THE DESMOND CASE

         I was sitting with my feet on the desk, trying to will the phone to ring. In another thirty minutes we would lock the door and head for home, home being out the front door, in the door next to it, and up the flight of stairs to our one bedroom apartment. The plate glass window in the front of the office looked out on Springfield Avenue. The outer room held a wooden desk for the secretary we did not have, three wooden chairs for non-existent customers, a locked green file cabinet to which neither of us had the key, and a hat rack with an umbrella holder in its base. Linoleum stretched across the floor as far as the eye could see, ending under the radiator that was under the plate glass window, which had a small wooden sill behind it. Decorating the walls, which were painted pale green to match the red and gray pattern of the floor, was a Pennsylvania Railroad calendar with a large photograph of the Horseshoe Curve. A small print of a pointer, its tail telling the viewer that their prey was in the back room, complemented the Pennsy.

         The back office was where I was keeping watch over the silent telephone. I could not see the front room from my vantage point, but I knew every inch of that room by heart. It was our fifth month in business. As Frick put it, our next client would be our fourth ball, forcing in a run. I'm not really sure what he meant. He follows baseball, I don't. All I know is that if business doesn't pick up, we may go the way of O'Malley and Perrot, the Realtors that rented this space before us. They didn't live upstairs; that space had been vacant eighteen months before we moved in, and on warm days like this, it still smells it.

         Frick had been out of the office since before three. He went to the helicopter plant to put in an application. I felt sick about that; I told him I'm the one who put us here and I should do the grunt work. He laughed. "Sitting here staring at a phone that won't ring is punishment enough." I guess he is right. That must be him now; the bell on the screen door is tinkling. He was going to stop at Battell's and get something for dinner on the way back.

         "Ist anyvon here?"
         "Hello, is someone out there?"

         Stupid question, Janie! Couldn't have been a ghost. My desk was behind the connecting door, so I had to come out. Standing next to the secretary's desk was a fairly tall, angular man in a semi-military uniform, with a cap on his head. He resembled a chauffeur. He removed the cap to reveal a pate of skin and bowed slightly while asking if I were Frick or Frack. He had a thick German accent.

         "I'm Janie Frack. Our secretary left early today to run some errands. I expect Mr. Frick back any minute now." I told him that so he would not get any ideas. Our office was almost an island. The connected storefront to our right was occupied by a dance studio that had no classes today, while Mr. Stone, the grocer to our left, was practically deaf. Frick shopped at Battell's because Sloan could not acknowledge his complaints about high prices and dated canned goods.

         "I haf a matter of some importance to talk about; there is a great possibility that I or the Madam may vish to hire you und your partner." He pronounced 'Madam' with the accent on the second syllable and as he spoke, he cast a fish eye on me, as if to make sure that I was following every word.

         "Let's step into my office where we can talk in private."

         The back office was a rectangular room, broken up in the back by the walls of a closet on one side and a small bathroom with toilet and sink on the other. A short hallway led between them to a solid wood back door. The walls around that section were paneled in dark brown wood that had seen better days. The rest of the room was adorned with the same sickly green paint and checkered linoleum as the front office. Our two desks faced each other. Next to each was a wooden chair for our many clients. Messrs. O'Malley and Perrot must have been in a hurry to flee. All the furniture came from them, including our prize, the two wooden swivel chairs on wheels. Befitting fast moving real estate men, or detectives, the chairs had no arms. The calendar in the inner sanctum was courtesy of Wynn's Friction Proofing and showed a leggy model atop a racing car. It was up to date, showing July 1951.

         I offered my client the seat next to my desk, and to make him more comfortable, turned on the small fan to blow the air made stale by the fact that I had not opened the door in the rear. By keeping it shut, I had not availed myself of the wonderful cross ventilation the landlord had mentioned when we signed the lease. The fan was on top of another of the green file cabinets, but this one we could open.

         I couldn't offer my guest a cigarette because I did not smoke, nor did my partner though he kept a pack of Old Gold's in his desk just in case a client wanted one. A lot of good it did us; he had accidentally locked the desk with the key inside. When we could afford one, we would hire a locksmith to open it. There was no liquor in the office. The stuff makes me sick. Frick does not drink either, although he said that maybe we should take it up if we were going to be private dicks. I told him we had to make some money first.

         I needn't have worried about the amenities. Herr Whateverhisname grabbed an ashtray and lit a Benson and Hedges after silently asking me if I minded, or wanted one. He leaned forward again and began to speak,

         "Az I vas zaying, I belief ve may haf use for your services. Madam hass been arrested for a crime she did not commit."

         I had to interrupt. His accent made him hard to understand.

         "Slow down, sir. What is your name? Who is Madam? What was the crime? How did you get our name?" I accented 'Madam' on the first syllable. I hoped he didn’t mind. He waved his hand, coughed and cleared his throat. I went to the water cooler, which the bottled-water company would surely repossess any day now, and brought him a paper cone full of purified liquid to drink.

         "Danke. I vill explain."

         As he was about to speak, the bell on the screen door tinkled and I heard it slam shut. That voice so familiar to me called out, "You still here? I got sea scallops. You oughta see the car that's out front. Big cream-colored monster, ancient and huge."

         I love that voice. It and his whole being make me tingle, and I know I do something to him too. That's why we're here in this storefront office in this middle-class neighborhood trying to hack it as private eyes. But sea scallops; they must have cost an arm and a leg? Maybe he got a job at the plant. I hope not; working with him, or not working like we seem to be doing now, means we are not apart.

         He came through the connecting door holding the paper bag in front of his chest. The sight of the potential customer startled him. I made the introductions.

         "Frick, this is, is, is"
         "Max Von Mayerling, at your serviss."
         "Walter Frick, and you've met my partner, Janie Frack?"
         "Vee vere not formally introduced, but ya, I haf met her. It is a pleasure to meet you, Valter."
         "Call me Frick, everyone else does, including Janie here."
         "And he calls me Frack, so you can too, Max. Max wants us to help his madam. She's been arrested for some kind of crime she did not do."
         "What kind of crime, Max? What did they say she did?"
         "Murder."

         The word had the effect of breaking wind at a party, especially in the somber manner with which he said it. The silence hung for ten seconds or so and then an owl spoke.

         "Who? Who was murdered?"
         "Vat you Americans call a gigolo, a gigolo named Joe Gillis."
         "Where, when did it happen? How did they connect madam to it?" Which one of us was talking, I do not know. Here we were, doing no business at all, and suddenly this crazy German comes through the door with a capital case.

         It had happened this morning. Gillis had been shot trying to leave the house where madam lived, and where Max was her servant. Madam had been found with a pistol in her hand. She was dazed and in shock according to Max. The press had caught the squawk and they were all there to see her put in the wagon. Captain leDuc, our old boss, led the police squad. Max said he had protested to the Captain that Madam could not have pulled the trigger, but Miss Ironpants as she was known, had not listened.

         "She said I should see you if I vant help."
         I had to ask the inevitable question, "Who is Madam, Max."
         He stood, pulled his head high, and said, "Miss Norma Desmond."
         "Omigod," was my reaction. I knew she had not acted in films since the beginning of the talkies, but she was famous, the greatest star of her time. Naturally Frick's most 'endearing' quality got the best of him.
         "Who's Norma Desmond?"
         I could have brained him. "He's joking Max." I kicked his shin and hoped Max did not notice. I had no idea what the case would be about, but it sounded like our way out of the poorhouse.
         “Miss Desmond ist not capable of keeling a man, but the Politzei will not hear. You muss help us.”
         I thought to myself, in for a pig, in for a poke. “Herr von Mayerling, our rate for murder cases is very expensive, triple our normal $25 a day a man, or woman in this case.”
         “Ve, err Miss Desmond, can easily afford you. If ve haf to, ve vill hire the best lawyer there is, but ve tink this matter can be solved by schmart detectives.”
         I wasn’t going to play easy to get. Maybe we were nearly starving, but I couldn’t let this Junker know that. “We are working on a case now, and remember Frick, you were checking out that matter of the stolen helicopter plans.”
         Frick tried to open his mouth, but I put my size ten on his foot, stifling his stupidity before it could emerge.
         “We can give you some time tomorrow, Herr von Mayerling. It’d be best if we came out and gave the place a look-see. Shall we say ten o’clock? And what is the address?”
         He handed me a laminated business card on which was a caricature of the young Norma Desmond. The address was Main Line, and pretty exclusive if I remembered the area. “Ten voud be vine. I vill zee you then. I go to zee Madam now; I am sure you haf made her ferry hoppy. Vill you need geld?”
         The more he talked, the worse his accent and dialect became. I couldn’t tell if it was an act, but I thought we might as well find out.
         “Two people, four days would be $600. Expenses are extra, but you will receive an itemized bill.”
         To my amazement, he wrote out a check in the full amount from the account of Norma Desmond. I noticed she used the same bank that held our business account.
         “Sehr gut, Fraulein Frack. I shall zee you tomorrow at ten, mit your partner Herr Frick. Oonntil then, auf wiedersehn.”

