Beverly Hills Dead

19

Sid Brooks got Alan James into his car and drove him home. Al, he knew, would never have made it without crashing his car; he had probably consumed half a bottle of Scotch at Benny’s.

Al mumbled unintelligibly during the ten-minute drive. At his place in the Hollywood Hills, Sid got him out of the car and over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry he had learned in the Boy Scouts. The front door was unlocked, and Sid struggled up the stairs with the nearly unconscious actor and dumped him on his bed. He sat him up, stripped off his coat, loosened his tie and belt and let him fall back on the bed. He pulled off his shoes, spread a blanket over him and positioned a wastebasket where he could vomit into it. “Good-bye, Al,” he said. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other any more.” He walked out of the house, putting the door on the latch, and drove home to Beverly Hills.

Sid let himself into the house and turned on some lights. He walked around the place, inspecting it as if he had never seen it. They had bought the house two years before, but they had only just finished the renovations and decorations. He walked into his beautifully paneled study, poured himself a Scotch and sank into his comfortable leather chair, the one where he did most of his thinking. His typewriter sat, waiting, on his desk, a stack of foolscap next to it, a coffee mug of sharpened pencils nearby.

A place to work and everything he needed to do it — that had been his dream when he was younger. If this were New York, he and Alice would be crammed into a three-room apartment, bursting at the seams with their stuff. He had told himself that he was coming out here for the weather and the paycheck, but this house was what he had come for. This was the first time in their lives that he and Alice had been ahead of the game: money in the bank, the cars paid for, an investment in a small, six-unit apartment building in Santa Monica. They had made it. He dozed.

The doorbell woke him. Sunlight was streaming through the study windows, reflecting off the walnut paneling. He looked at the clock on his desk: just after ten o’clock. His Scotch glass was on the floor next to the chair in the middle of a wet spot. He struggled to his feet, slapped himself to wake up. The doorbell rang again, more insistently.

Sid opened the door to find two men in suits. They flashed badges. “Mr. Brooks?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Sergeant Flynn, LAPD. This is my partner, Detective Schmidt. May we come in?”

What was this? Sid thought. Some new kind of harassment? “Sure,” he said, opening the door. He showed them into the living room and pointed at a sofa. “Have a seat.”

The two men sat down, and the sergeant opened a notebook. Sid took a wingchair.

“Were you at a restaurant called Benny’s in Hollywood last night?”

“Yes. I had dinner with a friend.”

“What was your friend’s name?”

“Alan James.”

“Did the two of you leave together?”

“Yes, we did.”

“Was Mr. James drunk?”

“I don’t think that’s too strong a word to use.”

“What happened then?”

“Well, he was in no condition to drive, so I took him home, carried him bodily up the stairs, put him to bed, then came home.”

“What time did you leave him?”

“Couldn’t have been later than ten o’clock.” Sid began to feel uneasy; this wasn’t the kind of questioning he had expected. When would they get around to party membership?

“How would you describe Mr. James’s condition when you left him?”

“I think he had fallen asleep or passed out by the time I left.”

“Did you and Mr. James argue about anything last night, either at the restaurant or after you left?”

Sid shook his head. “Not really.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we had a discussion, but not what I’d call an argument, nothing heated.”

“Were you close friends?”

“We’ve known each other for a good ten, eleven years starting in New York.” Then he caught the past tense of the policeman’s question. “Has something happened to Al James?”

“His housekeeper found him dead in his bathroom this morning. His throat had been cut with a straight razor.”

Sid sucked in a breath and held it for a moment. “He was on the bed when I left; I spread a blanket over him.”

“Did anyone see you leave Mr. James’s house last night?”

“I’ve no idea. I didn’t see anyone.”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

Sid was almost grateful for these questions, to keep talking. “A 1941 Buick convertible.”

“What color?”

“Kind of a medium green. It’s in the garage.”

“Was the top up or down last night?”

“Down; still is.”

“Good; that squares with what a witness told us; a neighbor, walking her dog.”

“I didn’t see her.”

“She saw you, and the coroner says Mr. James died around three A.M., so you’re not a suspect.”

“You think he was murdered?” This had not occurred to him.

“Looks like a suicide,” the sergeant said. “Do you know if Mr. James had any family in the Los Angeles area?”

“No, he didn’t. He had parents in New York. Their name is Jankowski. I think his father’s name is Myron. He had a brother, too, but I don’t remember his name.”

“Would you have a phone number for Mr. and Mrs. Jankowski?”

“No, but they live on the Lower East Side; I expect they’re in the phone book.”

“Do you know them at all?”

“I was introduced to them once at the opening of a play I wrote that Al appeared in. That was the only time I ever saw them: two minutes, maybe. The brother was there, too, but as I said, I can’t remember his name.”

“And there’s no one in L.A. we can contact?”

Sid shook his head. “Al was unmarried, and he told me last night that he and his girlfriend had broken up. His agent’s name is Max Wyler. I think he’s at the William Morris Agency. You should call him; he can contact Al’s family. He’ll know who Al’s lawyer is. Was.”

“Thank you, that’s a good idea. Do you have any idea why Mr. James would take his own life? Did he say anything last night that would have made you think he might do that?”

Sid stared at the coffee table. “He seemed depressed.” He looked up at the detective. “He had made a decision, and it’s possible he may have regretted it.”

The two detectives stood up, and Sid walked them to the door.

“How did you learn that we had dinner last night?” he asked.

“When you drove him home, Mr. James’s car remained parked in front of the restaurant. Someone there called him at home this morning to ask him to move it, because it was blocking their deliveries. A police officer answered the phone at Mr. James’s house.”

Sid nodded. “Thank you for letting me know.”

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Brooks. Good morning.”

Sid watched them walk to their car, then he closed the door, leaned against it and began to cry.