The Monet Murders (5 page)

I got up finally, put on my bathing suit, and poured myself the long-delayed drink and drank it. Maybe the starlets were swimming by now. As anyone who has thought about it knows, the only antidotes to booze and women are booze and women. I went out to the pool to see what was happening.

They said the pool was shaped like the Black Sea because when Alla built it, she had wanted to be reminded of her homeland, which was somewhere in the Crimea. Maybe so. But it was certainly big enough. There were the usual collections of stunning young women in scanty bathing suits holding frosted glasses of something and the usual group of writers, most of them overweight and unfit. They, too, were holding frosted glasses. The sun was just about to go down, so the air was cool and the palm trees were not troubled by any breeze. I threw my towel on one of the pool chairs and dived into the water. It felt wonderful, cool and cleansing—not that I needed cleansing after being with Myrtle; she was cleansing of a higher sort.

I swam underwater across the pool toward a group of writers who were just beginning to have trouble balancing on two feet. I assumed there would be some gin and tonic available close by, and I was right. I had gotten to know quite a few of the writers by now, and, as I pulled myself out of the pool on the far side, they welcomed me like a fraternity brother. They all knew I was a detective, not a writer, so I was no threat to them; and they did not expect any witty ripostes from me that they'd have to top, so they could relax. Besides, I might potentially be a source of good stories. One or two might have been slightly worried that I might be on their case. But my boyish charm more or less disarmed even the ones who had something to hide.

“Bruno Feldspar, ace detective, rises from the sea like Venus on a clamshell,” said one of them.

“Venus? What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing, my boy. Nothing at all. Come and have a drink.” He was a pudgy character with a pencil moustache
and thinning hair that he slicked back. He had a receding double chin that went perfectly with a potbelly that had taken years of self-indulgence to create. He was considered the presiding wit of the place. Like most of these characters he had come here from New York, so he had an air of guilt mixed with tired yet amused self-loathing. He was here for the money and made no bones about it; but he was, like the rest of them, fundamentally uncomfortable and out of place, and it showed in his manner and expression. He wanted to be back in Manhattan, exchanging witticisms with people like himself, with everyone seated around a round lunch table and everyone understanding the references and jokes. In Hollywood, if you happened to mention
Ulysses
, people would think you were talking about a proposed sword-and-sandal epic starring Douglas Fairbanks, with Mary Pickford playing Ulysses's girlfriend Lola and Wallace Beery as Ulysses's sidekick Fuzzy.

You might think that the writers would have enough comradeship among themselves, and to some extent they did. But theirs was a brotherhood of despair. They all were constantly depressed by the nature of their assignments, and that got in the way of the kind of sophisticated banter they nostalgically longed for. They wanted a salon but were in a saloon, and they knew it. They wanted to write books and sell them and live on the royalties, but they couldn't make nearly the amount of money doing that that they made here, so they sold out.

I lifted myself out of the water, feeling childishly good about the condition of my body in contrast to the creative types, who collectively had the muscle tone of a dumpling. I noticed a few approving glances from the
naked-starlets-volunteer-un-synchronized-swimming show. Maybe they thought I was “somebody.” Maybe not. It didn't matter. For the time being, I was merely a starlet aficionado, because that hour with Myrtle had been sufficient. For the time being. But I made a mental note of the more interested glances.

“How many criminals did you catch today, my beamish boy?” asked the head man, whose name was Bob something. I suppose a private detective should be alert to names, but I have always operated under the theory that the best way to approach life is to edit it carefully. I have no trouble remembering useful information. The rest, I sift through quickly and discard most of it. I had no interest in cataloging the wreckage at the Garden. And in the great wide world, there was plenty of bad news to ignore.

“Criminals? I only saw one, and he hired me.”

“A producer, in other words.”

“My lips are sealed. Professional confidence.”

“Perhaps they will unseal once you've had one of these.” He handed me a tall frosted glass. It was a gin and tonic. Or at least there may have been some tonic clinging desperately to one or two of the ice cubes, but if so the gin didn't seem to notice it, nor did I.

I blinked a time or two as I swallowed, thinking that a gin and tonic without the tonic ought to be called something else. And then I noticed yet another writer emerging from his bungalow. He was coming down the Spanish-tiled steps from one of the upstairs apartments. He was a recent arrival to the Garden, but I recognized him: I had met him several months ago at Thalberg's party—the same party where I'd met Manny Stairs. At that party, he'd been playing the piano
and singing a comic song about a dog and believing that he was entertaining the crowd when in fact he was annoying them so thoroughly that when he finished, they booed him. The air had gone out of him in an instant and he'd seemed to shrink right there, and he wasn't that big a man to begin with—maybe five-seven or so in his shoes. I remember asking Ethel who he was, and she said “Him? Nobody. Just a writer.”

As an aside, Ethel's attitude was pervasive among the producing class, and that was yet another reason why the overpaid writers hated themselves for staying. In New York or London, a writer was “somebody”; not here, though. One big-time producer called them “schmucks with Underwoods.” Anyway, I'd felt sorry for the guy for making such a fool of himself, and when the disapproving crowd had dispersed I'd gone up and introduced myself and said I'd enjoyed his song, although I hadn't, particularly. He'd smiled sort of wanly and told me his name. Turned out he'd been a famous writer back in the twenties—made all sorts of money, but then lost most of it through too many parties, too much travel, and the other usual culprits. He'd thought the party would never end, but it had for him, around the time of the Crash. Now, a few years later, he was here trying to repair his fortunes in the movie business. He didn't seem all that old: possibly not even forty, maybe a bit older, although it was hard to tell. His wife, apparently, was difficult. That was not a unique situation in this town.

