“Jerome Cowan?” I said sticking out a hand.
“Right,” he said, shaking my hand.
“I wonder if you can tell me where to find Harry Beaumont?”
Cowan looked at me quizzically.
“I’m a private investigator working for the studio on something rather confidential,” I whispered.
“Really,” he said, “I’m playing a private detective in my next picture.”
We talked for a few minutes, and he said he was going to play Miles Archer, Sam Spade’s partner in The Maltese Falcon. It wasn’t a big role, but it was a good one. I told him about my meeting with Peter Lorre. It wasn’t much of a coincidence since Warner character actors appeared in many pictures in a year. He didn’t know where Beaumont was, but he knew someone who might.
“Beaumont just had a few unpleasant words with Bogie,” said Cowan, “maybe he knows which way your man went.”
I thanked Cowan who told me they were on a shooting break and Bogart was probably halfway up the hill. I started up the hill toward a knot of people, one of whom was talking rather loudly in a voice I recognized, a near-angry lisp.
“Try it again, one more time,” growled Bogart.
I was close enough to see a wirey little guy in a state trooper’s uniform lunge at Bogart, who laughed, jumped on top of the man and went tumbling with him into a tree.
“That’s one out of two,” said Bogie his back against a tree and panting. “Let’s leave it at that.”
The state trooper and two other men and a skinny woman carrying a script started down the hill. As I moved toward Bogart, he looked up at me.
“Don’t tell me,” he said lifting his upper lip in a familiar grimace of thought. “Peters, Toby Peters, used to work security at the studio.” He started to get up but I motioned him back, took his hand and joined him against the tree. “Where you been?”
“Private investigator,” I said. He nodded and lifted an eyebrow. Bogie had always looked either very gentle to me or very rough. There was no inbetween. Right now he looked rough as he nervously touched the lobe of his left ear. His hair was shaved at the sides and he seemed a bit jumpy.
“It’s been a while,” he chuckled. “Last time I saw you you were helping me into a car after a party where I was saying a few things to the brothers Warner that I would have regretted in the morning. You back at the studio?”
“No,” I said looking up at the mountain. It looked rugged.
“Yeah,” he said seeing my eyes move up. “It’s a bastard all right. This Walsh is some character. I’ve spent five years making movies on Warner sets that looked like everything from a roadhouse to the yard at Alcatraz. Now, I get a nut who gets me to shave my head and climb mountains. I really think he’d like it if one of us fell as long as the camera was moving.”
“Rough,” I said sympathetically.
“Hell no,” he laughed slapping me on my shoulder. “This is a big break for me. It’s a good part, might even put me up with the big boys on the lot.” He put his thumb up and gave me a wink and then pulled a silver flask from his pocket. He extended it to me with uplifted eyebrows of invitation. Then he stopped.
“I remember,” he said. “You don’t drink. A beer once in a while.”
He drank himself and got to his feet. I joined him and realized that he was about my height and a little on the thin side. I’d seen him in some films since I left the studio and had started to think of him as tall and burly when I knew he was average and thin. As a cop, I had seen dozens of victims identify their robbers, rapists and loonies as a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier than they really were. I knew that for his height and weight Bogie could be rough, and I also knew from experience that he was willing to face uglies who met the descriptions of those robbers of my cop days.
Bogart stretched, put his hands on his hips and looked up the hill.
“It’s a long one, but I think George made a mistake in turning it down,” he said. I figured George was George Raft. Bogart confirmed it with his next words. “Now if old George will just turn down the Falcon role it’ll be a good year’s work for me.”
From about 100 yards down the mountain, a man’s voice echoed into the rocks.
“That’s enough vacation, you lazy clown. It’s time we got you killed. Get ready to die in 15 minutes.”
“Walsh,” shouted Bogie, “you one-eyed baboon. I’ll die for you, but I’m not taking the tumble from up there.”
“Fifteen minutes,” shouted Walsh.
Bogart was shaking his head and smiling when he turned back to me.
“You know that maniac actually carries a gun on the set?” he said tilting his head toward the crowd of small people below us. “You’re a private cop; you carry a gun?”
“Sometimes,” I said, “but about half the time it’s a dime pistol from Woolworth. I’ve got to get going, Bogie. Fella down the hill said you might know where I can find Harry Beaumont.”
The name did something to the actor. His jaw tightened and his cheekbones quivered.
“The man’s got problems,” he said. “I can understand that. I’ve had a few myself, but he’s carrying a big cow chip on his shoulder and I’m going to take it and smash it in his kisser.”
Bogart’s anger was on the surface and ready to explode. It had come fast and I stepped back. He saw what I had done and the fire, steam or dry ice in his eyes cooled suddenly.
“Come on,” he said touching my arm. “I’ll take you to him. What’d he do, murder a crippled newsboy?”
As we started down the hill I gave him just enough to answer his question and not enough to lead to details. He knew there was something I didn’t want to say and he respected it.
We passed the director wearing an eye-patch and a cowboy hat.
“Where are you going Edwin Booth?” cackled Walsh.
“My friend and I are going to the latrine together,” Bogart said in a high falsetto. Walsh and the group of actors and technicians around him broke out laughing.
“And my family wanted me to be a polo player,” whispered Bogart leading the way toward a farmhouse about fifty yards away. Bogie explained that the farmhouse was being used for costume changes. Beaumont had already finished his shooting for the location and was on his way back to L.A. by now if he had changed quickly.
The farmhouse was small. Bogart knocked and a voice told us to come in.
Harry Beaumont was facing us and looking none too happy about it. He was dressed in a state trooper’s uniform.
“What do you want?” He was a big man, but I thought I could take him. A look at Bogart made it clear that he was quite willing to test the bigger man on the spot. Beaumont’s fat was beginning to show and his skin was loose on his hands and face.
“Harry, this is a friend of mine, Toby Peters,” said Bogart. “I’d appreciate it if you’d answer a few questions for him.”
“You know what you can do with your appreciation,” Beaumont snarled.
Bogart pointed a finger at the bigger man and spoke softly.
“And you know what you can do with a mouthful of loose teeth.” He turned from Beaumont to me with an amused look and whispered. “Sorry, that’s the best dialogue I could come up with on short notice. It lacked a certain flair wouldn’t you say, Toby?”
I shrugged. I had a couple of good answers, but it was Bogart’s scene and he was enjoying it, playing with Beaumont to keep tension from turning to flying chairs.
“Stupid bastard,” Beaumont said under his breath.
I could see Bogart tense, and reached out to put a calming hand on him. My hand didn’t calm him. What did stop him as he took a step toward Beaumont (who had turned his back) was a voice from outside the house calling Bogart for the next scene.
He pulled his eyes away from Beaumont’s back and turned to me. He sighed, knowing that his moment to break a knuckle on Beaumont’s skull was moving away from him.
“Toby, take care of yourself and my little pal Beaumont here.” Beaumont grunted, his back still turned. Bogart ruffled my hair, smiled and went out.