I had a few free hours on my hands, so I retrieved my car, and drove west on Sommerset. I left the windows open and the wind buffeted me, causing my shirt to flutter and my tie to dance. When the houses started to have enough acreage to farm on, I turned south on Montgomery, following it down the hill to the area San Angelinos called Soso, what the real estate men called Harper’s Promise. Despite the ambivalent name this was a fine neighborhood with good-sized Victorian-style houses that a previous generation of movie stars had bought as starter homes before moving up in size and elevation. The only surprising thing was that Chloë Rose and her writer husband hadn’t moved up themselves in the years since she’d displaced champagne as America’s favorite French import.
I turned onto Highlawn Drive. They lived at the corner of Montgomery and Highlawn in a medium-sized house. The Montgomery side of the property was lined with a protective hedge two stories high, meant to afford some privacy, but the front lawn was open to view from the street. I drove past the house to the end of the block, made a K-turn, and parked on the street three houses down. Then I walked back along the sidewalk with my hands in my pockets.
Their Victorian was gaudy and ornate, and did not belong on the West Coast. The main color was purple, offset by white trim and trellises at every edge that could be decorated. The wide white pillars at the main entrance looked thick enough to give Samson a challenge. They supported a flat second-story porch with a screened entrance. There were wicker lawn furnishings on the porch with rain-stained canvas cushions that looked unused. Anyone who wanted to get some sun at this house would use the backyard, out of view.
The flowerbeds were as gaudy as the house, a choice the landscape designer probably thought was complimentary. There were crocuses and lilies and daffodils and a few others that I couldn’t name. They were arranged in a concentric kidney bean pattern to either side of the walk. There was a detached garage that appeared to be a late addition. While it was also painted purple and white, its design was too utilitarian for the Victorians, practically a shed. The doors were open to reveal a maroon LaSalle coupe and an empty spot for a second car.
The backyard was much the same as the front, only the flowerbeds here were butterfly wings. An automatic sprinkler ratcheted around in a ticking pattern, keeping time with long arcs of water. Since I’d left my raincoat home, I decided to skip the backyard for now and check the garage first. It was built on a slab of poured concrete that looked practically scrubbed clean. There wasn’t even a spot of oil where the missing car should have been. The walls were covered in pegboards with hooks to hold every tool a servant might need around the property. A wooden bench against the back wall was lined with mason jars holding screws, nails, bolts, hinges, and other hardware. I went to the coupe and opened the door. The registration was in the name of “Clotilde-ma-Fleur Rosenkrantz.” I could see why she had chosen a stage name.
“That’s about enough,” a man said behind me.
I pulled out of the car, but didn’t close the door. A short, squat Mexican stood backlit in the entrance of the garage. He wore a red velvet dinner jacket that was too big for him and matching pants that were cuffed at the bottom. His hair was combed straight back from his forehead and plastered in place. He was a young man, old enough to show a little class but not so old that he couldn’t best you in a fight. Just your average Mexican. The Luger in his right hand didn’t hurt his chances either.
I brought my hands around to where he could see them. “You know, if you point those things at people, somebody’s liable to get hurt.”
“Who are you?” He had almost no accent.
“My name’s Dennis Foster. It’s all right. I’m working for Miss Rose.”
“Nobody works for the Rosenkrantzes but me, and I don’t know you.”
“I just got hired today, at the studio,” I said.
His gun held steady. “Try another one.”
“I don’t have another one. That one’s the truth. You mind pointing that gun somewhere other than at me? This suit doesn’t need any more holes in it.”
“Move away from the car. Close the door. And then get off the property before I call the police.”
“I get it. You’ve got the gun, I have to do what you tell me. But if you were really to shoot me, whose side do you think the police would be on?”
His dark face grew darker.
“Look, we work for the same people. No need to act tough.”
“I’ve got my instructions,” he said. “Miss Rose was very clear: I am to watch for people that don’t belong here. Now I find you in her car. What does that sound like to you?”
“It sounds like the same thing the studio hired me for. To look for people that don’t belong around here. I’m a private detective.”
He was still unconvinced. “Nobody said anything to me about a dick.”
“Well, maybe you’re not privy to every last thing that goes on. Hell, maybe I should ask who you are. How do I know you work for the Rosenkrantzes?”
He didn’t like that. “Get going. Scram.” When I didn’t, his voice rose. “I said get out of here.”
“Sure. If they have you, what would they need to hire a dick for? You’re tough no matter which side of the bed you got up on.”
“Enough talking.” He moved the gun to call attention to it in case I had forgotten it was there.
“Look, I’ll show you my license. I’m going for my wallet here.” He held the gun out further as I reached for my pocket. I got out the Photostat of my license and held it towards him.
He took a few steps forward, turning his body so that the gun stayed out of my reach as he took my license. He resumed his position and then looked at it. “This doesn’t prove anything. You could have gotten that anywhere, and even if it’s yours, it doesn’t tell me who you’re working for.”
I held my hands up in defeat. “You’re right. I didn’t know they made Mexicans as smart as you. I thought you were just good for a little music and handing out drinks.”
“You think that’s funny?” His accent showed more when he got angry.
“Not especially,” I said. “Listen, if you’ll aim that peashooter somewhere else and give the license back, I’ll be on my way. We can sort this out later when your boss is at home.”
He twitched the gun in the direction of the open garage door but didn’t lower it.
“My license?”
He tossed it at my chest. I caught it on the rebound and pocketed it.
“Out,” he said.
I edged along with my back to the LaSalle and my hands held high. I’d left the car door open. He followed me with his gun. He was intent on his job.
When I stepped out into the sun, the Mexican seemed to disappear in the shadows of the garage. I assumed the gun was still trained on me. I wondered what his duties actually were. He wasn’t driving the car that was gone and he wasn’t dressed for yard work. He made a good watchdog, though. It kind of made me wonder why they needed me.
The sprinkler had finished its artificial rainfall, and now it was just a quiet neighborhood without a sound except for the occasional car going by or airplane overhead or delivery being made. It was a nice part of town to live in, safe but not too presumptuous. I strolled along the drive, taking my time about it, just to give the Mexican something else to be angry about. I heard the LaSalle’s door slam and then the sound of the garage doors closing. Out on the street, there wasn’t a single person in evidence. The whole neighborhood looked like a set. I walked along to my car, got in, and started the motor.