The X-Rated Corpse Page 9

  "Homer," I said, as quietly as I could. "Let me read you straight. You found Pearl here to go to bed with B.Z. and then make a flick in which she was supposed to be Violet Paris, about age nineteen, and B.Z. went for the idea? Is that what you're telling me?"

  His smile was half-bravado, half-uncertainty.

  "How'd you tumble? That's what I want to know, Noon. Or are you just nosy altogether and keep pushing until you get lucky?"

  "No, Ho. I found a photo of Violet Paris in your billfold while you were sleeping off our last friendly discussion. What would a clown like you be doing with her picture? A picture so obviously taken years ago. That was very fishy. So I hung around to see what your room was all about. But I really didn't expect Pearl. Or anybody like her. She isn't only a double. She's like a mirror of Violet Paris—"

  "I'm better looking!" Pearl flared suddenly, but Danbury cut her off with another glare. "She had the studios behind her—" Pearl shut up.

  "Noon, maybe we can make a deal—" He wasn't listening to me. Wasn't listening at all. "There's a lot of loot in this house if we work it right—half of it is yours—"

  "I don't know what you're talking about, Homer. But I want to hear some more about this X-rated film. About how Violet Paris herself could be fooled. You tell me that and then maybe I'll listen to your proposition. But not before. And why are you so sure the Fuzz won't admit it into the evidence? Talk, Homer. Loud and clear."

  Pearl stirred uneasily in the big bed but she didn't budge from the covers. She obviously liked to sleep in the nude or else she wanted to wait that way for her darling muscleman. Either way, it didn't matter. Homer Danbury relaxed a little, his gimlets going wiser, as if he sensed I might get persuaded by his offer of gold. I let him relax, lowering the .45 just a little. To make him open up, without pressure.

  "Okay, shamus. Here's how it was. The old guy was getting bitter and run-down. Couldn't cut the mustard anymore. Pearl's my chick and we always kidded around about her being a ringer for Paris. So one day I brought her here for B.Z. to see. Old Kane was on a weekend vacation or something. That was like three months ago. B.Z. kind of went for the idea of trying to find his lost manhood with Pearl. So she went along with the idea. Only thing was I put it all on film. With the old boy's consent, of course. He was a great one for sharing his kicks. Then he got the idea about Violet because he was talking about the time he had her. So I suggested that he show the film to her—either for laughs or whatever the hell. The old guy flipped. He said no woman could ever really remember what she said or what she did on maybe her first time out. And maybe wouldn't even remember the furniture layout. Besides—Old B.Z., he'd always had it bad for Paris. But after that one time, she never gave him the time of day. She didn't need him anymore. Won that Oscar and got all her great parts." Homer Danbury laughed. A mean laugh. "Got to hand it to the Old Man. When he got a toy, he knew what to do with it. He took that film, mixed in music and a sound track, getting some B actress to dub an imitation of Violet's voice and made four prints. One for each of his four special rooms. Guess he figured if Violet wouldn't go for the bit, he could always enjoy his remaining days by running off the film for himself or friends. Damnedest thing though. You know he never had to show that film to her—she believed him when he said he had it because he told her he always took special pains with future great actresses. She bought it for him, hook, line and sinker. And she never saw the film! Ain't that a kick in the head! Sure, he sent her a foot-long strip by mail—"

  "Yeah," I said. "A real kick. But I don't know. Nobody knows for sure. Film is peculiar. Especially old film supposed to be taken ten years back. With a lookalike like Pearl and a low-key lighted film like the one I saw—Violet might have been fooled. Nobody can remember themselves that well. But, pray continue, Brother Rat."

  "Now who's calling names?" he growled, sounding younger than he ever had. "Well, that's the whole thing. I didn't start this as no master plan to get the old guy in trouble. Who'd figure he'd go knock off the dame? Not me. Not him. It just happened. And that's it. No jury's going to convict me for trying to make an old man's last days on earth happy, are they? You know—he found himself with Pearl?"

  "How about blackmailing a famous actress? What do you call that? Charity or something?" I didn't give a damn about B.Z.'s Return To Paradise. Homer Danbury laughed again.

  His shrug was mammoth. He couldn't have cared less. He said so.

