“You’re here about the picture,” said Robinson guiding me to a leather sofa in the office.
“That’s right,” I said.
“I hope it wasn’t too difficult for you to find us,” said Robinson, “but we’re both working late, and it is much more convenient.”
“Sure,” I said unbuttoning my jacket and wincing as I sat, from a sudden twinge from my back.
Robinson looked at me suspiciously from worn black shoes to wrinkled shirt and nicked face.
“We are interested in both pictures,” said Lorre, with a slight German accent, lighting a cigarette and leaning against the desk.
“Well,” said Robinson with a chuckle, “interested, yes, but committed, no. We’d like to discuss it first.”
I wasn’t sure how they knew about the pictures in my pocket or what their role was in all this, but I was going to hold out for as much information as I could get.
“Let’s not haggle,” said Robinson. “Mr. Lorre is prepared to pay $20,000 for both pictures. If that is not acceptable, he’ll pay $11,000 for either one. That’s my advice to him, and I think he’ll stick to it.”
“I’ll stick to that,” said Lorre in a low voice.
“What if they’re not for sale?” I said.
Robinson and Lorre looked at each other.
“Then why would you come here?” asked Robinson, his hands stretched out.
“You are being very difficult, Mr.…” said Robinson.
“Peters, Toby Peters.”
“Yes, Mr. Peters. The truth is we really want the picture of the girl providing we can examine it and be sure it’s genuine. Mr. Lorre will pay …”
“Twelve thousand,” finished Lorre.
“Come now, Mr. Peters,” Robinson said with a friendly smile, sitting next to me, “you’re dealing with two seasoned actors. We know how to wait.”
“I’ll let you look at the picture,” I said reaching into my pocket, and you tell me if it’s genuine.”
“Fine,” said Robinson with a grin. “We’ll come out and look at it tomorrow morning.”
“No,” I said. “I’ve got it right here, but I’d advise you not to try to take it. I have a gun.” I patted the Woolworth special in my pocket and pulled out the small, torn picture of Lynn Beaumont’s face.
Lorre moved away from the desk and walked toward us. Robinson and Lorre exchanged confused glances. Lorre held out his hand, and I shook my head, no. I held up the photograph for him to see.
“What’s this all about?” Robinson said somewhat angrily, standing.
“That’s the picture you want to buy,” I said, rising, with one hand on my toy pistol.
“Mr. Peters, if that’s your name,” said Robinson evenly, “if this is a Raoul Walsh gag, I don’t find it funny. The picture we are dealing for is a painting, a painting of a girl by Modigliani and, possibly, another painting by Cezanne. Are you or are you not from the Frizzelli Gallery in Beverly Hills?”
“No,” I sighed, “I’m from the Toby Peters detective agency, a one-man operation, me, and I’m investigating an attempted blackmail.”
“Strange,” said Robinson with a slight nod.
“I recognize the photograph,” said Lorre. “I think I know what Mr. Peters is here about.”
“Then, Peter, I leave it to you. I’m going to call and see what happened to the man from the gallery. I’ll meet you later to deal with him.” Then Robinson turned to me to take my hand, “My mistake, Mr. Peters. Please forgive me.”
“My pleasure,” I said, taking his hand.
He walked toward the darkness, away from the set and turned momentarily to speak to me.
“By the way, I think you should take care of that back. It could be something serious. If you’d like the name of a good orthopedic man, let me know. I used him myself when I took a bad fall in the death scene of Bullets or Ballots.”
“Thanks, Mr. Robinson,” I said, “I’ll think about it.” “That means, no,” said Robinson, disappearing into the darkness. “It’s your back.”
“Donald Siegel told me you might look me up,” said Lorre, moving back to sit at the edge of the desk, “but until I saw the photograph of the girl, I didn’t connect your name with the incident.”
“Could I ask you a few questions,” I said.
“Certainly,” he answered, his wide eyes opening and his hand moving out expansively. “If I may ask you a few afterward.”
“Agreed. First, do you recognize the girl in the picture?”
“No,” said Lorre, “never seen her. Doesn’t look like the type I usually see with Princey, but it’s hard to tell.”
“Can you tell me your feeling about how everyone reacted when the photograph showed up?”
“I was just finishing a rather mediocre goulash,” he said, “when the envelope arrived. It was addressed to Errol. He took it, grinned and handed it to Sid Adelman. Sidney turned many colors, the most becoming of which was magenta.”
I looked at him, but his face betrayed no hint of irony. I was sure he was enjoying himself.
“Well,” he continued, “I took the picture from Sid, glanced at it, thought it was second-rate pornography-I’ve seen infinitely better in Germany-and handed it to Harry Beaumont, who turned in one of the worst performances of an undistinguished career.”
“Siegel said he did a reasonably good job of hiding his reaction,” I put in.
Loire shrugged. “I found it too broad. Harry doesn’t think terribly well on his feet.”
“You’d say Beaumont was upset by the picture?”
“Oh yes.”
“Angry?”
“No, but upset, agitated. Donald took it next, seemed unimpressed and handed it back to Adelman. May I ask what has happened, or would it be none of my business?”
I told him most of what had happened, including the murder of Cunningham. I left out the session with Brenda Beaumont and the fact that the girl in the picture was Lynn Beaumont. I included the visit from Bruce Cabot and Guinn Williams.
Lorre sat quietly for a few moments.
“You know, Mr. Peters …” he began.
“Toby,” I said.
“Toby, I have been in a great many murder films here and in Germany. I’ve studied the criminal mind somewhat, at least the devious criminal mind, since I have frequently been called upon to play deviates-have you ever seen Crime and Punishment or M or Mad Love?”
“Yes,” I said. “Mad Love’s the one where you put on that stiff, mechanical costume and pretend you’re the dead man. Scared hell out of me.”
“Thank you,” he grinned. “That madman would do anything for love. I would suggest, from what you have told me, that someone wants the photograph not for blackmail, but to protect the girl in the picture.”
He had a point.
“But,” I said, “someone, supposedly the murderer, made another blackmail call today.”
“Ah,” said Lorre, “perhaps you are dealing not with one, but with two people.”
“Two people?” I said.
“The killer who wanted to protect the girl, and someone who got his wretched hands on the negative and is trying to continue Cunningham’s blackmail.”
“It’s certainly possible,” I said, “but in that case …”
“In that case,” continued Lorre, advancing on me and taking my arm, “the killer will want desperately to get the negative and that picture in your pocket. And I would suggest that the killer is someone who loves that girl very much. Enough to kill Cunningham and make an attempt on Errol simply to avenge her honor.”
We headed toward the darkness away from the dim night light of the set.
“Mind if I ask what this office is for?” I said, looking back.
“Not at all,” said Lorre. “It’s one of the first sets for a movie I’m doing. Should be shooting it in the near future. It’s called The Maltese Falcon.”
“I saw the picture,” I said. “With Ricardo Cortez. Why make it again?”
“A very clever young writer named John Huston has convinced the studio to do it with him directing. I don’t know if it’s a good idea or not, but it has an excellent role for me.”
“This is something more like a detective’s office that the one in the Cortez pictures,” I said, “but it’s still a palace compared to mine.”