Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Brenda Conrad stretched one long, bare, taut leg in the sunlight. “Some kind of organic cream,” she said thoughtfully. “That’s exactly what I need. Cream. It’s so dry out here.” She rubbed her upper thigh languidly.
In the background, Brenda’s daughter, Lisa, was playing tennis with a handsome young man of twenty. Brenda was wearing tennis shorts and would glance from time to time over her shoulder at the man, as if to make sure he was still there.
She looked back at Perkins and me, and sighed. “It’s so hard to be on location with a child. There’s nothing for Lisa to do, so you have to find things. But I don’t want to leave her at home for so many weeks. I miss her too much.” She sighed again. “I try to be a good mother.”
“Of course,” Perkins said.
Brenda turned to me. “Can we get something to drink?”
“Sure,” I said. “What would you like?”
“A gin and tonic,” she said without blinking. It was eight thirty in the morning.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said, and went into the hotel. I told the reception desk that I wanted a gin and tonic, and they told me I was crazy. I told them that Miss Conrad wanted it, and they said it would be right out.
When I got back to Perkins and Brenda, she was saying, “. . . a sad, sad, sad man. My heart went out to him. He was such a pathetic man. Did you know him at all?”
“No,” Perkins said. “Not at all.”
“Well, there’s no sense in pretending,” Brenda said. “He wasn’t very nice. He was very difficult. And he drank and he had a nasty temper. But it was all somehow . . . so . . . sad.”
“You had arguments with him?”
“Everybody had arguments with him. He said some things to me that I won’t soon forget.”
“The night he died?”
Brenda stared at Perkins a little defiantly. “Yes, the night he died. He got into a fight with Clete in the bar downstairs, and I guess he was humiliated, because he came up to my room and kept abusing me at the top of his lungs. He was drunk.”
“What was your reaction?”
“I asked him to leave. I had sympathy for him, but a drunk is a drunk, after all, and I wanted to sleep.”
“What happened then?”
“Clete came by and threw him out. I was so glad he did. I must tell you that Clete Williams may not be your greatest actor in the world, but he is a truly nice man. He’s a sweet person.”
“The three of you have your rooms in a row. Yours, McDougall’s, and Clete’s. Did you hear anything later that night?”
Brenda shook her head. “They argued in the hallway a little bit. Then Charles came by and told them to knock it off and get some sleep. And that was the last I heard.”
“No other sounds later?”
“I was asleep. I sleep very soundly.”
I knew that she slept very soundly with several reds in her. I wondered if Perkins also knew, or if he guessed it. It was a reasonable guess. If you ever have to bet on an actress, bet she pops pills. You’ll usually be right.
Perkins smiled blandly at her and said, “Is it true you were having an affair with Mr. McDougall?”
“Where did you hear that?” Brenda said, too loudly. But I was wondering the same thing myself.
“I just asked if it were true.”
“It most certainly is not.” Brenda was using her British accent and getting mad. Or trying to get mad. Somehow she wasn’t convincing to me.
“I’m not a police officer,” Perkins said. “You can say anything to me you wish.”
“Look,” Brenda said, “I’ve been to bed with rattlesnakes and I’ve been to bed with skunks and I’ve been to bed with mongrel dogs, but I have never been to bed with Arthur McDougall. Okay?”
“I have a few more questions, Miss Conrad—”
“You can take your questions and shove them!” And she stamped off, back to the tennis court, never looking back.
It was actually a rather graceful exit. Her sense of timing again.
The waiter came over. “Who gets the gin and tonic?” he asked.
* * *
Walking back to the Holiday Inn, I asked Perkins, “What made you ask her about an affair?”
“Just a guess,” he said mildly. “I learned a long time ago that even when movie people don’t particularly respect or admire or like each other, they are often fornicating nonetheless. So I asked.”
“Satisfied with her answer?”
“No,” Perkins said, and he didn’t elaborate.
By now it was eight thirty in the morning, but the sun was up, and it was very hot. I asked Perkins if he wanted to go out to the location.
“In an hour,” he said. “First I have to check on the pictures.”
“Pictures?”
He didn’t answer. He went directly to the reception desk, where there was a large manila envelope waiting for him, marked “PHOTOS DO NOT BEND.” The return address was the police department, City of Tucson.
“I am going to my room now,” Perkins said.
“Mind if I come along?”
“If you wish.”
“I have some calls to make first. I’ll see you there.”
“That will be fine,” Perkins said, adjusting his tie.
* * *
I called Appelbaum.
“It is a sensation,” Appelbaum said. “It is a phenomenon. You can’t believe the distributors.”
“What about them?”
“Every theater owner in America has called in the last twenty-four hours. They all want to book.”
“Book Bloodrock?”
“Hell yes.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Haven’t you been reading the papers? Every paper in the country is saying that Clete Williams murdered McDougall. The distributors smell a hit in this one. It’s a bigger scandal than The Getaway.”
I was beginning to understand Appelbaum better. He was hoping that Clete was the murderer. It would be terrific for business.
“Have you seen the trades?” Appelbaum asked.
“I’m on location, Sam.”
“Here, listen to this. Variety,” he said. “Banner headline, across five columns: ‘Scribe Silenced in Location Mystery.’ Subhead reads: ‘Police Attention to Williams.’ How’s that?”