  I was proud of myself. I didn't fume and I didn't blow his cruel face off with one well-aimed slug from the .45.

  And he rubbed it in, too. As only a dummy can.

  "Come off it, Noon. B.Z.'s a big man in this burg. Plenty of clout behind him. Hollywood don't want no old pervert with a great name. Too big a comedown for this town. And according to that blind spade cop—what's his name?—they won't really drag that hot flick into court. So you're barking up the wrong boy, man. So why don't you use your noodle, leave me and Pearl alone and scram out of here? I told you-when the big loot is here I'll send some your way. Say 'No' and you've got exactly zero. The Fuzz don't want me and they don't want any part of Violet Paris evidence. Hell, the old man will probably get off anyway."

  "You are amazing, Homer," I said. "You know, you really are." I looked at the girl cowering in the big bed. "What about you, Pearl? Do you think he's right about what he says? I just want to know how much you both really understand the laws of this land."

  She smiled at me, tentatively. A ghostly Violet Paris smile. I remembered the Pad, all at once, and another dark-haired beauty who had lost the ability to smile. "You have to help me, Ed. Please—"

  "I don't know, Mister. Ho does all the thinking in this partnership. He's my guy. The only man I'll ever love. My sweetie."

  "Sure," I said, giving up altogether. But I had what I had come for in the first place. I'd found what Violet Paris had been looking for. What she had wanted from the very beginning. The truth hadn't changed, of course. She had slept with an old man for profit and gain. But the film was a lie. A reel lie. That was something that could be changed.

  Homer Danbury and Pearl exchanged glances, wondering what I was going to say or do next. I didn't keep them in suspense.

  "Get dressed, Pearl. We're all going places." Growling, Homer Danbury lowered his hands even further. The beauteous Pearl made a wailing sound that was somehow animalistic rather than feminine. "You see, children, your education has been sorely neglected. About people, places and things. We're all going down to Headquarters to see that nice black man, Homer, who isn't a spade but ten times the man you'll ever be. Why are we going? Simple. To clear the name of a dead, beautiful woman who was also a very great actress. You dig? The film will be put in its proper place. You will confess to being the girl on celluloid and Ho here will explain his masterful little game which he got a senile old man to go along with. I don't know what really went on in your big brain, Homer. Maybe you were seeing a lot further than even a murder. Maybe you had some future blackmail plans of your own. With the poor old man as your pigeon. Only you know that for sure. Either way, this is the only part of the action I want. Killing that lousy film, helping a nice woman sleep in peace and also helping two grown men stop feeling guilty about a woman they couldn't make very happy. One way or the other. You don't know what I'm talking about and that doesn't matter, either. Just wanted you to know why we're doing it my way."

  "Noon—" Homer Danbury, face going frightened, took a step toward me. "Grab some sense, will you? This is—"

  "Shut up," I said. "Not another word from you. We're up to three, remember? Don't give me any excuse to push your face in."

  Pearl stepped out of the bed, blithely naked and shapely and all that went with it, but she might as well have been wearing a suit of armor. She reached for some clothes slung over a chair nearby. Nude, she was the spitting image of the girl in B.Z.'s ancient embrace. She was Violet Paris, way back when. As young, as stunning, as volatile. Never mind about her brain. Seeing was believing. And Modesty was gone.


  Lieutenant Oliver Ogilvie hadn't been able to tell. He was a blind man. He might have been able to spot the difference, if he'd had the chance. Vietnam had taken care of all that. Chance, that is.

  He hadn't, of course. Any chance at all.

  Richard X. Fairman had never seen the film, to my knowledge. But he had never seen Violet Paris in the altogether, had he? Not with that bum ticker. There was no sense in a man torturing himself, was there? Like Adam in the Garden with all that Forbidden Fruit.

  And Violet Paris, herself. The lady in question.

  The only one who really could have interpreted the movie.

  She hadn't seen it all, according to Homer Danbury.

  Ho.

  Ho-ho-ho. Pearl's real live Santa Claus. What a sweetheart.

  Merry Christmas, everybody. God bless us one and all.

