Design for Dying (10 page)

“Ladies,” Morrow said. “Are we interrupting?”

“Not at all, gentlemen,” Edith said. “If you'd care to wait in my office—”

“No, Miss Head.” Morrow worked to sand the edge off his voice. “We tried that.”

Hansen targeted his ire at me. “Get a load of who's back again, for no good reason. I warned you not to bring her here, Gene. She's flypapered to this thing now.” Hansen then eyeballed Ken and asked for his name. When he heard it, his face clouded. “I was about to come looking for you. Let's parley outside.”

Edith stepped forward but Hansen already had Ken by the elbow and was guiding him out of reach. Ken glanced over his shoulder at us, a drowning man watching a boat sail past.

“Before you start, Detective,” Edith told Morrow as the door closed, “let me suggest you are missing the point.”

“Actually, Miss Head, I'm pretty sure the point's jabbing me in an uncomfortable spot right about now.” Morrow crumpled the brim of his fedora in his hand. It's never a good sign, my uncle Danny counseled, when a man mistreats his hat. “You send us to your office while you're here questioning either a potential witness or a potential suspect.”

“I was asking Mr. Nolan about the theft of Paramount wardrobe, which falls under my purview. What's more, Mr. Nolan was about to reveal Ruby's agenda.”

“He can reveal it to Hansen.”

“But he won't. That's the problem. He'll deny any involvement, because all the police can do is send him to jail.”

Morrow smiled darkly. “Traditionally, that prospect loosens tongues.”

“You can only hurt him, Detective. I could have helped him. Given him a leg up at the studio, which is what he wants. He would have told me the truth if you hadn't intervened.”

Morrow's poor brim suffered further. “So we sic studio security on him.”

“Again, Mr. Groff can only threaten to fire him or fire him. We're all stick and no carrot now. I'm quite disappointed.”

Morrow was flustered, so naturally I decided to pile on. “Edith was only—”

The sight of the detective's back as he turned to examine the clothes silenced me. His own suit sagged on his frame as if he'd slept in it. “As for you, Miss Frost. You find a suitcase full of clothes stolen by a murder victim and instead of contacting the police, you call a movie studio.”

“We needed to confirm they were stolen.” My face grew hot.

“Don't berate Lillian, Detective,” Edith said. “I insisted she see me. If she'd informed you about the suitcase, when would you have alerted me?”

“We'd have come by.” Morrow was beginning to resemble a boy summoned to the principal's office.

“Undoubtedly. But tomorrow at the earliest. Thanks to Lillian you're talking to Ruby's accomplice now, even if he'll no longer admit anything.”

I tried not to glow with pride. I failed.

“So this is the third degree,” Morrow said. “No one wonder everyone grouses about it.”

Edith chuckled. “Perhaps we can move on to what we've learned. We assumed Ruby stole that dress from
The Return of Sophie Lang
on impulse. Now we find she'd taken additional items. There's more to this than a single night's frolic.”

“We know Ruby was fraternizing with some tony types,” I said.

Morrow nodded. “Armand and Natalie. We heard.”

“Armand's last name is Troncosa. He's from Argentina. Big money. Natalie Szabo is a Hungarian princess who might deign to crash the movies.”

I could hear muslin settling while Morrow stared at me. Finally he took out his notebook. “Explain.”

He didn't write anything down as I did so. “You haven't found Armand and Natalie. You've found
an
Armand and Natalie. Nothing ties them into Ruby.”

“A reporter at Mrs. Lindros's asked me about Natalie by name.”

“So? Reporters get bum leads, too. I need something substantial before I bother these people.”

“Detective, I'd be inclined to listen to Lillian,” Edith said. “She did find Ruby's suitcase.”

Morrow snapped his notebook shut, besieged on all sides. “About that suitcase. What do we have, four or five outfits? Doesn't seem like enough for Ruby to traffic in high society.”

“It would suffice for a while,” Edith said. “Ruby chose well. The afternoon dress is appropriate for a number of occasions. A luncheon in the city, a daytime concert. The suit, of course, could also be worn to any of those functions.”

“Isn't the embroidered accent on the lapel a bit … dramatic?” I ventured.

