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[Continuing chapter twelve]
The “somebody” turned out to be Richard Armstrong. Or so Hart claimed; Armstrong himself was gone by the time Casey got to the sound stage.
“Sorry,” Hart said. “I tried to keep him here. But he got another dressing-down from Jerry this morning, and I suppose he couldn’t really see any good reason for sticking around after he’d done his last scene.”
“Straebo’s in a bad mood again today?” Casey asked. “I suppose he’s still unhappy about McMahon wrapping up his picture for him.”
“Speaking for myself,” Hart said, “I’m glad it’s over. I know that everyone was nervous about this whole talking thing. But that can’t account by itself for the way everyone’s been behaving. It’s been horrible, Casey. It was that way even before Lily was killed, and it’s just got worse since then. I’m only getting two weeks off between pictures, and after this one two weeks isn’t enough. Two months might not be enough.”
“There are worse things to have to worry about,” Casey muttered. Before Hart could say anything—or even acknowledge having heard Casey’s remark—Brett Kerry appeared, towel in hand, his face streaked with sweat and makeup.
“Thank God that’s done,” he said. “I tell you, Hart, if I get sent back to Broadway tomorrow I shan’t demur. It won’t seem like exile after this last few weeks. Oh, hello, Casey. Didn’t expect to see you here today. Sorry to hear about the way you were treated.”
“I’m not so sure you should be,” Casey said.
“What does bring you here, then?”
“Casey’s looking for a chap named Buckley,” Hart said. “Dick claims to know the man, but refuses to give with the details. I think he’s doing it out of spite.”
“You’re talking about Michael Buckley?” Kerry asked.
Casey’s eyes widened. “You know him?”
“Nope. I just know of him. He was somebody Lily knew. Some sort of errand-boy for Howard Hughes, I gather.”
Casey felt light in both the head and the stomach. Some detective he’d turned out to be: the information about Buckley turned out to be no big secret at all. And his guess about Buckley’s torpedo—the man who’d attacked him and Desiree—working for Hughes had turned out to be accurate, after a fashion. “So Lily was palling around with one of Howard Hughes’s guys? And Straebo didn’t know?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say she was pals with him,” Kerry said. “She mentioned his name once or twice, that’s all. It was just business, I guess.”
“With Lily, it seems, everything was business,” Casey said. “Well, I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. It would have been in Hughes’s best interests to know what was going on with a picture that was pretty much a direct slander. And who better to employ as a spy than an actress Straebo’s having an affair with?”
“You make it sound sinister,” Hart said. “This wouldn’t be the first time that one studio got a little sneaky trying to get the inside goods on what another studio’s doing.”
“But it might be the first time the sneak wound up dead,” Casey said.
“You think that Straebo had something to do with Lily’s death?” Kerry asked. “He has an alibi, doesn’t he?”
“But Telford worked for him. How better for Straebo to get rid of a traitor while staying above suspicion himself? All he has to do is tell Hal to do this one little job for him and he’ll become a star. Come to think of it,” Casey said, “Hal went pretty much off his nuts when I told him Straebo had given me a part in the movie. Maybe that’s why.”
“Jesus Christ, Casey,” Hart said. “That’s one sockdollager of an accusation to make. Do you really believe that?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t really felt sure about any of this. I’m no private dick.” He looked around, wondering if Straebo had heard him. “Maybe I’m wrong. After all, Straebo fought to keep McMahon from firing me last night.”
“Well, if you’ll accept a bit of unsolicited advice from a well-wisher,” Hart said, “I’d advise against you mentioning your theories too much. Hollywood’s a small town, and tales told out of school have a nasty tendency to reach the ears of people you don’t want them to.”
“Not that I care all that much about what Straebo or McMahon think of me,” Casey said. “Still, I appreciate the thought.”
Hart didn’t get a chance to respond. A young man arrived as Casey was speaking, and told Hart and Kerry that they were required back on the set. The young man gave Casey a stare of calculated indifference as the two actors walked, bickering, away into the gloomy expanse of the huge building. Casey, taking the hint, went the other way, back out into the daylight.
Walking up to Sunset to catch the Red Car, Casey thought about Howard Hughes and Jerry W. Straebo. Could Straebo have ordered Lily killed after discovering that she’d betrayed him to Hughes? It was possible, maybe even highly possible. The man had a temper, and everything Casey had seen of Hollywood people lately made megalomania seem a real occupational hazard here.
But suppose Straebo had ordered Telford to kill Lily? Or killed her himself, then ordered Telford to dispose of the body? How could he prove it? And who could he get to act on such an accusation? If Desiree was right, the studio heads pretty much kept the Los Angeles district attorney in their collective back pocket. Perhaps if High Risk flops, Casey thought, I’ll be able to persuade someone to arrest Straebo. Monarch won’t be so anxious to protect a man who blew hundreds of thousands of their dollars.
He decided to make one more effort; if that didn’t bear fruit he’d walk away from the situation and let the Hollywoods handle it as they wanted. Tonight, he would attend Conrad Hart’s party and try to winkle some more information about Buckley from Richard Armstrong. Monday he would pay a visit to Grey, the D.A.’s investigator, and pass on everything he’d been able to learn. If Straebo got away with murder, it wouldn’t be for lack of effort on Casey’s part.
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
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