Dream Town, page 8
“And you are?”
“What? Oh, I’m Cecily Ransome.”
“I tried earlier but no one answered. Don’t you have a service?”
“We’re in the process of changing who we use. There’s been a gap, unfortunately, but we didn’t think it would matter over the holidays.”
“Look, will you be there for a while? I’d like to come by and ask some questions.”
“Yes, certainly. I’ll be here.”
“Have the police contacted you yet?”
“No, do you think they will?”
“The county boys are very thorough. I can be there in about an hour because I’d like to speak to you before they do.”
“All right, Mr. Archer. I’ll see you then. I’ll be in the lobby to let you in. The building is technically closed today, of course.”
The Delahaye soared like an eagle, and he made it to Beverly Hills in fifty-five minutes. The production company’s offices were in a sleek, modern five-story glass-and-chrome building that trumpeted both money and prestige. He parked at the curb and strode to the bank of metal-wrapped glass front doors. One opened and there, presumably, was Cecily Ransome.
She was about Archer’s age, and the same height as Callahan, but there all resemblance stopped. Her hair was inky black and hung limply to her shoulders. She possessed the lean hips of a teenage boy and the broad shoulders of a man. She was dressed in dark slacks and a white jacket with canvas tennis shoes that showed off bare ankles. Her blouse was made of silk chiffon, and she didn’t appear to be wearing a bra under it.
Whether these were her ordinary working duds or her New Year’s Day casual getup, or whether she hadn’t been home since the clock had struck midnight, he didn’t know. Her features were attractive if eclectic; she wore no makeup, not even eyeliner or rouge. Her eyes were big enough without any such aid, and their mossy shade of green exercised some emotional pull on him; he wasn’t sure exactly what.
“Mr. Archer?”
“That’s me,” he said, showing her his license.
“I’m Cecily Ransome. Please come in.”
They went up to the top floor in an automatic elevator. Archer had noted that the lobby was as sleek and minimalist in decoration as the exterior, but he still could tell everything here had cost a pretty penny. The lobby marquee had been full of companies with successful-sounding names. And with the rents that Archer knew they charged here, it couldn’t be all hot air; these companies were successful.
She led the way down a plushly carpeted hall and unlocked a massive wooden door with nice moldings, then ushered him into the cinematic kingdom of Green and Ransome Productions.
“Nice,” said Archer as he glanced around at the trimly outfitted interior. It reminded him of a ship’s cabin: lots of stainless steel, marble, wood, and no clutter. Potted plants danced in the late-afternoon sunlight coming through floor-to-ceiling windows. There was a receptionist’s desk, walls of bookshelves with scripts bound in leather, and an abundance of film awards. On the walls were photos of a number of celebrities of the day—all of them signed, he noted.
“It’s a wonderfully quiet place to create, because the film business is so frenetic otherwise. And we’re right in the thick of things here. Unless we have to go out to the Valley or away on location, everything else is right here.”
“Got a lot of film projects going?”
“Maybe too many. Ever since the war ended, people want entertainment and lots of it.”
“I hear TV is really taking off.”
“It is. We’re involved in that, too. Have you heard of situation comedies?”
“No, but I’ve always been more of a radio man myself.”
“They seem rather trite to me, but people like to laugh.”
“I tend to work in the land of frowns and tears.”
“We can meet in my office.”
She led him down another hall and opened the door. She clicked on the light and he entered and glanced around. The space was a good size, about twenty by twenty. There was a bleached mahogany desk with a deluxe Smith-Corona typewriter, lots of pens and pencils in a round holder, a few legal pads with notes in neat cursive, a Dictaphone, and a regular phone next to a metal-shrouded Wheeldex that Archer was certain was filled with the current movers and shakers of Hollywood. A wooden chair with back and seat cushions was in the kneehole; a small couch and two chairs were clustered around a low wooden coffee table.
On the walls were framed movie posters. Archer noted the credit lines showed Ransome to be both writer and director on all of them. He recognized a few but had seen none of them. After his experiences in the war, no celluloid images could come close to rousing his emotional interest. The windows were covered with dark rollerblinds.
On the built-in shelves dotting the walls were stacks of movie scripts and books.
“Would you like some coffee? We have a pot in the kitchen.”
“Thanks. Just black for me.”
“I drink a lot of coffee. I think most writers do.”
She left and came back in with two cups of coffee in white mugs. Archer had spent the time walking around her office and taking a closer look at things. He had settled on the couch by the time she returned.
They sipped their coffees and Archer said, “If you don’t mind my saying, you’re sort of young to be partners with a guy like Bart Green. He’s been described to me as kind of a big cheese in this town and has been for a long time.”
“He is, and I am fortunate. But I bring a different generational perspective to the business. What entertained people even ten years ago no longer does. We have to keep up.”
“Okay, so when was the last time you heard from Lamb?”
“She worked at home yesterday. She phoned here yesterday morning with some questions on a project.”
So before the man was dead.
“I understand she’s been working at home lately instead of coming to the office.”
“She has. But there’s nothing unusual about that. I do too, sometimes. As long as the work gets done, we don’t care where people write. Writers often need to cocoon.”
