Browning PI Page 9

  I went west on Whittier, stopping for lunch at a truckers' cafe this side of Century City. I had nothing in particular to say to Martingdale and planned to play dumb if he tried to get me to tell him what McVey was up to. As it turned out, I didn't have to worry. At Santa Monica police headquarters everything was quiet, it being Sunday, but there was a fat, old desk sergeant nodding behind a pile of paper and an ashtray which it seemed to be his main job to keep filled. He woke up long enough to tell me that Martingdale and Hamer were working on a murder.

  'Juicy one at Marina del Rey,' the sergeant said. 'Actress and a priest. Gun and pills. The lieutenant's out there trying to get his picture in the papers so's he can make captain quicker.'

  'What about Hamer?'

  The sergeant snorted. 'Same thing, so's he can make lieutenant.'

  'I thought you had to take a test for that?'

  'You do. Me, I failed three times, but Hamer passed it last year. Now, he needs a little juice.'

  I thought I knew what he meant. There were probably more qualified sergeants around than lieutenant's jobs. If Hamer could get an edge, like involvement in a cover-up or the suppression of evidence, he could go to the head of the queue. I gave the sergeant my card and asked him to make a note of the time. Then I got out of there as fast as I could, in case I ran into the lieutenant by chance. With any luck, his priest-actress job would keep him so busy he'd forget about his two private eyes. At least it would buy us some time.

  I got back into my car in a lot better frame of mind. I even considered driving north to look for my lost hat. But a flash of Charles Tan with his pliers and a memory of the cold, clear air around that cabin in the mountains, cured me of that idea. Smog is safer. I'd never much liked wearing hats anyway; losing one was no big deal and there was no-one happier than me when the damn things went out of fashion in the 1960s. 'Course that's easy for me to say that's always had a full head of hair. I knew bald guys that hung on to their hats into the seventies, praying that they'd come back into style. Luck of the draw. I strolled around Santa Monica for a while, just to tell myself I wasn't spooked. I didn't like what I saw. I had a few drinks in a bar that made me like it a little bit better but not much. There seemed to be something heartless about the place, as if it was filled with people who were on the make and would leave the minute they made their score. I bought cigarettes and headed back to Los Angeles where people stayed, even after they made their score.

  The woman who came to the door of the house on Drexel looked to be about seventy-five, but she made up and dressed as if she was less than half that age. Her hair was a pink cloud and she was wearing something soft and white and billowing that would have been a knockout on Gene Tierney, but not on her. Her mouth was a puckered, scarlet hole and the false eyelashes she wore had picked up a lot of white dust from the make-up plastered on her face.

  'Yes, young man?'

  'Er, good afternoon, Mrs Chandler. My name is Richard Browning. I wonder if Raymond is in?'

  The plucked eyebrows shot up like flushed birds. 'Do you have a card?'

  Very formal, for Hollywood. I fished out a card and gave it to her. She wore gold-rimmed reading glasses on a long gold chain. She lifted them and placed them on her well-shaped nose. In fact, everything about her was well-shaped, it was just that she was trying to pretend that half a century hadn't passed. She read the card and handed it back; that's what happens when you're not important. Mostly you can re-use the card, but not this time. She must have been eating something sweet because the card felt sticky when I took it back.

  'My husband isn't at home,' she said. 'He's at a party. I was not well enough to attend.'

  Husband! I'd figured her for Chandler's mother and had started to form a few questions in my mind about that. If this old dame was his wife, there'd have to be new questions. I tried to conceal my surprise and asked, 'Would you mind telling me where the party is? It's rather urgent that I see Mr Chandler.'

  'Is it about a crime? Raymio would be so thrilled!'

  'Yes, it is.'

  'Well, the party's at Buddy Smiles's place in Beverly Hills. Where else? Summit Drive, I believe. Raymio thinks he's going to get a job by going to this affair, but I doubt it. More likely, he'll get a hangover.'

  I jotted down the address on the back of my card, avoiding the sticky parts where the ink wouldn't sit. I tipped my hat and thanked her.

  'Just a minute, young man.' A hand, skin wrinkled like an old lizard and with almost every finger carrying a ring, reached out and clutched at my wrist. I looked down into blue eyes that time had washed almost white and at a face that was a mask of disappointment.

