I can’t believe it! Emerson!” Hearst ran his hands over the wave of gray-blond hair that fell over his forehead. “Are you sure? Tell me everything again.”
Hearst had now fully embraced Freddie as his principal confidant following his unraveling of the blackmail case, so much so that he had sent a rather intoxicated Waters back to Los Angeles, confused and none too pleased with his subordinate. But it was taking much longer than Freddie had anticipated to convince Hearst of Emerson’s guilt. It had been midday when he started, and now it was late afternoon, not more than an hour before the actresses’ competition was slated to begin.
Freddie was getting frustrated, and he imagined that Lulu, as she waited for news, was as well. His primary fear, of course, was that Emerson could very well kill again if action weren’t taken soon. But convincing his employer that the husband of one of his closest friends was potentially a serial killer was deeply problematic. Freddie would have liked to go straight to the police, but he desperately needed Hearst’s support. If Hearst didn’t believe him, he’d quash even the soundest investigation.
For at least the fourth time, Freddie, attempting to quell his aggravation, presented the evidence that Lulu had gathered. He once again named and quickly eliminated all of the other suspects he had considered, from Docky to Sal to Marion herself.
“Now, Marion I would almost believe,” Hearst said with what sounded to Freddie like grudging respect. “I joke, of course, though hell hath no fury like a woman scorned for getting older. But if she wanted that part, or any blasted movie she desired, she could have had it. I’d buy that woman the sun if it would make her happy. She did ask, once, about this role, but truthfully I didn’t think she’d be quite right, and I suppose I hinted that. She never mentioned it again. But if she’d pressed me, I would have made sure she got it, whatever her age. But Emerson! I know he has his . . . issues. In my experience, all geniuses do. But murder? It’s . . . it’s too much. I can’t believe it.”
“The facts all fit,” Freddie insisted. “He had a clear motive to kill Juliette, who was blackmailing him over their love affair and that letter. He went into her room and searched it. He was heard fighting with her. And as for Dolores, he all but admitted it, and his possessions were found at the crime scene.”
“But what about that colored man . . . ?”
“No, it wasn’t him. He was here to propose to his girl. Suffice it to say I have ample evidence of his innocence.”
“If you’re wrong, and I direct the police to arrest an innocent man . . .”
“I’m sure of this, Mr. Hearst. As sure as can be. We’ve gone over every possibility, and Emerson is the only one who fits.”
“You are aware what this will do to Anita Loos? Between the scandal, shame, and humiliation, she will be utterly devastated. I love my friend, and I would do anything to shield her from the pain she will experience once she finds out,” Hearst said darkly.
“Mr. Hearst, you’re not responsible for the actions of a deranged murderer. I’m certain you will do everything you can to spare Anita, but right now the most important thing is to stop it from happening again.”
At last Hearst agreed to bring in the police. Soon Emerson would be judging the competition in plain sight. When it was over Hearst would summon him and he could be quietly arrested.
“What is it with writers?” Hearst asked as Freddie left to find Lulu. “They’re all just a bunch of arrogant drunks and nut jobs.”
“Well, I don’t like to generalize, but I’d bet it’s a curse living with so many people in your head,” Freddie said, and went in search of Lulu.
But he couldn’t find her, and no one he asked had seen her. Veronica was practically frantic. “She goes on in an hour, and it’s going to take nearly that long to lace her into her corset!”
Paul stepped swiftly into his bedroom and locked the door. “You shouldn’t have done it, Lulu,” he admonished, clicking his tongue. “You’ve been a bad girl, poking through my things. I let you in on some of my secrets, but now you’re snooping without my permission. You’ll have to make it up to me in some way.” He stroked his chin. “Let’s see. What shall we do?”
Lulu felt on the verge of panic. Her head swam, and the edges of her vision grew blurry. I can’t faint, she told herself. I can’t be one of those dumb girls who passes out at the first sign of danger! No. I just need to get out of this room. Now.
“Why did you do it?” Lulu asked, feigning composure. How could she have been so wrong about Emerson, swayed by circumstantial evidence? Everything that had looked like proof before suddenly seemed flimsy and insubstantial. John Emerson might be a bit deranged, but it was Paul who had the truly sick mind of a killer.
Paul took a step nearer. The desk was still between them, giving Lulu a small measure of comfort.
“Why?” He cocked his head. “As my mother used to say, because ‘Y’ is a crooked letter.” He chuckled. “You beautiful, ignorant child. You think you can reach into the depths of your soul and drag out art, but your passions are infantile compared to mine! You don’t have the capacity to understand what I do. How I feel.”
His voice was rising in a manic tone, and Lulu thought her best bet might be to appeal to his artistic vanity. If she could just slip past him and out the door . . .