         I released Frick’s foot. I should have known better. He had been silent too long. In his usual bonehead way, he exclaimed, “Say, Mr. Mayerling, did anyone tell you that you look like Otto Preminger?”
         Mayerling spat on the linoleum. “Acht! VonStroeheim, ja! Preminger ist not eefen ‘von Preminger. Riffraff!” With that, he turned his back and strode to the door, square shouldered and with just the hint of a military step. Outside, he got into the cream-colored touring car, started its engine and eased into the traffic on our two-lane road that connected the lower part of the county to Springfield and the Main Line beyond, where Norma Desmond lived.

         I turned to my partner. “Upstairs, Frick! I ought to make you cook dinner and do the dishes, but God knows how you will ruin the scallops. How much did out Italian buddy Battell soak you for them?” I locked the door behind me and then unlocked the entrance to our den of sin on the second floor. Frick walked up ahead of me, telling me over his shoulder that he had convinced Vincenzo, as Battell was known, to put it on our tab.

         “Were you out of your mind? If von Stroheim hadn’t come along, how did you propose to pay the bill? Were you going to let that randy Italian Stallion take it out in trade on me?”
         “Hush your mouth, Frack. I signed an exclusive contract for your mineral rights. No, I thought I could lend him the car and he could make a few extra bucks when we don’t need it.”
         Frick had a point. Wheels were a battleship gray 1940 DeSoto that in its previous life served as a taxi. It had jump seats and a sliding roof that opened. I could see Vincenzo Battell ferrying the laborers he hired for his terrazzo company about in it.

         While I started to bread the scallops, I heard shots. “Frontier Playhouse” was almost over. Frick had turned on our pride and joy, the seventeen-inch television that had cost us a combined two weeks salary back when we were on the Force. Our first night out together had been spent eating fried shrimp and watching the Friday Night Fights in a local tappy. I hate boxing, and Frick did not really like it either, but the next day we went to Mort Farr, where we saw a set on display. Mad Man Muntz came over the airwaves, telling us he wanted everyone in the good old USA to own one of his sets. We couldn’t resist. Morty threw in the stand for nothing.

         “Frack, come here and listen.” A man with wavy white hair was on the screen, staring at us and reading the news. I knew his name was Frank Hall; he read the news every night at six. Wally Kinnan would interrupt with the weather at ten after and then Douglas Edwards would read the national news. Tonight, Max von Mayerling’s employer was the second item.

         “Police this morning arrested silent film star Norma Desmond at her Main Line home for the shooting of screenwriter Joseph Gillis. Gillis, 34, had been living at the home while assisting Miss Desmond in her comeback to the silver screen. Police are not revealing a motive as yet, but are very confident they arrested the right man, or woman in this case. Police Captain Thea leDuc told reporters, ‘This is an open and shut case.’ Miss Desmond is being held without bail in County Prison.” The picture started to flip vertically. Frick got up and smacked the side of the set. It stopped for an instant, and then an advertisement for the Navy recruiter came on.

         I could smell the scallops browning and slipped back into the kitchen. “I forgot to tell you to get more Crisco. I’m using the last.” I wasn’t sure he heard me. I had just flipped the exhaust fan on and it made a lot of noise. The apartment featured the same cross ventilation as the office, except it had windows both front and back, not doors. They didn’t help on hot nights.

         Frick stuck his head into the kitchen. “Something smells good; I wonder where it is coming from?” I smiled and he went on, “Thea? I never knew her first name was Thea. She was always Captain leDuc to me. Did you know it?”
         “I think I did; I remember she told me one evening when she took me out for coffee. She was trying to buck me up after all the other shits in the squad room had given me a hard time for being female. A week later she put me together with you, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
         The scallops were draining on waxed paper; the sliced potatoes were about to be immersed into the hot fat. We’d have some lettuce with the meal and the first of the Jersey tomatoes to hit the market. I reminded my partner that the Dumont Cavalcade of Stars would be on at ten o’clock tonight. I liked Gleason better than Milton Berle; he was not as silly. Frick’s mind seemed elsewhere.
         “You’re right; the rest is history, including our stint with the department. We’d still be there if she hadn’t paired us, or if we could keep our hands off each other.” He reached around my too large waist and gave me a hug. I couldn’t resist and turned to kiss him. Our tongues sought their mates. The French Fries could wait.
         Frick was right; it had taken over a year, but once we found each other, we couldn’t let go. I was as greedy as he was. It was my grasping hands that led to that last bit of carpet time in the Captain’s office, both of us standing there listening as she dismissed us from the Force. I tried to take the blame, since that particular incident was my fault, but Frick would not hear it.
         Frick is shorter and smaller, but his body parts fit naturally into the places they should. I could feel a hand on my butt, and his leg rubbing the area between my legs. If we did not stop, we would have cold boiled potatoes and scallops hard as rocks. I pushed him back slightly, mouthing “Let’s eat first,” and plunged the potatoes into the boiling fat. The sound alarmed both of us, but in a short interval dinner was on the table. Frick was smiling at me. I wondered if we’d get to see the Dumont Cavalcade. Once we made it to the bedroom, we’d never get back to turn on the television.

         I changed the subject; I asked how job hunting had gone. “I put in an application; they need spot welders and they asked me if I could weld. I couldn’t lie. They did suggest that maybe I could get a position as a night guard. What a come down.”
         “I wish you had met my Dad, Frick. He was the best damn welder in New Jersey or maybe the whole United States, and he didn’t know how when he took the job. I’m glad you weren’t hired, though; as much of a trial as you can be in detective work, I’d hate to see you take a job beneath your abilities.” We’d both finished eating; he stood up and walked around the table, bent over and put his arms around me. In no more than a minute we were on the floor. There was no rug, only hardwood, but below us was our empty office. I held him tight; his knee and upper leg had hit that spot again. I knew our clothes would not be on us for long, but down here we could see the television when the time came.

-2-

         A thunderstorm blew through sometime during the night. The lightning woke me. Frick’s arm was extended over my back, but I managed to loosen its grip and get up and close the window, as much as I hated to do so. The box fan that had sucked in the cooler night air had to make do with the trapped atmosphere of the bedroom. Despite the heat, I snuggled up next to my partner and put an arm over him and fell back asleep.

         The storm had cleared the air, and despite the fact that it was late July, a fresh breeze blew from the northwest, reminding us that in two months it would be fall. Frick had left the car around the corner on Oak Avenue. Children were arriving for dance class. I waved to Mary Jane, the woman who owned the business and gave the lessons. She waved back; she’d been in our office several times, hinting around that she’d like to hire us to tail her old man. She suspected he was playing around with Annie Brophy, one of the student’s mothers. I tried to discourage her. Frick and Frack do not want to get a reputation for doing divorce work. Frick doesn’t even own a camera, and somehow I can’t see him quietly hiding to catch the twosome in the act.

         Tony, next to Mary Ann, was opening his barbershop. Ernie and Sam, who worked for him, had opened their own shop across the road, but Tony continued to bring in the kids. He had installed horses that the boys sat on while he cut their hair. Frick thought he’d like to try that out, but with the way our money was coming in, it looked like it would be some time before his next haircut. He joked that he might have to buy a violin; what he should have done is given my posterior a good kick for costing us our jobs. He keeps saying it was as much his fault as mine, but I was the aggressor.

