1956 - There's Always a Price Tag Read online

  The green of her eyes seemed to deepen.

  'I'm only telling you this for your good,' she said. 'The other man left because he didn't get paid, because he didn't get any sleep, because he found my husband impossible to work for.'

  'I wouldn't know about that, madam,' I said. 'Right now I'm glad to have a roof over my head. Getting paid wouldn't bother me one way or the other. I've done without sleep for so long, a little less wouldn't bother me either, and I'd like to judge for myself if the work is impossible or not.'

  She lifted her elegant shoulders.

  'You don't look like a fool, but apparently you must be.'

  'You'll have the opportunity to judge me better when you know me better, madam,' I said.

  'I'm telling you!' she said, her voice suddenly harsh. 'You're not wanted here! My husband was drunk when he engaged you.' She held out her hand. Between her long, slender fingers was a hundred-dollar bill. 'Here, take this and get out!'

  And that's what I should have done, but I was still trying to play it smart.

  'I haven't earned it, madam,' I said. 'Thank you all the same, but if you'll pardon me, Mr. Dester's the one to tell me to go.'

  The glitter suddenly went out of her eyes.

  'Then if you must be stupid, be stupid.' She came further into the room. 'There's nothing here for you, Nash. I can imagine a man like you would naturally jump to the conclusion that there will be easy pickings in a job like this, but you are making a mistake. There are no easy pickings.'

  'I just want the job, madam,' I said. 'I've always wanted to drive a Rolls. I don't know what you mean by easy pickings.'

  She laughed then, tossing back her splendid head and showing me the white column of her throat.

  'It's a nice act, but it doesn't come off. There's nothing here for you. We have no money. In a few weeks, Mr. Dester will be unemployed. We can't afford servants anymore. I do all the housework. It is only because he was drunk tonight that he offered you this job. You won't get paid, so don't imagine you will.'

  That jarred me a little, but it also aroused my curiosity.

  'I don't know anything about that, madam. It isn't my business. Mr. Dester gave me the job. It's up to him to tell me he doesn't want me.'

  She gave me a contemptuous look.

  'All right, if that's the way you want to act don't say I didn't warn you.' She moved about the room, keeping in the shadows. Suddenly she said, 'Did you really save my husband's life tonight?'

  'Of course,' I said. 'A Packard, going at forty miles an hour, would have nailed him if I hadn't pulled him out of the way. He said if I hadn't been so quick you would have been a widow by now.'

  She paused. Her face was like chiselled marble as she stared at me.

  'Was that what he said?'

  'Yes.'

  There was another long pause while we looked at each other, then I decided to dig a quick one in under her guard.

  'If I had known you wanted him to die, I might not have pulled him out of the way, madam.'

  Her expression remained the same, but her eyes lit up. Perhaps her face went a shade paler. It was difficult to judge in the light that threw shadows on her.

  'Really, Nash?' Her voice was a little more than a whisper, like the dry rustle of leaves, and it gave me a spooky feeling. 'That's very interesting.'

  She turned and went silently out and down the stairs.

  * * *

  One of the few things the Army taught me that made sense was the value of knowing your enemy.

  It seemed to me that Helen must have had a pretty urgent reason for wanting to get rid of me, and I was now curious to find out what that reason was. I was also curious to find out why she hated her husband so badly she wanted him dead. The setup was intriguing. I decided I'd be Dester's chauffeur for a week or so. The change from tramping the streets, trying to sell space, would be welcome. I had nothing to lose at fifty a week and all found, and with any luck I might have a lot to gain. Even if Dester hadn't any money as she had said, and I didn't believe her, I would at least have a roof over my head, and food.

  I got up around six-forty-five the next morning, cleaned the apartment, put new sheets that I found in a closet on the bed, got rid of most of the traces of the last occupant, and then tried on his uniform. It was brand new, and it fitted me as if it were made for me: a light grey whipcord double-breasted jacket, riding breeches, knee boots and a peaked cap with a cockade on it: quite an outfit.

  In one of the pockets of the jacket I found a soiled envelope. On it was scrawled: Ben Simmonds. 57a Clifford Street, Hollywood.

