Бретт Холлидей: Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982

I stopped where the beach turned a wet, bubbling brown from the water-and peered out at the endless expanse of ocean and sky. Instead of finding comfort in the view, I felt more troubled than ever. I didn’t like what I was going to do at eleven, but there were things I had to find out.

I turned and looked back at the mansion. Except for a small guest house immediately next-door, there were no other buildings on either side of the mansion for almost a quarter of a mile. Charlotte Page’s desire for privacy was well known. For the past several years, she had lived a secluded existence. She was seldom seen in public and rarely photographed. Her movies were now old-fashioned late night movie fare. Still, she was a Hollywood legend, and public interest in her never waned.

In the distance to my left, I could see the dwarfed outline of the Empress Hotel where Fred Chaplin had stayed. He must have been one hell of a fan of Charlotte Page to hike all this way just to see where she lived, I thought. Lucky for her that he did though. Unlucky for him.

Two months before, the story rated a couple of inches in most newspapers around the country, and Fred Chaplin became a posthumous hero to old movie buffs. The basic facts can be culled from any one of those articles.

Fred Chaplin, an insurance underwriter from Terre Haute, was vacationing with his wife in California. He had grown up while Charlotte Page had been at the height of her stardom, and he’d idolized her. As the years passed, his devotion to the actress had continued. Even though she was now approaching sixty-five, Chaplin had still longed for a glimpse of Charlotte Page in the flesh.

The Chaplins had registered at the Empress Hotel on a Tuesday afternoon, and, that evening, Fred had set off to walk down the beach to view Charlotte Page’s mansion. He arrived sometime after ten o’clock, and, while gazing at the home of his goddess, he noticed flames on the second story. Perhaps he heard screams. He rushed across the beach and onto the terrace, then sped up the narrow stairway to the balcony. Somehow, he managed to get into the blazing room. He fought his way through the billowing smoke toward the screams. Chaplin found Charlotte crouched in helpless terror on her bed, lifted her into his arms, and carried her out onto the balcony. Then, for some unknown reason, he went back into the bedroom.

Fire trucks arrived a short time later, and the blaze was soon extinguished. Still, three second story rooms in the mansion were severly damaged. When the firemen were able to search the rooms, they found Fred Chaplin’s body, burned almost beyond recognition. But there was no trace of Charlotte Page.

They searched for the actress for almost an hour without success. Then, to everyone’s surprise and relief, Charlotte Page stepped out of the guest house. Amazed witnesses said that she looked stunning, decades younger than her actual age.

As tears sparkled in her eyes, she explained that she had run down the stairs from the balcony to phone for help from the guest house. Once there, she must have passed out and awakened an hour later.

The police were called in for a routine investigation, and that’s when I came into the case. I spoke with Charlotte Page for half an hour one afternoon to review all of the facts. According to the actress, she had been smoking in bed that Tuesday evening and dozed off. The cigarette somehow ignited the curtains, and she awoke choking for breath in a smoke-filled room. Paralyzed with fear, she had cried out. As though on cue, Fred Chaplin appeared to carry her to safety, then inexplicably returned to the flaming bedroom.

The aging actress’s distress over Fred Chaplin’s death was unquestionably sincere. There had been absolutely no reason to doubt the truth of her story, and I’d left her mansion satisfied that the tragic case was closed. Then, almost two months later, a nervous little man showed up at the police station with information that painted a whole new picture.

Now, I glanced at my watch: 10:57. Reluctantly, I turned and headed back toward the mansion. When I entered the living room, Miss Kenwood was waiting for me.

“Have a seat, please, Lieutenant,” she said. “Miss Page will be with you presently.” She left me alone in the room. I sat down on a canvas director’s chair, and before I could cross my legs, Charlotte Page entered the living room, looking lovelier than the first time I had seen her two months before. Her short blonde hair was sleekly but casually arranged, and her pale blue pantsuit clung to what might have passed for a twenty-five-year-old body. Her face was unlined but expertly coated with a heavy layer of rouge and powder.

How many face lifts? I wondered. How many hours of exercise? How many injections of sheep hormones?

“Lieutenant Dawkins,” she said in a husky voice and strode briskly across the room with her arm extended. “How nice to see you again.”

I stood up and took her hand in mine. Though smooth, it felt brittle, as if it would crumble if I squeezed it too hard.

“What can I do for you this morning?” she asked as she sat down in a nearby chair.

I had planned on asking a few innocent questions to distract her, then hitting her with the real reason behind my visit. But, seated so close to her, staring into her large, mascara-rimmed eyes, I could not bring myself to be devious. In my youth, I, too, had been a great admirer of Charlotte Page.

“There was another witness to the fire, Miss Page,” I said matter-of-factly. “A man fishing on the shoreline. He came to see me yesterday.”

“Yes,” she said, taking a cigarette from an ornate silver box on the table beside her. I fumbled my lighter out of my pocket and lit it for her.

“His story doesn’t coincide with what you said took place that night. He claims to have been able to see things quite distinctly from the light of the flames.”

“Oh, really? And what exactly does he say that he observed?”

“He claims that Fred Chaplin carried you onto the balcony. Then, once you were on your feet again, you grabbed an object and struck him over the head with it. You then dragged him back into the bedroom. A moment later, the fisherman saw you go down the steps and hurry over to the guest house. You were carrying a small piece of luggage.”

I felt foolish repeating the Fisherman’s story. With this legend of the screen so near, the entire tale seemed inconceivable. There was no doubt that Charlotte Page had never before laid eyes on the anonymous underwriter from Indiana. There had been no previous contact between them before the night of the fire. He saved her life. What possible motive could she have for wanting him dead?

“What happens now, Lieutenant?”

“What do you mean?”

“If it’s my word against the fisherman’s, what’s the next step?”

“A preliminary hearing,” I said. “Then, perhaps, a trial.”

“Which would be long and drawn out and a carnival for the press.”

“More than likely.”

Charlotte Page leaned back against her chair and blew a thin stream of smoke from between her sensuously painted lips. I had seen her do this before, fifty times larger than life, in a movie called Wanton Woman .

“Guilt is a terrible thing, Lieutenant Dawkins,” she said. “It nibbles at your heart at odd moments during the day. At night, it keeps sleep at bay. Guilt never lets you forget.” She sighed, and the lids closed over her haunting eyes. Somehow, the words sounded familiar, and I recalled that she’d delivered a similar speech in Wanton Woman .

“Is the fisherman telling the truth?” I asked.

Without opening her eyes, she nodded. “It was a rash, insane act, but I hit Mr. Chaplin with a marble ashtray and then dragged him back into that inferno. I also risked my own life to retrieve something that I needed desperately.”