         As we passed the shoe store on the corner, Frick nodded to me and noted, “You’d think Pellegrino could at least dust off the shoes in the window.” I could see the accumulation even through the gold tint that colored the store window on both the Springfield Avenue side, and around the corner on Oak. In a good week his customers numbered more than one. There were rumors that the place was the front for a bookie joint. The idle shoe repair machines in the last window on Oak gave credence to the notion that something illegal took place inside.

         Six miles west on Springfield and then another eight north on Sprowl Road brought us to Montgomery Road, the spine of the Main Line. Red Arrow trolleys delayed us at the crossing in Springfield and at Westchester Pike, but we’d left early. I eyed the mansions on the right, while Frick looked left as we proceeded east on Montgomery. What a variety of houses, all set back off the road, some with gate houses in the front. Most were behind walls, though one had tall hedges. I saw Gothic piles of stone, mock castles and finally a huge two-story pile of stucco with a roof of Spanish-tile. The address was the home of Norma Desmond. There was a wall around it, and an iron gate in front. A horseshoe shape drive led to a porte-cochere. On the left was a one story structure, evidently a garage, but with a second story built on at one end, with steps leading up to what appeared to be living quarters. I didn’t know it then, but I was looking at our future coffin.

         Max admitted us. The front door gave entrance into a reception hall. To the right was a curved staircase with a gallery on the second level. The interior rooms were large, the ceilings at least eleven feet tall and the windows room height and French in design. Max took us into one of the smaller rooms that held a stuffed divan, a record player on a table, and several armchairs. He asked us to have a seat and sat himself.

         “Now, Miss Frack, ask your questions?”
         “What exactly happened yesterday. Now that I have seen the house I can get a better idea.”
         Max was not wearing the same uniform today. His outfit was more formal, but any observer would know that it was that of a servant. He had evidently been dusting when we arrived. An apron was draped over the back of a chair near the front door.
         “Mister Gillis hat been out with his chit.”
         “Chit? What’s a chit?”
         Leave it to Frick to ruin the mood; I acted rougher than I should have when I hissed, “Let the man finish and then ask the questions.”
         “How do you say? I saw her at the studio; she vas a simple young thing, fresh and clean cut. I haf knowledge that he snuck out to see her. Madam did not like this. She vas vaiting vor him. I did not hear him come in but she did. She vas standing at the top auf the steps. She qvestioned him, ‘Vere ver you? Don’t I giff you enuff?’ He zaid zomething; she yelled back. She vas upset and began to valk down the stairs. He threatened to leaf if she did not leaf him alone. She cried, ‘Don’t leaf again; I vant you all the time.’ He turned his back, moved to the door. She raised her arm. In her hand vas ein pistol. She meant to scare him. The gun vent off, a bullet hit him. He staggered, fell out the door and valked, trying to keep upright. Two more shots hit him. He vell into the pool and died. The Polizei found him dere.”

         “You saw all this or heard all this, Max?”
         “I heard some; I saw little. I found Madam standing outside, the gun in her hand. It had been fired. She looked at me. ‘Max, I vas trying to scare him. Did I shoot him?’ I had heard her pistol fire, but I also heard vat sounded like an echo. I am sure it vas another gun, fired by somevon else.”
         “Max, your description sounds almost like a movie script. How can you be sure all this happened if you did not see it?” For once, Frick asked an intelligent question. Max did not see it that way; he almost sneered, “I know it happened.”
         “Who else could have been in the house?”
         “No one, Miss Desmond und I vere here alone.”
         “Then who else could have done it?” I had to be tough, even if it chased the client away.
         “Somevon who followed the gigolo here. Somevon like his chit, Miss Schaefer.”
         “What was her motive? Wouldn’t she be more likely to shoot Miss Desmond?”
         “You don’t kill a legend. Her public vould not haff it. The little chit vanted Gillis und could not haff him, und if she could not haff him, no one vould haff him, especially Miss Desmond.”
         I couldn’t help but notice the stuffed chimpanzee on the sideboard; was he the only sane person who lived in this place? “That sounds more like Miss Desmond’s motive. I don’t know her, but I know she was older than Gillis and probably afraid she would lose him to a younger woman.”
         “You don’t know Madam, Miss Frack. Eeef you meet her, you vill realize she could not shoot Gillis.”
         “But even you admit she pulled the trigger?”
         “To scare him.”
         “We do want to talk to our client, Max. Can you arrange that? For today?”
         “I vill arrange it; then I vill alzo hire a lawyer. I vill make a telephone call now.”

         Frick and I stayed seated. We looked at each other with big eyes. I nodded to the chimp. Frick got up and patted it on the head. “He needs to put his arm out like the jockey figures we see guarding some of the other houses around here. Look there, behind that drape. It’s a screen.”
         Half the wall at the end of the room was covered by a white screen. I could hear Max talking and presently he returned.
         “You may zee her at haff past twelve. Go to the main entrance auf Broadmeadows Prison. She vill talk to you. I haff left message dat you are comen.”
         “Who else had motive, Max?”
         “Hiss friend Artie und Mr. deMille und maybe her bridge partners. They thought Mr. Gillis cheated at cards.”
         “Cecil B. deMille! Why would he kill Gillis?”
         “He hat rejected the script Gillis helped Miss Desmond write. It vas to start her comeback. Maybe Gillis insulted the great man. Who knose?”
         Frick surprised me with another intelligent question, two in one day! “Who is Artie? What’s he got to do with it?”
         “He ist in films and vas Miss Schaefer’s vianceè. He might shoot Gillis from jealousy.”
         “But your real suspicion is this Miss Schaefer?”
         “Ja! She did it.”
         “We will question her and this Artie. I doubt that Cecil B. deMille would do it. Do you have their addresses?”
         “Ja, I vill bring both of them here.”
         “We will go to see them.”
         “Nein. After you talk to Madam, you vill stay here until the case is solved. You vill stay in the room over the garage. Mr. Gillis stayed there venn he first lift here, then Miss Desmond become enamored mit him and moofed him into das house. It vas a big mistake, but she not listen to her ault friend Max.”
         “Wait a minute, we have a place to live; we don’t want to stay here.
         “You vill stay here. I help you, cook for you and it cost you nothing.
         I wanted to tell the old Kraut off but I knew better than to let my temper get to me. By now Frick was getting a little testy. “Come on, Frack; let’s get some lunch and get out to the prison. It’s nearly eleven. Afterward we’ll find this Miss Schaefer.”
         “She ist called ‘Betty Schaefer.’ I vill infite her to play bridge this eefening, along mit her friend Artie.”
         “Max, we are not getting through to you. We will go see her; you do not have to bring her here.”
         “You VILL be staying here in der zimmer uber garage.”
         “This guy is barmy; let’s get out of here, Frick.”

         We found our way to the entrance area. It’s funny but I did not notice the police markings the first time though, but there they were on the floor in yellow. The pool was to the left of the house, parallel to the garage and across a courtyard. I gave a look toward it and shuddered. The garage doors were open; the cream-colored monster, an Isotta-Franchini, must have been getting a bath. A hose and bucket lay nearby. I wondered if Max also operated the car wash. In the shadows of the garage, I could see a black coupe of recent vintage. I jotted down the license plate.

-3-

         It would have been hard to miss the hulking walls of Broadmeadows. The prison was set in the middle of farmland in the center of the county. The watchtowers resembled steeples, but of a church that no one wanted to join. Nearby black and white cows from a dairy grazed, but inside the confines men were packed like the proverbial sardines. In a small wing blocked off from the rest, women offenders were held for trial.

         We’d hoped to get a separate room for our interview, but Miss Desmond was brought into the same small room that other prisoners used. A reinforced screen kept us apart. She looked like a frightened rabbit, seeking for a hole in which to jump. She had no idea of who we were, even though I told her I was one of her biggest fans. She had every semblance of life drained out of her by her first encounter with the prison system. After enduring the lights that stayed on all night, the noise from her fellow inmates, and a strip search that invaded every inch of her privacy, she was punch drunk.

