Stuart Kaminsky - Bullet for a Star

He drank himself and got to his feet. I joined him and realized that he was about my height and a little on the thin side. I’d seen him in some films since I left the studio and had started to think of him as tall and burly when I knew he was average and thin. As a cop, I had seen dozens of victims identify their robbers, rapists and loonies as a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier than they really were. I knew that for his height and weight Bogie could be rough, and I also knew from experience that he was willing to face uglies who met the descriptions of those robbers of my cop days.

Bogart stretched, put his hands on his hips and looked up the hill.

“It’s a long one, but I think George made a mistake in turning it down,” he said. I figured George was George Raft. Bogart confirmed it with his next words. “Now if old George will just turn down the Falcon role it’ll be a good year’s work for me.”

From about 100 yards down the mountain, a man’s voice echoed into the rocks.

“That’s enough vacation, you lazy clown. It’s time we got you killed. Get ready to die in 15 minutes.”

“Walsh,” shouted Bogie, “you one-eyed baboon. I’ll die for you, but I’m not taking the tumble from up there.”

“Fifteen minutes,” shouted Walsh.

Bogart was shaking his head and smiling when he turned back to me.

“You know that maniac actually carries a gun on the set?” he said tilting his head toward the crowd of small people below us. “You’re a private cop; you carry a gun?”

“Sometimes,” I said, “but about half the time it’s a dime pistol from Woolworth. I’ve got to get going, Bogie. Fella down the hill said you might know where I can find Harry Beaumont.”

The name did something to the actor. His jaw tightened and his cheekbones quivered.

“The man’s got problems,” he said. “I can understand that. I’ve had a few myself, but he’s carrying a big cow chip on his shoulder and I’m going to take it and smash it in his kisser.”

Bogart’s anger was on the surface and ready to explode. It had come fast and I stepped back. He saw what I had done and the fire, steam or dry ice in his eyes cooled suddenly.

“Come on,” he said touching my arm. “I’ll take you to him. What’d he do, murder a crippled newsboy?”

As we started down the hill I gave him just enough to answer his question and not enough to lead to details. He knew there was something I didn’t want to say and he respected it.

We passed the director wearing an eye-patch and a cowboy hat.

“Where are you going Edwin Booth?” cackled Walsh.

“My friend and I are going to the latrine together,” Bogart said in a high falsetto. Walsh and the group of actors and technicians around him broke out laughing.

“And my family wanted me to be a polo player,” whispered Bogart leading the way toward a farmhouse about fifty yards away. Bogie explained that the farmhouse was being used for costume changes. Beaumont had already finished his shooting for the location and was on his way back to L.A. by now if he had changed quickly.

The farmhouse was small. Bogart knocked and a voice told us to come in.

Harry Beaumont was facing us and looking none too happy about it. He was dressed in a state trooper’s uniform.

“What do you want?” He was a big man, but I thought I could take him. A look at Bogart made it clear that he was quite willing to test the bigger man on the spot. Beaumont’s fat was beginning to show and his skin was loose on his hands and face.

“Harry, this is a friend of mine, Toby Peters,” said Bogart. “I’d appreciate it if you’d answer a few questions for him.”

“You know what you can do with your appreciation,” Beaumont snarled.

Bogart pointed a finger at the bigger man and spoke softly.

“And you know what you can do with a mouthful of loose teeth.” He turned from Beaumont to me with an amused look and whispered. “Sorry, that’s the best dialogue I could come up with on short notice. It lacked a certain flair wouldn’t you say, Toby?”

I shrugged. I had a couple of good answers, but it was Bogart’s scene and he was enjoying it, playing with Beaumont to keep tension from turning to flying chairs.

“Stupid bastard,” Beaumont said under his breath.

I could see Bogart tense, and reached out to put a calming hand on him. My hand didn’t calm him. What did stop him as he took a step toward Beaumont (who had turned his back) was a voice from outside the house calling Bogart for the next scene.

He pulled his eyes away from Beaumont’s back and turned to me. He sighed, knowing that his moment to break a knuckle on Beaumont’s skull was moving away from him.

“Toby, take care of yourself and my little pal Beaumont here.” Beaumont grunted, his back still turned. Bogart ruffled my hair, smiled and went out.

When the door closed, Beaumont turned and looked at me with his patented sneer.

“In a year,” he hissed, “he’ll be where I am, bit parts in B pictures.”

“I’m fascinated by your predictions,” I said, “and I’d like to hear more, but you and I have some business. I’m a private investigator working for Errol Flynn.”

“I’m impressed,” he said sarcastically.

Maybe he knew nothing, but he could be the key to this whole thing-the guy who took a shot at Flynn and murdered Cunningham over his daughter’s honor. He didn’t seem the type, but I’d been fooled before. Getting him angry was the quickest way to get information and Bogart had given me a good start on the job.

“You were at the table when Flynn got that blackmail threat?”

“You came all the way out here to confirm that?”

“No, I came all the way out here to ask you what you did when you recognized the girl in the picture.”

He wasn’t as good an actor as his wife. His look was narrow and wary.

“Recognized the girl?”

“Your daughter, Lynn.”

He walked toward me. I was ready for him if he didn’t have my gun in his pocket.

“You mind telling me what you’ve been doing for the past two days,” I said evenly, “like every minute of your time, and what you know about the murder of a guy named Cunningham?”

He fingered his moustache.

“Not at all,” he said. “I have nothing to hide.”

He started to turn and I relaxed slightly. It was a mistake. I was making a lot of them. He turned quickly for such a big man and rammed his fist into my stomach. I doubled up, trying to refill my lungs. Beaumont pushed me backward with both hands, and I slid down catching a little air, but it was coming too slowly. He opened a closet and shoved me in. I reached up to hold the door open, but a coat was in my mouth. The door closed and I heard Beaumont’s footsteps moving away. As I untangled myself from the clothes and got to my feet, I heard a car start and pull away. There wasn’t much room in the closet to get my shoulder into the door. I sat in the dark with my back against the wall. It took two or three good kicks to break the lock, which wasn’t designed for holding men.

As I ran out of the house, I met Cowan coming down the hill. Behind him and in the distance I could hear Bogart shouting, “All right. All right. I’ll take the goddamned fall.”

“You talk to Beaumont?” Cowan asked me.

“Briefly,” I said panting.

“Mean-tempered son of a bitch, isn’t he?”

Cowan told me Beaumont had torn down the road in his car, a white ’39 Cadillac. I thanked him and made it to my car, which was no match for a Caddy. My wind was back, and I wanted my hands on Beaumont. I had been pushed around enough.

Beaumont had a three or four minute start on me. He also had a Caddy that could leave my gasping Buick eating dust all the way back to Los Angeles.