  'Yes, ma'am?'

  'When you see him, please tell him not to be late. I'm not feeling well. I need him.'

  'Okay.'

  'And tell him to be careful driving. That Buick's too big for him. He's not a big man, like you.'

  'No, ma'am. I'll. . .'

  'But he's a wonderful man, my Raymio. He's a wonderful man, Mr Browning. And a great writer, even though he thinks I don't know it.'

  I said, 'Yes, ma'am,' and fled.

  13

  Buddy Smiles was unique. God only knows what his real name was and where he came from, but he'd been a highly successful comedian, teaming up with people like Harry Langdon and Harold Lloyd. Comedy must be a pretty hard business because most of the big-time comics ended up drunks or crazy. Not Buddy Smiles; he'd invested in Beverly Hills real estate rather than stocks and bonds and so he survived the crash in '29. When his kind of joking ran out of steam ten years later and he got too fat to be funny, he went into producing. Now he was one of the powers in the land—the Napoleon of Beverly Hills, Hedda had called him. Or was it the Wellington? Doesn't matter, Buddy Smiles had the yea or nay on picture projects, and there's no greater power than that in Hollywood.

  Up Summit Drive past Pickfair which, after Doug and Mary broke up, was just somewhere for her to get on with her drinking. I used to have a modest place there myself back in the old days15 when you could gas up your car and get drunk, all for five dollars. Smiles's place was a six-acre lot with everything crammed onto it that a man needs to be comfortable and a good few he doesn't really need—pool, tennis court, skeet range, par three hole, gym, steam room. Word was that Smiles invited young men and women out there to play games and have fun and he joined in as the spirit moved him. It didn't sound like the sort of place for Raymond Chandler, but you never can tell. After all, a guy who marries a woman twenty years older than himself has got to have some kinks.

  There was a party going on all right. The cars were parked along the road for a hundred yards on either side of the gate and there must have been at least as many again inside the property. I knew there was no point in trying to go through the gate. These affairs were invitation only and the sorts of guys who asked for your invitation were cousins of the types who'd rattled my brain-box the day before. Fortunately, as a former resident, I knew the lie of the land. The big shots' houses were all high-security glamour at the front and for a short distance along the perimeter, but the interest and the money started to run out a bit further back. I was pretty sure that 'The Summit', Smiles's place, would be the usual dry gulch a hundred yards past the house and pool, where the irrigation stopped and the mesquite and mariposa began.

  I parked my car and got out. I smoked a cigarette and looked the spread over. Then I took off my jacket and folded it so I could carry it. This exposed the .38 in the hip holster. What the hell? I thought. Give the natives a thrill. I loosened my tie and walked up the road to the fence that divided Smiles's property from the next one, which wasn't nearly so well-maintained. I entered the next-door place and worked my way back through the overgrown garden, keeping clear of the house. The clouds had cleared, allowing the sun to turn on some late afternoon heat.

  I was sweating by the time I'd got past Smiles's neighbour's house. I had to work my way to the fence through scruffy garden beds to orient myself. I was almost past Smiles's various
entertainment areas, but I could still hear sounds of jollity. I pushed on, trying to avoid picking up leaves and spider webs and to keep out of the way of thorns and prickles and all the other things that make the great outdoors hell to the civilised man. Eventually I was in the badlands, the dry country beyond the taps and sprays where the run-off water cuts the hillsides into lamingtons16. The back of this place was a wasteland; the back of 'The Summit' was a garbage dump.

  There was no dividing fence. I picked my way through the scrub until I was standing a couple of hundred yards directly behind Buddy Smiles's house. He probably didn't know that his yardman dumped the bottles and other trash down here when he forgot to put it out for collection. I'd say this was one time in ten—there were an awful lot of bottles. Some of the garden refuse had been dumped here too—lopped branches, grass clippings and weeds. There was an old tennis net, decayed garden furniture and other such items.