         My questions brought no response. She didn’t know the name Betty Schaefer, and while Joe Gillis brought a smile to her lips, she thought he was working on revisions to the script about Salome. Frick kept his mouth shut for the most part, but at one point asked what Miss Desmond thought she was doing in prison. “I am studying a new part. After Salome, I shall produce and write Queen Christina. That Swedish broad thinks she owns the part, but I will show her how it should be done, and without sound.”
         Frick scratched his head and said he did not remember Queen Christina being in prison. This brought forth a tirade from the silent movie queen about modern writers sacrificing accuracy. To end the awkward interview, I reassured her Max would visit her today or tomorrow. “My dear Max von Mayerling; such a great director. He knows every inch of my face and profile.” We said our farewell. I think we both broke into a run once we hit the parking lot. The deSoto was stifling from sitting in the sun, so we pulled back the roof flap and let the air float over us on our way home.

         “What do you think?” asked Frick. “Did she do it?”
         “In her current state, I don’t think we will ever know.”
         “If we could get her out of there, maybe we could reenact the crime, like they do in movies.”
         “And get yourself shot, huh? Frick, I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
         “Or you either, Frack.”
         “We should have taken Desmond’s check to the bank last night. I forgot it was open until eight; instead you got me on the floor, Mr. Can’t Keep His Hands Off Me.”
         “Look who’s talking! You’re right about the bank, though.”
         Frick’s ‘who’s talking’ gibe hit home, but I know he did not say it to hurt me. If it weren’t for my mischievous hands, we would have been in the detail arresting Norma Desmond, instead of trying to prove she did not do it.

         We had closed the windows before we left home in the morning, but it wasn’t the heat that we noticed when we opened the door. “The TV’s gone!” exclaimed Frick, rushing to the phone to call the police. “Let me see what else is missing,” I called out heading into the bedroom. Our closet was empty; so was the small chest of drawers. A white piece of paper sat on top of it. I could see writing.

“I have your clothing and television. Come to the mansion. Solve the case and you can have all back.”

Max had scrawled his signature at the bottom, in full, with a ‘v.’ for the ‘von.’ “Hey Frick, don’t call the police; that POW Camp commander has our stuff. Looks like we have to go out there. We’ll give him the four days he paid for and let him know his beloved Norma did shoot Gillis.”
         “Path of least resistance, huh partner? Well, he didn’t take the bed, and God knows, with him creeping around I don’t think we will get a chance again for four days, so….”
Frick’s eyes sparkled and I could feel the excitement coming on again. Sometimes I think we are like teenagers, but Lord, I hope we never grow too old for this.
         An hour later, we interrupted a half-ball game by moving our car, which apparently was the home run boundary. The day that had begun so pleasantly had a change of heart; the heat had come back. Except for the teens playing in back of our apartment, no one was outside, even in the inflatable pools that dotted the suburban lawns.

         Frick pulled the car into the shade next to the garage when we arrived at Norma Desmond’s. I told him I would go and rouse Max, but as I stepped out of the car, Max appeared at the top of the steps to the apartment above us. “You vill haff to stay in the main house; the roof has a leak sprung. I haff moved your things there.”
         I tried reasoning one last time. “Max, this is ridiculous. We can handle the case just as well from our office, where we can get out and see people.” It was like butting my head against the wall.
         “Miss Frack, my mistress Miss Desmond needs your attention twenty-four hours a day. Every hour she is stuck in that prison hurts her delicate mind. You have met her; are you now convinced of her innocence?”
         We had entered the house as we talked. I noticed that for once, his speech was clear and almost pure English. I tried to keep my reply non-committal, but I could not keep the doubt out of my voice. “I agree with you Max; her mind is not well. I could form no opinion of her guilt or innocence in our short time together. I will say that even if she did shoot Mr. Gillis, I think she can cop an insanity plea.”
         “NEFER, MISS FRICK.” Now I knew how my partner felt when he commits one of his speaking gaffes. Max went on, “An insanity plea would ruin her comeback to film. She did not shoot Mr. Gillis. She is innocent or nothing.”

         He showed us into our bedroom. It was the same room Gillis had occupied, and according to Max, once was used by the first of Miss Desmond’s three husbands. It was decorated in early Harem. The floors were parquet, the walls covered by hanging fabric and folding shutters could be pulled open to reveal the windows that stretched almost to the ceiling. The latter could not be seen on account of another piece of material that hung loosely down from the corners of the room. This created the effect of living in a great tent.

         Our entire police squad could have slept in the bed, not that we would let them. The other furniture of note was a writing desk and a chaise lounge that only needed a naked Maja holding a bunch of grapes. I wondered if I could volunteer to do that job. From the look in his eye, I think Frick had the same idea.
         “Now we are here to solve a case, partner, and with Herr von Mayerling appearing out of nowhere, I would suggest we put off such thoughts until we are back in our little boudoir.”
         “Just daydreaming, Frack. I have the feeling that our shiny-headed friend will dampen any of my amatory efforts.” Frick was looking through the writing desk and pulled out a packet of papers. “It appears to be a script, and about Salome, as Max inferred. It’s marked up with blue lines.”
         “Do you remember if he said she wrote the script, or did Gillis write it?”
         “I don’t know; did he say?”
         I remembered Norma at the prison. “She did, remember when you asked if she knew Mr. Gillis, she said he was working on a script. I wish I’d remember if she said her script, or his.”
         “Wait a minute, Frack. Whatever she said, it could have been a script written for her by him.”
         We were going to have to ask Mr. Congeniality downstairs more questions. That thought was repellent, but at that moment, like the proverbial bad penny, he entered the room.
Frick was indignant. “I can see we are going to have to lock our doors, Janie.”
         “You vill note, Valter, that there are no locks in this house.”
         “What?!” That was me.
         “Madam’s mental state was such that we dared not permit her near sharp objects or anything else she might bring harm to herself with.”
         Once again his perfect, if odd, English returned. Frick came out with the obvious.
“In that case, where did she get the pistol? Who gave that to her?”
         “I did; I had forgotten. It vas a vedding present many years ago when she married Mr. Desmond Number Three. He vas a hot-blooded Latin lover. I thought she needed protection.”
         I followed up. “Did she ever use it on him?”
         “She nefer hat the chance. He vas killed running from the bulls in Spain on their honeymoon. I forgot about the pistol. I cannot forgif myself.”
         I saw the script on the table. So did Max. He walked over and took it in his hands. I had to ask. “Who wrote the script, Max. Did Miss Desmond hire Gillis to pen a vehicle to get her back into films, or did she write it herself?”
         “Madam wrote it. She hired Mr. Gillis to edit and polish it as he called it.”
         “And he lived here doing that?”
         “Ja!”
         “And she fell in love with him, even though he was much younger.”
         “Ja, she thought she did?”
         “And did he return her love, Max?”
         He sighed, only the second sign of human emotion I had seen him allow himself. “I do not know, Miss Frack.”
         “He couldn’t have, Max, if he had been out seeing this Miss Schaefer. You called him a gigolo; I think you were right.”
         My partner butted in. “We’re judging the dead without knowing all of the facts.”
         “I met Gillis coming in late von night; he zaid he vas vriting a script mit a friend.”
         “Did you believe him, Max?” I held my breath, hoping Frick would not interrupt.
         “I do not know. I told him not to hurt Madam." He lowered his eyes and continued, “Enough for now! I came to tell you that the police haff permitted us to use the svimming pool again. I beleef you vill find Mr. Gillis’ bathing suit in one of the drawers, and I am sure Madam would not mind if Miss Frack borrows one of hers. Drinks vill be served there if you vould like. I haff also taken the liberty of telephoning Miss Schaefer and I invited her and Mr. Artie Green to meet friend of Mr. Gillis who vant to speak to them. I told them you vish to play cards.”
         This man was not going to let us run our own show. And what an optimist Max was to think I could fit one leg into Norma Desmond’s bathing suit. I had not met Gillis, but I doubted that he had the short and dumpy build of Frick. Sometimes I think we succeeded at our old job because our opponents saw our outsides, not our brains.
         “We will be down shortly, though I am not sure we will swim.”
         “It is a hot day, Miss Frack. You muss cool off.”
         “We shall see, Max.”
         “Ferry gut, Ma’am.”