“She sound okay?”
“Yes, totally fine. Look, did they really find a dead body at her house?”
Archer was a bit surprised by this clumsy segue. “Yes, they really did. That’s why I’m here.”
She sat back and coolly appraised him now. Archer could feel her friendly veneer start to slide off her back like a skin-shedding snake. He actually preferred things that way. It saved time. He needed to understand the real Ransome, not a caricature presented for someone’s agenda.
She shook out a cigarette from a pack of Camels and lit up. “I write and direct films about the dark side of life, Mr. Archer, but I’ve never personally experienced it. You must forgive my naivete.”
“I can forgive a lot and have.”
“You might be a good source of material for me.”
“I might. On her call with you did she mention that she was going out anywhere yesterday afternoon?”
“No.”
“I saw her last night. She knows the actress I was having dinner with. When she found out I was a detective, she said she wanted to retain me. I was supposed to meet her here today to finalize things, and then we were going to drive out to Malibu. Then the body shows up on her doorstep and she’s vanished.”
“Who was the actress?”
“Why?”
“Just professional curiosity.”
“Liberty Callahan.”
“Okay, I think I’ve heard her name.” But the way the woman said it, Archer thought she was just being polite. “Why would Ellie need a detective?”
“She said she thought someone was trying to kill her. She ever mention any concerns like that to you?”
Ransome looked genuinely surprised by this revelation. “No, never.”
“She was invited to Danny Mars’s party, but I don’t think she made an appearance. I understand that you and Bart Green were at another party.”
“Actually, we were at several. You have to make the rounds. I was bored beyond belief, but at least most places had good liquor. It made up for the lack of interesting conversation.”
“And what conversation do you find interesting?”
Her gaze roamed over him. “Did you know that we detonated a hydrogen bomb in November over an atoll in the Pacific? And that the Soviets are rushing to do the very same thing? It’s insane. And human beings are imperfect.”
“Meaning they make mistakes,” said Archer.
“You make a mistake with a hydrogen bomb, you could kill a million people. And worse, it might not be a mistake, it might be intentional. Because in addition to being imperfect some human beings are cruel and like to hurt people.”
“I can see how you would be very popular at New Year’s Eve parties.”
Archer did not mean that as an insult and Ransome did not seem to take it as such.
“I make my movies with a certain viewpoint, with a message that I hope transfers in some way to the people watching. But sometimes I really wonder if I have any impact at all.”
“I certainly don’t want a hydrogen bomb dropped on my head. But right now, I’m just concerned with the safety of one person—Eleanor Lamb.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Archer. I carry my soapbox with me everywhere. It’s an existential threat to my continued relevancy in this industry.”
“I’m sure. And you got back home when last night?”
She puffed on her cigarette. “Why is that of any concern?”
“We detectives ask a lot of questions, some may seem nonsensical.”
“Yes, they do. I got in around two.”
“Do you live around here?”
“My house is near the Beverly Hills Hotel, or the ‘Pink Palace,’ as some now call it.”
“Nice, easy commute for you, though.”
“Nice enough.”
“Can I see her office?”
“Why?”
“We detectives also look for clues. There might be some in there.” Archer hunched forward. “And let’s not lose sight of the fact that a dead man was in Lamb’s house, her car is still in her carport, her clothes are still in her closet, she’s nowhere to be found, and no one’s heard from her since around seven thirty last night. As someone who does this for a living, I can tell you this is about as serious as it gets if you care about finding her.”
“Which I very much do,” Ransome fired back.
He rose. “Her office?”
Chapter 17
LAMB’S OFFICE WAS TWO DOORS DOWN from Ransome’s and about half the size. Unlike Ransome’s, it was cluttered and claustrophobic.
“Shall I leave you to it?” said Ransome. “I know the timing is lousy, but I do have some things I need to get done. It’s why I came in today.”
“I’ll poke my head in when I’m finished here.”
She left him there, and Archer started going through things. Lamb certainly had a lot of film projects going. However, he didn’t find much at all to help him, until he jimmied the locked bottom drawer of her desk. He took out the book of matches, one of a half dozen located there and all from the same place: the Jade Lion Bar in Chinatown.
He looked at his notebook, where he’d written down the two names from Lamb’s Wheeldex cards marked with the X. One had the name Jonathan Brewster, and written under that had been the Jade Lion Bar, Chinatown. The other card had the name Alice Jacoby written on it along with a phone number. He picked up the phone on Lamb’s desk and dialed the number.
Someone answered on the second ring.
“Is this Alice Jacoby?”
“Yes, who is this?”
Archer told her who he was and why he was calling.
“Oh my goodness. I…I haven’t seen Ellie in over a week. I hope she’s okay.”
“Can I come by and see you later?” asked Archer. “The sooner we find her the better.”
“Yes, yes of course. My home is in Bel Air, near the country club.”
Bel Air? thought Archer. And near the country club. “Say in about forty minutes? I’m just finishing up another line of investigation.”
She gave him her address. Archer wrote it down and hung up.
