Doug Allyn: Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 129, No. 1. Whole No. 785, January 2007

“The alarm didn’t go off?” I asked.

Findley looked sheepish. “We’ve never had one.”

Paddy asked at him. “Surprised King Kong’s foot’s still here. What’s your thinking on why all three were taken?”

He asked this of Detective Hughes, who said, “They took all three to hide their interest in the one they really wanted, the only valuable one, the Garbo slab.”

“It didn’t work worth a damn,” I said.

“What?” Hughes growled.

“He’s congratulating you on seeing through it so quickly,” Paddy said.

Just then, the ringing of a phone in some distant corner took Findley away from us. Hughes saw an opportunity for a heart-to-heart.

“Listen, Maguire. For once you’re welcome to stick your nose in. We don’t have much interest in this. That Garbo thing is on its way to some nutball collector who’ll either sleep with it or have it set in the floor of his bathtub. The other two are already on the bottom of Santa Monica Bay. We’re only making this much effort because Grauman’s is still a big noise at the chamber of commerce. So if you can keep them out of our hair, fine. Just don’t soak them for too much, or we’ll come by to see you.”

“You’re always welcome,” Paddy said.

Hughes stalked off, followed by his bashful partner, a guy who looked like he’d be billed as “second policeman” for the rest of his life.

Findley was disappointed to find them gone when he trotted back.

“They knew you were in good hands,” Paddy assured him. “Any news?”

“The phone call? No. It was the theater management, hoping for news from me. Why?”

“One possibility we have to face is that your mementos are being held for ransom. If that’s the case, we should be hearing from the, ah, kidnappers shortly.”

“What will we do then?”

“You’ll leave everything to us, of course. In fact, maybe you and I should go over to your offices right now and put your superiors’ collective mind at rest. Meanwhile, Mr. Elliott here will initiate inquiries. Any thoughts on that, Scotty?”

I had one, which took the form of a question. “One of the other slabs belonged to Gabrielle Nouveau,” I said, impressing Findley a second time. “Who autographed the third one?”

“Another silent-movie actress, Nola Nielsen.”

It seemed to me that Findley sniffed a little before pronouncing the name. I felt I should know why he would, too, but I couldn’t quite remember.

While I puzzled over it, Findley told Paddy that his car was in the alley.

“Fine. Pick me up out front. I want to give my operative here some final instructions.”

“I take it that you’re less than impressed with Detective Hughes’s analysis of the case,” Paddy said as he walked me out the way we’d come in.

“I like it fine,” I said. “He’s just wearing it inside out. Gabrielle’s slab and the other one weren’t taken as camouflage for the Garbo heist. It was the other way around. One of the unknown slabs was the real target. You can’t disguise your interest in a diamond by adding a couple of aquamarines to your haul. But grab a diamond and nobody will remember what small change you took.”

Paddy wasn’t buying, but that only made me sell harder. “Look how much simpler it is my way. You don’t need a leak at the television station or anywhere else. Someone saw the news story as broadcast and decided he had to have one of those two slabs. Some nutball fan, in Hughes’s words, or someone with a connection to one of those forgotten actresses.”

“ ‘Actresses of no consequence’ was how our friend Findley described them,” Paddy said. “I’m tempted to see it your way just for the chance to make Findley eat that slight. But things aren’t as simple as you make them sound. If you don’t have a leak, the thieves don’t know about the Garbo doohickey. If they don’t know about it, how can they plan to steal it to cover up their real crime?”

“They didn’t plan that part,” I said. “They planned to grab both slabs from the television story so the police wouldn’t focus on the one they really wanted. When they got here, they found a third one. Naturally, they took that, too.”

Paddy was scratching at his forelock or what was left of it. I was responsible for a considerable thinning of that patch of hair over the years.

“Isn’t it far likelier,” he asked, “that the thieves just got confused? The Moe, Larry, Curly, and Shemp types who go in for this kind of work confuse pretty easily. They may have come for the Garbo slab and taken all three just to be sure they got the right one.”

We’d reached the front door by then. Paddy put a hand on its knob but made no move to open it. “I’m guessing you don’t see Miss Nouveau’s autograph as the real target,” he said.

“It’s hard to imagine, given the trouble we’ve had getting signatures for her petitions.” That left the woman whose name resonated faintly for me. “Why did saying Nola Nielsen give Findley the sniffles?”

Paddy looked mildly surprised. “It was before you hit town, come to think of it. Still, I’d have thought you’d have heard. She died badly. Back around nineteen-thirty. Killed herself, maybe.”

I remembered then. “She died in a closed garage, sitting in her car with the engine running. Why the maybe?”

Paddy shrugged. “On account of the kind of life she’d led, the wild, Roaring Twenties kind of life. Booze certainly, drugs probably, men excessively. One of her beaus was a gangster she threw over. The rumors about her suicide not being entirely her idea mainly involved him. Morrie Bender.”

There was nothing vague about my memories of Morrie Bender. He’d still been someone to tiptoe around back when I’d started with Hollywood Security after the war.

A horn sounded outside. Findley, anxious to relieve those corporate minds. Paddy didn’t stir.

“The accepted version of Nielsen’s death was that she’d killed herself over talking pictures,” he said. “She made exactly one — Sunshine, I think it was called — but it hadn’t been released at the time of her death. Supposedly, she was worried about it flopping. Then when it finally came out, it was a big hit. Some of the good reviews Sunshine got may have been flowers for Nielsen’s grave, but the general thinking was that she’d gotten herself worked up over nothing. She would have done fine in the talkies if she’d given herself the chance.”

“Or if someone else had,” I said. “Bender has a place in Brentwood Heights, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, and you’ve got a wife and kids. Bender may be eighty-something, but he hasn’t mellowed much, not from what I hear. And he’s still well connected. I’m officially denying you permission to bother him.”

“How about unofficially?”

Findley tooted his horn again, a little forlornly, it seemed to me.

Paddy said, “My money’s on this kidnapping idea. I’m thinking we’ll hear something on the subject in an hour or so at the latest. Check in with me then, care of Grauman’s.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Paddy sighed. “No, I didn’t. If you should bump into Morrie Bender by accident, give him my love.”

It took a little driving around, but by and by I accidentally found myself at the Morrie Bender estate. It was overlandscaped on the street side and gated, the gate manned by a well-dressed mob trainee. A slightly older one greeted me when I pulled up at the house. I’d gotten that far on the strength of Hollywood Security’s name. The greeter, a solidly built guy with a Marlon Brando hairline, wanted more.

“This is regarding?” was how he put it.