One Deadly Dawn Read online

  If I goofed off, the grand jury might indict Roland for murder — and I’d collect and live happily ever after.

  But suppose the police found enough evidence to use against Leo Ross, enough to put him away for that killing?

  His boys would feed me to the buzzards in one of those canyons.

  I took a drink of water, could hardly swallow it. I had to work harder than I ever had in my life. I had to find out the truth, the complete facts of this case. I had “to know for a fact that whoever had killed Pawley hadn’t been connected in any manner with Leo Ross. I had to know that the police were not going to accidentally stumble on any incriminating evidence. The way to know all this was to know the truth. I had to know the truth if I were going to stay alive.

  I got up, pushed away from the table. People around looked at me as if I were drunk. The hell with them, their troubles would go away if they took an aspirin. They could never understand the way I felt.

  “Mister …”

  I glanced around at the waitress.

  “It takes a little while for your steak, mister.”

  I put a five dollar bill in her hot little hand. “I got no time for steak,” I said.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s a long story. And that’s where I came in.”

  • • •

  I parked in a loading zone outside the Western Union office.

  I got past the small fry and told the manager what I wanted. A dark haired man, shirt collar opened, hands ink stained, he looked as if he had worked his way up from stockholder’s son. He began shaking his head when I got to the part about needing to know where the telegram came from.

  “Federal restrictions,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  I showed him a ten dollar bill.

  “I’m sorry.” He didn’t like the bribe, or the size of it. I doubled the bribe, but I wasn’t approaching this boy’s price.

  “This is a matter of great importance.”

  “I’m sure it is. But there are laws.”

  “I’m not asking you to break any laws. Just tell me who sent this telegram.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  I showed him my identification. He shook his head, his smile wearing thin. “Look, I’m head of publicity at Twenty Grand Pictures. We give you a lot of business in a year.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “How much? Enough to do me a favor?”

  “Certainly, if it were not against company regulations and federal laws.”

  I sighed, asked if I could use his phone. He said sure, and listened as I called Yol and explained the situation.

  “Sorry,” he said while I was still talking to Yol. “It’s against the rules. Nobody will change that.”

  Yol said, “All right, Sam. You stay there. I’ll have some body get in touch with the manager there within twenty minutes.”

  I hung up. The manager gave me a faint smile.

  I walked over and sat down at one of the corner tables. He watched me for a moment, then went back to work.

  I sat down and drew doodles on one of the yellow pads. I thought about the places I could go; now was the time to locate that chicken farm deep in the country.

  I drew pictures of chickens, cows, orange trees, and an astonishing caricature of a movie starlet I was acquainted with.

  I was putting in the shading when the manager walked over. He moved like a man in shock. He carried some yellow papers with him.

  “Say,” he said.

  “Told you I had friends.”

  “Man, you’ve really got friends.” He sighed and extended a yellow sheet. “This the telegram?”

  He let me read it. I nodded.

  He said evenly, “Okay.”

  I felt a moment of elation that did not subside even at what he said next.

  “This telegram was telephoned in, Mr. Howell. Charged against a telephone bill.”

  I exhaled, thinking another delay, but still I was moving forward. “You mind giving me that number?”

  “Me? Oh, not at all. I’m pleased to give it to you.”

  I grinned at him. “Man, I do have friends.”

  He wrote down the telephone number for me. My eyes bulged when I saw it.

  I felt tuckered out, beat. I ‘wasn’t going to have to have this number traced.

  It was mine.

  Chapter Eight

  THAT CALLED for a drink.

  The emptiness that had been in my stomach when I walked out of Leo Ross’ mountain place was spreading. Somebody had charged a threatening telegram to my telephone. And now that telegram was exhibit B in a murder case.

  I walked out to my car. The rain started again, drumming against the top, but I scarcely noticed it.

  I moved out of the parking space and cruised until I found a small neighborhood bar. It looked quiet and that was what I wanted. A bar on a rainy night; this was the story of my life.

  I found a booth, and didn’t even glance at the waitress when I ordered a double Scotch. She brought it and I still didn’t look at her. Now I knew how worried I was.

  I drank the Scotch and thought over the telephone gimmick from every angle.

  Plenty of people knew my telephone number, and plenty more could look it up in the Hollywood directory; I wasn’t hard to find. But whoever rigged this trap had to be somebody important enough to attract Pawley’s attention and get in his scandal magazine. Naturally I knew plenty of people who would fit the bill, but I was damned if I could think of any one of them who would flick me out of trap box like a clay pigeon.

  I went back to thinking about Leo Ross. He wanted to keep the law away from his door. But nothing added up there. So far as I knew, Leo was interested in me only because I had a good record for keeping my studio out of scandal. Leo didn’t want the police cramping his toes, and would do anything to keep the scent from his door. But Leo had never heard of me until today, after Pawley was already dead. That telegram had been sent last night. I was pretty sure that before yesterday I was just a name to the bad boy of the tax fix.

  And that brought me back to the party and to the people who had dropped it at my place last night.

