Beverly Hills Dead

37

Tom Terry checked the phone book and found Henrietta Harmon in West Hollywood, off Sunset. He made a note of the address and phone number, then got dressed, got into his car and drove quickly to Vance Calder’s house in Beverly Hills. As he pulled into the driveway he saw two cars ahead: a prewar Chevrolet coupe and a big Packard sedan. That would be the studio car.

He pulled up, and the studio driver got out to meet him. “Good morning, Mr. Terry,” he said.

“Morning, Jerry. I’ve heard what’s going on. Have you been in the house?”

“No, sir. I just rang the bell.”

Tom went to the front door, rang the bell, then tried the knob. It was unlocked. He turned to the driver. “Jerry, follow me, and stay in my tracks. Don’t touch anything.”

“Yessir.”

Tom went from room to room and found everything in order. He went upstairs, found the master bedroom and looked in both dressing rooms and baths. In one dressing room he found several pieces of a woman’s clothing and underwear in the drawers. On the floor there was a cardboard box containing sweaters and blouses. In the bathroom, there was makeup in the medicine cabinet and on the sink.

“There’s more boxes and a suitcase in the coupe,” Jerry said.

“Yeah? Then it looks like she unlocked the front door and brought one box inside, then went back for more, then...”

“It don’t make any sense,” Jerry said.

“No, it don’t,” Tom replied. “Something must have happened before she could bring in more boxes.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.” Tom went back downstairs and checked the interior of the car and the trunk, which was unlatched and contained more boxes. The car keys were in the ignition, and there was what looked like a couple of house keys on the key ring.

“What do you want me to do?” Jerry asked.

“Who are you reporting to today?”

“One of the publicity guys. He’s at the airport waiting for Miss Stafford to show for her plane.”

“I don’t think she’s going to make the plane, Jerry. Go back to the studio and report back to your boss. He can get in touch with the publicity guy.”

“All right, Mr. Terry.” He got into the Packard and drove away.

Tom got into his car and headed for West Hollywood, stopping at a corner pay phone to call Henrietta Harmon’s house. No answer; the girl must be at work.

Tom found the building and parked out back. He ran up the main stairs and rang the doorbell: no answer, so he got out his kit and picked the lock. Inside, he closed the door softly behind him and looked around. He was standing in a small entrance hall. On a table in front of him was an envelope that had been torn open, and on the front was written one word: Hank. He replaced it, then tiptoed into the living room. It was nicely furnished and perfectly neat. He found the only bedroom, and it was in the same condition. The walk-in closet had a full rack of jackets and trousers on one side, but they looked more like the clothes of a slender man than those of a woman. There was nothing but hangers on the opposite rack.

He checked the bathroom and found some empty spaces in the medicine cabinet, as if some bottles had been cleared out, but there was no makeup of any kind — strange for a woman’s bathroom. He checked the kitchen: the dishes were all put away and the counter-tops were clean. He looked for signs of blood everywhere but found none. He opened the service door and looked down the back stairs, then closed it. He went back to the front door, let himself out, relocked the door and went back to his car. He sat there for a moment, thinking, then he started the car and drove to the studio.

At his desk, he called Rick Barron in New York.

“Hello?”

“Rick, it’s Tom.”

“What did you learn?”

“Miss Stafford appears to have moved out of the Harmon apartment yesterday and then drove to Mr. Calder’s house with a car full of boxes. She unlocked the front door and went upstairs to her dressing room, deposited one of the boxes there, then went back downstairs. Then she disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“Well, no one has seen her, have they?”

“No.”

“Oh, I let myself into the Harmon apartment and found that Miss Stafford had left a note for Miss Harmon on her front hall table. The envelope was still there but not the note. Everything in the apartment was in order, though it was obvious that one of the two roommates had moved out. The remaining clothes were of a mannish nature, and there was no makeup in the bathroom, which is odd for a woman’s apartment.”

“Where are you now?”

“Back at the studio. There are only two further things I can do: go to RKO and interview Miss Harmon, or call a lieutenant we both know at the LAPD and report Miss Stafford missing. If I call him, then he should probably interview Miss Harmon. One other thing: the LAPD is leaky with situations like this, so if we call them in, you’d better be prepared to read about it in the morning papers, probably even the New York papers.”

“I think it’s too early to call the police, don’t you?”

“I’m not sure it is. I’m disturbed that Miss Stafford was going about her business in a normal way, then suddenly disappeared in the middle of moving into Calder’s house, abandoning her car. Something else odd: after unlocking the front door of the house and taking a box of clothes upstairs, she replaced the keys in the car’s ignition.”

“I suppose that’s a little unusual, but hardly a reason for calling in the police.”

“Are you thinking maybe the girl just got overloaded with publicity appearances and bailed out? Went home to mama?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“Then either somebody picked her up at Calder’s, or she’s on foot. Have you talked to her agent? She might confide in him. And somebody ought to call her family, if you know how to reach them.”

“Her agent’s name is Marty Fine, at William Morris. You call him, and if you think it’s a good idea, go interview Miss Harmon. I’ll deal with Susie’s parents if that becomes necessary. I have to go to a luncheon with Vance and some people from Life; when I get back, I’ll call you at the office. If you need to reach me urgently, I’ll be at a restaurant called Voisin.” Rick gave him the number.

“All right, Rick.” Tom hung up, called William Morris and got Marty Fine’s secretary on the phone.

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Tom Terry, head of security at Centurion. It’s urgent, and if he’s with somebody, tell him to take the call on another phone.”

“Just a moment, please.”

“This is Martin Fine,” a voice said.

“Mr. Fine, this is Tom Terry, from Centurion. Rick Barron asked me to call you. Have you spoken with Susan Stafford during the past twenty-four hours?”

“No. I last saw her at the opening of Bitter Creek on Saturday night. She told me she was going to rest on Sunday and leave for New York this morning, so she should be on a plane.”

“She missed her flight. Can you think of anyone she might go to if she’s... upset about something, or if she just wants to get away from it all?”

“The only people I know that she’s close to in L.A. are Vance Calder, who should be in New York, too, and a woman named Hank Harmon; they used to share an apartment.”

“No other men, no other girlfriends?”

“She lived at the Studio Club when she first came to town, but she never mentioned anyone’s name there.”

“No relatives out here?”

“No. Her parents live in a place called Delano, Georgia. You want their number?”

“Yes, thanks.” Tom wrote it down.

“I’m surprised she didn’t make the plane this morning,” Fine said. “She was looking forward to going to New York.”

“Did she show any signs of personal strain on Saturday night?”

“She was just a little tired, I thought, but she’d had a pretty full schedule all week. I’m concerned about this. Will you call me if you learn anything?”

“Sure.”

“And if there’s anything else I can do to help you, please let me know.”

Tom thanked him, then headed for his car and RKO Studios.