[Concluding chapter six]
As she poured the drink, Casey stopped by a book-shelf. The library was full of volumes, and there were more here. It had been a long time since he’d had the luxury of reading good books. He picked up Xenophon’s The Anabasis, but the pages were still uncut. He checked some of the other books on the shelf. They were in the same condition. Why have books if you’re not going to read them? he asked himself. He thought about McMahon, and wondered what kind of a life the man had led that would make him want to build up this façade to suggest a different sort of person. Was everyone in Hollywood like that?
Was Desiree Farrell?
“Is Desiree Farrell your real name?” he asked her.
She paused on her way to him with the drink. “That’s what it says on my latest contract,” she said. “It’s a fair question, though, Casey. If we’re going to work together, we ought to be honest with one another.” She walked up to him and gave him the drink.
“No, that’s not my real name. I was born Danielle Novak, and when I was a little girl my friends called me Danny. Farrell is my mother’s maiden name, and Desiree was her idea of elegance. She started calling me Desiree Farrell when I was ten years old, and that’s been my legal name since I was twelve. It’s not much, I suppose, but I’ve gotten used to it.”
“What about Ben McMahon?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” She stepped back, eyeing him carefully. “Are you trying to make a point here?”
“In a way, I guess. I’ve just witnessed a senior studio executive, a producer-director, and the head of studio security, all discussing amongst themselves how they’re going to subvert the legal system in order to keep the studio and its people out of the papers. If you’re serious about helping me, then I have to know that your interest isn’t going to stop at the studio gate.”
“I won’t promise that I won’t do what I have to do to help a friend,” Desiree said. “But I’ve no particular love for Monarch Pictures. They employ me, and that’s all.”
She took a step back toward him. “Don’t let my behavior fool you, Casey. If I have to, I’ll take this seriously. I know enough to know that it’s not a game, it’s not a joke. It’s not a story you can tell at parties.”
“Well, maybe you can tell it at parties,” Casey said. “But only if I’m invited.” He was relieved when she laughed, but equally pleased that there seemed to be a bit more to her than the flippant remark and dangerous décolletage.
“Ben’s real last name is Goldman,” she said. “I think he changed it because he wanted the bluenoses to think that not everybody running a studio out here was Jewish. Why that should matter to him I can’t begin to guess.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I can’t promise anything either, but I’ll try not to betray your trust.”
“That’s good enough for me. Oh, and by the way,” she added, “in answer to the question that you didn’t ask: yes, some of us do read the books we buy. You should come over sometime and look through my library.”
Casey just shook his head, grinning. She’d phrased the invitation in such a way as to make a bibliophile out of Saint Paul.
Hemmings the butler appeared in the far doorway. “Mr. McMahon asks that you return to the library, please.”
“Bring your drink with you,” Desiree told him. More quietly, she added, “and don’t tell them about what we’re going to do, oke?”
Casey nodded.
* * * *
“We’re sorry to have kept you waiting,” McMahon said as Casey followed Desiree back into the library. Casey tried to guess at the outcome of the private discussion, as much because Desiree had convinced him that a detective ought to be able to deduce these things from appearances as because he wanted to know whether Monarch was going to sacrifice him to the police.“I hope you were able to concentrate on finding a solution,” Desiree said. Her voice sounded sincere, but Casey figured he knew better by now. Looking around, he saw that each of the three men had an empty glass nearby. The decanter was considerably less full now than it had been when McMahon first drew Casey’s attention to it. Who’s your bootlegger, Goldman? Casey asked to himself.
“Thank you, Desiree,” McMahon said. “I think that we have.” He walked across the room to stand in front of them.
“I’m going to call Fitts tonight,” McMahon said. “I’ll apprise him of the situation—and of your innocence, Mr. Casey. Then I’ll suggest that he remove Detective Sergeant Clark from the case and assign it to one of his own investigators. My preference would be Stan Grey; I’ve … had dealings with him before.”
“Grey may want to talk to you,” Neal said to Casey. “You don’t say a thing to him without talking to me first. Got that?”
Casey looked at Neal as calmly as he could for a five-count before nodding.
“Neal and I think that a way should be found to bring you under the legal protection of the studio,” McMahon said to Casey. “We’re going to look into the ramifications of our offering you a job—in addition to your work with Mr. Hogan, of course. I understand you did a screen-test for Jerry yesterday. I also understand that Jerry found your work on-camera—interesting. There might be something in that, Mr. Casey, perhaps even some acting work on one of our pictures. We could put you under contract.”
You could pay me to investigate Lily Cross’s death, Casey thought. He kept this to himself, though, mindful of Desiree’s warning. “That could be awfully decent of you,” he said.
“Could be?”
“Well, you said you could put me under contract. Can’t be more certain until I’ve seen the details of that contract, can I?”
“You’re being pretty picky for a guy making ten bucks a day and sleeping in a hangar out in the sticks,” Neal said.
“Gee, I’d have said he was being intelligent,” Desiree said. “You haven’t exactly done anything to endear yourselves to him, have you?”
“Speaking of the sticks,” McMahon said, “I think it’s rather too late for you to have to make your way back out to Glendale now. Why don’t I have my car take you into town? We can put you up at the Hollywood. Or the Roosevelt, if you’d prefer.”
“Now that’s a generous offer, Ben,” Desiree said. “Don’t get your chauffeur out of bed, though. I’ll drive him myself.”
* * * *
“I’m not going to stay in any hotel on Monarch’s dime,” Casey said. “Not beyond tonight, anyway.”“Smart,” Desiree said. She was driving awfully fast, but Casey didn’t mind speed, so long as the roadster didn’t try to become airborne. “I think I can help you there,” she added. “A friend of mine can put you up, if you don’t mind sharing.”
“I’ve shared rooms before,” Casey said. “With men who tossed and turned or even had screaming nightmares. I guess I can handle having a hut-mate again.”
“One of these days, Casey, I want to hear more about your experiences in the war.”
“Some day,” said Casey. “Right now I want to know more about Jerry W. Straebo.”
“Why?”
“I already know that he has a temper,” Casey said. “What I want to know is whether or not his temper justifies the way he tried to attack me tonight when I joked about him being a suspect in Lily Cross’s death.”
“You sure you’ve never read a mystery novel?” Desiree laughed softly. “You’re a fast learner, then. I like that.”
“I’ll bet. What about Straebo?”
“Too late, Casey,” she said, pulling to a stop in front of the mission-style Hollywood Hotel. “Tomorrow morning, before work. In fact, have the desk call you at five. We’ll have breakfast, I’ll introduce you to your new ‘hut-mate,’ and you’ll learn more than you ever wanted to about our friend Jerry Straebo.”
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six
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