  I ordered another double Scotch and went over last night carefully. Even the people I didn’t know were not in the Tattle exposé class. That I knew for sure. The big shots I knew. The people who had been to my place last night were the kind who bought Tattle, not the ones who furnished its copy. A couple of writers, a few starlets, an assistant director, a cameraman. No, of all of them only Lorna Carone and I were even remotely associated with the Tattle victims — Carone as a barely tolerated mistress, and me — hell, wasn’t I related to Jack Roland by divorce?

  I got nowhere. I got to feeling a little better, but the nagging feeling that this whole business was a lot closer to me than it had any right to be kept me tense. Something kept hitting at me, but I couldn’t catch it. I’d made my share of mistakes in the past, and this time I wasn’t going off half-cocked. I was going to be sure before I did anything.

  I paid the waitress, and she was suddenly a lovely girl. It occurred to me I could offer her a screen test. Hell, those offers had been standard in Hollywood since spring, 1907. But I could at least deliver — I grinned at that; I could deliver if she could.

  I decided I felt too low to be rebuffed. At the moment, to be refused by a waitress in a bar would have thrust me deep into depression. I went home.

  The telephone was ringing when I entered my apartment. It had a tired sound, as though it had been ringing for a long time.

  I picked it up. “My God,” said a girl’s voice. “Where the hell you been?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Toni Drake. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for hours.”

  “The touch,” I said. “What do you want now?”

  “Are you alone, Sam?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Where’s the elderly lady?”

  I laughed. “Returned her to the old ladies home,
baby.”

  “Come over here, Sam. I need you. You’re always saying none of the women in Hollywood want any man for himself, they all have motives.”

  “Proved by some deep scars, youngster.”

  “All right, then I’ll tell you right now. I don’t want any sex. But I want you to come over. Quick. I’m in trouble, and I want you to help me.”

  “For the first time since I’ve known you, you sound honest, baby.”

  She made a bitter sound and there was a moment of silence. Then there was the sound of a faint sigh. She said, “You’ll come then?”

  “It’s raining.”

  “Please, Sam.”

  “All right. You take a hot shower and a cool drink, honey. I’ll be there.”

  “You’re sweet, Sam. Awfully stupid, but sweet.”

  • • •

  Toni Drake lived in an old Spanish-type court about four miles across town. The people who drove like maniacs in dry weather had their accelerators floored in the rain.

  I stopped in front of the apartment building and when I went along the opened patio, I saw Toni standing in her doorway with the light behind her.

  She called to me and I crossed the patio. She caught my hand and pulled me inside her apartment. It was frilly and had that same scent that always hit me when Toni was near: half something she bought, half something she was born with.

  When we were inside, she smiled up at me with liquid eyes.

  “You know this is the first time you’ve ever been in my apartment, Sam?”

  I looked around. “Honey, I have trouble keeping my mind on my work when we’re together in a crowd.”

  “I’d say how nice that sounds, except that isn’t the way you act. The way you act you’d think I had something awful.”

  “You’ve got something, but it isn’t awful.”

  “Then why don’t you respond? I like a man to act like he wants me, Sam.”

  “Honey, they do. All of them.”

  “I’m talking about one man, Sam. Just one man. You.”

  I tossed my hat on the couch. “Come now, baby. You promised not to tease the old man.”

  “Old.” Her eyes got misty. “Thirty-one. You’re right where you could enjoy everything, if you just would. What’s the matter with you, Sam? Why do you keep women at arm’s length.”

  I sat down on the couch, “I hadn’t noticed that I did — or that I had to. I’m just a baldy in the land of beauty, baby.”

  “Bald? Why, you’re not bald. What you are is somewhere between Alan Ladd and Yul Brynner.”

  I grinned up at her. “With the accent on Yul.”

  “So what? You’ve got something else. It oozes out of your ears, Sam.”

  “This is all very cultural, I’m sure. But you told me you were in trouble.”

  She sat beside me on the divan, closed her chilled fingers on my hand. “I am, Sam. Or I will be. You’ve got to help me.”

  “You see?” I said. “There it is, the motive for all the sweet words. It never fails.”

  “Oh, damn you. If I didn’t need you so badly, I’d tell you to get out of here. What’s the matter with you, Sam? Why won’t you believe any woman could want you?”

  “I had one once, baby. If — hell, you got anything to drink around here?”

  She patted my face, spun out into the kitchenette and came back with martinis. “I made yours strong.”

  I tasted it. It struck me behind the ears. “I’ll be plastered.”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep on the theme, baby. What’s this trouble you’re in?”

  “Will you promise to help me if I don’t tell you all about it — just that I need you?”

  I laughed. “I never expect any woman to tell me the complete truth. But at least you ought to make the effort.”

  “I was with someone last night, Sam. I can’t tell you about it, but somebody may know I was with him. If so, the police will come — ”

  “Police?”

  “Sam, I told you, this is serious.” She moved closer.

  I shook my head, trying not to feel older than God. “Baby, if you want the movies, you’ve got to stay out of trouble.”

  “I know, Sam.” She finished off her martini and dropped the glass on the divan beside her. She munched at the olive, turning it in her fingers and nibbling on the pit. I watched her lips move.