  I skirted around the rubbish and moved forward to where the lawn began, which still put me a long way short of the house. I was hot and thirsty and the thirst made me bold. I pulled on my jacket and tramped up through the garden and past the tennis court until I reached poolside. The pool was half enclosed by a glass wall and half roofed with some transparent material. There were several people standing around talking and drinking, a couple of men and women in the water, and a guy doing fancy dives off a low board. There was also a trestle table with food and drinks set out on it. I marched up, grabbed a bottle of beer from a cooler and poured it into a mug. I put it down in about three gulps and poured another. I spread some stuff on a chunk of bread and wolfed it down so fast I didn't even taste it.

  I was starting on the second beer and contemplating the meat platter when a strong hand gripped me below the elbow.

  'Might I see your invitation, sir?'

  The guy wore a monkey suit but he was no monkey. He was about twenty-five and in his prime. I'd have had as much chance against him as against Joe Louis. Still, I knew enough to just lift my arm so that if he wanted to keep holding it he'd end up looking pretty silly. He let go and I took out a card.

  'Browning,' I said. 'Security. I came up the back way. I could've marched a platoon up there and taken over the swimming pool.'

  He was young and blond and strong and not very bright. He looked at the card and blinked. There wasn't a lot on it to read, but he seemed to be having trouble.

  'I think you better come and talk to Mr Campesi. He's handling security.'

  Just then the diver left the board, went well up and into a nice pike and hit the water cleanly. Some of the people standing around gave him a modest hand and my friend was distracted. One thing at a time would always be his motto. The diver swam to the side of the pool and climbed out. This put him only a few feet away. He flicked hair and water from his eyes and stared at me. I stared back.

  'Mr Browning,' he said. 'How do you do.'

  I can recover fast when I have to. 'Nice dive, Mr Chandler,' I said.

  He pulled himself out of the pool and nodded when an attendant handed him a robe. The blond guy who'd grabbed me had backed away a little and he retreated still further when Chandler told him that everything was all right. He took his pipe out of the pocket of the robe as he spoke and this seemed to be the convincer.

  Monkey Suit said, 'Yes sir,' and went off to look for someone else to annoy.

  Chandler got his pipe lit and gestured at a table near the pool. I grabbed my beer and joined him. He puffed smoke into the warm air and took a pull on a highball that was medium dark. I guess I was gaping just a little.

  'Show I turn on for the peasants,' Chandler said. 'The trouble with California is that nobody has ever been taught to do anything properly. Take these people. They all ride and swim and play tennis, but not properly. Same with writing. Lots of people in this town can write but not one in a hundred knows how a sentence works. Where did you go to school, Mr Browning?'

  'Er, Dudleigh. Little private school in Australia.'

  'What the English call a public school. Good. I bet you know what a noun clause is.'

  I tried to look as if I might, although I hadn't the faintest idea. This was a different Chandler from the house mouse of Drexel Avenue. He was carrying a bit of weight but his body looked solid, and the wet hair hanging across his forehead gave him a raffish air. He reminded me somewhat more of the Canadian army sergeant in the shellhole twenty-five years ago.

  'Have you seen Buddy Smiles? Got a deal going?'

  Chandler waved his pipe. 'Seen him and dismissed the man. A philistine. No, no deal.'

  I realised then that he was just a bit drunk, which was probably how he got up the nerve to put on a diving exhibition for Smiles's guests. No-one seemed to mind that the show was over; they cruised around in ones and twos, the young and beautiful and the not so young and ugly. I could hear music coming from the house. A man pushed a girl into the pool. Nobody laughed, so that evidently wasn't going to catch on. People started to drift away from the pool. There didn't seem to be anybody wanting to catch Chandler's eye or ear. It was as good a time and place as any for a talk.

  I told Chandler what Pete and I had done and learned since we'd last seen him. This took me through another two beers and put him well down in another highball. Being an experienced and responsible drinker, I kept eating as I was drinking and I tried to get Chandler to do the same. He refused. It looked like he was one of those who gave up eating when he drank.

  'Pete said you might have some ideas.'

  Chandler pulled the robe closer around him. I hadn't noticed that the light had dropped as I'd been talking and that it was getting cool. 'The San Francisco angle is good,' he murmured. 'Yes, I like the San Francisco angle. 'Course, that's Hammett's territory.'

  'Who?'

  'Dashiel Hammett.'

