Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007
- Автор: Baldwin Barry, Campbell Melodie
- Год: 2007
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: ISSN:0002-5224
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007». Краткое содержание книги:
She said, “You’re doubting me, aren’t you, handsome? I see it written on your kisser as clear as a Catalina sunrise.” She shot a jet stream of smoke at me. “Marnie, handsome here doubts me. Tell him what else, go ahead.”
Marnie eased into a sitting position with her legs crossed yoga style, picked up a throw pillow, and hugged it to her chest. “Auntie Laura’s been staying with me since her operation, my place at the Oaks. I’d come home from the studio and find her in a state of panic over the phone calls. Two nights ago, there was a break-in attempt. We both were awakened by sounds coming from downstairs, like someone trying to crack open one of the French windows. Armed security got there inside of ten minutes the silent alarm going off. Also police responding to my 911.”
“And?”
“Whoever it was got away. Security said it was probably this band of gypsies that’s been working Griffith Park, down over at the Estates and across the boulevard in Laughlin Park.”
“We know better, don’t we, sweetheart?”
“We do, Auntie Laura,” Marnie said, heaping on a patronizing smile.
“Did you tell the cops about the calls?”
Marnie said, “Yes. They even checked, but it was a dead end. They said it probably was a disposable cell phone he used.”
Laura added, “All they could do for now, they said, which is how I came to remember you, handsome. What a peach of a guy you were when it mattered.”
“I don’t know that I can be of any more help than the police, Laura.”
“You’re here, so already you’re doing more than them, and—” She drew a puzzle on her face. “—just how did you know where to find me? I’d been on the lookout for you before the lunch break, but nobody at all knew I was even here.”
I told her about the actor who had directed me to Marnie’s trailer.
“And he was decked out in a bib and tucker?”
“Resplendent. And a handlebar mustache begging for a barbershop quartet.”
She swung her face to Marnie. “You hearing what Neil just said, sweetheart? That’s him, finally, the SOB who’s out to get me. My stalker’s here on the lot.”
I searched Marnie’s for confirmation, saw it as her expression slowly dissolved into mild alarm.
She said, “We were originally scheduled to do the ballroom scene today, but construction had a problem with the grand staircase collapsing, so word came down that we’d move instead to the standing outdoor setup. No fancy dress called for. Strictly street wear, me in one of the great Orry-Kelly outfits Bette Davis originally wore in Now, Voyager.”
“And the guy who steered me here—”
“He wouldn’t have known about the change unless he was on the cast list and got the late call from the A.D., same as everybody else—”
“Not if he were working off a shooting schedule he somehow got his hands on. He would finagle his way onto the lot today dressed for the ballroom.”
“Exactly,” Marnie said.
“But that doesn’t explain how he’d know you’d be bringing Laura with you.”
“Stalkers stalk, that’s how,” Laura said, her head unable to settle on a direction. “He saw us leave. It didn’t take a crystal ball to figure out where we were heading in the studio limo.” She looked around for someplace to extinguish what was left of her cigarillo.
The beanbag ashtray on the dash was a mountain of butts. Grumbling, she maneuvered to the door, pushed it open, tossed away the butt, and quickly pulled the door shut. “He’s out there,” Laura said, struggling for breath. “I saw him right now, across the drive, not twenty feet away, and he saw me too. He waved at me. The SOB waved at me.”
It took a few seconds for the news to sink in.
I grabbed the .45 and charged out the door after Laura’s stalker, checking in all directions for a tuxedo among the dozens of extras returning from the meal break, all of them costumed for an afternoon stroll along a section of street dressed like a quaint New England village.
Mustache Man had shown terrific speed for his age.
No sight of him.
Back inside the trailer, Laura was more distraught than ever, clutching Marnie like a life preserver, wailing about her stalker’s ability to sneak onto the lot, get this close to her. Insisting through crocodile tears that she’d be dead sooner rather than later if he had his way. Begging an answer from anywhere to questions that were on my mind as welclass="underline" Why me, dear Lord? Why now, after forty years? Who is this creature?
Before I could ask them, an A.D. was knocking on the door, calling out that Marnie was needed in wardrobe in ten to double-check a fitting. Laura made a sound like she’d just been pricked with a needle, and her eyes exploded with dread. She pushed away from Marnie and threw herself against the door. Her words a soulful moan, she begged, “You can’t leave me now, not now, sweetheart, not with knowing he’s right outside there somewhere.”
“Auntie Laura, of course not. You’ll come along.”
“No, no, no.” Laura was adamant. “No. Outside, not safe, not safe at all.” She looked to me for confirmation. “Not safe at all.”
“I’ll stick around and wait with you here,” I said. “It’ll be you, me, and—” putting the .45 on display “—our friend Mr. Colt.”
The answer didn’t satisfy her. “Not safe at all, not anywhere here,” she said, wailing the words like they were lyrics out of a Billie Holiday songbook. “Anywhere but here. Anywhere. Here, not safe at all.” The declaration set off a spate of uncontrollable coughing. She looked at her hand despairingly, rubbed it dry on the floral-patterned muumuu that fit her like a practical joke.
Marnie said, “Would you feel safer at the house, Auntie Laura? I’m sure Mr. Gulliver would be happy to take you and would keep you company until I get home.” She gave me a hopeful smile.
Her place took five or six minutes to reach once I turned off Los Feliz and onto Fern Dell Drive, gliding over the creek bridge, past the lush vegetation, the quaint waterfalls, and the cedar, pine, and leafy fern trees bringing modest relief from a summer heat now in the high eighties that had drawn an unusual number of midweek picnickers unconcerned about the shopping cart bums who’d made this part of Griffith Park their home and the gay extroverts sunbathing on the grassy slopes, to Star Bright Lane.
A series of ascending turns led to Star Bright Circle, one of the many hillside cul-de-sacs with flat lots and a magical overview of Los Angeles that extended past the downtown high-rises, long a favorite of celebrities who could afford a fancy pricetag that lately had reached seven and eight figures, going back to the heyday of Ramon Navarro, Cary Grant, and Randolph Scott, and more recently Diane Keaton, Nicolas Cage, Brad Pitt, and briefly my ex, Stevie Marriner, the one-time “Sex Queen of the Soaps.”
Marnie’s two-acre estate was situated behind a shoulder-high wall of natural stone topped by coiled barbed wire. The gate slid open to the numerical code fed me by Laura, and I drove into a rustic courtyard where, were this France, D’Artagnan might have met up with Porthos, Aramis, and Athos. The open-faced garage had space for six cars; adjacent to it was an empty stable.
“Pretty hoity-toity, huh?” Laura said, indicating the house. “When she went shopping for a place, this here reminded her of a house she stayed in the south of France, Provence, when she was there filming Adieu Times Two a couple of years back. Piece of junk, you ask me, but it got my sweet girl an Oscar nomination, so what the hell. That place was in the hills above Luberon National Park and here was Griffith Park, so Marnie didn’t even quibble about the price. Wrote out a check on the spot.”