Twenty Plus Two

Chapter 5

It was three o’clock when she left and then he could not sleep. He turned on the bedroom lights and going to his coat, took out the picture of Leroy Dane. He studied it for a moment, then returned it to his coat. Slipping out the folded, mimeographed fan bulletin he returned to bed.

There were twelve pages of news and tidbits about Leroy Dane. It was sheer drivel. Much of it was culled from fan letters, the views and opinions of teenagers, all females, suggestions as to the types of pictures and roles they wanted him to do.

Scattered throughout were items, apparently written by the editor of the fan magazine, the late Julia Joliet. These were chiefly anecdotes about Leroy Dane. Some pertained to his background, his life before he became an actor.

Alder read these carefully. Dane’s war record was touched upon, his life on the West Texas ranch, his athletic prowess in college. The college was not named, however. His age was given — thirty-four. His marriages were glossed over. “They did not work out,” was the way Julia Joliet dismissed them.

The facts of Dane’s life, when Alder summed them up, were copious enough. Yet astonishingly meager. Trivialities were embellished, vital statistics glossed over or ignored.

His age — thirty-four. That would have made him nineteen in 1945. Yet he had come out of the war a first lieutenant. It had taken Alder two years to reach that rank. Dane could have been in the ROTC at college and entered the army as a second lieutenant. No, he would have had to be a senior in college, a junior at the very least. And if he were commanding tanks in the Battle of the Bulge... no, not at eighteen.

Dane was cheating about his age. Either that, or he had been a child prodigy, had entered college at the age of thirteen or fourteen, been graduated at seventeen or eighteen, and then turned out also to be a military genius.

Leroy Dane had not impressed Alder as being either a child prodigy or a military genius. Neither. Alder did have the impression that Dane was a pompous blowhard, an inveterate liar.

Alder looked at his bedside clock. It was 3:40, twenty minutes to seven in the East. He picked up the phone and dialed 110.

“I want to put in a call to Chevy Chase, Maryland,” he told the operator. “That’s a suburb of Washington. Charles C. Mattock...”

Inside of two minutes a voice exclaimed, “For the love of Patrick Henry, it’s the middle of the night!”

“It is here,” said Alder. “Where you are, it’s morning. Time to get up and go to work. Chuck, listen, I need the service record of Leroy Dane. Yep, the movie star. The delight of American womanhood. I want to know when he entered the army, the date of his discharge. His age, home address when he was inducted, occupation, everything there is on him.”

“That’s all you want?” Charles Mattock asked sarcastically. “Sure you don’t want to know what he eats for breakfast, what color pajamas he wears?”

“He eats steak for breakfast,” replied Alder. “It says so in his fan club magazine. And he never wears pajama tops.”

“It’s important, Tom?”

“Yes. Phone me when you get it. Collect.”

Alder talked a moment more, then hung up. He switched off the bedside lamp and fell asleep almost immediately.

The ringing of the phone awakened him. It was daylight in the room and Alder noted that it was five minutes after seven.

Charles Mattock was on the phone.

“What army, Tom?” he said.

“He didn’t serve?”

“Lots of Danes, a number of Leroys, but no Leroy Dane served in the American army. Or marines — or navy. You want me to try the coast guard or merchant marine?”

“No,” said Alder. “It never occurred to me — Leroy Dane may not be his real name. Lots of actors change their names.”

“Well, get me his real name and I’ll try again. But get it during the day — not in the middle of the night.”

“I’ll try. How’s the wife, Chuck — and the kids?”

“Great, all of them. When’re you coming East?”

“Today,” Alder said on impulse. “I may call you from New York.”

“Run down, if you get that near.”

“I’ll try, General!”

Alder hung up and went into the bathroom. He was lathering his face when the phone rang again. He went into the bedroom.

“Darling,” purred Linda’s voice, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Neither could I,” said Alder. “I was going to call you as soon as it was a decent time.”

“It’s decent now.”

“I’m not decent. I’m in shorts and I’ve got lather on my face.”

“It’s... it’s all right between us, Tom? I have to know.”

“Last night was good, Linda. But the sun’s up now. Let’s look at it in broad daylight.”

“Morning, noon, and night, darling. In the rain, in the sun — it’s got to be all right. You’re not going to slip back into that shell. I won’t let you. I’m going to get dressed right now and come out.”

“No — don’t!”

“We’ve got to settle it, once and for all.”

“I can’t now. I’m in the middle of something.”

“That grave-robbing job of yours?” she exclaimed poignantly. “I’m sorry, darling, really sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t want to interfere with your work. Lunch?”

“I’ll call you.”

“No, don’t put me off like that. Lunch — the Beverly Hills Brown Derby.”

He hesitated. “All right.” It was the simplest way.

He finished shaving, then telephoned the International Airport. Forty minutes later he left the house, carrying a large aluminum air traveling case. It was touch and go at the airport, but he boarded the four-motor plane with a minute and a half to spare.