  I waited patiently while Pearl got dressed. Homer Danbury stood glaring and glowering at me but unable to jump in any direction because the .45 had him lined up, dead-center. I couldn't wait to get out of that room, out of that house altogether. Another kind of altogether.

  There was no room left in me for any more of the Violet Paris Murder Case. I'd seen better in the old William Powell dick movies.

  No pun intended.

  But as we finally started down the long dim hallway and reached the winding staircase, Homer Danbury made his move. I wasn't exactly surprised. He had parked whatever brains he had with his first set of dumbbells. Either that or he had me pegged for the type that doesn't shoot people in the back. It's my open, good-natured face, I guess.

  As we touched the top step of the landing, he suddenly kicked backward, butting Pearl's shapely figure into me. Since she was wearing a big, flowing, sloppy trenchcoat of folds and straps, it was a good play. He shot down the staircase like a runaway road gang con. By the time I got around flailing Pearl, still eager to do all for her man, Homer was off the bottom step, flying toward the front door. I bounded down in pursuit, not worried about Pearl at all. She was an aimless yo-yo.

  I have to admit I was a bit glad that Homer had shown some fight. I'd been waiting for three so I could lam him a good one. Maybe a couple.

  Kane beat me to it. That butler without peer.

  There was a meaty thuck of sound, a loud thunder of a grunt and I sped into the long hall just in time to see Homer Danbury go crashing to the carpet. Somewhat like a mad bull grounding into the earth of the ring, face-first. Above him was the tall, solemn figure of Kane. In his right hand was the frontier model Colt .45. The old manservant looked more morose than ever. But his eyes brightened as I came dashing up.

  "Nice going, Kane—"

  "Thank you, Sir. I remembered what you said about the barrel. But I supposed it would make a good club of sorts."

  "What made you join the ranks? Tell me that."

  Kane drew himself erect. Almost proudly. His thin mouth was a taut grin of mirthlessness. He pointed toward the staircase and Pearl who was sitting there, as if stunned, somewhere on the middle steps, looking down at us. Pearl was sobbing. Low, angry sobs. And shaking her head, lost in helpless fury. As if there was no place to run and hide, anymore.

  "I eavesdropped at the door of Homer's room. Oh, the door is thick, I know, but I have a way of listening. You see, you didn't fool me, Sir. I knew you only pretended to leave. So when Homer went back upstairs, I followed along some five minutes later. I expected you to be in his room. And you were. When I had heard enough, I came down here to phone the police. I made my decision a short while ago, Sir. I'll do anything to help the Master. Homer doesn't mean anything to me. The young lady is a complete stranger. I never suspected for a moment she was in this house. I did wonder about Homer's suddenly doubled appetite but—Lord, Sir, it is amazing how much she looks like Miss Paris. Most fantastic resemblance I've ever seen."

  "Kane, you're one in a million, too. Every Master should have one of you. If I ever inherit, you're the man for me."

  "I hope I did the right thing, Sir."

  "You did fine, Kane. A real Tom Mix performance."

  I holstered my .45. Kane shuddered, looking down at Homer Danbury. Something he seemed to have been doing all evening long.

  Behind us, Pearl was still sobbing on the steps of the winding staircase. She didn't remind me of Violet Paris, anymore.

  She looked like only what she was.

  A young girl in a lot of trouble.

  Which she was. The girl Homer had kept hidden in his room.

  Later, she proved to be one Pearl Ellison of St. George, Utah, who apart from everything else, was about two months pregnant.

  Something that was also Homer Danbury's homework.

  What the young can do to one another sometimes is enough to make an Indian cry. Do in the name of kicks, excitement and Love.

  And they do have a lot to cry about, Indians do.

  We spent the next half hour, Kane, Pearl Ellison and I, waiting for the police to come. The imitation Stanley Kowalski did, too.

  But he was out like a light, most of the time. A dead bulb.

  Two knockout punches in one night ought to be enough for any man. For Homer, the mean kid, with million dollar ambitions and not enough decency and common sense to fill Marlon Brando's left ear, it was plenty. He'd never really understood the Wild One's screen image.

  Pearl Ellison cradled his slumbering head in her arms all during the time we had to wait. Kissing and coddling him like a surrogate mother. Which is what most mean kids must have missed growing up.

