The Hollywood Murders-The Gretch Bayonne Action Adventure Series-Book 3 Page 4

  “The suspect's name is Vincent Shamel,” Bannon said. “He is thirty-five years old, married, and works in a bank. No children. And he is five foot, six inches tall. We have detectives out this morning to search his house and interview everyone who knows him.”

  “What have you got on this poor slob?” I asked. “That he was riding his bike at night?”

  “Not just any bike,” Bannon replied. “Our bike. The one with the tires that left the tracks at the scenes of the murders. And we found out that not a single person has purchased a Bohle in this area in years.”

  “He told me he bought the bike from a man who had acquired it after the Summer Olympics,” I said. “And yeah, it is a Bohle.”

  “I thought you said he didn't tell you anything,” Bannon remarked. “Are you sure he didn't mention anything else?”

  “That was it,” I said.

  “Shamel is being interviewed by detectives as we speak,” Bannon said. “They are going to grill him pretty good.”

  “Shouldn't you be in there while they are doing that?” I asked.

  “Not the first time,” he said. “Maybe by the third or fourth interview, I will go in and play the good guy.”

  A cop interrupted us with news that they found something of significance at Shamel's apartment.

  “Come with me, Bay,” Bannon said as he bolted for the door.

  “I really need to get to MGM,” I said. “I have a movie to make!”

  Bannon ignored me as he bolted into the parking lot. As far as I knew, I was still under arrest for breaking and entering and had no choice but to follow him to his car.

  There were three detectives and half a dozen police officers at Shamel's flat when we arrived there.

  “This way, sir,” one of the detectives said, leading us to a small library.

  There were dozens of newspaper and magazine articles taped to the walls. Most of them were stories about the Hollywood Murders. It was a creepy sight.

  “And we found these letters in his desk,” one of the men said.

  There were six letters in all, addressed to William Randolph Hearst.

  “They mention the victims names,” a detective said. “All three of them. And there are references to the death of the movie stars and a lot of other bizarre stuff.”

  “Where is his wife?” Bannon asked.

  “She just left,” the detective said. “We thought it would be best to get her statements at the station, after what she told us here.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “She said that since the Graf disaster, her husband has been depressed and acting very odd,” the detective replied.

  “That's not that so unusual,” I said. “Hell, I was depressed too!”

  “But that's not all,” he answered. “When we told her we were here to investigate her husband as a possible suspect in the murders, she broke down and cried.”

  “So,” I said. “I would cry too if someone told me that.”

  “She said she believes he may be responsible for the murders,” the detective replied. “And she led us to a piece of evidence.”

  We followed him to the small bathroom and he carefully opened the cabinet beneath the sink. There, hidden behind various cleaning supplies, was a butcher knife. It was covered in blood.

  Chapter Twelve

  I've seen dames roll over on their husbands before. Nothing will make a women turn on you quicker than another gal getting more attention than her. In this case, it was three of them, and they happened to be former movie stars.

  Mrs. Shamel was singing like my grandmother's parakeet. She was absolutely convinced that her husband was the Hollywood killer. And that made me mighty suspect of her.

  “Can I go now?” I finally asked Bannon.

  “I am getting ready to question Shamel,” he said. “I'd like you to be there.”

  “Why?” I asked. “I have work of my own to do.”

  “Because Wolf isn't here yet,” Bannon replied.

  “Wolf?” I asked. “He is a writer, like me. We are not detectives, as much as you'd like to believe we are.”

  “Don't sell yourself short,” he said. “My brief experience with you in this matter has proven to me that an outside perspective can be valuable.”

  “Do you want my opinion?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Bannon said. “That's why you are here. Second set of eyes. Remember?”

  “I think you have two motives,” I said. “To solve these crimes and to sell a book. Wolf will be happy to go along with you on that one, but I won't.”

  “This is history in the making,” he replied. “I am in a situation where I am directly involved, as you were with the Graf disaster. And you wrote a book. It inspired me. What is the difference here, Mr. Bay?”

  “I don't know,” I admitted. “I didn't want to write a book about the Graf in the first place. That was Wolf's idea. I still don't feel good about doing that. It seemed like blood money to me.”

  “Call it what you want,” Bannon said. “But there is no reason why I shouldn't be involved in writing a book when this is done.”

  “Wolf and Bannon,” I said. “It will look good on a book cover.”

  Bannon had a cop take me back to Patty's place to retrieve the automobile Lugosi had just given to me.

  I finally made my way to the set of Dinner At Eight and only got lost three times. I knew Wolf would be arriving in Hollywood at any moment, and would relieve me of my duties with Detective Bannon. I just wanted to get back to work on the film again and try to forget about the murders.

  Shooting was going on as usual, and no one even questioned where I had been for the better part of the day. I hadn't been missed at all. It made me question my usefulness. Bannon had begged me to stay to help solve the murders, but I had insisted on leaving to help make a movie. One was real, the other wasn't. I had nothing to do on the set, so I pulled out my notebook and began writing.