It didn’t sound great to me. It sounded like something to be worried about, with an eye to a libel suit. I said so.
Appelbaum was undeterred. “Here’s The Hollywood Reporter. Same big banner: ‘Scribe Nixed on Bloodrock Pix.’ Two subheads: ‘Question Star Foul Play’ and ‘Production Shutdown for Mourning.’”
I couldn’t help thinking that Appelbaum was off his rocker. That wasn’t great publicity at all. It wasn’t a sensation. It sounded mostly like the truth: Bloodrock was a picture in trouble with a new piece of added trouble.
“Sam,” I said, “even if this is a murder, I don’t think they have anything solid to link Clete to it. With all those rumors going around about the police about to book him yesterday, they never actually did it.”
And Perkins still hasn’t even questioned him, I thought to myself. What the hell is he waiting for?
“Don’t be negative,” Appelbaum said. “I’m telling you—this is a sensation, an absolute sensation. It’s Sensation City.”
I sighed. “Speaking of negative, why is Robinson coming out?”
“Who knows? Maybe he can’t get a date for tonight in town. I don’t know. All I know is he says he’s going to the location, and all anybody says is, ‘Yes, sir.’”
“Greenblatt doesn’t mind?”
“Greenblatt doesn’t have a lot to say about it. Sure, he probably minds. So what?”
“Have you seen Robinson?”
“Saw him yesterday. He’s in a foul mood.”
“But I gather there’s no talk of cancellation?”
“Not now.” There was a pause. “You really think Clete didn’t do it?”
“I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything about anybody. I just think you’re getting way ahead of yourself.”
Appelbaum sighed. “What will be, will be,” he said. “Que sera, sera. Did you know I was unit publicist on that picture?”
“What picture?”
“The Man Who Knew Too Much, what do you think?”
“You worked for Hitchcock?”
“He’s a pussycat,” Appelbaum said, “and the picture did six times negative cost. The coverage was superb. I’m just reminding you. Call me later today if you have something.”
I promised I would.
* * *
Walking down the hallway to Perkins’s room, who should I run into but Jerry Fisher.
You’ve probably never heard of Jerry Fisher.
Nobody has, outside the business. Jerry Fisher is the biggest agent at CMA except for Sue Mengers, and some people say he’s bigger than her.
A couple of CMA clients won’t talk to anybody but him.
He has a list of big names, and one of them is Clete Williams.
If you’ve ever had a heavy smoker in your life, I guarantee you that person didn’t smoke half as much as Jerry Fisher.
He was a professional smoker—a walking, talking nicotine cloud—and I’m pretty sure studio executives, even if they were amateur smokers themselves, said yes half the time just to end the meeting and go get some fresh air.
“Jason,” he wheezed as he flicked ashes on the motel carpeting, “what the hell are you doing about this mess?”
That was exactly what Greenblatt said to me two days ago. Count on an agent to be two days late.
“Jerry,” I said, “we have it all under control.”
“Under control? The press is terrible. It’s all over the country, people saying that Clete Williams killed this guy, what’s-his-name.”
“McDougall,” I said.
“Yeah, McDougall. Who handles him?”
“IFA,” I said. IFA is the other big agency in town.
“Something’s got to be done,” Fisher said. “We got to get the publicity changed. People are saying the guy is a killer.” Fisher paused to cough. “Now, that’s a sweet guy. You know what kind of a guy he is. He’s a sweet guy, and he’s a hell of a client. What’s going to be done?”
“Nothing, Jerry,” I said. “It’s a police investigation. It’s in their hands.”
“Then I’m going to hold a press conference for Clete. Let him tell his side of the story.”
“I wouldn’t advise that,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Legal complications.”
“What legal complications.”
“He could be held in contempt of court for making a statement.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The coroner’s inquest,” I said. I was being very vague, but Jerry didn’t seem to notice. I came to Perkins’s door and knocked. “Look, Jerry, we’ll talk about this later. I’ll get back to you.”
Jerry looked unhappy as he tossed his butt and then pulled out a fresh one. Perkins let me in. The door closed.
* * *
“It is my impression,” Perkins said, pacing back and forth in the room, “that in general the stupidest members of society become criminals, and the next stupidest become policemen. That is why the police are able to apprehend criminals from time to time—they are fortunate to be dealing with the only segment of society less intelligent than they are.”
Perkins didn’t seem to be in a good mood. The pictures were stacked on the bed.
“Mind if I look?”
“Go ahead,” he said. “They don’t help much.”
I thumbed through the photos, black-and-white glossies, flat lit with flashbulbs, the kind of thing where the background goes black, and the subject is burned up, overexposed.
They were all pictures of the dead body from a hundred different angles.
“Now you see,” Perkins said, still pacing, “the police assume that the center of interest is the deceased himself. Nothing could be further from the truth. The chief point of interest is the bedroom. They took no photographs of the bedroom at all. It is really quite extraordinary stupidity. I want you to call the police and ask them to meet us at the location.”
I frowned. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” There would be reporters on the location, and I didn’t want to make this mess any more public than necessary.
“I don’t care if it’s a good idea or not,” Perkins said. “Right now, it’s the only way we’re going to find out who killed Arthur McDougall.”