Third, I owe you. When Ruth was in the hospital and you got Bette Davis to see her, Ruth started to get better, to fight her way back. So, you've got my reasons. Now, answer some questions."
"Right," I said.
"Lane Price says you claimed Sheldon Minck hired you to collect an overdue bill from a guy who was murdered in Glendale last night. Lane, as we both know, is a lazy slob, a politician, but he's not deaf. He wants you."
"He was ready to rehire me and make me his right hand yesterday," I said.
"That was before you lied about Minck," said Phil. "Talk. Keep me calm, Tobias. I've got things on my mind. My wife, my family, my job. And I've been wondering where the hell President Roosevelt is. Hasn't been a word hi the papers or on the news about him in a week."
"I don't know, Phil," I said.
"But there are some questions you can answer. This is the easiest question I'm going to ask you. The-next few are really tough. See if you can answer the question without my asking it."
A hom squawked on Wilshire. Somebody laughed. A car went by playing a song I couldn't quite make out.
"I was protecting my client. He thought Ramone was hi danger. A guy named Charles Larkin was killed last week. My client thought the killer might go after Ramone."
"Why?" asked Phil, reasonably.
"They were both extras hi Gone With the Wind," I explained. "So was Gouda."
"The one in the lamp store," Phil said. "An extra?"
"The one in the lamp store. An extra. And there's another one, Lionel Varney, another extra. I gave you his name when I called and…"
"Someone plans to kill every extra in Gone With the Wind?" Phil asked.
"Not every extra," I said. "Just the ones who were around the campfire when a fellow thespian got killed."
"That's good. By the time he got done with every extra, the body count would be bigger than Bataan. And this Karen Gilmore you sent me running out to check on. She was in Gone With the Wind too?"
"Right," I said.
"But why did you pick her?"
"Initials," I explained. "K.G. The killer said he was going to get K.G. next."
The killer?"
"Spelling," I said. "The killer is spelling."
And then it hit me. It didn't hit Phil. The killer was Spelling.
"What?" Phil asked.
"What?" I said.
"You just had an idea," said Phil, putting down the pencil.
"No," I said. "Just remembered something I forgot to do. Did you find Varney?"
"There's a Lionel Varney registered at the Carolina Hotel on Sunset. An actor. Been in town for a few days. How would you describe my attitude, Tobias? Right now. Calm?"
"Remarkably calm," I agreed.
There was a knock at the door behind me. The door opened.
"Captain," came a voice.
Something sailed past my head and crashed into the door as it closed.
"I told you to leave me alone till I came out," Phil shouted. Then he turned to me.
"Phil," I said calmly.
"I'm fine," he said, pointing a pencil at me. "Stopped drinking coffee. I'm eating cucumber-and-tomato sandwiches for lunch. Who's your client?"
"Phil, how many times do we have to go over this? I can't tell you my client's name without his or her permission."
"Where does it say that in any law book, any city, county, or state statute?" Phil said, placing his hands fiat on his desk.
"I think your blood pressure is going up, Phil," I said softly, wondering if I should make a break for the door.
"Where does it say it, Toby?" he said evenly.
"Law of the Jungle. Code of the West. A Man's Gotta Do. Come on, Phil. What have I got to sell but a hard head and a closed mouth? My client didn't kill anybody. You know I didn't kill anybody."
"The chief of police of Glendale wants you on a possible homicide or withholding evidence," said Phil, standing up and turning his back on me.
Phil's hands were knotted behind his back.
"Between you and me, strictly off the record?" I asked.
"I can't do that," Phil said, with a distinct pause between each word.
"You can, Phil. You just don't want to."
He turned suddenly like a wild bear, face red, teeth clenched. I jumped out of my chair and moved back toward the door. Phil closed his eyes, took a deep breath. His face returned to its normal color.
"Off the record," Phil said.
"Clark Gable."
I was standing behind the chair now.
"Clark Gable?"
"Yes."
"Gable's in England," said Phil, loosening his tie even more and glaring at me.
"No, he's back for a few days. No one knows. He's at his house in Encino. Jeremy Butler's with him. I've got the number. I think someone may want to kill him. Spelling, the guy who shot Gouda."
"Why?" Phil asked. "Why does this guy Spelling want to kill Clark Gable?"
"I don't know," I said. "Give me a few days and maybe I'll find out."
"And maybe more people will be murdered."
"Can you protect everyone who worked on Gone With the WindT' "Friday," said Phil, sitting at his desk. "You got till Friday."
"Thanks, Phil," I said.
His eyes were closed now.
"Phil?"
"I'm meditating," he said.
"Medi-?"
"Just close the goddamn door and get the hell out of here. Friday you come with answers or I find you, manacle you, and personally drag you to Glendale."
I didn't say thanks. I didn't say anything. I opened the door and left. I took a cab back to Gouda's lamp store. A crew of men and women in overalls were sweeping up glass and boarding up windows.
Tools Nathanson was standing in front on the sidewalk, a blank look on his face, a hammer in his hand, watching the crew sweep away his partner's passion.
I got in my Crosley and headed for the Farraday Building.
Chapter 8
The Carolina Hotel was top dollar. A girl in a cute red-and-gold short-skirted uniform, one of those little bellboy caps tied around her chin, took the keys to my Crosley and gave me a grin. I gave her a buck for not noticing I wasn't driving a Lincoln.
An old man in a red-and-gold uniform, long pants, opened the hotel door for me and I walked into one of the great lobbies of America. Mosaic-tile floors with flower pattern, gold walls, and plump furniture in little nooks made private by tall ferns and plants. Parrots gurgled in a dozen cages. People bustled in and out, talking business, making deals, trying not to notice if they were being noticed.
I walked the half mile across the lobby and informed the tuxedoed clerk that Mr. Varney was expecting me. The clerk, who looked as if he never needed a shave, did something with his head that might have been a nod, or maybe he just closed his eyes for an instant in acknowledgment.
I was wearing a zippered tan Windbreaker, dark slacks, a white shirt fraying only slightly at the collar, and a tie that came close to matching the dark of my trousers. In New York, I'd definitely be sent to the service entrance. In Los Angeles, hundred thousand-dollar-a-year executives dressed the way I was dressed, even for business meetings. Working-man casual was in. Only actors dressed in suits.
The clerk stepped discreetly back out of my hearing and picked up a house phone. He was replaced by a near-duplicate ready to greet the next inquiry. Nobody inquired. Clerk Two didn't smile. Clerk One returned and said, "Room 304. Mr. Varney is expecting you."
Which was what I had said.
I said thanks and turned in search of the elevator. I found it in a niche beyond where three men and a woman were sitting forward and whispering at the top of their voices.
The Carolina had an elevator operator with a smile of perfect teeth, who wore an appropriate gold-and-red uniform and looked a little like Jane Powell. She took me up to the third floor and opened the door for me.
The Carolina was Hollywood class.
The red-and-gold carpeting was thick and clean-smelling. The walls were lined with paintings and watercol-ors of California mountains, beaches, and forests. No movie stars. No reproductions of famous paintings by long-dead Dutchmen.