The Ghost and the Femme Fatale (13 page)

“Do me a favor, don’t crack wise. Just keep moving those pretty lace pan ties of yours.”

I gritted my teeth but didn’t argue, kept my focus on the task at hand. The address itself wasn’t an apartment building or home. It was a very large building that looked like a factory ware house. A parking lot sat beside it, and Jack immediately spied the gull gray Continental Cabriolet. There were actually two that looked exactly alike, right down to the green wheels. They were parked together. He checked the plates of each one, and pointed.

“This is the one—the car I spotted idling that night outside the Hotel Chester. It’s the same description the bellboy gave me of the car that picked up the DA’s girl when she checked out.”

“Why are there two cars here that look exactly alike? Don’t you find that strange?”

“Maybe not, baby. Let’s have a little talk with the folks inside.”

Jack didn’t bother knocking, just reached for the door handle.

“Do you know anything about this place?” I asked.

“It’s a storage facility for Gotham Features.”

The door opened and we walked right in. Despite the hour, the place was lit up and buzzing with activity. Men in overalls were milling around, talking. I could hear hammering and sawing going on somewhere in the back. Boxes were stacked sky- high. Shelves were filled with odd items—lamps, books, kitchen appliances. Pieces of furniture for every room in a typical home were jammed into corners with fake plants and giant rocks.

Jack didn’t seem phased by the chaos. He scanned the area and the men working and walked right up to a short, stocky guy wearing glasses, pinstriped pants, and suspenders. The stocky man was holding a clipboard, shooting orders to a younger, fitter man in overalls.

“We’ll need those chairs painted over by morning. And scare me up a Victrola, will ya? We have one in the back, next to the fake radios.”

I tugged Jack’s sleeve. “Who’s the man giving orders?”

“Property master and studio manager.”

“Is he Lester Sanford?” I asked.

“No,” Jack said.

Just then, the property master turned, saw us, and grinned from ear to ear. “Jack! Jack Shepard?! Where’ve you been, you big lug!” He walked over with his hand out. Jack pumped it.

“Hi there, Benny.”

“Who’s the little lady?” Benny asked.

“She’s my, uh...” Jack glanced at me.

“Partner,” I whispered.

“New secretary,” Jack declared. “Just hired her. Ain’t she a looker?”

“I’ll say.” Benny smiled, looking me up and down like a prize race horse. “I just don’t get why you hired her when you could have married her.” He laughed and finally addressed me. “Don’t you think it’s time your boss settled down?”

Settled down? My eyebrows rose at that one. From all the wild stories the ghost had told me, I just couldn’t see the living Jack Shepard smoking a pipe in the suburbs with his feet up. Even in death, the expired gumshoe was climbing the walls of my bookstore, eager to glom onto the merest hint of excitement in our “cornpone” little town.

“I’m sure Jack’s happy as a bachelor,” I told Benny. “Besides, any woman he married would have to put up with—”

Jack loudly cleared his throat, shutting me up with a pointed stare. Obviously, he preferred that I refrain from speaking during this par tic u lar meeting.

“So how’ve
you
been, Benny?” he asked the stocky man.

“Good, good... things around here could be better, though. You know about Irving?”

Jack glanced at me. “Yeah. I read about what happened in the not- so- funny papers.”

“We can’t believe it around here. Pierce Armstrong arrested for murder?” Benny shook his head. “He would never do anything to hurt Irving. Pierce wouldn’t hurt a fly! Do you know he could get the gas chamber for this?”

“Yeah, Benny, I know.”

“Are you here for Pierce then?” Benny asked, almost hopefully. “Did he hire you to help fight the charges?”

“No.” said Jack. I’m looking for a guy named Lester Sanford Know him?”

“Sure, I know Sandy. He’s been with us almost eight months now. He’s not here at the moment though.”

“What’s his title?”

“Title?” Benny shrugged. “On the credits it’s assistant producer.”

“Which translates to?”

“Transportation manager, truck driver, and se nior grease monkey.”

Jack stepped closer. “Does he own those two gull gray Lincoln Cabriolets in your parking lot?”

Benny paused then. He seemed to be considering Jack’s tone. “What’s this about?” he asked, his own voice suddenly less friendly.

Jack quickly backed off. “Oh, nothing important. It’s just that I need a favor, see? I’m on a divorce case, and I’m trying to find a witness. I spotted one of Sandy’s cars at the scene, and I thought if maybe I talked to him, he’d help me out with a lead.”

