong number.”

“Don't tell me you're using that old line.” Her smirk radiated disdain mixed with the kind of disappointment a mother feels for a wayward child.

“Not for myself personally, although I can tell you—it works.”

“It's been working in this town since Sunset Boulevard was Sun
rise
Boulevard.”

“Good line. One of yours?”

“Sure. I got a million of them.”

I called Manny's private number, and he picked up after one ring.

“This is Bruno Feldspar.”

“Ah. Good. How did you make out?”

“Well, I made contact with her, but there were too many of Scungilli's people around. I couldn't make the case in that environment. But I did give her a note asking her to call me.”

“Why would she wanna do that?” He sounded wary, as though he sniffed another possible rival.

“I used the last resort. A screen test.”

“Sounds like it was the first resort.”

“I didn't see any other way to get to her privately. She's surrounded out there by Scungilli's goombahs.”

He thought about it for a minute. No doubt he had been on the
Lucky Lady
many times before and understood the problem.

“Yeah, I see what you mean. I guess that was the only way to lure her out of there, although I'm not keen on the idea.”

“Well, it's only bait. You really don't have to go through with the test, if you can get her to come back to you strictly on the merits of. . . .” Of what, I wondered—imitation jewelry and a distinct lack of simpatico? If he wised up, he'd realize that the screen test was the best card he could play. And I figured it wouldn't take him very long to come to that conclusion. It might bruise his ego a little, but what, after all, was the object of the exercise? To schtup or not to schtup—that was the question.

“Yeah, yeah. I get your point. Did you tell her the offer was from me?”

“Not yet. I figured I needed to talk to you first.”

“Good. Let me think about how best to do this. I'll get back to you.”

“There's one more thing—she had that jewelry you gave her appraised.”

“Oh.” He sounded more than a little subdued at the news. “I guess I should have expected that. Did she tell you that?”

“No. It came from what the news boys call a reliable source. One of her friends.”

“I see.”

“You might want to shop somewhere other than Woolworths, next time.”

“I also get that point.”

He hung up. Ten seconds later, he called back.

“You have an office, right?”

“Sure.”

“Have her come to your office.”

“What do you want me to tell her when she gets here?”

“I'm still thinking about that.” He hung up again.

It seemed to me I'd gone about as far as I could. The rest was up to Manny. I suppose he'd come up with some scheme to waylay Catherine in my office, maybe hide behind the coat rack and jump out at her just as she was sitting down and waiting to hear about how she was soon to become a star. As the French would say,
quelle surprise
.

Next, I called Marion Mott.

“Marion. It's Riley.”

“Hello, Riley. I have some information for you. Seems that we don't have anyone in the L.A. office who's working on art theft and forgery. Most of the guys are looking into the union problems in the movie business. They're rotten with Reds.”

“So I've heard.”

“But there is a guy we sometimes use to examine works of art. Name is Dennis Finch-Hayden. He's a professor at UCLA and writes art columns for some national magazines. Gets interviewed on radio a lot, too. Apparently he's quite the boy.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Kind of a celebrity in that business. Flamboyant.”

“Pansy?”

“Just the opposite. A real ladies' man and bon vivant. His friends call him ‘Bunny.'”

“Swell.”

“Now if you want to contact him, don't be shy about mentioning your connection to the Bureau. He makes a tidy sum from us on a regular basis. He should be happy to cooperate with you. If he wants any verification, have him call me.”

“Thanks, Marion. I appreciate it.”

“You're welcome. Let me know how you make out.”

As I hung up the phone, Della opened the inner door that separated my office from the reception room.

“Someone to see you, chief.” She winked a watery eye.

“A lady?”

“Maybe, maybe not. But she's definitely a female. The one doesn't necessarily go with the other, you know.”

“Yeah, I've heard.”

“Just like gentleman doesn't necessarily go with smart-aleck detective.”

“Point taken. In the back. Well, show her in.”

It was Catherine Moore.

She was wearing a tight-fitting green sweater that matched the color of her eyes. It was one of those sweaters that buttoned up the front, but she hadn't bothered with the top buttons. Or some of the middle ones. She apparently shared Rita Lovelace's aversion to bras. And like Rita, she didn't need one. Catherine was also wearing a short white skirt designed to display her legs to best advantage, and it worked. On her head was a green beret that gave her a rakish look. It was perched on the side of her platinum blond hair. She wore too much red lipstick, but that was the style. I didn't like it, but I was in the minority.

