Dream Town

Chapter 16

Archer gazed in wonder at the four-door convertible Buick Roadmaster. It was thousands of pounds of metal and chrome with a grille and bumper that looked like the mouth of a saber-toothed tiger hunting for its dinner. Its interior was large enough to seat an Army platoon. Detroit knew how to make them back then.

He peered under the car to see if there was an oil slick. There wasn’t. The tires looked dry rotted, and the interior smelled like no one had been inside since Mr. Danforth had fallen dead into the flowers. He was pretty certain the thing wouldn’t even start. And since he saw a pair of car keys hanging on a hook, he took the opportunity to test his theory.

Deader than a doornail. Wouldn’t even turn over.

He left Danforth’s, got back to his car, and headed down the canyon road.

He stopped at a 76 service station, looked up the phone number, and made another call to Green and Ransome.

“Yes?” said the voice.

For one frozen moment, Archer thought it might be Eleanor Lamb.

“Who is this?”

“Who is this?” the woman countered.

Now Archer knew it wasn’t Lamb.

He explained who he was and why he was calling.

“Oh my God,” said the woman. “I can’t believe this.”

“And you are?”

“What? Oh, I’m Cecily Ransome.”

“I tried earlier but no one answered. Don’t you have a service?”

“We’re in the process of changing who we use. There’s been a gap, unfortunately, but we didn’t think it would matter over the holidays.”

“Look, will you be there for a while? I’d like to come by and ask some questions.”

“Yes, certainly. I’ll be here.”

“Have the police contacted you yet?”

“No, do you think they will?”

“The county boys are very thorough. I can be there in about an hour because I’d like to speak to you before they do.”

“All right, Mr. Archer. I’ll see you then. I’ll be in the lobby to let you in. The building is technically closed today, of course.”

The Delahaye soared like an eagle, and he made it to Beverly Hills in fifty-five minutes. The production company’s offices were in a sleek, modern five-story glass-and-chrome building that trumpeted both money and prestige. He parked at the curb and strode to the bank of metal-wrapped glass front doors. One opened and there, presumably, was Cecily Ransome.

She was about Archer’s age, and the same height as Callahan, but there all resemblance stopped. Her hair was inky black and hung limply to her shoulders. She possessed the lean hips of a teenage boy and the broad shoulders of a man. She was dressed in dark slacks and a white jacket with canvas tennis shoes that showed off bare ankles. Her blouse was made of silk chiffon, and she didn’t appear to be wearing a bra under it.

Whether these were her ordinary working duds or her New Year’s Day casual getup, or whether she hadn’t been home since the clock had struck midnight, he didn’t know. Her features were attractive if eclectic; she wore no makeup, not even eyeliner or rouge. Her eyes were big enough without any such aid, and their mossy shade of green exercised some emotional pull on him; he wasn’t sure exactly what.

“Mr. Archer?”

“That’s me,” he said, showing her his license.

“I’m Cecily Ransome. Please come in.”

They went up to the top floor in an automatic elevator. Archer had noted that the lobby was as sleek and minimalist in decoration as the exterior, but he still could tell everything here had cost a pretty penny. The lobby marquee had been full of companies with successful-sounding names. And with the rents that Archer knew they charged here, it couldn’t be all hot air; these companies were successful.

She led the way down a plushly carpeted hall and unlocked a massive wooden door with nice moldings, then ushered him into the cinematic kingdom of Green and Ransome Productions.

“Nice,” said Archer as he glanced around at the trimly outfitted interior. It reminded him of a ship’s cabin: lots of stainless steel, marble, wood, and no clutter. Potted plants danced in the late-afternoon sunlight coming through floor-to-ceiling windows. There was a receptionist’s desk, walls of bookshelves with scripts bound in leather, and an abundance of film awards. On the walls were photos of a number of celebrities of the day — all of them signed, he noted.

“It’s a wonderfully quiet place to create, because the film business is so frenetic otherwise. And we’re right in the thick of things here. Unless we have to go out to the Valley or away on location, everything else is right here.”

“Got a lot of film projects going?”

“Maybe too many. Ever since the war ended, people want entertainment and lots of it.”

“I hear TV is really taking off.”

“It is. We’re involved in that, too. Have you heard of situation comedies?”

“No, but I’ve always been more of a radio man myself.”

“They seem rather trite to me, but people like to laugh.”

“I tend to work in the land of frowns and tears.”

“We can meet in my office.”

She led him down another hall and opened the door. She clicked on the light and he entered and glanced around. The space was a good size, about twenty by twenty. There was a bleached mahogany desk with a deluxe Smith-Corona typewriter, lots of pens and pencils in a round holder, a few legal pads with notes in neat cursive, a Dictaphone, and a regular phone next to a metal-shrouded Wheeldex that Archer was certain was filled with the current movers and shakers of Hollywood. A wooden chair with back and seat cushions was in the kneehole; a small couch and two chairs were clustered around a low wooden coffee table.