Benny scratched his ear with his pen. “Well, Sandy might be listed as the own er of those cars, Jack, but he wouldn’t have been driving them. Those partic u lar cars are being used for a six- week shoot.”

“A shoot of what?”

“Movie’s called
East Side Ser
enade
. We’re wrapping it next week.”

Jack’s jaw worked silently. “Then anybody at the studio could have used those vehicles?”

“Oh, no. Not anybody.” Benny said. “Those are expensive automobiles. Sandy keeps a strict log. And when those keys aren’t on the shoot or with a driver who signs them out, then they’re with me.” Benny reached into his pocket, pulled out a massive key ring, and jingled it like Santa Claus shaking his sleigh bells.

“You wouldn’t mind if I took a quick look at Sandy’s log book, would you?”

Benny smiled. “Not if you got another hot tip for me from that jockey friend of yours at Aqueduct. You do and she’s all yours.”

Jack nodded. “I’ll ring you inside of a week. And that’s a promise.”

“Good enough for me.” Benny waved his hand. “Come on over to my desk.”

Benny rifled through a stack of clipboards and paperwork and found Sandy’s log. “What do you wanna know?” he asked, opening the log book.

Jack pulled out a slender notebook from inside his jacket pocket, riffled backward through some pages.

“First date I’m after is April sixteenth.”

Benny’s thick finger moved down a page in the log. “Here we are. Shooting wrapped at sunset and the car was signed out

by an actor.”

Jack frowned. “You let actors borrow these vehicles?”

Benny shrugged. “Part of the perks if you’re a principal player. Irving doesn’t pay much, you know, so he lets them borrow the studio’s cars, as long as they keep them clean and bring them back with the gas tank full.”

“Who’s the actor that signed it out?”

Benny glanced at the large, bold block letters. “Pierce Armstrong.” He frowned. “That’s bad luck. I mean, you can’t very well talk to him about being a witness to anything when he’s already in the hoosegow for a capital crime.”

“Check another date for me, would you?” Jack asked.

“Sure.”

“May sixth.”

Benny nodded. “There was filming early that day, on location in Manhattan. Looks like a principal checked the car out again.”

“Who?”

Benny adjusted his glasses, squinted at the small, fluid script. “Pierce Armstrong.”

Jack frowned. “But it couldn’t have been. Armstrong was taken into custody the night of Vreen’s stabbing, which was May fifth.”

“That’s odd,” Benny admitted.

“Then you didn’t witness the sign- out yourself?” Jack asked.

“Not when they’re on location. You’d have to talk to Sandy or the director, young guy named Delahunt.” Benny checked his watch. “Delahunt’s somewhere out on Long Island shooting workarounds. Now that Pierce Armstrong’s in jail, he’s trying to finish the film without him.”

“What about Sandy?” Jack asked. “He out on Long Island, too?”

“Yeah, but not for the same reason. His wife just had a baby girl. He’ll be off work for a few days at least.”

Jack nodded. “Okay, when will Delahunt be back here then?”

“Tomorrow morning. But I doubt he’ll remember what happened that day with the car.” Benny shook his head.

“Everyone’s pretty frazzled right now with Irving dead and Pierce arrested, and when you’re trying to wrap a picture one day just melts into all the others. That’s why we keep logs and lists.” Benny pointed to the clipboards stacked on his desk.

“I understand,” said Jack. “But I’d like to talk to the man anyway. Oh, and one more thing, Benny...”

“Sure, Jack.”

“Is Hedda Geist on that picture, too?”

“Of course. She’s under contract. Every film she’s been in has been a hit for us. No way we’d make a movie without her in a leading role.”

“So she’s out there on Long Island, too?” Jack asked.

Benny nodded.

“Guess I’ll come back tomorrow.” Jack smiled. “That is, unless you’ve got another case for me to night? How’s the security around here since I solved your little problem a year ago?”

“Tell you what, Jack, you did me a real favor finding that Larry Lightfingers on my staff. Put the fear of God into everybody. We haven’t had one more disappearing prop since. The only thing’s gone missing in months is a piece of wardrobe, and I’m pretty sure it just got misplaced.”

“What was it?” Jack asked.

Benny shrugged. “Just one of Hedda’s costumes. The silver gown she wore in
Wrong Turn
. We had two made exactly alike, ’cause one Hedda wore for the poster and the other we had to rip at the shoulder for the opening sequence. The ripped one we still got. The other one’s lost.” He waved his hand. “Believe me, Jack, it’s no big deal. Nothing we’d need to hire you for. That thing looked expensive on screen, but it was actually pretty cheap goods.”

