From Cabot, I got the name of the hotel where Flynn was staying, The Beverly Wilshire, and the name he was registered under, Rafael Sabatini. There were 800 hotels in Los Angeles. The one Flynn had picked was in the heart of the city on Wilshire Boulevard. It was not what I had had in mind as a hiding place.
Lynn Beaumont gave a maybe-I-was-wrong-about-you look, and I tried to look as innocent as my gnarled face would permit. I told her I had someone I wanted her to meet, and then I’d drive her home.
“Part of the case,” I added.
“You have a gun?” she asked, still not sure I was what I claimed.
Looking as tough as I could, I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the Woolworth special. She was impressed. I slipped it back.
Fifteen minutes later, we were side by side while I knocked at the door to Rafael Flynn Sabatini’s hotel room.
“Come in,” he shouted cheerfully.
We walked in. He was being about as careful as a drunken mouse at a cat convention.
The room was big, but not a suite. The bed was massive, plenty of room for Flynn and the two women who were in it. They were both dark and looked like twins.
“Toby,” Flynn smiled. He was wearing no shirt but fortunately, his lower torso was under the covers. “What have you found?”
“Errol Flynn in bed with two girls,” I said sourly.
“Ah,” he grinned. “DeQuincey …”
“How about saving DeQuincey for later, Errol?” I was businesslike. The two girls simply looked at me and Lynn blandly. Lynn Beaumont’s eyes were wide and her mouth open. Her sophistication had fallen.
“And,” said Flynn looking at her, “who is this young lady?”
“You’ve never seen her before?”
He paused, still smiling, and touched his chin. Then he snapped his fingers. “The girl in the photograph, of course.”
Lynn was totally confused.
“Toby,” Flynn went on, “you are marvelous. Where did you find her?”
“Lynn,” I said ignoring him, “have you ever seen this man before?”
“Certainly,” the girl said.
“Where? When?”
“Where?” she stared at me as if I were insane. “That’s Errol Flynn.” She blushed. “I’ve seen all of his movies.”
“Not all, my dear,” said Flynn. “I was in an Australian version of Mutiny on the Bounty, and I did a thing in England I’d rather forget, back in ’31, I think.” His arms encircled the two girls.
“You’ve never met him in person before now?” I asked Lynn.
“No, never.”
“Well,” said Flynn, “I’m very happy to meet you now. Please forgive me for not rising to shake your hand.”
I asked Lynn to wait in the hall for me. She looked confused, but obeyed.
When the door was closed, I asked Flynn if he had ever met Brenda Stallings Beaumont. He had, at a party, and had attempted to “strike up a friendship” as he put it. That was two years ago and she was not interested.
He knew Harry Beaumont, but not terribly well, and he didn’t like him particularly.
“Actually, Toby,” said Flynn seriously, “Beaumont is a bit jealous of me. We came to the studio at the same time, and I got the breaks. Between the two of us, I don’t think he comes across on the screen with the kind of thing you need to get an audience with you. There’s a softness about him even though he’s big enough and can act. Do you think he had something to do with all this?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Am I to gather from the little episode we just went through with the girl that I am no longer in danger of being blackmailed?”
“Looks that way,” I said. He flashed his teeth at the two girls who smiled back.
He jumped out of bed stark naked and started to put on his pants. I suggested that it might not be a good idea to go back on the streets, since the person who took a shot at him was still around.
“But, Toby,” he said, advancing on me and putting a hand on my shoulder, “Mike Curtiz is having a Hungarian fit. I’ve delayed the picture and, I’m afraid, left the impression that I ran off to do something frivolous.”
He nodded toward the two girls who stayed in the bed.
“Errol, I’ve got a good lead, and I’m sure I’ll have this wrapped up by tomorrow night, the latest.” I wasn’t sure at all, but I didn’t want Flynn out where he could get his head blown off with a bullet from my gun.
“You’re right,” he said, his lips moving into a firm line. “I’ll just have to stay here another day or so.” He started to take off his pants and said, “I’ve never starred in a mystery, but you inspire me. Someone just showed me a script, Footsteps in the Fog. I think I’d be some kind of a detective.”
“One more thing, Errol,” I said, my hand on the doorknob. “When Adelman finds out that the blackmailer has no weight, he will officially can me. I’ve had a run-in with the cops.”
“Yes, Bruce told me,” he said, climbing back in bed between the girls, “wish I had been there.”
“Well,” I continued, “I want to be able to say that I’m working for you if things get rough.”
“Of course, old fellow,” he said. “What’s your fee?” He looked at the two girls.
I grinned.
“I’ll take cash. $20 a day and expenses.”
“You’re working for Errol Flynn,” he said with a wave.
I left without another word. Lynn stayed confused. I drove her home and left her at the gate. She said her mother was out. The dogs, Jamie and Ralph, escorted her to the steps where a Mexican maid was waiting at the door.
At this point, Charlie Chan or Nero Wolfe would have gathered everyone together in his office, trotted out the clues and exposed the murderer.
There was no room in this case large enough to hold all the people involved, the Beaumonts, Siegel, Lorre, Williams, Flynn, Cabot, Sid, the giggler and the mailbox. They’d be spilling over Sheldon Minck’s x-ray machine. Besides, I didn’t know who had done what to who and why. I was a first-rate, determined plodder with a hard head. That was the way I worked, and the way I liked it. Things were just too confused for a logical answer anyway.
Hy O’Brien, the owner of Clothes for Him on Hollywood, helped me pick out a conservative suit. No alterations necessary. I’m a straight 40 jacket, a 34 waist and 29 legs. I took a shirt and matching tie. Hy said I looked terrific and charged me half price, eighteen bucks. His brother, who was still working for him, gave me a friendly wave while he fitted a pear-shaped customer.
The ride to Santa Barbara wasn’t bad. Actually, it was what the Chamber of Commerce calls scenic, but it isn’t all that close to Los Angeles. I went beyond Santa Barbara to a place called Buellton, almost half way to San Francisco. The movie Beaumont was on was somewhere in the hills around here.
It was noon when I got to Buellton, and I ate a sandwich in a diner. The guy who served it wore a cowboy hat and a white beard.
“You one of them movie people?” he asked, serving me a hot mug of coffee.
“No, but I’m looking for them.” The coffee was damn good.
“Back down the road,” he said, pointing while he wiped his hands on a clean, white apron, “about two miles to your right. There’s a road, says Miller’s. Go up there into the hills. You’ll find ’em. I brought them sandwiches yesterday. You think they appreciate a good sandwich?”
He never answered. I had a second cup, thanked him and gassed up at a Sinclair station. The Miller’s sign was easy to find. I went up the road about four miles into the hills. A truck with some equipment passed me going the other way.
The location was against some high hills, nearly mountains. The director was shouting at someone dressed like a state trooper. The director wore a cowboy hat and an eyepatch.
Ida Lupino, carrying a dog, walked near me, and I asked for Harry Beaumont. She looked around and directed me toward a young man who said he had seen Beaumont, talking to an actor named Cowan. He pointed out Cowan, who was leaning against a tree, smoking. I recognized him. He was thin, taller than me, with a pencil-line mustache and hair thin and combed straight back.