Way of a Wanton (9 page)

I opened the car door again and hunted around inside. I was lucky enough to find the mangled slug—if you can call that lucky—and now even if I didn't know the why, I knew two other things: one, that some guy had shot at me; two, he knew he'd missed. With one more glance all around me, I headed for the entrance to Louis Genova Productions.
 

The studio stretched a couple of city blocks on La Brea and was actually named Arcade Studios; Genova was merely renting space here till “Jungle Girl” was completed. I walked across the sidewalk and through the gate, and picked up the pass that Bondhelm had said he'd have ready for me. The guard waved me in after telling me where the offices were. Inside the Administration Building, at an information desk, I asked another guard where Genova was.
 

“Well, either in his office"—he pointed—"down the hall there and to the right, or maybe on the sound stage yonder.” He pointed again, in another direction.
 

“They shooting ‘Jungle Girl'?”
 

“Yep. Won't let you in if they're shooting. They's on Stage Three.”
 

“Where would I find the writers? They in this building?” He nodded and I asked, “How about Oscar Swallow?”
 

“Down the hall and round to the right. Numbers on the doors. He's in Seven.”
 

I thanked him, went down the hall and right to number seven. The door was ajar so I poked my head inside and said, “Hello.”
 

I got more out of that hello than I usually do, and I had only a brief glimpse of the luscious Lola Sherrard before she fell down. She was sitting behind a desk at the right of the door, her eyes closed and dark brows furrowed in obvious concentration. She was wearing a blue skirt and white blouse, and a little frilly handkerchief was tucked into the V of the blouse, in the hollow between her breasts. From where I stood it looked as though she could have stuffed a Turkish bath towel down there.
 

A pencil was crossways between her white teeth, but that wasn't important. She was tilted far back in a swivel chair, with her feet propped on the edge of the near side of the desk, and as I stuck my head inside, Sherry's head jerked up and she opened her eyes wide. She let out a startled “Oh!” and yanked her feet off the desk, and her swivel chair started scooting out from under her. In a flash of white, blue skirt, and waving pink arms, she went down as her chair slid back against the wall behind her.
 

I threw the door open and jumped to help her. She was sitting on the floor behind her desk with her mouth open wide, looking appealing as sin. She lifted her face up to me and said, “Golly!” Then she held her hands toward me so I could help her up.
 

I grabbed her hands and pulled. “I'm sorry,” I said. “Are you hurt?”
 

“I don't ... think so.”
 

She came to her feet, standing close to me, and put both hands behind her and rubbed herself gently where she'd landed. If she'd planned it, she couldn't have struck a more appealing pose.
 

She looked even better than she had during the brief time she'd been at last night's party. The soft red lips were in a small pout as she blinked her clear blue eyes at me, then suddenly she laughed. “Wasn't that silly? Hello. Guess I should lock the door if I'm going to sit like that.”
 

“My fault,” I said. “I shouldn't have popped in the way I did. I thought maybe Swallow would be here. But I
am
glad to see you again, Sherry.”
 

When I said Swallow's name she frowned once more and the amusement went out of her lovely face. “Him,” she said, contemptuously, I thought. “He should be in before long. I think he's on the set. Oh, sit down.” She nodded toward another chair and pulled her own chair back under her. She sat down gingerly, then bounced a couple of times and beamed at me. “All well,” she said. I thought my teeth were going to start chattering.
 

When I got settled she asked me, “What are you doing here at the studio, Shell?”
 

“I told you last night that I'm a detective. Well, now I'm working. On what happened at Raul's after you left.”
 

She pressed her lips together. “Zoe?”
 

“Uh-huh. Sherry, didn't you report her missing?”
 

She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Yes. She's— We lived together. I liked her a lot.”
 

“I'm sorry, Sherry. If you don't want to talk about it—”
 

“I do, though. Is that what you're doing, Shell? Looking for...”
 

“For whoever killed her,” I said. I thought about everything that had happened in the last few hours and added, “I've got some very good reasons of my own for wanting to find the one that did it.”
 

“I know who did it,” she said flatly.
 

I stared at her. That one had jarred me. “What? What do you mean?”
 

She sighed. “I've already told the police,” she said. “They told me I don't have any proof.” She sighed and fell silent.
 

I didn't want her to stop now. “Maybe I could help,” I said. “Anything at all might help, Sherry. Can you tell me?”
 

She was quiet for a while longer, then she looked at me. “I think I'd like to,” she said. “Shell, Zoe left our house Thursday night—you know there was another bunch at Raul's that night?” I nodded and she went on, “Zoe hated Oscar Swallow, and I don't blame her a bit.” Her face looked angry now. “She told me weeks ago that she'd ruin him any way she could, and that's why she went to Raul's. She was going to do something to get even with him in front of all the people who were there, all the people who knew him and worked with him. She left about eight o'clock and never came back. Finally I told the police she hadn't come home. Then just this morning they talked to me again and I told them why she went to Raul's. I don't think the police have even said anything to him—and I thought they'd arrest him.” She stopped, staring at the corner of her desk.
 

Now I was getting something I could sink my teeth into. “What was she going to do?”
 

Sherry shook her head. “I don't know. She just said she was going to ‘get' him. She'd found out something about him she said would run him out of town. I don't know what it was.” She looked at me and said defiantly, “But it's perfectly obvious what happened. Before she even got inside Raul's, Oscar Swallow murdered her. I just—”
 

She broke it off in midsentence, because right then Oscar Swallow walked into his office.
 

“Well, hello there,” he said brightly to me, each word enunciated with how-now-brown-cow clarity, and he gave me a smile. It was a tight smile, though, and a poor one, and it seemed evident that he'd heard Sherry's last remark. He could hardly have missed it. Perhaps he'd even been standing out in the hall listening; there was no way to tell.
 