Jack’s eyebrow arched, he glanced down at me. “Sounds a little like Hedda herself.”

We exited the building and headed back toward Jack’s Packard.

“Okay,” I said, as we walked by a line of row houses. “What was the DA’s mistress doing wearing Hedda’s gown? Who gave it to her? And what was Pierce Armstrong doing in a car outside the girl’s hotel? Was he sleeping with her, too? Do you suspect this Delahunt character of anything? Or Lester Sanford? And can you trust Benny?”

“Keep your voice down, baby,” Jack whispered. “We’re being followed.”

My eyes widened as I realized Jack already had my back. He’d positioned himself directly behind me, shielding me from any blow or bullet that might come our way.

“What are you going to do?” I whispered.

“Well, I’m not waiting for him to decide,” Jack replied. “You see that sharp turn off the sidewalk up ahead?”

“The alley?”

“Turn down it, baby.”

“What? Why?”

“Question me again, and the next time I bring you back to my time, your gumshoe work will be limited to typing and filing.”

I got the message and kept moving forward. The sidewalk was deserted, the street quiet. The only sound was the click of my heels along the broken concrete. Jack’s footsteps were silent as the grave, and apparently so were the steps of the man tail lng us.

A single car rumbled down the road. It cruised by us quickly. I waited for it to pass and then I turned into the alley.

“Wait up, sweetheart!” Jack called loudly enough for our tail to hear. “What about that kiss you promised me?”

We were between streetlights, so the shadows were pretty thick and the darkness overwhelmed me as I moved farther down the narrow passage. Suddenly, Jack’s hot breath grazed my ear. “That’s good, baby.” His hand pressed my backside. “Keep walking.” Then the warmth of his body vanished.

I gnawed my lower lip as I continued walking forward. What I wanted to do was turn around and ask him what he planned on doing. But I knew a good detective wouldn’t question his partner in a situation like this. A good shamus would assume his partner had a plan—and trust it.

And that’s exactly what I did: I trusted Jack and kept walking. My heels clicked loudly along the alley’s cobble stones, echoing up the walls of brick on either side of us. It smelled rank back here between the buildings, like spoiled food. I bumped a metal garbage can. Farther down the alley, a cat meowed loudly. I heard scurrying. Mice? Rats? I shuddered in the dark but kept going until I heard—

Smack! Thwack! Smack!

Fists were hitting flesh behind me. There was a loud grunt, a body fell, and I worried whether Jack was okay. But when I turned around, it was Jack’s dark silhouette that was still standing.

I backtracked quickly to get to Jack’s side. The man who’d been following us was now crumpled against the alley wall.

“Do you know him?” I asked.

Jack shook his head. He crouched low and patted the man down, coming up with two handguns. “Here,” he said, shoving one at me and then another. The first was a snub- nosed revolver. The second had a long, narrow barrel. I think it was a German Lugar.

“Whoa, Jack,” I said, holding up my palms. “I don’t know how to shoot these—”

“Good because I just want you to
hol
d
them, okay?”

“Oh, okay.” I juggled the weapons, finally getting a firm hold of each gun butt.

Jack noticed my awkward maneuverings. “Fingers
off
the triggers, okay?”

I vigorously nodded.

Jack turned back to the man. He was groaning now, coming to, and Jack started his interrogation. “Who are you?”

The man shook his head. “Buzz off.”

Jack searched the man’s pockets, pulled out a wallet, and flipped it open. “Well, well, well . . . this little license says you’re a private dick, just like me . . . Egbert P. King.”

“Bert,” the man muttered. “Nobody but my mother calls me Egbert.”

“Okay,
Egbert
, who sent you to tail me?”

The man snorted, rubbed the back of his head. “You got it all wrong in the tail department, fella. I wasn’t tailing you.”

Jack squinted. “Oh, you weren’t?”

“No. See, I saw that piece o’ tail you’re with—” he pointed at me—“and I thought I’d grab me some, too. She’s not too expensive, is she? Looks like cheap goods to me.”

Jack’s meaty fist cocked back. “You son of a—”

“Jack, don’t!”

Too late. He’d knocked the other PI unconscious.

I sighed. “That wasn’t too smart, Jack. Now he can’t tell you a thing.”