Aside from that, she was, of course, a knockout, but there was also a no-nonsense look about her, too, a kind of attitude and posture that said she'd been to the ballpark and back a time or two. The word “demure” would not enter anyone's head on first seeing her, and everything about her clothes and her manner said she didn't care. “Alluring,” on the other hand, would spring to mind without any effort at all. Also springing to mind—to my mind, at least—were the same impure thoughts that she had aroused the first time I saw her on the
Lucky Lady
. They must have shown in my expression, because she noticed, and it made her smile. It was nothing more than what she expected; she'd have been disappointed otherwise.

She sat down, crossed her legs making that swishy, silky sound with her stockings, took out a silver cigarette case, selected a Camel, and lit it with an onyx-and-silver Ronson.

“Mind if I smoke?” she asked, after blowing a smoke ring.

“Not at all.”

She looked around at the spartan décor of my office.

“Looks like you didn't waste any money on decorators.”

“I did it all myself. Oak modern. It's the latest thing.”

“Latest thing, eh? Let's hope it passes quickly. Last time I saw stuff like this was in a police station in Enid, Oklahoma.”

“Interesting that they're up on the latest fashions in Enid. What were you doing there?”

“Just passing through.” She noticed the Monet tacked to the wall. “You should get that picture of flowers framed, otherwise people'll think it's a wallpaper sample.”

“What if it
is
a wallpaper sample?”

“Yeah, well, if I was a private dick that liked flowered wallpaper, I'd get into another line of work.”

“I'll think about it.”

She smiled at me and then blew another smoke ring.

“I'm just razzing you,” she said. “I don't suppose you've got a pint of rye in that drawer.”

“No. But I do have a pint of bourbon.”

“That'll do.”

“Paper cup suit you?”

“Just like whistling Dixie. No pun intended.”

I poured out two shots of my best bourbon, which was everyone else's middle of the road. I gave her one, and she tossed it back with professional ease, crumpled up the paper cup, and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. Then she smiled at me and asked “So, what kind of name is Bruno Feldspar, anyway, huh?”

“Lithuanian.”

“Yeah? How ‘bout that. Where the hell is Lithuanian?”

“Not far from Mexico.”

“No kiddin'? You learn something every day. So tell me, what's a Lithuanian private dick doing scouting for the movies?”

“Jobs come in all shapes and sizes. I'm not picky. Besides, I'm not scouting, I was just delivering a message for my client.”

“Who is, exactly?”

“That's confidential for the time being. But it's someone you've probably heard of. A legitimate player. Assuming, of course, that you're interested.”

“Damn right I am.” She brightened at the prospect and sweetened up a little, too. She even favored me with one of her higher-voltage smiles. “You know, I have some experience. I was the star of our high-school play my senior year. It was a play called
No, No, Nanette
. Ever heard of it?”

“Vaguely.”

“Yeah. I played Nanette. Want to hear my big number?”

“Sure.”

She obviously was not troubled by inhibitions, because she stood up and started singing “Tea For Two,” which apparently was one of the hit songs of the play. She moved with surprising gracefulness, doing subtle dance steps that came under the “less is more” category and at the same time displayed her body in a way that would make your average housewife blush with envy. She was a natural; and what's more, she had a remarkably sweet voice that was an interesting contrast to her Mae West attitude.

“You sing beautifully,” I said when she'd finished a couple of bars.

“Thanks. It's one of my two talents.”

“I'll bite. What's the other one?”

“Acting, of course.” She batted her eyes at me, half mockingly. Or maybe totally mockingly.

“Somehow I think there's a third talent.”

“Could be.” She laughed, and it sounded as though she was sincerely amused. I was glad she had dropped last night's ice-princess routine. And it wasn't hard to see how two rather rough characters could have fallen for her. She was brassy, all right, but some men go for that. I didn't mind it myself.

“Well, stage experience is always valuable,” I said, “but the real question is how you will look and act on film. It's a different business.”

“I know. I used to date a producer. I kept asking him to give me a try, but he was only interested in one thing and it wasn't my acting career.” She grimaced at the memory. Not a hopeful sign for Manny. “All I wanted was a chance,
but he was a real heel. Even gave me phony diamonds. Can you believe a guy would do that?”