  I remembered Simmonds was the name of the chauffeur who had left Dester's service. I wondered if he was still living on Clifford Street. It seemed an idea to have a talk with him.

  At eight-fifteen I went over to the house and around to the kitchen door.

  There was no sign of life in the kitchen and no sign of any food, but I could smell coffee coming from upstairs.

  Standing against the wall was an eight-foot-long deep-freeze cabinet that could have held enough food to feed a large family for a year.

  Before I had hooked up with Solly and his advertising racket, I had spent two dreary years trying to fiddle deep-freeze cabinets to hick farmers in the Ohio farming belt. The sight of that big freezer brought back memories that made me wince, but that didn't stop me from opening the lid and looking inside. It was as bare as the back of my hand and I shut the lid with a grunt of disgust. That cabinet must have cost a whale of a lot of money: it was a rank waste to leave it empty.

  In the pantry I found a half-bottle of cream and a jug of yesterday's coffee. I was heating up the coffee when the kitchen door pushed open and Helen came in.

  She was wearing a black wool sweater and pale blue slacks. She had a figure that looked provocative in slacks. I looked at her, feeling again that tight grip across my chest.

  'What are you doing here?' she asked curtly, staring at me.

  'I just looked in for some coffee, madam,' I said. 'I hope I'm not in the way.'

  'I don't want you in the house, Nash,' she said, moving to the door. 'Your job is to drive Mr. Dester to the office. Keep to your own apartment.'

  Well, at least she was now admitting I had a job here; that was a concession.

  'Isn't there anything I can do for you, madam?' I said. 'Nothing in the house you want done?'

  'Not by you. Keep away from here,' and she went out.

  I drank the coffee, washed up the cup and then went back to the garage. I got out the Rolls, washed and polished it, then drove it around to the front entrance. By then it was a few minutes after ten o'clock.

  I sat at the wheel and waited.

  At half past ten, Dester came down the steps. He was wearing a pearl grey lounge suit and a slouch hat, and he had a briefcase under his arm.

  'Morning, Nash,' he said as I slid out of the car and opened the door for him. 'That uniform looks pretty well. Did you get breakfast?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  The bright sunlight wasn't kind to him. His complexion looked like raw meat and his eyes were bloodshot and watery.

  'Do you know where the Pacific Studios are?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'That's where I work.' He got into the car and relaxed on the back seat. He seemed glad to take the weight off his legs. 'Hurry it along, kid. I'm a little late.'

  I drove him to the studios; pushing the pace, but not overdoing it.

  The guard opened the double gates. I noticed he didn't salute Dester as I drove past, and I thought that was odd.

  Dester directed me to the big office block that stood away from the main studios. I pulled up outside the entrance.

  'Pick me up here at four o'clock. You can go back now and help Mrs. Dester in the house.'

  'She tells me she doesn't want any help, sir,' I said.

  He seemed not to hear me. I watched him climb the steps to the entrance of the building, then disappear through the swing doors. I got back into the Rolls and drove down
to the main entrance. The guard opened the gates. He didn't even bother to look at me. I wondered what one needed to have besides a Rolls to get a little respect from this guy.

  When I had got some distance from the studios, I parked the car and went to an eating joint and bought myself a breakfast. I had fifteen bucks to last me until Dester produced something. I laid out five bucks on a small store of food, coffee and groceries. These I carried to the car, then I drove over to Clifford Street that happened to be four streets away from my own apartment house.

  I pulled up outside 57, and rang the bell of Apartment 'A'. After a few moments a buzzer sounded and the front door clicked open.

  Simmonds had a couple of rooms on the third floor. He was standing in the doorway waiting for me as I came up the last flight of stairs: a guy about my build with grey hair and a lined, humourous face. As soon as he saw the uniform I was wearing he grinned: it was the kind of grin you reserve for suckers, but that didn't bother me. I grinned back.

  'I'm Dester's new chauffeur as if you need to be told,' I said. 'I've looked in for some information.'