  “There is a blurry line between reality and what Hollywood would like us to believe. We don't really believe it. Yet somehow we want to. It is a world of make believe-larger than life, and allows us an escape from an otherwise mundane and meaningless existence. Like alcohol and drugs, so is the motion picture industry. A seductive lie. Addictive. This is the true story behind the Hollywood myth that grabbed us by the throat and whose fangs remain firmly planted there to this day. This is the story that changed everything forever. It started with one actor, one man. His name was Bela Lugosi.”

  I had no idea where I was going with the story, but I damned well liked it.

  “What are you writing?” a female voice asked. I looked up from my notebook. It was one of the set designers, Carol.

  “I don't know yet,” I answered.

  “Oh,” she replied, looking a bit confused. “Well, that's nice. You have a phone call,” she said.

  “Mr. Bay?” a woman asked.

  “Yes,” I answered. “This is Bay. With whom am I speaking?”

  “This is Nancy Sparks with Movie Globe magazine,” she answered. “Please don't hang up!”

  “What can I do for you, Nancy?” I asked.

  “I would like to interview you for the magazine,” she said.

  “I don't do interviews,” I replied.

  “I understand,” she said. “We were hoping to get some quotes from you on our story about Patty Albright's comeback, but if you don't want to, that's fine.”

  “No, wait!” I said. “You are doing a story on Patty?”

  “Yes,” Nancy said. “I am hoping it will be a big story. Jean Harlow and John Barrymore have already agreed to contribute. We were hoping you would, too.”

  “If it is for Patty,” I said, “I guess I wouldn't mind.”

  “That would be great,” Nancy replied. “Have you got a few minutes now?”

  “Sure,” I answered.

  We did the interview right then and there over the phone. She asked me how I'd met Patty and about her role in Dinner At Eight. One question led to a
nother, and before I knew it, I was freely talking about how great I thought Patty was as an actress and how unfairly she'd been treated for having a Brooklyn accent. Nancy explained that she too was a big fan and was looking forward to seeing a resurrection of Patty's career in motion pictures. I felt good about the interview, until she mentioned the Hollywood murders.

  “What do you know about this man they are holding for the murders?” she asked. “What is his name again?”

  “I don't know anything about that,” I said. “I don't see what that has to do with a story about Patty.”

  “The victims,” Nancy said. “They were all actresses who worked with Valentino and have had trouble in the talkies. Like Patty.”

  “I have to go now,” I said. I hung the receiver up and walked back to my chair. I had the distinct feeling I'd just been set up. Carol, the set designer happened to walk by me, so I stopped her.

  “Do you know a reporter by the name of Nancy from Movie Globe magazine?” I asked.

  “No,” she replied. “I have never heard of that magazine.”

  I asked everyone I could find on the set the same question. They all agreed. I'd been duped. Movie Globe magazine didn't even exist.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The usual flock of reporters was waiting outside the MGM gates as the stars drove out. They didn't even notice me, thank God.

  A young girl with black pigtails and thick glasses was standing next to my car as I walked towards it. She was no reporter. She looked like she was about fifteen years old.

  “Mr. Bay,” she said. “May I talk to you for a minute?”

  “What seems to be the problem?” I asked her.

  “I have a terrible confession to make,” she said. “I lied to you.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said. “I don't even know you.”

  “I am Nancy,” she replied. “And I lied to you about working for Movie Globe.”

  “That was you on the telephone?' I asked. “Why would you do something like that? Did someone put you up to it?”

  “It was the only thing I could think of to say,” she answered. “I really am doing a story, though.”

  “For whom?' I asked.

  My high school newspaper,” Nancy replied. “But I was afraid that if I told you the truth, you wouldn't talk to me.”

  “Well, I'll just be damned,” I said. “I kind of like that. You've got moxie, kid. But you shouldn't have lied. You shouldn't pretend to be someone you're not, to get the story.”

  “With all due respect, sir,” Nancy replied, “I got the idea from you and Wolf.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “I read your book,” she answered. “You and Wolf used the same technique several times. Remember, Dr. Lake?”

  “That was Wolf's idea,” I said. “In fact, that whole book was Wolf. I just went along for the ride.”

  “I am sorry I lied to you,” Nancy said. “I just want to get to the bottom of this story and find out who killed my aunt.”

  “Your aunt?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she replied. “My aunt was Alma Rubens. And she was the greatest aunt ever!” She dropped her head and started to cry, ever so slightly.

  “You're not lying to me again are you?” I asked.

  “No,” Nancy said. “It is true. Alma Rubens was my mother's younger sister. We lost contact with her a few years ago. But there was a time when we were close. Patty Albright and she were friends, and she may remember me.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “So you are Alma's niece, and you also knew Patty Albright through your aunt?”

  “That's right,” she said. “Patty will tell you. Please just take me to see her.”

  “Get in the car,” I replied.

  Patty was in the kitchen making lasagna when I walked in with my new little partner.

  “Nancy?” she asked. “Is that you?”

  The two embraced and started crying.”

  “My goodness!” Patty exclaimed. “You were just a little girl the last time I saw you! How old are you now?”

  “Fifteen and a half,” Nancy said.