“Quite right. I'd say an opera. Not opening night.”

“Yes, it's a trifle gauche for that,” Morrow said.

Edith pretended not to hear him. “It would be at home in any audience, though. The theater, a prize fight.”

“A prize fight?” Morrow asked.

“As an example,” Edith said.

“Of its versatility,” I added.

Morrow shook his head. “Clearly you ladies aren't at the Olympic on Tuesday nights. How durable are these costumes? Won't they fall apart after Ruby wears them once or twice?”

The temperature plunged precipitously as Edith drew herself up. “Fall apart?” She plucked one of the burgundy suits from the rack and turned the skirt inside out. “Examine this seam, Detective. Closely. What do you see? Quality. Attention to detail. Our seamstresses are the best in the business.” She slipped on the jacket and flipped up the collar. “Velvet, should the director ask the actress to turn the collar up. Real pockets, in case—” She'd tucked her hands into those pockets as she spoke. We watched as she pulled something out of the left one.

“What have we here?” She held up an oversized jigsaw puzzle piece. It was about three inches across, sky blue with what looked like bricks on one side. “It appears I've found a piece of the puzzle. Or at least
a
puzzle.”

“Could be part of a building,” I said.

Morrow nodded. “Congratulations, Miss Frost. You've broken this case wide open.”

Edith turned the puzzle piece over. “There's writing on the back. ‘Twelve-slash-eleven, seven thirty.' It doesn't say
A.M.
or
P.M.
”

“December eleventh,” Morrow said. “Over a month away.”

“If that was Ruby's I guarantee it's not
A.M.
,” I said. “I rarely saw her out of bed before noon.”

Morrow produced an envelope. “If you'd place that in here,” he said to Edith.

“Oh, dear. Will I have to be fingerprinted for elimination purposes? I'll be sure to wear something dark.”

The door protested again and Paramount's house Napoleon Barney Groff strutted in, trailed by two timid young women looking as baffled as new arrivals at Ellis Island. “Sorry for the delay, Gene. Paramount's a big shop. My work is never done.” He looked at me. “I see someone booked our featured performer for a return engagement. Even though there was no popular demand.” Groff's eyes lingered long enough to banish me to extra-girl status—and to permit Morrow to spirit away the envelope containing the puzzle piece. Groff angled his head toward the Ruby Carroll collection. “So these clothes are ours, too.”

“Yes, Mr. Groff,” Edith said. “From films that had recently finished shooting.”

“But now they're back. Problem solved. Terrific.” Groff, I couldn't help noticing, did not look at Edith as he spoke. He nodded at the two women, who took off toward the clothes as if they'd heard a starter's pistol. “I drafted a few wardrobe girls to start tidying up.”

One of the women snatched the bag of jewelry while the other lunged at the burgundy suit. Edith looked on in dismay. “Surely there's no need to move so quickly.”

Groff kept his words clipped and his tone arctic. “What there's no need to do is extend police involvement in a studio matter resolved to Paramount's satisfaction. Are other clothes missing?”

Edith watched the first girl distribute the articles from the jewelry bag into drawers with all deliberate speed. “None I can account for, no.”

“Was anything of consequence in the clothes?”

Behind her glasses, Edith's eyes flicked to Morrow. He discreetly tapped the breast pocket where he'd slipped the puzzle piece. “That's not for me to say.”

“Precisely. And we've identified the responsible party. What was his name? The photographer?”

“Kenneth Nolan.” Edith and Morrow said it simultaneously. Edith took a step back, deferring to him.

“My partner is talking to him now.”

“Your partner cut him loose, and I handled the rest. Nolan is no longer in the employ of Paramount Pictures.”

“Did he confess?” Morrow asked.

“Does it matter? The studio's role in this sad affair is at an end. We have our property back, the culprits no longer work here. You're free to concentrate on more important matters. You should know, Gene, I put a call in to Chief Davis this morning, telling him how impressed Mr. Zukor was by your diligence and discretion. We haven't seen headlines screaming ‘Alley Angel Plays Devil at Paramount.' That hasn't gone unappreciated.”