-4-

         We had Max’s excellent lemonade by the pool. Frick took off his tie, opened his collar, removed shoes and socks, rolled up his pants and dangled his legs in the water. I was tempted to give him a shove, but resisted my impulse. I pulled my dress up as far as practical and since I had not put on stockings, was able to join Frick. We talked a lot about our future and very little about the case. We’d almost forgotten about Max when Frick mentioned something about all the photographs of Norma Desmond scattered about the house.
         My response was to ask, “Did you see the bedroom that is beyond the connecting doors in ours?” I began to describe the canopy of her bed. “I saw it; it looked like a baldachino. The whole house is like this great shrine.” He barely had the words out of his mouth when Max popped out again.
         “Vy shouldn’t it be a shrine; she ist the greatest of the great. She continues to receive mail from her adoring fans."
         I thought a little flattery might get us somewhere. “Frick was not questioning anything. He feels this place IS a shrine to a great lady that we are going to help.”
         “Zehr gut, Miss Frack. I came out to tell you that light zupper vill be served in thirty minutes. You vill dress for zupper? Our meals are very formal.”
         “We didn’t exactly bring our formal clothes, unless you found some in a hidden closet at our place. We will have to wear what we have.”
“Ferry gut, Ma’am. Still, you might like to vash?”
         “Thank you, Max. We shall.”
         After this incident, we took to whispering when we had something to say about the house or the people therein.

         Max proved to be as good a cook as he was a spy; his Western omelet was light and very tasty. After he removed our dishes, he suggested coffee, tea for me, in the screening room. We didn’t know that was its name, but shortly we were seated, the lights doused and shades drawn and a silent film began to roll. Max ran the projector. I needn’t mention the star of the film, which was an adventure that took place on a yacht on the high seas. I was too young to go to the movies when they were silent, and I had a little difficulty following the plot, but I admired the expressive face of the young Norma. I could tell that Frick was enamored, I could see her eyes bewitched him.
         We did not see the conclusion. The doorbell rang; Max flipped on the lights and intoned that it would be our guests. We went into the entrance hall to greet them. Artie Green appeared to be nearly thirty, had short brown hair and thick eyebrows above penetrating brown eyes. His voice was more of a drone than a Mellotone. Frick said later that he was sure he had seen Artie before, somewhere. Artie was an assistant director with one of the studios. His suntan gave proof to his story that he had been working on location in Arizona recently.
         Betty Schaefer looked younger than Artie. She had a flat face with a button of a nose, but a pretty smile. Her hair was tied back and blonde to brunette in color. She was obviously shaken by the events of yesterday morning, and wondered why she was here, but was willing to help us find the true killer of Joe Gillis.

         Max led us to a small room to the right off the entrance hall. A table was set up for cards; Max had put two decks on the table, along with a box of dominoes. We sat at the table, Frick across from me. “Playing cards is the last thing I want to do tonight,” Betty whined. Frick quietly explained that if we did not go through the motions, we would undoubtedly have Max in here every minute. I saw the biggest radio I’d ever seen built into the bookcases on my right. I got up and turned it on. No one wanted to hear Johnny Ray sing about some little white cloud, so I found some dance music on another station. I turned up the volume to create enough noise that we could talk under it. With luck Max would not hear our conversation.

         I began with the obvious, “We have to ask you what each of you were doing Thursday night and early Friday morning.” This led to the expected protest from Artie. “Surely you can’t believe either of us had anything to do with this killing. Joe was my friend, but I hadn’t seen him since I ran into him in Schwab’s one night. He was dressed like he was going to the opera or some place like that. As for the time of the killing, I was shooting on location. I had a call yesterday morning from Betty telling me what she heard on the radio and I drove back. Betty seemed upset, so I came as fast as I could.”

         I turned to Miss Schaefer. “Did you meet Mr. Gillis through Joe? Did you call Artie because you knew they were friends?”
         Artie broke in, “I think they met at my New Years Eve party. It was crowded, but I saw them talking in the kitchen. I wanted to say to Joe, ‘Hey, she’s my girl,’ but he got or made a phone call and rushed out. Neither of us saw him again until that night at Schwab’s, right Betty?”
         Betty hesitated. I looked at Frick; it was time for ‘good cop, bad cop.’ It’s a game all the police play, except that Frick never realizes he is playing it. His heavy-handed questions just come naturally to him. He jumped in, right on cue.
         “Is that how it was, Betty. You knew Joe simply as a friend of Artie’s?”
         She stammered, blushed and then told us of a day, long before New Years Eve, when a producer called her into his office to give a reader’s report on a screen play written by Gillis. “I tore it apart, told Sheldrake, this big producer, it was worthless and could not even be used to line a birdcage. To my embarrassment, standing behind me was Joe Gillis. I was mortified and angry at Sheldrake. I wanted to shove his fat cigar down his throat.
         “I felt so bad I went to our archives and read some of Gillis’ work. Some was pretty good, but he seemed to go wrong at some point in every screenplay. I thought he had a lot of promise. I told him that when I ran into him at the party.
         “I saw him again one day on the studio lot, a day Miss Desmond was visiting Mr. DeMille. I suggested we work together on a screenplay. I don't want to be a reader the rest of my career. He turned me down, but I asked him again that night in the drugstore.
         “You are not going to like this, Artie, but we were working together in the weeks before yesterday. You were on location. We would work late at night in my office on the lot. He would sneak out of Miss Desmond’s house. He was fun to work with, and our screenplay was coming along very well. Now I don’t know what I will do with it.”
         The look on Artie’s face was not happy. He was just beginning to say sarcastically, “Now I learn,” when Frick hit her with the next logical question.
         “You were only writing with him, is that it, Miss Schaefer? Nothing else, no funny business up in that office, huh?” Leave it to Frick to put it so delicately.
         “NO, WE WERE JUST COLLABORATING.”
         “On what, Miss Schaefer?” Frick leered.
         “Our screenplay about a teacher. The next thing I knew, I heard on the radio that he had been shot. In fact my roommate woke me up to tell me.”
         “ZAT IST A LIE. YOU VER HERE EARLIER DAT NIGHT, AND NOT MUCH EARLIER.”
         Max was rubbing his hands with apparent glee. With his bald head gleaming in the light, he looked frightful.
         “Max Schreck!”
         “Who?”
         “You look like Max Schreck in ‘Nosferatu.’ You’re a little heavier, but you even have the teeth.” As usual, just as we were getting somewhere, Frick comes up with a non sequitur to take the interrogation off course. I kicked him under the table. Artie grimaced.
         “Sorry, Artie. Miss Schaefer, is Max correct?”
         She was crying, but nodded her head. She pulled out a hanky to blow her nose. “Get her a drink, Max. This is pretty heavy stuff.” I also wanted to get the grim reaper out of the room for a minute to collect our collegial thoughts, but I should have known that there was a liquor cabinet under the bookcase behind a sliding door. While Max mixed her a drink, I looked at Betty sympathetically and asked her to tell me more, girl to girl so to speak.
         “Artie, I won’t blame you if you tie me to a rope and drag me behind a team of horses at your location. I deserve nothing less. What happened was that Joe and I worked on this screenplay, and thrown together like that, I began to like him. He was very proper, warning me off, but finally something clicked in him and..”
         “And you went off to a hotel, or is there a nice fat couch in your office?”
         ‘SHUT UP FRICK. Let her finish.”
         “It was nothing like that. This is 1951; I am still a, well you know, but Gillis wanted to marry me and I him. He proposed at our last meeting the night before last. He drove me home and must have come back here. When I got home, my roommate said a woman with a funny voice had called twice. I was washing my face and getting ready for bed when the phone rang again. It was the same person, a strange voice asking me if I knew where Mr. Gillis lived, and where he obtained his clothing and jewelry. Just then Joe came on the line. In so many words, he told me he was a gigolo, living with this wealthy woman. I didn’t believe him so he gave me the address and told me to come out and see.
         “My roommate drove me but stayed in the car. I rang the bell; that man standing there started to open the door, but Joe came and let me in. He had no mercy; he told me that his situation was helpless, that he could not leave and that I should get out. It broke my heart, but I did go, tears streaming down my face. That was the last I heard of him.”
         I saw Max nod. I prayed Frick would not ask another asinine question. What came out of his mouth was something on all our minds. “You could have returned and shot him. You were certainly angry enough at him.”
         “I wasn’t angry at him; I felt so sorry for him, having to live with that women whose voice came over the phone line earlier. I couldn’t shoot him; I don’t even know how to use a gun. Oh Artie, say something!”
         Artie lowered his tone. “We’re dealing with just the facts, ma’am. I think Miss Schaefer has had enough for one night. If you don’t mind, I will take her home.”
         “Wait! I want to ask something.” Her catharsis ended, her spunk surprised me. “Joe was writing another screenplay besides mine. What happened to it?”
         Max spoke rather kindly. “He vas helping Miss Desmond mit her Salome screenplay. Dat is in the studio’s hands.”
         “No, he mentioned something else, something he said was so hot it was burning his pocket. He said he would work on it just before dawn, and in those moments he could steal away from Miss Desmond.”
         “I tink he vas fooling you, Miss Schaefer, trying to impress you.”
         Max led all of us to the door. Artie brought his car up and Betty got in. They drove off into the warm summer night.

