Stuart Kaminsky - Bullet for a Star

The rain kept coming down hard. I drove with one hand while I shaved dry and managed to nick myself only two or three times. The Dodge stayed on my tail down Cahuenga, but it was far enough back and raining too hard to see who was in it.

It was after six when I pulled up to the Warner gate. Hatch came out with a red raincoat that made him look like a giant fireplug. Rain was dripping from his hat.

“How’s it going, Toby?”

“Fair, Hatch. You know Harry Beaumont?”

There was no car behind me, but I knew the green Dodge was waiting half a block down.

“Yes,” said Hatch, “I know Harry.”

“Seen him today?”

“No, he’s on location, somewhere above Santa Barbara on a Walsh picture, High Sierra. Should be back tomorrow for some shooting, I think.”

“Thanks,” I shouted into the rain. “I don’t want to be responsible for your death. Get out of the rain. Wait. You know where I can find Peter Lorre?”

“He’s in something shooting over on Seven, I think.” A bolt of lightning cracked toward Glendale and the Forest Lawn cemetery, a few miles behind the studio. Hatch hunched his shoulders and ran for the shelter of the shack, but he would be right out again. I could see a car pulling up as I moved in. I couldn’t tell if it was my Dodge.

Stage Seven was easy to find. I knew the studio even in the rain, with four years between us. I checked myself in the rear view mirror, decided I looked all right, patted the toy gun in my pocket, checked on the photographs and stepped into the downpour.

My back throbbed. I groaned slightly and moved as fast as I could.

The stage was silent when I entered. It was really a giant, barnlike building with sets built in odd places. Here a ship’s deck, there a court room. I passed through a soda shop heading toward the rumble of mens’ voices.

Working my way over sharp-edged electrical equipment, I found myself in front of a door. It wasn’t radically different from the one that led to my office and Sheldon’s, but this one said “Spade and Archer” in black letters on the glass. I walked around the door and the wall, past a reception area and into an office set. Standing near the desk deep in conversation were two men, both very short, both very animated.

They paused when I stepped into the room. Both were wearing dapper dark suits. The slightly taller of the two men advanced on me with a smile, a broad, familiar smile.

“I’m Edward G. Robinson,” he said in a gentle, cultured voice radically different from the dozens of gangsters and cops I had seen him play. “This is Peter Lorre.”

Lorre got down from the desk, gave me a slight smile and nodded while taking my hand.

“You’re here about the picture,” said Robinson guiding me to a leather sofa in the office.

“That’s right,” I said.

“I hope it wasn’t too difficult for you to find us,” said Robinson, “but we’re both working late, and it is much more convenient.”

“Sure,” I said unbuttoning my jacket and wincing as I sat, from a sudden twinge from my back.

Robinson looked at me suspiciously from worn black shoes to wrinkled shirt and nicked face.

“We are interested in both pictures,” said Lorre, with a slight German accent, lighting a cigarette and leaning against the desk.

“Well,” said Robinson with a chuckle, “interested, yes, but committed, no. We’d like to discuss it first.”

I wasn’t sure how they knew about the pictures in my pocket or what their role was in all this, but I was going to hold out for as much information as I could get.

“Let’s not haggle,” said Robinson. “Mr. Lorre is prepared to pay $20,000 for both pictures. If that is not acceptable, he’ll pay $11,000 for either one. That’s my advice to him, and I think he’ll stick to it.”

“I’ll stick to that,” said Lorre in a low voice.

“What if they’re not for sale?” I said.

Robinson and Lorre looked at each other.

“Then why would you come here?” asked Robinson, his hands stretched out.

“You are being very difficult, Mr.…” said Robinson.

“Peters, Toby Peters.”

“Yes, Mr. Peters. The truth is we really want the picture of the girl providing we can examine it and be sure it’s genuine. Mr. Lorre will pay …”

“Twelve thousand,” finished Lorre.

“Come now, Mr. Peters,” Robinson said with a friendly smile, sitting next to me, “you’re dealing with two seasoned actors. We know how to wait.”

“I’ll let you look at the picture,” I said reaching into my pocket, and you tell me if it’s genuine.”

“Fine,” said Robinson with a grin. “We’ll come out and look at it tomorrow morning.”

“No,” I said. “I’ve got it right here, but I’d advise you not to try to take it. I have a gun.” I patted the Woolworth special in my pocket and pulled out the small, torn picture of Lynn Beaumont’s face.

Lorre moved away from the desk and walked toward us. Robinson and Lorre exchanged confused glances. Lorre held out his hand, and I shook my head, no. I held up the photograph for him to see.

“What’s this all about?” Robinson said somewhat angrily, standing.

“That’s the picture you want to buy,” I said, rising, with one hand on my toy pistol.

“Mr. Peters, if that’s your name,” said Robinson evenly, “if this is a Raoul Walsh gag, I don’t find it funny. The picture we are dealing for is a painting, a painting of a girl by Modigliani and, possibly, another painting by Cezanne. Are you or are you not from the Frizzelli Gallery in Beverly Hills?”

“No,” I sighed, “I’m from the Toby Peters detective agency, a one-man operation, me, and I’m investigating an attempted blackmail.”

“Strange,” said Robinson with a slight nod.

“I recognize the photograph,” said Lorre. “I think I know what Mr. Peters is here about.”

“Then, Peter, I leave it to you. I’m going to call and see what happened to the man from the gallery. I’ll meet you later to deal with him.” Then Robinson turned to me to take my hand, “My mistake, Mr. Peters. Please forgive me.”

“My pleasure,” I said, taking his hand.

He walked toward the darkness, away from the set and turned momentarily to speak to me.

“By the way, I think you should take care of that back. It could be something serious. If you’d like the name of a good orthopedic man, let me know. I used him myself when I took a bad fall in the death scene of Bullets or Ballots. ”

“Thanks, Mr. Robinson,” I said, “I’ll think about it.” “That means, no,” said Robinson, disappearing into the darkness. “It’s your back.”

“Donald Siegel told me you might look me up,” said Lorre, moving back to sit at the edge of the desk, “but until I saw the photograph of the girl, I didn’t connect your name with the incident.”

“Could I ask you a few questions,” I said.

“Certainly,” he answered, his wide eyes opening and his hand moving out expansively. “If I may ask you a few afterward.”

“Agreed. First, do you recognize the girl in the picture?”

“No,” said Lorre, “never seen her. Doesn’t look like the type I usually see with Princey, but it’s hard to tell.”

“Can you tell me your feeling about how everyone reacted when the photograph showed up?”

“I was just finishing a rather mediocre goulash,” he said, “when the envelope arrived. It was addressed to Errol. He took it, grinned and handed it to Sid Adelman. Sidney turned many colors, the most becoming of which was magenta.”

I looked at him, but his face betrayed no hint of irony. I was sure he was enjoying himself.

“Well,” he continued, “I took the picture from Sid, glanced at it, thought it was second-rate pornography-I’ve seen infinitely better in Germany-and handed it to Harry Beaumont, who turned in one of the worst performances of an undistinguished career.”