Read Online 1 The Hollywood Detective by Martha Steinway - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Martha Steinway
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this is Miss Randall.”
The voice was familiar, but not the name.
“Rose Randall. I was with you yesterday.”
It took another moment before the penny dropped.
“Oh… Red.”
“Or maybe I should say I was for you yesterday. Today I am most definitely for the other guy. Any guy who isn’t you. That was a poor show you put on last night.”
I heard a lot of noise in the background, like fans whirring.
“About that…” I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say. “I guess I was a little… out of line. I would’ve called you, but I didn’t have your number.”
She let out an impatient sigh. “That is somewhat irrelevant. I’m calling you… that is… Look I just want you to know that what I’m about to tell you isn’t for your benefit.”
“It isn’t?”
“I’m doing this for Clara.”
“Yes?” I figured the less I said, the better.
“I’m at a beauty parlor over in Silverlake.” The hair dryers in the background made it hard to hear her. I strained to make out her words. “I saw the reservations book as I came in,” she continued. “There’d been some kind of mix up when I called to make the appointment, so they made a big production of showing me the book, to let me see just how popular they are and how darned lucky I am that they could squeeze me in.”
Red struck me as the kind of girl who would be squeezed in pretty much anywhere she chose to go.
“I noticed that Myrtle Willoughby is coming in at eleven this morning.”
“Should the name mean something to me?”
“Check your list, Mr McCoy.”
And with that, she hung up.
I took off my jacket and pulled out the Powell guest list from my case. Sure enough, a dozen or so lines down, there was Myrtle, her name emphatically underlined in pencil by Mary Treen. I called the operator.
“Good morning,” I said. “ I just got cut off. Could you please reconnect my last call?”
“One moment.”
I got the address of the parlor in Silverlake from the receptionist who answered the phone. I had just finished writing it down when the phone rang again.
“Spencer McCoy.”
“This is Mary Summers. Mary Treen.”
“Good morning Miss Summers, I was about to call you.”
“You were?”
“I wanted to give you an update… I think it may be time to inform the police.”
“I really don’t think they’ll take me seriously—”
“It’s been two days now, the police have a duty—”
“No, you don’t understand. That’s why I’m calling you. I’ve heard from Clara. Or at least… I think I have.”
“What does that mean?”
“Would you be able to come over and see me?”
We made an arrangement to meet up at lunchtime and she hung up before I could ask her anything else.
*
Silverlake was not a part of Los Angeles I ever had much to do with. It wasn’t near the ocean, it wasn’t in the hills, it didn’t have the busy hum of downtown or the glitz of Hollywood. To me Silverlake has always seemed like a little piece of Milwaukee dumped, by some freak accident of geology, in the middle of the gleaming metropolis.
Maybe if I’d needed the services of a beauty parlor I might have known the streets a little better. Lorimer’s had quite a reputation among the women of Los Angeles. It was run by an old guy named Clark Lorimer who used to work for the studios. The way he liked to tell it, he’d styled for Garbo, Clara Bow and Dietrich, and made his reputation by treating his regular clients at the parlor as if they were movie stars themselves. And, as there isn’t a single woman in California who doesn’t secretly hope she might one day be up there on the silver screen, Lorimer attracts a loyal following.
As I got out of the car I noticed the newsstand on the corner was doing a lot business: the good people of Los Angeles were lapping up big cat stories like kittens at a saucer of cream. People were buying the Times and the Chronicle, just in case one reported more sightings than the other. I’d already
The voice was familiar, but not the name.
“Rose Randall. I was with you yesterday.”
It took another moment before the penny dropped.
“Oh… Red.”
“Or maybe I should say I was for you yesterday. Today I am most definitely for the other guy. Any guy who isn’t you. That was a poor show you put on last night.”
I heard a lot of noise in the background, like fans whirring.
“About that…” I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say. “I guess I was a little… out of line. I would’ve called you, but I didn’t have your number.”
She let out an impatient sigh. “That is somewhat irrelevant. I’m calling you… that is… Look I just want you to know that what I’m about to tell you isn’t for your benefit.”
“It isn’t?”
“I’m doing this for Clara.”
“Yes?” I figured the less I said, the better.
“I’m at a beauty parlor over in Silverlake.” The hair dryers in the background made it hard to hear her. I strained to make out her words. “I saw the reservations book as I came in,” she continued. “There’d been some kind of mix up when I called to make the appointment, so they made a big production of showing me the book, to let me see just how popular they are and how darned lucky I am that they could squeeze me in.”
Red struck me as the kind of girl who would be squeezed in pretty much anywhere she chose to go.
“I noticed that Myrtle Willoughby is coming in at eleven this morning.”
“Should the name mean something to me?”
“Check your list, Mr McCoy.”
And with that, she hung up.
I took off my jacket and pulled out the Powell guest list from my case. Sure enough, a dozen or so lines down, there was Myrtle, her name emphatically underlined in pencil by Mary Treen. I called the operator.
“Good morning,” I said. “ I just got cut off. Could you please reconnect my last call?”
“One moment.”
I got the address of the parlor in Silverlake from the receptionist who answered the phone. I had just finished writing it down when the phone rang again.
“Spencer McCoy.”
“This is Mary Summers. Mary Treen.”
“Good morning Miss Summers, I was about to call you.”
“You were?”
“I wanted to give you an update… I think it may be time to inform the police.”
“I really don’t think they’ll take me seriously—”
“It’s been two days now, the police have a duty—”
“No, you don’t understand. That’s why I’m calling you. I’ve heard from Clara. Or at least… I think I have.”
“What does that mean?”
“Would you be able to come over and see me?”
We made an arrangement to meet up at lunchtime and she hung up before I could ask her anything else.
*
Silverlake was not a part of Los Angeles I ever had much to do with. It wasn’t near the ocean, it wasn’t in the hills, it didn’t have the busy hum of downtown or the glitz of Hollywood. To me Silverlake has always seemed like a little piece of Milwaukee dumped, by some freak accident of geology, in the middle of the gleaming metropolis.
Maybe if I’d needed the services of a beauty parlor I might have known the streets a little better. Lorimer’s had quite a reputation among the women of Los Angeles. It was run by an old guy named Clark Lorimer who used to work for the studios. The way he liked to tell it, he’d styled for Garbo, Clara Bow and Dietrich, and made his reputation by treating his regular clients at the parlor as if they were movie stars themselves. And, as there isn’t a single woman in California who doesn’t secretly hope she might one day be up there on the silver screen, Lorimer attracts a loyal following.
As I got out of the car I noticed the newsstand on the corner was doing a lot business: the good people of Los Angeles were lapping up big cat stories like kittens at a saucer of cream. People were buying the Times and the Chronicle, just in case one reported more sightings than the other. I’d already
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