-5-

         Meanwhile back at the ranch, Annie Oakley, or was it Calamity Jane, was shooting up a storm on the silver screen. Max was treating us to another of the adventures of Norma Desmond. In this one she was a sharpshooting western heroine. The plot had her avenge the death of her father. He was the sheriff of Dead Gulch and had been shot and killed by the sons of a powerful cattle rancher. Plucky young Norma put on the star and cleaned up the town, sending the two killers on their own path to Boot Hill. The plot had her fall in love with a stranger in town, a man from the Wild West Show. I thought the feature had ended when the two boarded the stagecoach, but Max put on another reel. I had to fight off sleep to see the exciting conclusion as the King of England knighted the now-married couple, but there was something that had caught my interest.

         Max asked if we would like to see another. I praised Norma Desmond to the sky, but politely told him that I was very sleepy.
         “You should also praise the director, Frack.”
         Leave it to Frick to talk about the director; I am more the type to adore the actors and have this thing about John Wayne. I suddenly realized that Frick was making a point. Max was almost blushing. He bowed his head and said. “Zo, you noticed. I directed many of Miss Desmond’s early films before she became a big star.”
         I think both of us were stunned. Neither of us said a word.
         “She vas a hard vorking beautiful girl, und zo brave. She vould do her own stunts. I taught her, but I could not keep up. I drank too much and I lost her. You zee, I vas her first husband. Years later I came back to serve her, after her third husband vas killed.”
         He bowed his head slightly and asked if we needed anything else. We each shook our head, and walked to the grand staircase and sleep.
         Sleep ran into a detour. Frick began talking about movies. We both love them. I’m more into the stars than he is, and have probably seen more of them, but Frick is a bug about plots. He thought the silent we saw resembled the Wyatt Earp film with Henry Fonda. Somehow my brilliant partner seemed to miss that Desmond’s film was made twenty-five years prior. Then he got on the track.
         “She did all her own stunts. That meant she did know how to use a gun, and was probably pretty good with it.” We were almost mumbling to keep our voices down.
         “You mean you think she did the killing.”
         “What else am I supposed to think?”
         “Consider this. Max also said he taught her everything. Did you see the scene in the Wild West show where the clown grabs a gun and points it at the apple on the lead actor’s head? He pulls the trigger and a flag pops out of the gun, but the apple is shot off the husband’s head by Norma Desmond, who is standing in the wings. Is it too late at night, or does that put an idea in your brain, dear Frick?”
         “You mean M-A-X could have shot Gillis from offstage, just like in the movie? But why? What does he have to gain?”
         “I don’t know; maybe he inherits if she gets the gas chamber. He is her first husband. But why Gillis? Was he afraid Gillis would take her away? And what about the script that Betty Schaefer mentioned? I’d give my eyeteeth to read it.”
         “So would I. You know what I found interesting in that movie?” Frick began to ramble; my mind closed down, and I fell asleep. I could hear him talking, but I grabbed his arm and wrapped it around me, holding it to my breast. We like to sleep that way.

         It was light. My head was pounding. The windowpanes were rattling from the sound of what must have been an organ somewhere in the house. Frick was awake, drumming out the rhythm on my breast. Normally this would have turned me on, but all I felt now was throbbing.
         “What is that goddamn noise?”
         “It’s a Bach Toccata and Fugue.”
         “I didn’t ask you that. I asked you what it was.”
         “Max must be tickling the keys.”
         “Sounds more like he is raping them. I guess it’s time to get up.”

         We found Max in a state of ecstasy, his body swaying to the sinuous music. Frick broke in, “Breakfast, Max?” One elongated finger pointed to the sideboard against the wall in the next room. It must have been the only room in the house that permitted sunlight to flood its domain. A buffet was set out atop the heavy mahogany three-drawer. Covered silver dishes held eggs, fried potatoes and sausages. There was a toaster at each end of the display, and in back of the serving plates, an urn of coffee and another of hot water with tea bags nearby.

         Max continued his serenade, but as we ate, he switched to what sounded like circus music, so that we seemed to shovel the food in faster. Frick put down his cup and asked, sotto voce, if I’d given any more thought to my late-evening theories. “How’s a woman to think with that racket going on?” I replied. He whispered that he had been up early and gave the room a thorough search, looking for the script, but could not find it. He had a theory it might be in the room over the garage. Before I could respond, the music had stopped and Max joined us, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

         “These are great sausages, Max.”
         “Danke, Fraulein Frack.”
         So it was back to being the Junker.
         “Vill ve make any progress solving the case today?”
         Frick answered, “We hope so.”
         “Say Max, whose car is that in the garage?” I was pretty sure he would tell the truth, but I had the license number and could call in a favor with Benedict at Motor Vehicles just in case.
         “It belonged to Mr. Gillis. His car overheated one day and he pulled into our driveway. The Madam took a liking to him and he stayed.”
         Back to English; Frick followed up. “Do you mind if I have a look through it?”
         “Vat do you tink you vill find?”
         “I don’t know, maybe something relevant to the case.”
         “Be my guest, but ve should go zee Miss Desmond today. It is Sunday and ve can fisit after ten. Vill you come vith me?”
         “Have it your way, Max. You always do. I’d like to use a phone.” An idea was forming in my head.
         “There is one in Miss Desmond’s chamber; you may use that one.”

         While Frick was showering, I walked into the great lady’s bedroom. The phone was on a table by the bed, under the great canopy that Frick called by some Italian word. I pulled a chair up and sat and dialed a number I had not used since I had been booted out on my sizable butt. I was hoping Tedesco was on duty, but I got Washington. He would do.
         “Cleve, it's Frack, do me a favor? Could you get the Gillis report? Captain gave their people my name and Frick’s if they needed help, and we are here. Okay, I’ll hang on.”
         He started with ballistics. Four shots had been fired, one apparently missing Gillis and lodging itself into the woodwork around the door. All were from the same type of pistol, but Washington noted that Ballistics were not sure that the bullet that missed came from the same gun. I wanted to ask more, about the angle of the shots, but I was sure that somewhere in that big house, there was another listener on the line. I tried to throw him off the track by spouting off something about the piece being old, possibly accounting for the differences.
         “Did he drown?”
         “The autopsy says he was dead when he hit the water; his lungs were practically dry. One funny thing, for what it’s worth, the Coroner says Gillis was the oldest thirty-five year old man he’d ever seen.”
         “Who I.D.ed him?”
         “The butler, von Mayerling.”
         “No one else?”
         “Not really; the suspect was too out of it to question. You weren’t there, but the only way they got her to the squad car was to form what was almost an opening night gauntlet. I thought we might have to get spotlights, but the flashbulbs were enough. She was practically catatonic.”
         Once again, I could not say what I was thinking, but I could give him a hint. “Sounds like the Shunk case to me.” If his brains were working, he would go out and find someone else to identify Gillis, preferably Betty Schaefer or Artie Green.
         “That was some time ago. But how is it going out there, and how is life as a P.I.? We miss you guys.”
         “It’s going well. Making money hand over fist, but we miss you guys too. And thanks, Cleve, for all the help.”

