Mr Leon Mazaroff, actor, dancer, formerly of somewhere deep in the frozen wastes of Russia, was indeed right on hand. He being the current occupant of Casa Duende’s ‘little cabana’, as Mrs Ivers described it while pointing a bony finger out the library window at a guesthouse, half hidden amid exotic foliage further down the gardens, that looked twice the size of his own small home.
While they waited for him to walk up to the house, Mrs Ivers informed Tom that ever since the news broke of Taylor’s murder, Mazaroff, a regular visitor, had been nervous of returning to his own quarters, an apartment he rented in Echo Park. Appreciating that, as a dancer and player of rare artistry, Mr Mazaroff was not one for the rough and tumble of life, she had insisted he stay under her roof for as long as he considered necessary.
‘Leonid Mazaroff, allow me to introduce you to Mr Tom Collins,’ Mrs Ivers said grandly as he walked into the room. He was a smallish man, mid-height but short on flesh, with a long nose that flared wide at the base on a face so thin it could haunt. His black hair was worn longer than was fashionable, and his clothes – a tweed suit and plain white shirt with some kind of neckerchief underneath – were cut rather looser than was usual. Tom could believe he was a dancer. Every step he took looked like it was individually weighed.
‘Mr Collins is a private investigator looking into poor Bill’s murder, Leon. I thought it might help for you to speak with him. He seems to think it possible that Bill was shot by dope fiends, as we suspected.’
Tom stuck out his hand and Mazaroff, looking none too certain of the safety of this gesture, extended his for a surprisingly firm shake.
‘Mrs Ivers tells me you witnessed someone making threats to Mr Taylor out in Griffith Park. Is that right?’
‘Yes, that is correct.’ The voice was thick with the land of his birth and Tom had to lean in nearer to understand. ‘We work in Griffith Park last month, re-filming scenes for one of Mr Taylor’s productions. We took a break, to talk about Chekov.’
‘Chekov?’
‘A great Russian writer,’ Mazaroff said impatiently, wafting a withering sideways glance to Mrs Ivers. ‘No matter. For some minutes we walk away from others along a trail, not so far, when a man jumped out from behind bushes. So sudden, you know, it was frightening. Yes. And he stands there and says nothing, does nothing, but looks hard at Mr Taylor. Like I say, frightening.’
Tom got the picture, but it wasn’t making much sense to him. ‘He didn’t make any threat or gesture?’
Mazaroff shook his head. ‘No.’
‘And you never saw him before? Not at the studio, or hanging round the shoot?’
‘No, I never saw him before. He was not a movie type. But Mr Taylor, he knows him, for sure. I know from the eyes, the way they look at each other, they are thinking bad things, dangerous things. You know how I mean?’
‘Sure, I think so,’ Tom said, picturing the scene entirely. ‘So what happened?’
‘Nothing more. It is most exceptional. One minute – less – they stand, stare, no speaking. Then this man, he turns and walks away, back towards town. Mr Taylor takes my arm and turns me quickly, you know, and we go back to the camp, hurry, hurry. I ask Mr Taylor what is happening, but he does not explain. I worry, so later, when we finish, I ask him again. But he tells me, don’t be concerned. “We will not be deterred by dirty dope peddlers.” His exact words. Then, when I hear Mr Taylor was killed, I think of this again, and worry again.’
Mazaroff threw up his arms for emphasis, but Tom had already figured from his expressions during the story that he wasn’t using them for empty dramatic effect. The Russian was telling the truth as far as he could tell.
He pushed himself off the desk and paced out a step or two, thinking hard. Mrs Ivers, meanwhile, gave Mazaroff’s arm a reassuring squeeze.
‘Do you think it could be relevant, Mr Collins?’
‘Yes, I do, Mrs Ivers. I certainly do. But I think it’s too big for me to handle, so here’s what I can do. I have a good friend on the detective squad who I’m certain will be very keen to hear this. If Mr Mazaroff will come downtown with me now, I will—’
But Mazaroff was already saying no, getting excited, and Mrs Ivers was shushing him and calming him and assuring him he wouldn’t have to go anywhere he didn’t want to. Finally seeing him settled in a chair, Mrs Ivers turned and looked at Tom with pleading eyes.
‘You will not force him if he does not want to.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, Mrs Ivers, but the cops really need to be told this. It is irresponsible to keep such important information from them, for any reason, even fear. There is a murderer on the loose.’
Mrs Ivers and Mazaroff gave Tom the combined force of two blank stares before exchanging glance between themselves. It was she who spoke up.
‘But Mr Mazaroff has already informed the authorities, only to be accorded the same response that I received.’
Tom looked at her, unable to believe his ears.
‘The DA’s office again?’
‘Well, yes, of course. I thought Leon’s evidence might make them think again about what I had told them. But they dismissed it. Said there had been no threat, and that it was most likely some hobo or tramp who stumbled across their path by accident. Leon was most offended. Weren’t you, my dear?’
Tom wasn’t sure Mazaroff entirely understood, but he got the gist of it.
‘I know difference between tramp and threat, between drunk man and dangerous man. This man was very frightening. Even how he walk is bad.’
Tom froze. ‘What was unusual about how he walked?’
‘One of the legs did not work good. It pulled on the ground, you know?’
‘Like a wounded animal,’ Mrs Ivers ventured. ‘That’s how Leon described it to me, Mr Collins.’
‘Wait, I show.’ Mazaroff jumped up from his seat again and mimed the distinctive perambulatory action of the assailant.
‘You’re one hell of an actor, Mr Mazaroff,’ Tom said, his mind spinning. ‘You’ve got that off to a tee.’