A call to Vernoff told him who I was and told me he would be home to see me in a few hours. A call to Shatzkin’s office let me know that his secretary was there helping the junior members of the firm keep their world in order. Her name was Miss Summerland, and she wearily expected to be in the office for many hours. I didn’t call Mrs. Shatzkin. She might not want to see me. I simply got in my pigeon-egg-green car and headed for Bel Air, admiring the frost on the few people in the streets. Even Westwood was nearly empty of UCLA students.
Bel Air is as exclusive as you can get and still be within bragging distance of the movie studios. It has its own police and its own privacy. I talked my way past the guard at the entrance by telling him I was from the funeral parlor handling “things” for the Shatzkin family. He was properly professional and sympathetic, which means he made it clear he didn’t much care. My car made him a bit suspicious, but I told him it was a loaner while my Rolls was being repaired. The story was idiotic, but the business card I handed him reading “Simon Jennings, Brentwood Funeral Services” was real enough. I had a whole stack of assorted cards given to me as payment by a job printer whose sister-in-law had stolen his 1932 Ford.
I found the house on Chalon Road, a big two-story brick building set back in a wooded area on a hill. It was impressive. A chauffeur was washing a real Rolls in the open garage and trying not to freeze. I knocked at the door, and it was opened almost immediately by a Mexican girl in black who looked so somber that I wasn’t sure whether to believe her.
“Peters,” I said seriously, opening my wallet to show her my identification and knowing she wouldn’t take a close look. “I’m investigating the crime. I’d like to talk to Mrs. Shatzkin.”
The maid stood back, I moved forward, and she said she’d get Mrs. Shatzkin.
I held my hat in my hand and kept my coat on, looking as serious and official as I could. I examined the hall mirror with suspicion and continued to do so when I heard the footsteps behind me and saw Camile Shatzkin in the mirror. I turned to face her.
“Officer?” she started. She was a good-looking woman, dark, dressed in black, with her hair worn up in one of those complicated hairdos. She was a little plump, but certainly not little. She reminded me in some ways of my former wife Anne, but in some ways she didn’t. Camile Shatzkin’s furrowed brow and wringing hands complete with handkerchief evoked Kay Francis in a melodrama, and Kay Francis was always up to something.
“Peters,” I said and then before she could think of questions, “Officer Cawelti talked to you, but a few things have come up since last night that I need confirmation on.”
“I’m not sure…” she began, looking back into the house for someone who didn’t come. “It’s been a very… horrible… I’m sure you understand.”
“Fully,” I said sympathetically, “but this will only take a few minutes.
“Very well,” she said with a pained smile, but she didn’t offer to guide me to another room or a seat. We talked in the Mexican decorated hall. I pulled out my new Walgreen’s notebook and pretended to read questions.
“Who invited Mr. Faulkner here last night?” I began.
“My husband,” she replied, turning her eyes to the floor.
I pretended to write and nodded in approval.
“How did you know the man who came here last night was Mr. Faulkner?” I said as sympathetically as I could. “You’ve never met the man.”
“Well, yes,” she said a bit nervously, “but I have seen his picture on book jackets and in the newspapers, and Jacques did tell me he was coming. I recognized him as soon as he came through the door. I…”
She was ready to break down so I came to her rescue.
“I understand, Mrs. Shatzkin. We have to be sure. Can you identify this picture as Mr. Faulkner?” I pulled out my wallet, reached in, and withdrew a small photograph that I handed to her.
“That’s the man,” she said with a sob, handing the photograph back to me.
“You’re sure?” I said, taking it and putting it back.
“I’ll never forget that face,” she said, covering her eyes.
Well, that was a step toward Faulkner’s defense. The photo she identified was one of Harry James that had come with the wallet when I bought it at the dime store. I decided to push Mrs. Shatzkin a bit.
“We’ll need a photograph of Mr. Shatzkin,” I said, putting my notebook away.
“There are no photographs of Jacques,” she said sadly. “I wish to God there were. He wasn’t fond of being photographed.”
“Everyone has a photograph of himself somewhere,” I said. “Especially a man as prominent as Jacques Shatzkin.”
Suspicion flared in Camile Shatzkin’s eyes.
“Do you have a photograph and some identification, Mr. Peters?” she said. “I’d like to make sure you are not a reporter trying to get a story at the expense of my grief.”
“The only photograph I have of myself is when I was ten,” I said, reaching for my wallet and knowing I had no identification that would please her.
“Well, perhaps we can find a photograph of Jacques when he was ten,” she said. The widow’s grief had given way to determination. Kay Francis was running the company and she meant business. “Your identification.”
I pulled out my private investigator’s card and showed it to her.
“You said you were a police officer,” she hissed through even, white teeth.
“No, I didn’t,” I said. “You and your maid simply assumed I was. I’m working for Mr. Faulkner’s lawyer and…”
“Haliburton,” she shouted, her breast rising like a coloratura’s. An enormous figure in a black sweater, wearing as granite a face as could be carved, hurried into the hall from the rear of the house. He looked at Camile Shatzkin and at me, waiting for her orders.
“Now wait,” I said, holding up my hands and knowing I had no chance of making a run for it on my former leg. “We have a legal right to question witnesses. We could have done this through the district attorney’s office, but…”
“Haliburton,” she said firmly and left the room.
Haliburton had clearly spent his life lifting cars and putting them neatly on shelves. He advanced on me without emotion and with very little sound.
“Haliburton,” I said, “I know when I’ve had it. I’m leaving.”
His hand caught the back of my neck and spun me toward the door. Without thinking, I threw my left elbow back in the general direction of his face about half a foot up in the air. I caught him in the windpipe, and he let me go. I scrambled for the door, pulling my leg behind me without looking back. What I did was meant to be a run but probably looked like a Fourth of July handicap race. I heard the door open behind me as I made it to the car. The chauffeur stopped, wiped his hands, and watched from the garage as I opened my door and locked it just before Haliburton grabbed the handle. He was clearly angry.
“No hard feelings,” I said, putting the car in gear as he tried to put his fist through the roof. I could see the dent he made. I backed down the roadway fast, extinguishing a couple of well-trimmed shrubs. Haliburton must have been the gardener because my attack on the shrubs brought out the worst in him. He came thundering down the driveway, picking up a rock as he ran. On Chalon Road I straightened out and managed to avoid hitting him as I pulled away. The rock hit the hood, scratched its way along, and flew up the windshield, taking off into the air toward Uranus. I headed out of Bel Air, watching the receding dark figure of Haliburton in my rearview mirror.
Another day, another friendship formed. Dale Carnegie could have hired me cheap as a negative example. But I had learned something. Maybe.