         I opened the bathroom door. Frick was drowning himself on Miss Desmond’s water bill. I grabbed a straight-back chair from our room, pulled it into the bathroom with me and lodged it under the door handle. It made a makeshift lock. I pulled off my nightgown and joined Frick in the shower. He could enjoy himself soaping the grime of this case off me. It might be his second greatest talent.

-6-

         I sat in the back of the Isotta-Franchini. It was another sunny day. I thought the wind would feel cool on my face, but I hadn’t reckoned that everyone and their mother would be out on the road on this Sunday. The speed limit was 35 in most places, but the old monster rarely reached it. Max was a deliberate and cautious driver. Frick was smart; he had worn a hat. As we plodded along behind a line of cars near the reservoir, I was sorry I had not done the same.

         When we arrived, I did not want to go inside. Max did not seem to mind; Frick went with him, while I sat in shade and let my thoughts take wing. I did not keep tab on how long they stayed. I could tell from the expression on my partner’s face that nothing much had changed with our client. The return trip was as tedious and hot as the going. When we arrived at the mansion, I asked Max if Miss Desmond kept scrapbooks. He surprised me by saying he did not think so, but suggested I have a look at the photographs on the walls. While he was preparing our lunch, I did just that.

         I could find no pictures taken after Miss Desmond left the film world. I found black and whites of the plucky teenage actress, and in the background in several, her director, mentor and first lover, Max von Mayerling. He was attractive. He had a certain elegance to him in the way he held his jaw into the wind, so to speak. I tried to see the Max we had met in the fading photographs, and found some similarities, but had to conclude that the jury was still out on the matter.

         Max came in carrying a tray with sandwiches and another pitcher of lemonade. He suggested we eat by the pool, but I had enough sun for the moment. I had this vision of Frick and I skinny-dipping later that night in that water, after Max had gone to sleep, if he ever did. The idea excited me. Frick had followed Max into the room, and on hearing my objection, suggested we take our lunch in our room. He took the tray from Max and carried it upstairs.

         In our room, Frick turned on a radio, this time to a baseball game, and began to talk beneath the announcers’ voices. He had been talking with Max while I gave the house my Grand Tour. Gillis had been living above the garage since last fall, and had moved into the house just after Christmas. The roof in the garret had leaked, necessitating the change.

         Max had unbuttoned himself to Frick. He often thought Gillis too condescending to Miss Desmond, but also recognized that the writer had restored her desire to go on with life. Max feared for her future, whether she vegetated in the mansion with Max at her side, or tried to get back into pictures.
         “Did he really say vegetated?”
         “I don’t remember; maybe I used that word. His accent can be so thick. He did say that Gillis called him a ‘vet blanket’ once.”
         “Interesting.”
         “I asked him what he would do if Miss Desmond were convicted.”
         “What did he say?”
         “She won’t, err, von’t be conficted.”
         “You do a good Max, Frick.”
         “Hell, anyone can do a good German accent with a little work.”
         “Precisely.”
         Frick did not notice, or pretended he did not notice my remark. He went on about inspecting the room over the garage. He was sure a treasure was hidden there. He now suggested we take our siesta by the pool; he had the idea to slip up the steps to the Promise Land when Max was not about.
         “Good luck finding that time, Frick.”
         As if to bear me out, Max knocked lightly and entered, carrying towels.
         “I think we will sunbathe, Max.”
         “Very good, Ma’am.”

         Frick surprised me; he dozed off. Usually that is my specialty. Frick will be talking or our television will be on, and suddenly I am asleep. For now, I positioned myself in the shade of the umbrella, looked at an advertisement that was in the rotogravure section of the Sunday paper and followed my partner down the same path of least resistance.
         I don’t know how long I slept; the sun was hitting my legs when I woke. Music had replaced the ballgame on the small radio that Frick had placed just outside the French door that led to the pool. I lolled my head to the right and found an empty lounge chair. My first instinct was that my partner had gone in to use the bathroom, but when ten minutes had passed, I knew this was not the case. Unlike many men I have heard about, Frick was not a heavy reader.

         I shifted my gaze to the garage. The Isotta-Franchini stared back at me. I was surprised that Max was not wiping it off after its strenuous morning exercise, but realized that he could have done that while I slept. My eyes rose to the apartment on the second floor. The curtains were drawn; the building was in the shade, but my instincts told me that Frick had tiptoed up the steps within the last hour. Did I dare follow? If I did, would Max see me? How had Frick managed to avoid his gaze?

         I picked up the pitcher of lemonade to pour myself another glass. I knew it was empty. Normally an empty vessel would bring Max on the run, but this time there was no sign of him. I carried the pitcher back to the kitchen. I could hear no one in the house; only the sound of the radio filled the summer air.

“I tried so hard, my dear, to show that you’re my every dream”

That song was all over the place. It meant little to me; Frick certainly did not have a cold heart. Rather than return to the pool, and then to the steps on the side of the garage, I decided to avoid open air where curious eyes might see me. I walked through the house, looking in many rooms for a sign of Frick, or Max. I thought I heard the whir of a sewing machine or similar motor, and reasoned that I had located Max somewhere in the large house. I wasn’t about to go and find him. If my partner was where I thought he was, I wanted to see what he had found.

         Bad thinking, Janie! If Max were in the house, my job was to keep him occupied, but I had forgotten that. I exited through another French door at the opposite end of the building, as near to the garage as I could. I took off my shoes and slipped up the steps, opening the door.

         Frick was sitting at what must have been Gillis’ writing table. Two piles of paper were on the table in front of him. His eyes saw me and immediately flicked to his right, to the space behind the open door. Had I been more observant, I would have seen that his arms were extended behind his back. As it was, I stepped toward him. A hand grabbed my left arm and pulled me into the room. A gun was in the other hand, the same make and model that had killed Joe Gillis.

         “Pull up a chair, Miss Frack, and join your partner for some interesting reading. Detective Frick has made the wrong discovery.”

         I noticed a second hard wooden chair next to Frick. Max almost hurled me into it. I was heavier than he was, but he had the element of surprise and leverage. From his pocket he took a set of handcuffs and snapped them on the wrist he held, and then pulling that arm around the back of the chair, attached the other cuff to my other wrist. For the first time I noticed that Frick was trussed identically, except that his ankles were secured by thin rope.
         “Now don’t you make a pretty pair. Why don’t you show your partner what you found, Detective Frick?”
         Frick nodded at the paper. “It’s an outline and screenplay.”
         The outline topped the right pile of paper. I read it as carefully as circumstances would allow:
         “A woman resides in exile in a large mansion in the hills. Many of her compatriots think she is dead, but she walks about freely. She is intelligent, but vain and demands that any that come in contact with her obey her wishes implicitly. The only person who understands her is her servant, a man who constantly reminds her of the glories of her past. He visits the villages in the valley and procures for her young men she desires to turn into acolytes. Her latest victim is Bethlen, a strong-willed man younger than she is, who secretly resists her entreaties and continues to see his sweetheart in the village. She finds out and tries to destroy him.”

         The manuscript was headed, “CAPTIVE OF MY HEART” and subtitled “What if Dracula had a daughter?” The author was Joseph Gillis. This must have been the secret he mentioned to Betty Schaefer.

         “Interesting, huh, Miss Frack?”
         I looked at Frick. I don’t know if he was too stupid to be scared, or whether he honestly did not know what was going on. He looked at Max, who had now taken a seat on the bed and put the gun at his side, and asked, “And this screenplay, based on Miss Desmond, was the cause of his death? I don’t get it. The only person who would have reason to shoot him would be Norma Desmond, unless it was you, Max?”

         “And why would I shoot Mr. Gillis? He was nothing but a hack writer and could never sell this screenplay?”

         I could see what was in the cards for the two detectives taking on their first big case. I was sorry we had not deposited the check. At least our heirs would have a little money to settle our debts. I didn’t care now. I did not want the “hack writer” that was sitting on the bed in front of me to think he had pulled the wool over both our eyes.

         “But Max von Mayerling could sell the screenplay, couldn’t he, Mr. Gillis?”

         A thin smile crossed his face. “So you know; one more reason the two intrepid detectives will die in each others arms.”

