The Comedy is Finished

31

There was a kind of dormitory upstairs in the Police Headquarters Annex, where they permitted Lynsey to get a couple hours’ sleep, on a narrow cot under a rough wool blanket. Policewoman Austin, the songwriter, woke her with a conspiratorial wink and grin at 7:30; she made what repairs she could in the ladies’ room, and went downstairs to find Mike Wiskiel sitting in moody exhaustion at his desk, drinking a plastic glass of pale orange juice. Her own, when he poured a glass for her, was less pale; it must have come from a different container. “Ms. Rayne,” Wiskiel said, as he handed her the glass, “you look like hell.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to feel this way and not show it. Has anything happened?”

“We’re creeping forward, in our fashion. Jock’s men have started interviewing hi-fi equipment places. The New York police Telexed; they’ve checked all likely hotels in their area and Merville isn’t there.”

“You think he’s here.”

“I hope he’s here. I want to sit down with him and have a good long talk.” He drank some of his orange juice. “Let’s see; what else? Oh. Washington’s decision on the new tape. We’re to ignore it.”

Lynsey stared in astonishment. “Ignore it? For Heaven’s sake, why?”

“Well, that isn’t Koo Davis’ ear. Also, it isn’t a voice we’ve heard before. Also, Davis’ voice isn’t on that tape. Also, the tape itself is a different kind. It all adds up to the reasonable possibility that the tape is a hoax.”

“But that was an ear, a human ear! What kind of hoax would—”

Wiskiel shrugged elaborately, spreading his hands. “The decision came from Washington,” he said. “I’m just passing it on. The assumption is, if it is a hoax we’re better off not confusing the actual kidnappers by responding to it. And if it isn’t a hoax, our silence may push them to make contact some other way.”

“By really cutting off his ear.”

“Let’s hope not.” Looking at his watch, he said, “It’s eight o’clock. Can you call now?”

“He won’t be there yet, but I’ll leave a message.”

She phoned, got a sleepy-sounding receptionist, and left her name and number: “Please tell him it’s urgent, and I’d appreciate it if he’d call me first thing.”

Eight o’clock. Less than four hours to go.

It was five past nine—two hours, fifty-five minutes to go—when Hunningdale finally called back. “How are you, dear?” he said. His voice was a light calm baritone; an excellent tool for negotiation.

“Upset,” Lynsey told him. “You know I handle Koo Davis.”

“Oh, do you? Of course, I’d forgotten. Wait a minute—does this have to do with the FBI visit I had yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Lynsey,” the voice said, calm and comfortable but also with warning in it, “I’ve known Ginger Merville for years and years. He may be a little flaky, but he wouldn’t kidnap anybody.”

“He knows some strange people, though,” Lynsey said. “Doesn’t he?”

“We all know strange people, dear. For all I know, I’m strange people myself.”

“The FBI just wants to talk with him, that’s all.”

“Lynsey, are you suggesting I change my story from yesterday’s version, call myself a liar? On the phone?”

No, this couldn’t be done on the phone, Lynsey could see that. She said, “I’ll come to your office. Could you see me this morning?”

“There’s really no point in it, dear. And my schedule is absolutely jammed. By the time I get there—”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m calling from the car.”

“Where are you?”

“Where?” A little pause, and then he said, “Pasadena Freeway. Why? Do you want to hitch a ride?”

“Yes. What’s your route from there?”

“This really is a waste of time, Lynsey.”

“Chuck,” she said, “they’re going to kill him. Maybe it is a waste of time, but I’ve got to do something.”

He sighed, then said, “Very well. I take the Harbor and the Santa Monica to Overland, then up to Century City.”

“How far are you from the Hollywood Freeway now?”

“With this traffic? At least twenty minutes.”

“I’ll meet you there,” she said. “Just after the change from the Pasadena to the Harbor. At the end of that ramp there. You know the place?”

“Far too well.”

“What’s your car?”

“A gray Bentley, license O CHUCK. But, Lynsey?”

“Yes?”

“If you’re not there, I can’t wait, you know.”

“I’ll be there,” she promised. Then she hung up and turned to Wiskiel, saying, “Can you get me there in twenty minutes?”

“The Harbor Freeway from here? We’d better take a car with a gumdrop.”

“Gumdrop?”

They were already walking out of the office. Making a circular motion over his head with one hand, Wiskiel said, “Flashing light.”

“Oh. Gumdrop.”

It was Lynsey’s first trip in a fast-moving police car, with siren wailing and gumdrop flashing, and she found the experience invigorating; as though the simple fact of such forceful forward motion was itself accomplishing something. A uniformed policeman drove, with Mike Wiskiel trailing in his own car. They ran down the Hollywood Freeway, mostly on the right shoulder, past the sluggish heavy southbound morning traffic, and reached the interchange with the Harbor Freeway with time to spare. They stopped at the appointed place, and Lynsey said, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

Lynsey got out of the police car, and it spurted away. Mike Wiskiel stopped his Buick beside her and leaned over to call out the open passenger window, “I’ll trail you.”

“Okay, fine. But don’t let him know it. I don’t think he’ll talk if he thinks the police are hanging around.”

“I’ll stay well back,” he promised. Then he waved and drove off.

Lynsey waited five minutes, while several passing drivers made comments or suggestions, all of which she ignored. Then at last the gray Bentley nosed out of the slow-moving lanes of traffic, yellow letters on the royal blue background of its license plate reading O CHUCK. A good-looking red-haired girl in a pale blue jacket was driving, with a large man indistinct in back. Lynsey opened the rear door and slid into a fusty closed compartment rich with the aromas of coffee and cigar. Chuck Hunningdale, a large stout man in a well-tailored pearl gray suit with white shirt, rose-pink tie and pink chrysanthemum in his buttonhole, was on the phone. He smiled and nodded at Lynsey, gesturing with the hand holding the cigar for her to take the fur-covered seat beside him, and went on with his call.