  'Come on in,' he said, opening the door. 'There's a sucker born every minute, but don't think you're the only one. I kidded myself I had landed on the gravy train when I took that job: I know a lot better now.'

  I walked into a room that was coated with dust and smelt the same way as the apartment over the garage had smelt before I had cleaned it.

  'I'm not kidding myself,' I said, putting my cap on the cleanest part of the table. 'I know I haven't got myself anything to shout about, but it suits me as a temporary job. My name's Glyn Nash.'

  Simmonds waved me to a chair and went into the far room. He returned with two cups and a pot of coffee.

  'It'll be temporary okay,' he said, taking the cigarette I offered him. 'I bet you'll be out by the end of the week. No one has stuck longer except me. I lasted two weeks.'

  'What's wrong with the job?' I asked, accepting the cup of coffee he shoved at me.

  'Plenty: a combination of rats and a sinking ship and Mrs. Dester. Have you run into her yet?'

  'Sure; she's already told me I'm not wanted.'

  'Then take the hint, pal: quit before you hit trouble. That dame can make plenty of trouble. I was mug enough to stick after she had told me to get out. She nearly had me on a stealing rap.'

  That jolted me. 'What was that again?'

  He grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth.

  'That's right. She gave me a hundred-dollar bill to settle the gasoline account. I thought it was funny because Dester pays the accounts when he does pay them. I've got a suspicious mind, and I'm glad of it. I trusted her the way I'd trust a rattlesnake. I went over the bill very, very carefully. She had pricked a cross in it with a pin. It didn't take me a couple of seconds to figure out what the next move was to be. I had just time to shove the bill into the fire when two dicks walked in. They went over me and the rooms with a tooth comb, but they didn't find the bill. They told me she had complained that she had been missing money for some time, and she thought I was the guy who was helping himself. It was a close thing, and when they left, I packed and got out fast.'

  I stared at him, remembering how she had offered me a hundred-dollar bill the previous night.

  'What's the idea? Why doesn't she want her husband to have a chauffeur?'

  He shrugged.

  'Three months ago, they had a cook, a houseboy, and two maids,' he told me, 'as well as a gardener and a chauffeur. Then all of a sudden she got rid of them all, closed up most of the rooms in the house and ran the place herself. Dester tried to keep a chauffeur, but sooner or later she fixed it that the guy couldn't take any more of it and quit. Don't ask me why. I wouldn't know.'

  'She says Dester hasn't any money.'

  'I wouldn't know about that. Maybe she's right. Maybe that's the answer, but she doesn't strike me as the type to run a house on her own just because he hasn't any money.'

  She didn't strike me as the type either.

  'Who is Dester anyway?'

  'You mean who was he,' Simmonds said, finishing his coffee and pouring himself another cup. 'One time he was chief executive producer for Pacific Studios, one of the biggest shots in the movie business. He's washed up now. They haven't renewed his contract. It runs out in a month or so; then he'll be nobody. He goes there every day and sits in his office, doing nothing. No one takes any notice of him. He's just sweating out his time.'

  'Why doesn't he look for some other job?'

  Simmonds laughed. 'Haven't you cottoned on to him yet? He's a lush. No one wants him. The only time he's sober is when he wakes up in the morning. He starts boozing at breakfast and goes right on until he falls into bed. I guess if I had married that redheaded bitch, I'd be a lush too. He's crazy about her. From what I hear she has her own room, and he hasn't been inside it since a few days after they married.'

  'Who is she and where does she come from?'

  'I don't know. They've been married about a year. Since then he's been going downhill fast. The movie business doesn't want him anymore. When his contract runs out, he'll be broke. So don't kid yourself you've got yourself a permanent job. You'll be lucky if you hold it a week.'

  'He can't be broke. He's got three cars and that house. The Rolls would fetch twelve thousand in the open market.'

  'I hear he's up to his eyes in debts, but I could be wrong,' Simmonds said. 'But it's my bet as soon as he leaves the Studios, the wolves will move in, and when they do, there won't be anything left. I'd like to see that redhead earn her living. She'll find it tough after the way he's poured money into her lap.'

  'Did you get paid?' I asked.