He looked through the office once more and then left and walked to Ransome’s door. He didn’t knock right away because he heard Ransome speaking. Apparently to someone on the phone because he only heard her voice. And then he heard his name spoken twice, with some urgency. As he bent closer to the door he heard Ransome say clearly, “I can meet you tonight, around seven, at Boleros.”
Archer knew the place. It was a dive bar in West Hollywood.
When she put down the phone he stepped back down the hall, then walked loudly forward and knocked on her office door.
“Miss Ransome?”
“Come in.” She looked up at him from her desk. “Did you find anything helpful?”
“We’ll see. Tell me, were you close with Lamb? Or was she just an employee here?”
She said slowly, “We worked together. I appreciate her talents. We got along fine.”
He looked over her appearance. “I think she appreciated you, too.”
“Did she say that?” Ransome asked with a level of anxiousness that seemed off to him.
But then again, maybe not, Archer thought. “She didn’t have to.” He handed her a card. “If you think of anything else,” he said.
“What are you going to do now?” she asked.
“Keep digging.” He started to leave. “That’s how investigations work.”
“Wait a minute, Mr. Archer. You said you were going to meet Ellie here today and she was going to give you a check?”
“For my retainer, yes.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred up front. I charge fifty a day plus expenses. I’ve officially been on the clock since around noon.” He was not going to charge for last night’s fiasco as a matter of personal pride, and also for his being an idiot.
Ransome opened a drawer and pulled out a checkbook. “How about I write you a check for $500?”
“That’s too much, and you’re not the client.”
“If you don’t use it all, you can pay me back. And as far as the client, I just want you to find her, okay? And I’m sure she’d want that, too.”
“Okay. You can make it out to the Willie Dash Private Detective Agency.” Archer took out a sheaf of papers from his jacket pocket. “And here’s a contract for you to sign. My boss is a stickler for the rules. I was going to have Lamb sign it, but…”
“Of course.”
She made the check out and passed it across to him. Then he filled in the contract using her pen and had her sign it. He gave her a copy and put his and the check in his pocket. “You really care about her, I take it.”
“Just find her, Mr. Archer.”
He tipped his hat, shielding his bandaged head from her sight line, and let himself out.
It appeared that Archer had a new client. Now he just needed to find the old one.
Chapter 18
BEL AIR HAD BEEN FOUNDED in the twenties by an oil millionaire who apparently wanted separation from those without barges of money, and this place certainly fit the part. It was off Sunset within a rock’s throw of the UCLA campus. Archer passed through massive Spanish gates and headed up to the land of the wealthy and high-minded. The LAPD’s bunco squad was kept busy in Bel Air, he knew, because the con artists swarmed here to relieve old widows of what their hubbies had left them. And these same very dead men had left many a disappointed mistress in the lurch, with nothing but broken promises and memories of late-night hotel visits. And, if they were lucky, the occasional private plane trip to Acapulco when the wives were away visiting family.
The driveway to Alice Jacoby’s house was nearly as long as a runway. When he rounded the last curve and saw the house ahead, he just had to whistle. In his work he had seen a lot of wealth and a good deal of poverty; he had never seen much in between.
The mansion conveyed the impression of quiet, refined elegance. It was the best of classic European and American architecture melded together with functionality. Archer thought these folks might be an anomaly: rich people with good taste. In his experience too much money often tended to deliver crass instead of class.
He parked in front of the round-columned colonnade and got out. Before he could even knock, one of the ten-foot-tall rounded double doors with knobs the size of coconuts opened, and an old man with a creaky back and dressed in a butler’s uniform stood there like a statue.
Archer stared back at him, waiting for the statue to speak. The way the man was peering up at him, he seemed to think that Archer had missed the service porch entrance.
Archer introduced himself and added, “The lady of the house is expecting me.”
The statue hinged painfully at the waist. “Yes, Mr. Archer. She is. This way.”
And so Archer went that way. They passed rooms where two uniformed maids were dusting and vacuuming and apparently getting things just so for the evening.
He was deposited into a room nearly as large as a pope’s cathedral, but a bit more welcoming. A fire was lit in a fireplace cavernous enough for him to stand in. The furniture was costly, elegant, not too much, not too little. He felt like he could breathe in here, unlike back at Mrs. Danforth’s place, and not just because of the cats. He saw a stainless steel cocktail bar set up against the wall with jiggers and tumblers and shakers and a soda dispenser bottle and an ice bucket with a fresh layer of condensation on the sides like downy dew on grass. His lips started moving as he read over the assortment of whiskeys, gins, and bourbons. Detecting was thirsty work.
“Mr. Archer?”
He turned to look at the woman who had appeared in the arched doorway.
She was around forty, five-eight with a blocky build that was well nourished, a wide face, a long, smooth brow, and a pair of friendly, intelligent blue eyes. Her brown hair was wrapped in an elaborate French braid, and draped over one shoulder.
Her day dress accentuated her formidable hips. She had on sheer stockings that highlighted her muscled calves and slender ankles. She was an attractive woman who held herself with poise and confidence, though in those blue eyes Archer could detect some nervousness. That could just be because of his line of work. He was rarely around happy people, because happy people were never in need of his services.
