She sat down across from me.
“Have you found my brother?”
Oh, that voice. It didn’t purr like a kitten. It didn’t caress me like a silk glove. It chipped away at me like a jackhammer. It was a husky, no-nonsense, “¡Viva la revolucion!” kind of voice. I loved her even more.
But… There’s always a but when you’re a private dick. And my but was as big as they come.
“I’ve found John Smith,” I said. “Up until this evening, he was in a flower bed at the home of a movie producer named Dominic Van Dine.” I glanced at my watch. “By now, I’d bet he’s on his way to the Los Angeles County morgue.”
I watched her for a reaction. She didn’t disappointment me. She didn’t have one. No false hysterics. No crocodile tears. Just a cocked eyebrow and a single word.
“Explain.”
I obliged.
“Van Dine knew about Smith’s ties to the Communist Party. That’s why he hired him to work on a script. Not because Van Dine’s some kind of sympathizer. He’s just greedy. Smith’s past made him vulnerable: It meant he’d work cheap. But when the House Committee on Un-American Activities started tossing around subpoenas, Van Dine got nervous. If it came out that he’d knowingly hired a Red, he’d be finished in this town. So he sent a musclebound messenger boy out to collect Smith and his script. Smith told Van Dine he wanted to appear before the committee. He wanted to… how did you put it this morning? ‘Throw their fascist grandstanding back in their fat faces’? But Van Dine couldn’t have that. He’s not one of those studio producers. He’s an independent. He has to finance his projects himself. He already had a small bundle tied up in his next picture, and a small bundle’s more than a guy like that can afford to lose. So he convinced Smith not to testify-convinced him with a piece of rope wrapped around his neck.”
My client’s grey eyes didn’t fill with tears. Sobs didn’t erupt from her thin, colorless lips. Such displays would be beneath her-beneath us. Because we were both players on the same team. Maybe you’ve heard of us. The Los Angeles Reds.
“And the script?” she said.
I nodded. “Yes. The script. That’s what you’re really interested in, isn’t it, comrade? Smith wasn’t your brother. He was your stooge. And you need to get that script back to cover your tracks.”
I finally saw her smile. It broke up the marble smoothness of her face, revealing the animal cunning beneath. “Yes, comrade. You recovered the copy from Van Dine’s residence?”
I nodded again. “I had time to do a little nosing around before the cops showed up. I found it.”
“Good. Give it to me and our work will be done.”
No more nodding for me. I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Not until I get an explanation.”
Her face turned to stone again. “If you are a true revolutionary, you will give the script to me.”
“Why don’t you let me decide that? Now tell me-what’s in that script that’s so important?”
She shrugged with a nonchalance so transparent you’d have to call it outright chalance. “Nothing. As you said, I’m just trying to tie up loose ends.”
I grunted unhappily. I don’t like being lied to, even by women I’d like to run off and make little proles with. “Then why is it written in code?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A deep, sad sigh rose and fell in my chest. “Nobody in this town writes dialogue that bad on purpose-not unless they’ve got a hidden agenda. Or maybe a contract with Universal. I spent quite a few hours on buses today, so I had plenty of time to work out Smith’s system. Take the first letter of each word of dialogue, add them together and voila, it’s Western Union time. But I still don’t know what it all means. ‘Rosenberg says no.’ ‘The fluoridation is working.’ ‘The Roswell prisoners are ill.’ It’s all Greek to me.”
As Spymaster Mary listened to my little speech, the smile I’d seen earlier started to return. I was hoping it would be a warmer smile, a more human smile, a throw-herself-into-my-arms-and-declare-her-undying-love kind of smile. But it was none of the above. It was a smug smile.
“And it will stay Greek, for the good of the cause,” she told me. “All I can tell you is this: That screenplay is the key to America’s greatest secrets. It represents the accumulated work of our entire spy network here. How fitting it would have been to deliver it to our comrades overseas in the form of a Hollywood film-the ultimate symbol of Western foolishness. That can’t happen now. But the script can still be smuggled abroad. With the information it holds, the Soviet Union will finally crush the United States like an insect.”
Under different circumstances, I would have swooned. Mary Smith-real name Maria Smithostovovich or some such thing-really knew how to get a red-blooded Red worked into a lather. But I’m not just Red. I hate to admit it, but under the surface I’m white and blue, too.
“Since you put it like that, it’s no dice, sister.” I wanted to bite my tongue off with every word. Somehow I managed to keep going. “I’m a traitor to my class, but not my country. I’m not giving you that script.”
I didn’t even get a raised eyebrow out of her, let alone a wistful tear. She simply pulled a revolver from her jacket and leveled it at me. My heart was broken. And in a second, it was going to be filled with hot lead.
“Now hold on. We can still talk this out, comrade.”
“You are no comrade of mine,” she hissed back at me. “You call yourself a Communist, yet you let nationalist loyalties come between you and your duty to the revolution. I should shoot you down like a dog.”
“But then you wouldn’t get the other copy of the script.”
“Other copy?” The barrel of the gun wavered just a bit-from my heart to my gut. It wasn’t much of an improvement, but I wasn’t in a position to be choosy.
“When a typewriter key hits the ribbon, it leaves an impression. And I’ve got the ribbon from John Smith’s typewriter. Or, to be more exact, a friend of mine has the ribbon. A blind friend. I gave it to him this afternoon after I left Smith’s bungalow. He’s had plenty of time to go over it. I’m sure he’s got the whole script transcribed by now.”
It looked like my little visit to Barney the Bat was going to pay off for the second time today. Looked like that for about two seconds, that is.
“But as you pointed out, it’s written in code. He won’t know what it means or who to take it to-if you’re dead.”
What could I say? “Good point”?
She cocked her revolver. “Now give me Van Dine’s copy of the script.”
“Like I said, no dice. And if you shoot me, you’ll never find it. Looks like we’ve got us a stalemate.”
She waved the gun at a corner of my desk. “But isn’t that the script sitting right there?” She sounded amused. At last, I’d gotten a little warmth out of her. It didn’t help me feel any better.
“Well, I guess that was the dumbest bluff I ever tried to put over.”
“I’ll have to take your word on that, Mr. Menace.” The barrel moved again. Now it was pointed squarely at my forehead. “Das vedanya.”
I sighed again. “Yeah, O.K. So long, sister. Tell the boys in the Kremlin I said-”
A shot rang out before I could finish. I thought that was pretty rude. Not only does she kill me, but she’s got to interrupt me, too. Some people ain’t got no manners.
Then an amazing thing happened: The woman who just killed me toppled off her chair. The back of her head looked like a lasagna. Even more shocking-I was alive.
“Boy, am I gonna regret that in the mornin’,” a familiar voice said.
FBI special agent Mike Sickles was standing in the doorway of my office, his gun in his hand. He was shaking his big, bald head.