Lynsey settled herself as the Bentley moved forward. This rear seat was divided by a console, containing the telephone, an ashtray and other equipment; putting his cigar in the ashtray, continuing to talk on the phone, Hunningdale pointed at his own mug of coffee on the console and raised his eyebrows in question. Yes, coffee would be a good idea; she nodded, and he pointed at the dispenser built into the back of the front seat. (The glass partition was up between here and the chauffeur’s compartment.) Lynsey opened the small door, found more mugs, took one, turned the little chrome handle that produced coffee from the spigot, and followed Hunningdale’s gesturing hand to find powdered cream substitute and sugar.

Meantime, Hunningdale was explaining on the phone that “if you want my boy, you’ve gotta stretch a little. A best-of is nice, but that’s just gravy on the vest. What’s actually on the plate here?”

Lynsey and Hunningdale were both talent agents, but of very different types. She handled a total of six clients, all of them major figures, where the question of selling the client almost never came up; she made a very good living, but there was no pressure to flaunt it. Hunningdale, on the other hand, probably had fifty clients in the music business, was hustling them all the time, and his lavish façade was part of the hustle.

Finishing his phone conversation, inconclusively, Hunningdale smiled at Lynsey and said, “My dear, you look as though you haven’t slept for a week.”

“That’s almost true.”

“Nothing happens the way it should,” he said. “You have a client you have absolute affection for, and he’s kidnapped. I have clients I would gladly put in a sack and drown, and nobody kidnaps them.”

Lynsey gave that a thin smile, saying, “I’m terribly worried about him, Chuck.”

“Of course you are. But, Ginger...” He shook his head, frowning, pantomiming long and careful thought. “I just don’t see it.”

They drove past Mike Wiskiel’s maroon Buick Riviera, parked on the shoulder. Lynsey said, “Chuck, it really does look as though Ginger’s involved.”

“Because of the house. But wasn’t that just happenstantial, criminals stumbling into an empty house?”

“It couldn’t be,” Lynsey said. “They’d have to be sure they were safe, sure nobody would come to the house while they were there.”

“Lynsey, all they had to do was read the trades. Ginger’s tour was adequately reported.”

“But he always rents his house when he’s away. This time he gave it to the same realtor, but he insisted on double the regular rent.”

Hunningdale frowned, bothered by that. “Are you sure that’s true?”

“Absolutely.”

“And what do you take it to mean?”

“That Ginger wanted it to look as though the house was for rent the same as always, but he actually wanted to be sure it would stay empty.”

“Dear dear dear.” Hunningdale pursed his lips, staring away at the traffic. “I know Ginger used to be involved with some very iffy types,” he said. “Way back when, you know. But everybody was involved with iffy types in those days. I myself had people in my own house ten years ago that today I shudder at the thought.”

Lynsey forced herself to be patient, say nothing, let Hunningdale work it out for himself.

Hunningdale said, “When the FBI came around yesterday, I assumed it was merely the coincidence of the house, and they’d looked in their old files or dossiers or whatever, they saw Ginger’s old-time connection, and they jumped to a conclusion.”

“Of course.”

“I mean, that’s what the FBI does.”

“I know that,” Lynsey said. “Guilt by non sequitur. But this time, there’s more to it than that.”

Hunningdale lowered his head, brooding at his large stomach. “The situation could be awkward,” he said.

“You mean, because you told the FBI you didn’t know where Ginger was.”

“Well, in fact I don’t know where he is, not exactly. I do know he’s in Los Angeles.”

“He is!”

Hunningdale turned his troubled expression toward Lynsey: “You can see my difficulty. I tell you Ginger’s in town, you tell the FBI, they get upset because I didn’t cooperate.”

“You won’t come into it at all,” Lynsey promised him. “I’ll be the one who found him.”

“By talking to me.”

“By using my contacts.”

“Mm.” Hunningdale brooded some more.

Lynsey said, “We’ve never dealt directly with one another, Chuck, but you must know my reputation.”

“Of course.”

“We can deal.”

Hunningdale smiled slightly. “There is a certain appeal in being Deep Throat.” But then, shaking his head, he said, “But I truly don’t know where he is. Somewhere in town, that’s all. I could leave a call with his service, he’d undoubtedly get back to me.”

“You know his friends, Chuck. You could find out where he is.” Then, gambling, taking a leap, she said, “He might be in a beach house somewhere. A musician friend.”

“A beach house?” Hunningdale gave her a frankly curious look, saying, “There’s even more to this than you’re telling me, isn’t there?”

“Yes?”

“Mm.” Putting down his cigar, picking up the phone, he said, “And Ginger was always such a good client. Reliable, profitable, talented, and even interesting to chat with from time to time.”

Lynsey said, “We’d like to know where he is, but I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Of course, of course. Let me just make a few calls. Beach house, beach house.” And he pressed the number buttons on the phone.

It took four calls, with Hunningdale explaining each time that he needed Ginger Merville immediately for a new “project” with NBC television, and that an answer had to be given before noon today. The first three offered to help him look, but the fourth, someone called Kenny, knew exactly where Ginger Merville could be found. “Bless you, Kenny,” Hunningdale told him, broke the connection, and said to Lynsey, “That was Kenny Heller. Ginger’s staying at his beach house, in Malibu.”

“Thank you, Chuck. Thank you.”

“Poor Ginger,” Hunningdale said.