On the walls were framed movie posters. Archer noted the credit lines showed Ransome to be both writer and director on all of them. He recognized a few but had seen none of them. After his experiences in the war, no celluloid images could come close to rousing his emotional interest. The windows were covered with dark rollerblinds.

On the built-in shelves dotting the walls were stacks of movie scripts and books.

“Would you like some coffee? We have a pot in the kitchen.”

“Thanks. Just black for me.”

“I drink a lot of coffee. I think most writers do.”

She left and came back in with two cups of coffee in white mugs. Archer had spent the time walking around her office and taking a closer look at things. He had settled on the couch by the time she returned.

They sipped their coffees and Archer said, “If you don’t mind my saying, you’re sort of young to be partners with a guy like Bart Green. He’s been described to me as kind of a big cheese in this town and has been for a long time.”

“He is, and I am fortunate. But I bring a different generational perspective to the business. What entertained people even ten years ago no longer does. We have to keep up.”

“Okay, so when was the last time you heard from Lamb?”

“She worked at home yesterday. She phoned here yesterday morning with some questions on a project.”

So before the man was dead.

“I understand she’s been working at home lately instead of coming to the office.”

“She has. But there’s nothing unusual about that. I do too, sometimes. As long as the work gets done, we don’t care where people write. Writers often need to cocoon.”

“She sound okay?”

“Yes, totally fine. Look, did they really find a dead body at her house?”

Archer was a bit surprised by this clumsy segue. “Yes, they really did. That’s why I’m here.”

She sat back and coolly appraised him now. Archer could feel her friendly veneer start to slide off her back like a skin-shedding snake. He actually preferred things that way. It saved time. He needed to understand the real Ransome, not a caricature presented for someone’s agenda.

She shook out a cigarette from a pack of Camels and lit up. “I write and direct films about the dark side of life, Mr. Archer, but I’ve never personally experienced it. You must forgive my naivete.”

“I can forgive a lot and have.”

“You might be a good source of material for me.”

“I might. On her call with you did she mention that she was going out anywhere yesterday afternoon?”

“No.”

“I saw her last night. She knows the actress I was having dinner with. When she found out I was a detective, she said she wanted to retain me. I was supposed to meet her here today to finalize things, and then we were going to drive out to Malibu. Then the body shows up on her doorstep and she’s vanished.”

“Who was the actress?”

“Why?”

“Just professional curiosity.”

“Liberty Callahan.”

“Okay, I think I’ve heard her name.” But the way the woman said it, Archer thought she was just being polite. “Why would Ellie need a detective?”

“She said she thought someone was trying to kill her. She ever mention any concerns like that to you?”

Ransome looked genuinely surprised by this revelation. “No, never.”

“She was invited to Danny Mars’s party, but I don’t think she made an appearance. I understand that you and Bart Green were at another party.”

“Actually, we were at several. You have to make the rounds. I was bored beyond belief, but at least most places had good liquor. It made up for the lack of interesting conversation.”

“And what conversation do you find interesting?”

Her gaze roamed over him. “Did you know that we detonated a hydrogen bomb in November over an atoll in the Pacific? And that the Soviets are rushing to do the very same thing? It’s insane. And human beings are imperfect.”

“Meaning they make mistakes,” said Archer.

“You make a mistake with a hydrogen bomb, you could kill a million people. And worse, it might not be a mistake, it might be intentional. Because in addition to being imperfect some human beings are cruel and like to hurt people.”

“I can see how you would be very popular at New Year’s Eve parties.”

Archer did not mean that as an insult and Ransome did not seem to take it as such.

“I make my movies with a certain viewpoint, with a message that I hope transfers in some way to the people watching. But sometimes I really wonder if I have any impact at all.”

“I certainly don’t want a hydrogen bomb dropped on my head. But right now, I’m just concerned with the safety of one person — Eleanor Lamb.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Archer. I carry my soapbox with me everywhere. It’s an existential threat to my continued relevancy in this industry.”

“I’m sure. And you got back home when last night?”

She puffed on her cigarette. “Why is that of any concern?”

“We detectives ask a lot of questions, some may seem nonsensical.”

“Yes, they do. I got in around two.”

“Do you live around here?”

“My house is near the Beverly Hills Hotel, or the ‘Pink Palace,’ as some now call it.”

“Nice, easy commute for you, though.”

“Nice enough.”

“Can I see her office?”

“Why?”

“We detectives also look for clues. There might be some in there.” Archer hunched forward. “And let’s not lose sight of the fact that a dead man was in Lamb’s house, her car is still in her carport, her clothes are still in her closet, she’s nowhere to be found, and no one’s heard from her since around seven thirty last night. As someone who does this for a living, I can tell you this is about as serious as it gets if you care about finding her.”

“Which I very much do,” Ransome fired back.

He rose. “Her office?”