“Morning, Swallow,” I said. Then I pushed it a little. “We were just talking about you.”
 

“Oh? Well, by Jove. Nothing foul, I hope.”
 

I grinned at him. “I'm not sure. You been on the set?”
 

“Yes, I have. I have been there all morning watching the temple scenes. It's still quite a thrill seeing one's ideas come to life, so to speak.” He took out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling deeply and squirting the smoke out his long, straight nose. “What brings you here, Mr. Scott?”
 

I was wondering if he'd mentioned being on the set all morning so I'd feel he hadn't been playing target practice with me, or if it was only casual conversation. I said, “The Townsend murder. I've got a client who wants me to try finding her killer.”
 

He was slightly contemptuous. “Do you expect to find him here? Or her, as the case may be?”
 

“Seems logical.”
 

He shrugged. Sherry had been sitting quietly up till now. She said to Swallow, “Don't you feel anything? Now that she's dead?”
 

“Sherry, dear, I'm naturally terribly sorry. Zoe was a lovely thing, and she
was
my secretary for a long time. But there's nothing we can do now.”
 

Sherry didn't answer, but she was making a visible effort to control herself. She got up and walked out.
 

Swallow slid up on a corner of his desk and hiked up the carefully creased leg of his trousers. “Did you want to see me, Mr. Scott?”
 

“Yeah, I thought I'd drop in. I'd like to talk to all the people who were at Raul's Thursday night. Just to get the picture.”
 

“This is part of your investigation, I take it?”
 

“You could call it that.”
 

He smiled. “I won't be much help. I remember little of that Thursday night. Mr. Genova insists that there be no late parties, or, oh, carousing when we're shooting the following day—but I'm not
in
the movie. At any rate, I fear I drank to excess. I passed out and slept on the floor most of the evening. I really don't remember quite how I got home.”
 

“When was this?”
 

“Quite early Thursday night. Shortly after seven, I believe.” He chuckled. “That's what they tell me. But my point is, Mr. Scott, that I could hardly have had anything to do with Zoe's death—assuming that she was killed at Raul's home. I'm simply trying to make things easier for you, you understand. You see, you can eliminate me immediately.”
 

“Sure,” I said. “I just eliminated you.” I got up. “Thanks, Swallow. Everybody else on the set?”
 

“Everybody you'll want to see, I imagine. Except Genova; he's in his office. Number one.”
 

I walked to the door and turned. “Oh, Swallow, one more thing. When the police pulled her from the pool last night you said something to the effect that she'd killed herself. It struck me as a little strange.”
 

“Oh,” he said, “did I? Perhaps I did. Well,” he went on slowly, “Zoe and I worked together for quite some time. We were—rather close for a while. It simply seemed incredible that anybody could have murdered her. Naturally I assumed...” He let it trail away.
 

“Any reason why she
should
have killed herself?”
 

“No. I don't know of any reason. It was—merely an assumption.”
 

I thought Swallow looked uncomfortable. I let it ride for now. Sherry came back in from outside then and walked over behind her desk. I said, “O.K. See you later, Swallow. You too, Sherry.”
 

She gave me a bright smile as I went out.
 

I knocked on Genova's door and went in when he yelled from inside the room. He had a French phone at his ear, but when he saw me his thick black eyebrows drew down and he growled, “All right—good-by,” into the mouthpiece and hung up noisily. He kept frowning at me. “What do
you
want?” he asked,
_testily.
 

“Just like to talk to you, if it's all right, Genova.”
 

“It's not all right. I got enough troubles without you. Now get the hell out of here.”
 

This guy and Fanny should hit it off fine. I could feel myself getting hot under the collar. “O.K., if that's the way you want it,” I said. “I thought I'd let you know I've got a client I'm investigating the murder for. The murder we're all mixed up in—including you.”
 

He leaned back in his chair and started nervously snapping the fingers of his right hand. “So you managed to make it official. You're the nosiest damn man I've seen for quite a while, Scott.”
 

For a guy about five-nine and a hundred and sixty pounds, he was a little too belligerent. A private detective, though, is still just a private citizen, and Genova didn't have to be nice to me. But he was becoming a trifle too personal, and I was getting awfully fed up with most of the people I'd rubbed against in this case. It would have given me great pleasure to pin Zoe's murder on about six of them.
 

I said, “Fortunately—or unfortunately—that's what I get paid for. And as long as Bondhelm pays me to—”
 

“Bondhelm!” He came up out of his chair as if he had springs in his bottom. “Bondhelm! You're working for Bondhelm? Why, that sonofabitch! So help me, if you so much as give us five seconds of trouble on this picture I'll have the law on you. Why, you sonofabitch, you. You goddam son of a—
awp!
”
 

That was as far as he got. He was wearing a blue tie, and I shot out my left hand, grabbed the tie, and yanked him toward me. His thighs hit the edge of the desk and he folded over on top of it with his face about a foot from its top. I jerked up on the tie and stuck my face down a couple of inches from his and sprayed words in his face. “Give this a good listen, Genova. You can object all you want to about my nosing around. You can even get a little tiresome. But keep a civil tongue in your head or I'll twist you around till you've got your feet in your mouth. You got that?” I held him a second longer, then shoved him back into his chair.
 

He landed heavily and sat there for a moment without moving. Then his hands came up and gripped the chair arms till the knuckles showed white. He made a couple of noises that weren't words, just angry choking sounds. His face twisted and his lips parted over his teeth, then he pressed them together and pulled them apart again. I could see the saliva glistening on the inner side of his pulled-down lower lip. Louis Genova was all unstrung.