“Meaning they make mistakes,” said Archer.
“You make a mistake with a hydrogen bomb, you could kill a million people. And worse, it might not be a mistake, it might be intentional. Because in addition to being imperfect some human beings are cruel and like to hurt people.”
“I can see how you would be very popular at New Year’s Eve parties.”
Archer did not mean that as an insult and Ransome did not seem to take it as such.
“I make my movies with a certain viewpoint, with a message that I hope transfers in some way to the people watching. But sometimes I really wonder if I have any impact at all.”
“I certainly don’t want a hydrogen bomb dropped on my head. But right now, I’m just concerned with the safety of one person — Eleanor Lamb.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Archer. I carry my soapbox with me everywhere. It’s an existential threat to my continued relevancy in this industry.”
“I’m sure. And you got back home when last night?”
She puffed on her cigarette. “Why is that of any concern?”
“We detectives ask a lot of questions, some may seem nonsensical.”
“Yes, they do. I got in around two.”
“Do you live around here?”
“My house is near the Beverly Hills Hotel, or the ‘Pink Palace,’ as some now call it.”
“Nice, easy commute for you, though.”
“Nice enough.”
“Can I see her office?”
“Why?”
“We detectives also look for clues. There might be some in there.” Archer hunched forward. “And let’s not lose sight of the fact that a dead man was in Lamb’s house, her car is still in her carport, her clothes are still in her closet, she’s nowhere to be found, and no one’s heard from her since around seven thirty last night. As someone who does this for a living, I can tell you this is about as serious as it gets if you care about finding her.”
“Which I very much do,” Ransome fired back.
He rose. “Her office?”
Chapter 17
Lamb’s office was two doors down from Ransome’s and about half the size. Unlike Ransome’s, it was cluttered and claustrophobic.
“Shall I leave you to it?” said Ransome. “I know the timing is lousy, but I do have some things I need to get done. It’s why I came in today.”
“I’ll poke my head in when I’m finished here.”
She left him there, and Archer started going through things. Lamb certainly had a lot of film projects going. However, he didn’t find much at all to help him, until he jimmied the locked bottom drawer of her desk. He took out the book of matches, one of a half dozen located there and all from the same place: the Jade Lion Bar in Chinatown.
He looked at his notebook, where he’d written down the two names from Lamb’s Wheeldex cards marked with the X. One had the name Jonathan Brewster, and written under that had been the Jade Lion Bar, Chinatown. The other card had the name Alice Jacoby written on it along with a phone number. He picked up the phone on Lamb’s desk and dialed the number.
Someone answered on the second ring.
“Is this Alice Jacoby?”
“Yes, who is this?”
Archer told her who he was and why he was calling.
“Oh my goodness. I... I haven’t seen Ellie in over a week. I hope she’s okay.”
“Can I come by and see you later?” asked Archer. “The sooner we find her the better.”
“Yes, yes of course. My home is in Bel Air, near the country club.”
Bel Air? thought Archer. And near the country club. “Say in about forty minutes? I’m just finishing up another line of investigation.”
She gave him her address. Archer wrote it down and hung up.
He looked through the office once more and then left and walked to Ransome’s door. He didn’t knock right away because he heard Ransome speaking. Apparently to someone on the phone because he only heard her voice. And then he heard his name spoken twice, with some urgency. As he bent closer to the door he heard Ransome say clearly, “I can meet you tonight, around seven, at Boleros.”
Archer knew the place. It was a dive bar in West Hollywood.
When she put down the phone he stepped back down the hall, then walked loudly forward and knocked on her office door.
“Miss Ransome?”
“Come in.” She looked up at him from her desk. “Did you find anything helpful?”
“We’ll see. Tell me, were you close with Lamb? Or was she just an employee here?”
She said slowly, “We worked together. I appreciate her talents. We got along fine.”
He looked over her appearance. “I think she appreciated you, too.”
“Did she say that?” Ransome asked with a level of anxiousness that seemed off to him.
But then again, maybe not, Archer thought. “She didn’t have to.” He handed her a card. “If you think of anything else,” he said.
“What are you going to do now?” she asked.
“Keep digging.” He started to leave. “That’s how investigations work.”
“Wait a minute, Mr. Archer. You said you were going to meet Ellie here today and she was going to give you a check?”
“For my retainer, yes.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred up front. I charge fifty a day plus expenses. I’ve officially been on the clock since around noon.” He was not going to charge for last night’s fiasco as a matter of personal pride, and also for his being an idiot.
Ransome opened a drawer and pulled out a checkbook. “How about I write you a check for $500?”
“That’s too much, and you’re not the client.”
“If you don’t use it all, you can pay me back. And as far as the client, I just want you to find her, okay? And I’m sure she’d want that, too.”
“Okay. You can make it out to the Willie Dash Private Detective Agency.” Archer took out a sheaf of papers from his jacket pocket. “And here’s a contract for you to sign. My boss is a stickler for the rules. I was going to have Lamb sign it, but...”
“Of course.”
She made the check out and passed it across to him. Then he filled in the contract using her pen and had her sign it. He gave her a copy and put his and the check in his pocket. “You really care about her, I take it.”
“Just find her, Mr. Archer.”
He tipped his hat, shielding his bandaged head from her sight line, and let himself out.
It appeared that Archer had a new client. Now he just needed to find the old one.
Chapter 18
Bel Air had been founded in the twenties by an oil millionaire who apparently wanted separation from those without barges of money, and this place certainly fit the part. It was off Sunset within a rock’s throw of the UCLA campus. Archer passed through massive Spanish gates and headed up to the land of the wealthy and high-minded. The LAPD’s bunco squad was kept busy in Bel Air, he knew, because the con artists swarmed here to relieve old widows of what their hubbies had left them. And these same very dead men had left many a disappointed mistress in the lurch, with nothing but broken promises and memories of late-night hotel visits. And, if they were lucky, the occasional private plane trip to Acapulco when the wives were away visiting family.
The driveway to Alice Jacoby’s house was nearly as long as a runway. When he rounded the last curve and saw the house ahead, he just had to whistle. In his work he had seen a lot of wealth and a good deal of poverty; he had never seen much in between.
The mansion conveyed the impression of quiet, refined elegance. It was the best of classic European and American architecture melded together with functionality. Archer thought these folks might be an anomaly: rich people with good taste. In his experience too much money often tended to deliver crass instead of class.