  'Who's he? I never heard of him. Is he a cop?'

  'No.' Chandler was staring past me at a redhead who was dipping her toe in the pool. She wore a brief one-piece swimsuit and her body was very white and firm. Chandler's eyes devoured her. The redhead shook her head, flicked the water from her foot and sashayed away.

  'Is this Hammett somebody Pete should see in Frisco? Does he have connections in Chinatown or something?'

  Chandler shivered. Suddenly he looked owl-like and older than his years again. 'I wouldn't be a bit surprised, but no, Hammett's not a cop. He was a detective once, or so he claims. I've always doubted it myself. Hammett's a writer. A damned good one.'

  'A writer. What . . .?'

  Chandler finished his drink and seemed to fight a battle with himself over whether to have another or not. No decision. He leaned forward and jabbed his pipe stem at me; if either of us had been a bit drunker he might have put my eye out.

  'I told you that the whole key to this thing lies in what Sallust's writing.'

  'We tried to find out, but we couldn't.'

  'Didn't try hard enough. Listen, has Sallust got a bolt-hole anywhere, some place he'd go if he got in a jam?'

  I thought about it while Chandler made himself another drink. 'He's got a sister here,' I said. 'He brought her out from the east but she hated the movie business. I think she works in a library.'

  'Perfect,' Chandler growled. 'And you say he's a booze hound, like all of us?'

  'Right.'

  'Ever go on the wagon?'

  'Me? No, not unless. . .'

  'Not you, Sallust.'

  'Oh, sure, lots of times.'

  'Okay. You find where his sister lives and you go there and find the place where he hides his booze when he's supposed to be on the wagon. I know all about it. There'll be a place. Under the bath, in a typewriter case, in a pigeon loft. There's a place.'

  'Suppose I do that. Then what?'

  'If he's writing anything different, or dangerous, or even good, he'll keep a copy hidden somewhere. His booze hole's the most likely spot.'

  It seemed like a long shot and I was suspicious of Chandler's tendency to mix up writing with real life. I couldn't
tell whether his judgments on people were drawn from fiction or reality. Maybe it didn't matter. It was a lead, anyway, something to do while McVey was in San Francisco. I thanked him and got up to leave.

  'Just a minute, Browning. How did you know I was here?'

  'Your wife told me.'

  'Oh.'

  That was the moment to deliver her message, to tell him to hurry home because she wasn't well. Somehow, I just couldn't do it. With his hair ruffled and the pipe jutting from his jaw, he didn't look too bad. His body, wrapped in the robe, looked hard and compact and his legs were okay. He was a little on the short side, but if Alan Ladd was around somewhere he could stand next to him and look tall. Maybe he'd get lucky with one of the spare women wandering around the place. I hoped so. I shook his hand and told him I'd keep him informed on our progress with the case.

  'Please do. It's an intriguing matter. Did you learn Latin at Dudleigh, Browning?'

  'Yes, but I. . .'

  'Never mind. I'd only be showing off. I do that too much. Tell Pete McVey to be sure to come and see me. I need to talk to him some more about that plate in his head. That interests me17.'

  I said 'Sure' and moved away from the pool where the water had grown dark as the light of the day died. The blond bouncer picked me up again as I made to walk through the house.

  'You're leaving, sir?'

  'Yeah, I thought I might just say goodbye to the host.' In fact I'd spotted Joan Crawford, in a shimmering black dress, through the glass doors. I've always had a thing for Joan Crawford and I wanted to get a good look at those shoulders and that mouth, close up.

  'I think not, sir,' the bouncer said. 'If you'd just come with me this way, I'll escort you to the gate. Needless to say, Mr Campesi has never heard of you. I'm authorised to treat gatecrashers firmly.'

  'I bet you enjoy it, too.' I let him manoeuvre me towards a side path. What the hell? The shoulders were probably padded and the mouth couldn't possibly be as sexy as it looked on the big screen. I realised that I was randy. It had been some time. Maybe I could could call a few numbers and I could get lucky. We went down a bricked walkway under a pergola covered with some sweet-smelling vine. Nice to be rich. Nice to drink champagne and invite Joan Crawford to your parties and. . .