  'Sure, but I had to ask for it. Dester never remembers trifles like paying his servants.' Simmonds looked at a cheap alarm clock on the bedside table. 'I've got to be moving. I'm going after a job this morning: driving two old ladies. I guess it'll be a nice change after driving a drunk. You have a sweet time ahead of you. If he gets home by one o'clock he calls it an early night.' He stood up. 'But don't think I dislike the guy. I'm sorry for him. When you can catch him sober, you couldn't wish for a nicer guy to work for. The trouble is you don't often catch him sober. It's a knock out that a woman could ruin a man as fast as this redhead has ruined him. She must be crazy. By fixing him, she's fixed herself out of a big, juicy income, and that doesn't make sense to me. From what I've heard it is due to her he started to hit the bottle. I can't figure out what her game is.'

  As I drove over to my apartment house to collect my few belongings before returning to the Dester residence, I couldn't figure out what her game was either, but I was now determined to find out.

  chapter two

  As I pulled into the three-car garage, I saw the Cadillac convertible was missing. It wasn't hard to guess that the beautiful Mrs. Dester had taken herself out to lunch. The time was a quarter after twelve, and I thought it might be an idea, now that the house was empty, and if I could get in, to take a look around.

  A window above the porch was open. It was an easy climb up on to the top of the porch, and simple to push up the window and step into a long passage that went past the head of the stairs.

  There were seven bedrooms, three bathrooms and two dressing rooms on the landing; five of the bedrooms were under dust sheets. Dester's bedroom was facing the stairs, and Helen's was at the other end of the passage.

  I didn't go into any of the rooms. I opened the doors and looked at the rooms from the doorway.

  Helen's room was large. A lot of money had been spent on it to make it luxurious. There was one of those huge beds you see so often on the movies, raised on a dais, with an oyster coloured quilted headpiece and a blood red bedspread. There were comfortable lounging chairs, a desk, a radiogram, an elaborate dressing-table, fitted closets and diffused lighting. It was a pretty nice retreat for a wife who wanted to sleep alone. It was easy to see by its immaculate luxury that no man found his way in there.

  Dester's room was smaller and as
comfortable as Helen's but it looked neglected; even without going into the room I could see a film of dust on the flat surfaces of the furniture. It was easy to see Helen didn't spend much time looking after it.

  It took me less than five minutes to see what I wanted to see, and then I went downstairs. I skipped the lounge and explored the other five rooms; all of them were under dust sheets which is one way of solving the domestic help problem.

  Here was evidence to prove that Simmonds had been speaking the truth. It certainly looked as if Dester was on his way out. He was still putting up a show: the outside of the house looked prosperous enough, but this closing down of the rooms showed which way the wind was blowing.

  I returned to the apartment over the garage, changed out of my uniform, checked over my money that now amounted to ten bucks, and then walked down to the corner of the road where I picked up a bus that took me into the centre of the town.

  I had a cheap lunch at a place I usually went to, then I walked over to Jack Solly's office on Brewer Street.

  I had worked for Solly now for the past year. He called himself an advertising consultant and contractor. At one time he had been the sales manager of Herring & Inch, the big advertising contractors in New York. He had owned a Cadillac, a six-room apartment, a five-figure income and a closet full of clothes. But he had always been an opportunist, specializing on making a fast buck, and he had tried to make himself a little extra on the side by offering some of Herring & Inch's accounts to a rival firm for a substantial rake-off. Someone ratted, and Solly lost his job, his income and his Cadillac in that order: worse, he was black listed and he soon discovered he had no hope of ever working for another firm of advertising contractors. So he came to Hollywood with what he had saved from the wreck and opened an office and started in to work for himself.

  He now handled the business of small shopkeepers, one-man offices and the like and just managed to scrape up a living.

  Solly was a tall, thin bird with a face like a hatchet, deep-set stony black eyes and a mouth like a gin— trap. He was a tough character, and as the years passed, and his lack of success sank in, and his need for money increased, he lost what ethics he might have had, and twice already he had had a brush with the police on a shady deal, the details of which I hadn't been told.