  I saw a shooting script on the table:

  Final Revised

  Shooting Script for the

  Ceil Bowne Production

  TOWER OF BABEL

  I nodded toward that script. “God knows, baby, you’re just getting started. A Ceil Bowne picture is your biggest chance.”

  “I know, Sam. That’s why I had to call you.”

  I held my breath, finished off the martini, chewed at the olive. “What’ve you done, Toni? Tell papa, maybe he can fix it.”

  She lay back on the divan, writhing slightly, her body shivering beneath her sweater. “Sam, don’t you think I’m pretty?”

  The martini was swimming in a sea of Scotch. “You smell good, too.”

  “I am good. Don’t you think I’m worth lying for, Sam? Even a big lie?”

  I picked up the Tower of Babel script and flipped through the mimeographed pages. “I know if you’re in a scrape, Ceil Bowne will drop you. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Sam, I don’t like lying to you.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “Don’t ask me for details, then. Sam, I want you to lie for me. You always said I never wanted you just for you. All right. I want you because I want to pay you for lying for me. Will that do it?”

  “You don’t have to.’’

  “I want to.”

  “Why?”

  She hesitated, writhing in that sweater. “Because I want to be sure you do lie for me.”

  “Why do you think I will, any more than if I just give you my word?”

  “I told you, Sam. It’s big trouble and it’s going to turn out to be a big lie. I want you to know I’m worth it.”

  I flipped some more pages, scanning a little, teasing her. “And suppose I don’t know?”

  She cried out. “Oh, damn you, Sam. Look at me. Put down that damned book and look at me. Will you let me worry about whether you’ll know?”

  I looked around for my drink. With a sweet little curse that sounded like baby talk on her lips, Toni got up and brought in two more martinis from the kitchenette.

  Before she got back I had found the role tentatively marked for Jack Roland and now scratched out. I read his parts quickly, having learned in all these years to scan a script for what I wanted. And even reading it as I did, out of context, and without background, I knew that this role would have been perfect for Jack Roland. It hit me hard. I don’t know what effect it had on me, but I saw what Yol Myerene had undoubtedly seen — a new chance for Jack Roland, another moment up on top.

  I closed the book and slapped it down hard on the coffee table.

  Toni was sitting beside me, leg pressed against mine. She was looking at me. “Why’re you so unhappy, Sam?”

  “Damned if I could tell you.”

  “I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

  I stood up, finished off the drink. My voice was rough. “You’re nineteen,” I told her. “You don’t know what you want.”

  But I knew my anger wasn’t directed against her — the martinis had taken care of that. The anger was directed at myself, at Leo Ross, at Ceil Bowne, and at the guy who wrote that damned biblical script that was going to gross twenty million dollars. A perfect role for Jack Roland, the poor bastard.

  “Don’t, Sam. Please don’t.”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Got nothing to do with it. Got to get out of here.”

  “Why, Sam? Why?”

  “Sam Howell once made a fool of himself. Once. Period.”

  “Oh, Sam, stop. Stop being hurt and bitter and all
insulated. Why don’t you do what you want to do?”

  I looked at her, I swam in her eyes, and she swam in mine. I grinned. “There’s laws against it.”

  “There’s no law here, Sam.”

  She moved and the sweater was gone, and in its place was flesh that was the color of peaches and smooth like something sculptured. Her hand moved and the skirt fell away, and she wore nothing beneath the skirt.

  She stood there, looking at me. There was nothing in her face, but a faint smile that worried at those moist lips. I don’t know whether they just make them better than they used to, or whether Toni had been dreamed up to drive a guy out of his mind, but this time she got what she wanted. I was trembling when I reached for her.

  Damned if she wasn’t trembling when she came to me.

  She slid her hands up between my shoulder blades, slowly and the delicious agony of it was torture and she pushed goose bumps ahead of her fingers. “I’m so crazy about you, Sam. I’ve always been so crazy about you. Don’t make me wait any more, Sam. Please, Sam. Hold me, darling, kiss me, darling, hold me, hold me, hold me …”

  Maybe she didn’t keep repeating those last two words; maybe they just got started whirling around in my brain and went on whirling there. I hadn’t known I could want anybody so terribly, hadn’t known anyone could belong so completely, pressed closer and closer and closer….

  • • •

  The next morning I was as weak as a cat. I’d be a liar if I said I slept all night in Toni’s apartment. When I wanted to sleep, she wouldn’t let me, and when she got sleepy, I realized I was wasting time that might never be allotted to me again.

  At eight, I got up. I sat for a long time on the side of the bed, telling myself I could stand up if I just did it.

  By then, Toni was sleeping. She opened her eyes, smiled. “My angel, Sam,” she said. “I told you.”

  “What?”

  “I’d be worth it. Am I worth it, Sam?”

  I grinned. “When do I start telling this lie, baby? You just give me the signal.”

  She rolled closer, kissed the part of me that was nearest her. Her sleepy voice writhed up my arm like cold smoke. “Promise, Sam?”