         “See, Frick, no one has seen Max von Mayerling in over thirty years. No one knows what he looks like. He has slavishly attended to Norma Desmond, his first wife, who has been away from studio life. Oh, I guess he hoped that someday she might make a comeback, but if she didn’t it was no skin off his nose. I suspect the state of mind we saw in prison was the way she lived everyday. Then along came Mr. Gillis; I am sure he was not her first young man, but he was the most ambitious. He found the situation meat for his grinder, but he could not use the story for two reasons. Max would never permit it, and, Gillis was a ‘nobody’ in filmland.

         “Frick, meet Joe Gillis, the new Max von Mayerling. It was the old Max, the unknown Max, that was floating in the pool, dead. Joe, you’ve got to work on your German accent if you want to pass as Max von Mayerling. It's too inconsistent, though I have to give you credit, you fooled Miss Schaefer. She never saw through the disguise.”

         “But why did he hire us, Frack? And what’s to become of Miss Desmond?”

         “I’m sure Miss Desmond can be quite dominating. She asked him to hire someone to clear her. I don’t know how much she knows, but I suspect Gillis here has her so enraptured, she believes anything he says, even when he told her that the devoted Max was in the way of her comeback. I don’t think Max ever suspected that the Salome screenplay she was writing would lead to his overthrow and death. In the meantime, unknown to her, Gillis was gathering information for another epic, the story of Norma Desmond played out as a horror movie.

         “I think that morning she was ordering Max to leave the house, and he refused. I think she grabbed the pistol to scare him, not knowing that Gillis would use the opportunity to get rid of Max once and for all. I don’t know if he had the idea of selling that script in mind at that moment, but I am sure he quickly assumed the disguise of a bald headed man, realizing the police would not have a description of Max. He then passed the victim off as Gillis. Norma Desmond could not contradict him. The sound of the pistol probably pushed her over the edge.
         “As for Norma Desmond’s fate, I doubt that he cares. If she is acquitted, I think he will use her as a prop to sell that screenplay, convincing her that the part was written for her. If she is guilty, it is even better for him. He hired us to keep Miss Desmond quiet and in a confused state, and with the confidence that no one would be able to unravel his secret. We would confirm the shooter was Norma and go on our way.”

         Frick looked at me lovingly. I think he realized we would be soon be joining Holmes, Poirot and all the other members of our guild in that big English Manor House in the sky. Gillis walked to his side, carrying the pistol. He spoke to me, “So you worked it out, did you? I shouldn’t have let your stupid partner hear how clever you are, but at least he will leave this earth happy that you solved the case. You can give him more of the details when you join him.”

         He lifted the pistol to Frick’s forehead.

-7-

         She’s having another bad one; the bed is shaking from her foot thumping the mattress, but she still has her arm around me.
         “No, No, don’t shoot him!”
         “Frack, Janie, you’re having a bad dream!”
         “Huh, No!”
         “No, it’s a dream, Sweetie. Everything’s okay.”
         She hugged me tighter and I wrapped an arm around her and hugged her back.
         “I was dreaming this guy was going to shoot you, and then me. Oh, god, it was so scary. What time is it, anyway?”
         “About 4:45, go back to sleep. We have to see leDuc first thing in the morning about our little accident. Get some rest, I think there is going to be hell to pay.”
         I felt her breathing subside to normal. We were face to face on our sides, my nose in her hair that smelled of her shampoo. My arm rested over her waistline, my hand in the cavity that formed the small of her back. My other arm held her head lightly. I felt her large hand on my body. It began to explore. I knew we would not be getting back to sleep soon.

         The sunlight was strained by the dirt on the windows in the Captain’s office. I had suggested we bring her donuts, but withdrew the idea when Frack gave me a look of “Are you crazy?” We had eaten sausage and eggs in my kitchen. I already felt a bit on the defensive because I had purchased patties, and I knew full well that she liked links. Now we were standing on the proverbial carpet, but in this case the floor was covered by gray and red linoleum. The walls were a pale green. A 1970’s trivia calendar was the only decoration on the wall. On it John Travolta was staying alive in his white leisure suit. That calendar was one reason Frack never minded being called to see leDuc.

         The Captain was in uniform, summer whites. She was seated behind her desk. Her dark hair accented a red complexion. Normally she did not have that much color to her face. She asked us to remain standing. I knew we were about to join her shit list.

         She pushed a folder across the desk and nodded at me to open it. On the left flap were four black and white photos of the unmarked I had been driving. In the one, I could clearly see the fire hydrant resting at an angle. The photo had been taken after the water had been turned off; it was no longer spouting to the sky. There were no occupants in the car. The prints were merely attached to the file to document the damage. The captain now spoke with the voice of doom.

         “I will read from the report of Patrolwoman Amy Drew-Masterson, the first officer on the scene. ‘I came upon the blue Taurus just after it hit the hydrant. I heard a squeal of wheels and brakes and then the crash of metal hitting metal. The airbags had not deployed, or there were no airbags. I observed a middle age couple in the front seats. The man had been driving, the woman was in the passenger seat. They were not bleeding but each must have been knocked temporarily unconscious by the force of their head hitting the windshield or visors that were down. He had not been driving that fast. Both were beginning to stir and regain consciousness.”

         She put down the report but continued to speak, her voice rising. “Now my Gold Dust Twins, because officers of our force, namely Walter Frick and Janie Frack, were involved in this accident, and the car belonged to the municipal Police Force, we conducted an investigation in depth in case any claims might be made for workmen’s compensation. Walter Frick claimed that he swerved to avoid a cat that had run into the street. Janie Frack thought she saw a cat. The driver of the beer truck that was following the unmarked car testified to our investigator that he saw no animals cross the street, nor did the woman who was handling the school bus that was coming in the opposite direction.” She paused; Frack tried to use her ‘you know how it is, fellow woman, charm on her.
         “I’m positive there was a cat, but the reflection of the sun may have blinded the witnesses.”
         “Lying is beneath you, Frack. It began to rain fifteen minutes later. I know what happened. It’s all on paper here in this proper and observant report made by Patrolwoman Drew-Masterson. You two are very lucky her mother Nancy is still not on the force. You’d be both out on dog-catching duty, and have to clean the wagon after every shift. I will read Ms. Drew-Masterson’s next observations of the scene.
         “The woman was leaning over toward the driver. The fly on his pants was undone. Her left hand had an appendage of his in it. Her pants were unzipped. His right arm extended under her outstretched left arm and into the gap created. His hand was fondling her. When they each regained consciousness, each withdrew their arm and feverishly tried to fasten their pants. They both appeared embarrassed and the female winked at me.’
         "What a wonderful report this young policewoman writes. So observant! She hasn’t missed anything, has she? That car crashed because its occupants were too engaged in hanky-panky to notice what was happening.”
         By now her face was bright red. She looked us both in the eye and raising her voice, shouted, “WHY DON’T THE TWO OF YOU GET MARRIED AND KEEP YOUR ANTICS IN THE BEDROOM? If you were married, I could not team you together and our fleet would be safer.
         Then again, you are my best team, but God, you are a trial. The Deputy Commissioner wants me to throw the book at you. I’m not sure what he means, but I think a month of detail duty, inside, on the 4-12 shift, typing reports and helping with paperwork might just make you realize you must keep your hands to yourselves while on duty. So you will report back here tomorrow afternoon at four, and wear old clothes. Your first job is a bit of maintenance we have been putting off too long, cleaning this wonderful linoleum with buckets, scrub brush, soap and water. You are dismissed for the day.”

         Well, at least we kept our job. On leaving the station house, we drove to Frack’s apartment. We had thirty hours to kill.

         Later that day, I was making lunch, mixing some lemonade and putting together sandwiches out of the cold cuts that she had in her fridge. As I brought the tray into the living room, I heard the strident music and saw on the television screen the shot of macadam rolling under the camera as a car sped along. The credits were coming to an end. The music died down and police sirens took its place. A male voice began to intone,

         “Yes, this is Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles, California. It’s about five a.m. That’s the homicide squad, reporters and photographers, converging .”

         Frack grabbed the remote, punched it with her fingers. We would watch “The Weather Channel” with lunch.


Valatie May 3, 2003