  She would never learn, either.

  Some kids never do.

  Bennett Zangdorfer's house was as silent as Shea Stadium in early March. Before the robins and the baseballs fly.

  Before the promise of Spring.

  Ultra-Violet

  Lieutenant Oliver Ogilvie's office was still in the same place the next morning. Same orderly view of the Boulevard traffic, same interior decorator's bad judgment in color and furnishings. Ogilvie was planted behind his ornate desk, still with his sunglasses on, still buried in that world of darkness. Another kind of darkness beyond the shade he had been born with. There was a sadness in him that I could have seen if I'd been further away than the chair across from the overly-lavish desk. I wasn't.

  We had things to say to each other, to square and make even so I'd gone to his office without waiting to be asked. The squad cars of the night before which had turned Bennett Zangdorfer's home in Laurel Canyon into something out of an old gangster, movie, had not exactly settled everything. Homer Danbury and Pearl Ellison were really monumental peanuts in the scheme of things.

  That was something both Ogilvie and I seemed to know and understand. It wasn't necessary to go over that ground again.

  But we had to talk. That was all. It might have been preordained. Whatever it was, it was meant to be. Like a sacred pact.

  "Twenty four hours," he mused aloud, rocking back in that fancy swivel again. "Just twenty four little hours and you walked out of here and wrapped this one up in one day."

  "I got lucky."

  "You say. I call it prime detective instinct and true bloodhound art. I congratulate you, man. And I thank you."

  "You're welcome. But I think you would have gotten around to Homer Danbury sooner or later. He leaves a trail a mile wide."

  Ogilvie shook his head, his striking face not so sure.

  "Maybe. Don't know. All we've been doing in this busy building is checking and wearing out shoe leather. We did go through all of B.Z.'s bills and papers to see if we could find some kind of invoice or record of those four projection gizmos being installed. We came up empty so I did start to think of the muscle bum and his handyman status. But I can't say for sure we would have hit that angle so hard. After all, the old man could have put those set-ups in his house years ago. It was pretty standard movie equipment and not all that up-to-date. No, Noon. We were just plugging along. Me worried about that dirty film, the Department building up its case for trial. Same old red tape and p
aperwork."

  "Sure," I said, wanting to be kind. "I did have an edge on you, Ogilvie. Right from the very beginning. I didn't go to Vietnam."

  He thanked me with a quiet, thoughtful smile but made no comment on that. Instead, he chuckled and leaned forward, propping his elbows on the polished desk top. He was wearing the same suit he'd worn the day before. The burgundy Mod and the red-striped tie. How particular should a blind man be? The Afro was as ever. High and proud. Black.

  "We weren't all that hopeless, though. We did make some points. You know the dagger. With the real blade and genuine diamonds? That deluxe murder weapon. Seems like your Richard X. Fairman is the one who footed the bill for that one. Took it from her and made her a gift of it for her last birthday. She loved that old keepsake."

  "Van Cleef and Arpels, I suppose?"

  "How did you know that, now?" His growl was back, again.

  "That's where he bought their engagement ring. He told me. Just a guess. Funny, he never mentioned the dagger."

  "Don't surprise me none," Ogilvie said, softly. "There's a man feeling twice as guilty as I do. Who'd want to own up to the knife that kills? Be like bragging you made the crucifix Christ was nailed on."

  I stared at him with fresh respect.

  "Fairman didn't tell you, then?"

  "No, he didn't. We got a phone call from New York. Those shops always cooperate no matter how mighty and high their clientele may be. Hell, the story was in all the headlines. They didn't wait for us to find out. Besides, they knew we had the murderer."

  "Great publicity, too. Won't hurt business a bit. Tell me, Ogilvie. Did you get a chance to talk to Fairman at all?"

  "I did. About an hour ago. I kind of figured he might be feeling low. Like I did. So I told him all about your caper of last night. All about the film and the double and how there wasn't any Violet in any of that filthy flick. You know something, man?"

  "No—what?"

  Ogilvie's voice rose on a strange note of wonder and knowledge.

  "He cried, that's all. Blubbered like a child. Right on that phone. I couldn't bear it much so I hung up on him. I had to."