Alice Kimberley - The Ghost and the Femme Fatale

Jack was driving as he talked, moving us north along the East River. The sun had completely set by now, and night was creeping across the sky. As stars appeared in the darkening purple, Jack turned abruptly and zigzagged through an area of warehouses and garages. Finally, we ended up on a large, brightly lit avenue, where every few blocks rough-looking men spilled out of dive bars. There were dock workers, stone cutters, sailors, and factory men-some of them were falling-down drunk, others were shouting or starting brawls.

Jack was right, I realized: This wasn't a safe neighborhood for a dame to hoof it. I was about to mention this when I noticed him checking the rearview again.

"You're looking in that mirror an awful lot," I noted.

"That's because a third lead just showed up."

"What do you mean?"

"We're being tailed-"

I began to spin in my seat.

"Don't look!" Jack warned. "Keep your eyes ahead. I've been onto this car since we left the tunnel."

We turned down Thirty-fifth Avenue, where a box truck partially blocked the road. Jack slowed to a crawl so we could inch by without stripping the car's paint. As we did, I watched men in overalls unloading what looked like fake palm trees and carrying them into a huge building. I would have guessed the place was a factory, but its exterior was too clean, and there were very large windows on the upper floors. "What is this building?"

"Astoria Studios," Jack said. "Paramount Pictures runs it now… used to be Famous Players Lasky Corporation. They shot silent films there once, then started shooting talkies… Marx Brothers comedies, The Emperor Jones. That's also where Gotham Features rents its sound stages when they aren't shooting on the street."

"Is that where we're going?"

"No, but Lester Sanford's address is only a few blocks away."

By the time we reached our destination, night had fully descended. Jack's tall figure cast a long shadow as we exited the Packard and walked between streetlights.

The area was obviously mixed zoning. One- and two-story brick row houses sat next to warehouses and garages. As we walked, I got the feeling someone was following us. I was itching to turn around and look, but Jack quietly warned me not to swivel my head.

"Just keep walking, baby. Don't worry. I've got my rod on me."

"What, are you kidding? Guns are what I'm worried about."

"I can shoot straight."

"Yeah, but what about the other guy?"

"Do me a favor, don't crack wise. Just keep moving those pretty lace panties of yours."

I gritted my teeth but didn't argue, kept my focus on the task at hand. The address itself wasn't an apartment building or home. It was a very large building that looked like a factory warehouse. A parking lot sat beside it, and Jack immediately spied the gull gray Continental Cabriolet. There were actually two that looked exactly alike, right down to the green wheels. They were parked together. He checked the plates of each one, and pointed.

"This is the one-the car I spotted idling that night outside the Hotel Chester. It's the same description the bellboy gave me of the car that picked up the DA's girl when she checked out."

"Why are there two cars here that look exactly alike? Don't you find that strange?"

"Maybe not, baby. Let's have a little talk with the folks inside."

Jack didn't bother knocking, just reached for the door handle.

"Do you know anything about this place?" I asked.

"It's a storage facility for Gotham Features."

The door opened and we walked right in. Despite the hour, the place was lit up and buzzing with activity. Men in overalls were milling around, talking. I could hear hammering and sawing going on somewhere in the back. Boxes were stacked sky-high. Shelves were filled with odd items-lamps, books, kitchen appliances. Pieces of furniture for every room in a typical home were jammed into corners with fake plants and giant rocks.

Jack didn't seem phased by the chaos. He scanned the area and the men working and walked right up to a short, stocky guy wearing glasses, pinstriped pants, and suspenders. The stocky man was holding a clipboard, shooting orders to a younger, fitter man in overalls.

"We'll need those chairs painted over by morning. And scare me up a Victrola, will ya? We have one in the back, next to the fake radios."

I tugged Jack's sleeve. "Who's the man giving orders?" "Property master and studio manager." "Is he Lester Sanford?" I asked. "No," Jack said.

Just then, the property master turned, saw us, and grinned from ear to ear. "Jack! Jack Shepard?! Where've you been, you big lug!" He walked over with his hand out. Jack pumped it.

"Hi there, Benny."

"Who's the little lady?" Benny asked. "She's my, uh… " Jack glanced at me. "Partner," I whispered.

"New secretary," Jack declared. "Just hired her. Ain't she a looker?"

"I'll say." Benny smiled, looking me up and down like a prize racehorse. "I just don't get why you hired her when you could have married her." He laughed and finally addressed me. "Don't you think it's time your boss settled down?"

Settled down? My eyebrows rose at that one. From all the wild stories the ghost had told me, I just couldn't see the living Jack Shepard smoking a pipe in the suburbs with his feet up. Even in death, the expired gumshoe was climbing the walls of my bookstore, eager to glom onto the merest hint of excitement in our "cornpone" little town.

"I'm sure Jack's happy as a bachelor," I told Benny. "Besides, any woman he married would have to put up with-"

Jack loudly cleared his throat, shutting me up with a pointed stare. Obviously, he preferred that I refrain from speaking during this particular meeting.

"So how've you been, Benny?" he asked the stocky man.

"Good, good… things around here could be better, though. You know about Irving?"

Jack glanced at me. "Yeah. I read about what happened in the not-so-funny papers."

"We can't believe it around here. Pierce Armstrong arrested for murder?" Benny shook his head. "He would never do anything to hurt Irving. Pierce wouldn't hurt a fly! Do you know he could get the gas chamber for this?"

"Yeah, Benny, I know."

"Are you here for Pierce then?" Benny asked, almost hopefully. "Did he hire you to help fight the charges?"

"No." said Jack. I'm looking for a guy named Lester Sanford Know him?"

"Sure, I know Sandy. He's been with us almost eight months now. He's not here at the moment though."

"What's his title?"

"Title?" Benny shrugged. "On the credits it's assistant producer."

"Which translates to?"

"Transportation manager, truck driver, and senior grease monkey."

Jack stepped closer. "Does he own those two gull gray Lincoln Cabriolets in your parking lot?"

Benny paused then. He seemed to be considering Jack's tone. "What's this about?" he asked, his own voice suddenly less friendly.

Jack quickly backed off. "Oh, nothing important. It's just that I need a favor, see? I'm on a divorce case, and I'm trying to find a witness. I spotted one of Sandy 's cars at the scene, and I thought if maybe I talked to him, he'd help me out with a lead."

Benny scratched his ear with his pen. "Well, Sandy might be listed as the owner of those cars, Jack, but he wouldn't have been driving them. Those particular cars are being used for a six- week shoot."

"A shoot of what?"

"Movie's called East Side Serenade. We're wrapping it next week."

Jack's jaw worked silently. "Then anybody at the studio could have used those vehicles?"

"Oh, no. Not anybody." Benny said. "Those are expensive automobiles. Sandy keeps a strict log. And when those keys aren't on the shoot or with a driver who signs them out, then they're with me." Benny reached into his pocket, pulled out a massive key ring, and jingled it like Santa Claus shaking his sleigh bells.