  We sat at the kitchen table as they reminisced about the old days when Patty and Alma were stars.

  “I'm a writer now,” Nancy said proudly. “I get stories in almost every issue of The Pirate Patter.

  “What the hell is that?” I asked.

  “My school newspaper,” she said. “But someday soon, I will have stories in real papers. I want to work for William Randolph Hearst!”

  I remembered back when I was far younger than she, and sold stories to magazines all over the country. My only mentor then was Mr. Peebles, the janitor at the orphanage where I grew up.

  “You don't want to work for Hearst,” I told Nancy.

  “Why not?” she asked. “Didn't he publish your book?”

  “Well, yes he did,” I said. “But that was only because he had us in a corner. We used things that belonged to him to get the story, so we were beholden to him. In the end, I wouldn't have done it that way.”

  “I don't understand,” the young girl said.

  “Let me put it this way,” I said. “When you work for someone, they own your story in the end. If you do it yourself without using their resources, then you own the story and they have to buy it from you. Does that make sense?”

  “I guess so,” she replied. “But does that mean if you help me, you will own the story?”

  “It could mean that if I were an unscrupulous bastard,” I replied. “Luckily for you, I am not. I will help you get your story. But this is not merely a story, it's a book.”

  “And you are going to write the book with me?” she asked.

  “You're damned right I am,” I answered. “We have murders to solve. It's time to grab the rabbit by the throat and shake it.”

  Suddenly my interest in the Hollywood murders was back in full swing. I had a new partner.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bela brought a guest home for dinner that night. It seemed I had a new writing partner, and Bela had a new girlfriend.

  “This is Lillian Arch,” he told us.

  I could tell that he'd fallen for this young lady. I'd never seen him so happy.

  Lillian was a somewhat shy and quiet girl. She couldn't have been much older than Nancy, which worried me. But many Hollywood stars dated women far younger than themselves.

  I explained that Nancy was a writer, and the niece of Alma Rubens.

  “We're going to write a book together on the recent unfortunate events in Hollywood,” I said.

  “He means the murders,” Nancy said. “You don't have to candy coat it for me. I am not a child, Bay. I am almost sixteen.”

  “Of course you're not,” I answered. “But this was your aunt. It is not going to be easy for you to learn the awful details and then write about them.”

  “Nothing easy is worth doing,” she replied.

  I took the opening to ask Lillian how old she was.

  “Nineteen,” she replied.

  “My good friend Bay is right,” Bela said. “This will no doubt be a very emotional journey for you. Are you certain you want to go down this road?”

  “It is the only road that is open,” Nancy replied. “I can't get to my destination by any other street or avenue.”

  “You should write that down,” I suggested. “That is good.”

  “I am sure there will be many books written on the subject,” Bela said. “Just be cautious, my child. The traffic will be heavy and dangerous.”

  “I better get her home now,” Patty said. “She has school tomorrow and it is getting late.”

  “I will drive her,” I said. “After all, I have my own automobile now.”

  “When did you get a car?” Patty asked.

  “Yesterday,” I replied. “Bela gave me his Packard.”

  Patty gasped and looked at Lugosi in surprise.

  “You did?” she asked him.

  “Well, yes,” he answered. �
�I used it as an excuse to get myself a new one, truth be told.”

  “That's amazing!” Patty exclaimed. “How very generous of you!”

  “So if you could direct me, Nancy,” I said, “I will drive you home now.”

  “Bay is not very good at navigating,” Patty said. “And besides, I've been cooped up inside all day. Come on, Nancy, I will be glad to take you home.”

  “Then I am coming with you,” I said. “I don't want you to be out alone after dark.”

  “Relax,” Patty said. “They've already caught the killer, and I want to talk to Nancy, woman to woman.”

  “I'm not so sure they have the right man,” I answered. “And besides, the last time you went out by yourself at night you didn't come back until the wee hours of the morning and I ended up in jail.”

  “That was your fault!” Patty laughed. “Had you just stayed here and waited for me, that wouldn't have happened. But no, you had to break into my apartment.”

  “You broke into Aunt Patty's house?” Nancy asked nervously.

  “It's okay, honey,” Patty said. “I dropped the charges! Now come on, let's get you home!”

  Lillian looked at me suspiciously as Patty and Nancy walked out the door.

  “It's a long story,” I explained. “I thought she was in danger. There were bicycle tire tracks in her front yard.”

  “Don't worry, Lillian,” Bela joked. “He's really quite harmless as long as he's on his medication.”

  “That's not funny,” I said. “You're scaring her.”

  “That's what I do best. It's what I do for a living,” Bela shot back.

  Lillian cracked a smile as she looked up at me.

  “And he obviously makes quite a good living at it,” she said. “After all, he just gave you a car.”

  In that moment, I got the distinct impression that this was the girl for Lugosi. Despite their age difference, I felt that she was going to be around awhile.

  “I am doing quite well too,” I said. “I just had a book published, and it is selling like hot cakes.”

  “I know,” Lillian answered. “Bela has told me all about it. So you have made a lot of money from the book?”