Morrow grimaced, passing it off as a grin. “It's why I do the job.”

“In the unlikely event you do require additional cooperation, contact me direct. No need for you to waste time going through our Wardrobe Department.” He couldn't even bring himself to pronounce Edith's name. She'd undermined Groff's authority by summoning Morrow herself. It wasn't only the jewelry he was putting in its proper place.

Edith would have none of it. “Given that poor young girl's murder, Mr. Groff, I'm happy to assist—”

Groff was already making for the exit. “If you'll excuse me, I've got other fires to put out.” An awkward silence followed in his wake, broken only by the clatter of hangers as the wardrobe women undid Ruby's crime.

Morrow finally chuckled. “I almost have to admire that guy. Bet anything I hear from one of Chief Davis's glad-handers, strongly suggesting I keep Paramount out of the limelight. I should track down Hansen before he starts pestering Claudette Colbert. Can I give you a ride somewhere, Miss Frost?”

“Home, I suppose. I can't face customers just yet. Maybe after lunch.”

“Nonsense,” Edith said. “If you're expected at work, you've got to go.”

As I said my farewell to her, she pressed a piece of paper into my palm. On it she'd written the information that had been on the puzzle piece:
12/11, 7:30
.

“Just in case,” Edith said.

“Just in case what?”

Her owlish eyes blinked at me. “Well, I don't know.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “Just in case.”

 

11

I WAS HALFWAY
up the stairs to my apartment when Mrs. Quigley's voice boomed out of her perpetually half-open door. “Lillian! Is that you?”

My landlady had a trove of memories from a checkered show business career and a collection of late husbands, one of whom had bequeathed her a small building on the fringes of Hollywood that she kept in a state of faded glamour matching her own. Her inability to admit she was hard of hearing meant every conversation felt like a play in which I'd blundered onstage knowing only half my lines.

“Yes, Mrs. Q.” I stopped at the threshold to her apartment. As usual, I smelled rosewater and the stew that seemed to be forever simmering in the event a platoon of starving soldiers turned up.

Mrs. Q was certainly dressed to receive them in an ivory and gold housecoat. I placed her age somewhere between fifty and the Pearly Gates. “The phone's been ringing off the hook for you! I've been popping out like a jack-in-the-box to answer it.”

“I'm sorry about that. How many calls did I get?”

“Two!” A fairly high number, both for me and for Mrs. Quigley's in general. Life could be very sedate in a building without actresses. “It was the same woman both times,” Mrs. Quigley went on. “She wouldn't leave her name, just said she'd call back. My land! I haven't had this much exercise since my Ziegfeld days.”

In the lobby, I beelined for the phone. The mystery caller was likely Kay; I'd promised to tell her what Edith said about the suitcase. I dialed the
Modern Movie
offices and got her at once. “You don't know you're allowed to leave messages?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Didn't you call this morning?”

“Will this conversation consist entirely of questions? No, I didn't call. I was waiting for you to telephone me. Spill.”

I summarized my Paramount excursion. “Wow,” Kay said. “You cost a man his livelihood and it's not even lunchtime.”

“That's all I could think about on the way home.”

“You Catholics and your crushing guilt. If this Ken stole clothes for Ruby, he deserves to be tossed out on his ear. I'll take your mind off his woes. I got a peek at the full dossier on Armand Troncosa. Information remains thin on Natalie because she just came over from the Continent, whereas lover boy Armand has been hobnobbing here for months. The Troncosas are rich, obviously. Money from real estate, mining interests, cattle. Ranches on the pampas full of gauchos like Gilbert Roland.”

“Gilbert Roland is Mexican.”

“He is? Are you sure?”

“I read it in your magazine.”

“Then he must be. The Troncosas are also important politically, very lovey-dovey with the generalissimo. I assume Argentina has a generalissimo. These places typically do. By all accounts Armand is the clan's black sheep. Something of a hothead. The juicy rumor is he killed someone he shouldn't have back home. A member of another prominent family. Possibly in a duel, if you can imagine. The Troncosas pulled strings and whisked him out of the country until the whole business blows over.”

“How long does it take a blood feud to blow over? This dossier sounds like pure hearsay.”