More importantly, he was the one who had given me the idea that I'd used with the Youngstown money-laundering sting operation. He had worked the whole thing out as a scenario in one of his books; and at that party, when I'd told him I had actually
read
his books, he became very chummy.
No surprise there. When I asked him what he was working on just then, he spilled his whole story—after learning that I was not a writer, aspiring or otherwise.

Some months had passed since that party, and I felt pretty sure he wouldn't remember me, but I was wrong. He came straight up to me, smiling, and held out his hand.

“You're the actor with the funny name. We met at Thalberg's.”

“Actually, now I'm the private detective with the funny name. My acting career died shortly after birth, unlamented by all.”

He nodded. “Wise decision. This business is no place for adults, unless you're on the money side. How about a drink?”

“Sure.” Mine was about gone by then. We went over to the bar and poured two more gins and then sat down at one of the poolside tables.

“Did you ever make that movie about the money-laundering scheme?” I asked.

He grimaced. “You remember that, eh? No. It never got past the treatment stage. Too bad. I thought it could work.”

I was tempted to tell him that it did work—so tempted, in fact, that I
did
tell him. I just gave him the broad strokes, leaving out locations and names, but positioning myself as an undercover operative for the FBI, which was nothing more than the truth, although not the whole truth. His eyes grew wider and wider as I explained some of what had happened.

“I'll be damned,” he said when I had finished. He was almost giddy with pleasure. “I knew it was a good idea.” He looked at me with increased respect. “So all the time that you were out here posing as an aspiring actor, you were really a G-man.”

“More or less.”

“But now you're in private practice.”

“Yes. The FBI was too big an organization. I like being my own boss better.” Once again, something close to the truth.

He nodded ruefully. “I understand.” He gestured over to the lineup of swaying writers. “All of us out here are used to being our own bosses. If we put something on paper that we like, it stays there. Not here. Here you get a committee looking over your shoulders every minute. Do you realize that they actually expect us to keep regular office hours?”

“I've heard.” We were silent for a while, puzzling sadly over the indignities you had to endure in exchange for a thousand a week. “What are you working on now?” I asked finally.

“Between projects. That's why I came to the Garden—to relax and unwind. I just got fired from an epic called
The Redheaded Woman
. They gave it to some woman from New York to finish. They said my approach was too serious. And guess who is set to star in the picture? Jean Harlow! Ha! I guess they'll put a wig on her. Either that or hope the public doesn't notice that the redheaded woman is a platinum blonde.”

“You don't seem too upset about being fired.”

“It happens. As long as the checks keep coming, I can put up with just about anything.” He looked as though that was almost true. But not quite. He sighed without melodrama. He seemed more depressed than he wanted to admit.

“Do you ever get tired of being yourself?” he asked.

“I guess everyone does, now and then.”

“Some more than others. You know who I'd like to be? Hobey Baker. Ever hear of him?”

“No.”

“Before your time, I suppose. He was a little before me, too, at Princeton, but we all knew about him. He was like a blond god on the football field. And in the hockey rink, too. He was handsome and gifted and celebrated in the newspapers. He played football without a helmet, and his blond hair was always visible even in the most terrible scrums. We all idolized him.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was killed in the war. Actually it was just days after the war ended, I think. He was taking his Spad out for a test run and crashed. An athlete dying young. Do you know that poem?”

“I don't think I do.”

“
Smart lad, to slip betimes away / From fields where glory does not stay / And early though the laurel grows / It withers quicker than the rose
. I sometimes think that sentiment applies to writers, too. The ones who have early success. Far better to get it over with early than to wither away on Hollywood and Vine. Ha! A good pun.”

He was silent for more than a few moments, obviously remembering something he didn't want to share.

“Shall I call you Hobey from now on?” I asked, after a while. The idea appealed to him, and he perked up and grinned.

“Yes! By god, I can kill two birds with one stone—lose myself and become my hero. Good idea. How about a drink?”

“Suits me.”

“So tell me. What are you doing out here? Working on anything interesting?”

“More or less. Not government business, of course. Private.”

“And? Anything juicy? A story idea is always welcome.”

“Well, kind of.”

“Well? I'm always interested. Don't worry. I won't say anything.”

That seemed unlikely. I'd heard he was famous for taking notes during a conversation—a habit that irritated almost everyone he met. But I figured I owed him something, and besides the gin had made me a little incautious—that, plus I was still miffed about the studio's moving Myrtle out; so I gave him the broad outlines of the Manny Stairs story, mentioning no names. I suppose he could put two and two together if he wanted to. Truth to tell, I didn't care.

“Interesting,” he said, when I finished. “The woman was an exact double. Yes. Very interesting.”

“I'd appreciate it if you didn't do a treatment on it and shop it around.”

“No, no. Of course not. But it might make a good basis for a novel some day.”

Well, that was all right. Novels take a while to write and by the time he finished, if he ever did, I'd most likely be on to something new.

Catherine Moore had been a secretary in an insurance office in Santa Monica. Manny Stairs had given me the address, and even though his studio cops had checked the place and turned up nothing, I figured it was at least worth double-checking. The office was in a five-story commercial building on Santa Monica Boulevard, not far from the pier. The exterior of the building had a crack running up the side from the first floor
to the second, maybe the result of the last earthquake. Based on that, I didn't like taking the elevator, but I did anyway, to the third floor.