“I’ve always thought writers were something almost magical,” she began, but he surged toward her, slamming his palms on the desk between them.
“Shut up, you lying tramp! You’re just a mimic, a pantomiming floozy. How can you possibly understand what I do—what I am!”
To her horror, Paul picked up a letter opener that was lying on the desk. Her breath began to come faster as he pointed it at her.
“Paul,” she said in a conciliatory voice, “I’m sure you didn’t mean to . . .”
“You presume to judge me? You . . . you actress!” He spat the word as if it were the ultimate insult.
He shook the letter opener toward her face, and she cringed back out of reach, but was afraid to run and leave the relative safety of the desk’s barrier. “Writers mean nothing to people like you. All you actresses are the same. I create beauty, power, passion, and you think your ridiculous little nattering can express the glory that I manifest from thin air? I make a world that is a thousand times more real than the one you know. You are nothing but shadows pantomiming the truth.”
“Please, Paul,” Lulu said desperately as she stared into his crazed eyes. How had he kept it hidden before, all that demented rage? She grasped the heavy paperweight on the desk. It felt solid and substantial in her hands . . . but would it possibly keep him from stabbing her? If she was only brave enough, fast enough, to run for the door.
Then, just as he started to move, there was a loud staccato knock, and someone pushed the door open.
Mrs. Mortimer stepped inside and said, “Mr. Raleigh, the other judges are waiting for you.”
“Look out. He has a knife!” Lulu shrieked.
Paul whirled toward the housekeeper, the long, sharp letter opener in his hand. For some reason Lulu thought he looked almost confused. He looked down at the weapon as if he couldn’t believe he was holding it. “I’m not . . . ,” he stammered. “I wouldn’t . . .” But he was still pointing the knifelike letter opener at the housekeeper.
Then Mrs. Mortimer snatched up the marble lamp and wielded it like a club, smashing Paul in the side of the head. He crumpled to the ground, his hair matted with blood.
“Oh, thank goodness!” Lulu cried as she ran around the desk and threw her arms around the housekeeper. She babbled in her relief. “I found his papers, the most horrible things . . . he’s the murderer . . . he was going to kill me . . . he’s crazy . . . you saved me!”
Mrs. Mortimer stood stiffly in her embrace for a moment, then patted her on the back exactly twice.
“Are you implying he killed those two girls?” the housekeeper asked with a tremor in her voice.
“I thought it was John Emerson. I thought I had so much evidence against him. But when I found those horrible things Paul wrote, I realized it must be him.”
“This is monstrous! He actually tried to kill you?” Mrs. Mortimer asked, looking down at Paul sprawled on the ground, bleeding onto the Persian carpet.
“Well . . . ,” Lulu began. She certainly thought he had at first. “He yelled and came at me with that sharp letter opener.” Now that she thought about it, Paul had seemed to be gesticulating with it rather than threatening her.
Mrs. Mortimer nodded coldly.
“Shouldn’t I go and tell someone?”
“He’s not going anywhere, and you need something to fortify you, poor girl.” It sounded a little strange to hear sympathy coming from the housekeeper. She was usually so brusque. “Drag him over to the chair and I’ll find something to tie him with.”
Lulu was so flustered that she let herself be guided. It was much easier to let the competent housekeeper take charge than to try to think for herself in this dizzying moment. Gingerly, she grabbed Paul under the armpits, but when she tried to haul him toward the chair, she only managed to shift him a few inches. She didn’t like to think of herself as weak, but it was almost impossible to shift the dead weight. Not, she thought with some relief, that he was literally dead weight.
Lulu tugged again and gave a grunt of frustration. Mrs. Mortimer looked up from rifling through the drawers for a bondage-suitable tie. “Oh, shove over, girl. Let me do that.” She caught Paul around the waist and manhandled him up into the chair. Lulu was amazed at her strength, and said so. “Those who work for a living are strong,” Mrs. Mortimer said in that way that people who frequently use the same life mottos do. Scripted and self-convinced.
Lulu thought—but did not say—that her mother had worked for a living and was never that strong.
Mrs. Mortimer didn’t give her time to think. “I’ll tie him so you don’t get blood on your clean clothes.” After she did so, she took Lulu’s arm and led her down to her private office off the kitchen. Everyone was ready for the talent show, and they didn’t even meet any of the staff en route. “Let’s make you a nice cup of tea. After you’ve calmed down, we can call the police.”
Lulu sat down gratefully. It was over at last! The murderer was not only discovered, but captured, unconscious, and bound, and no more girls would be gruesomely murdered. She sighed with relief, and didn’t even notice when Mrs. Mortimer locked the door before she started boiling the water for tea.
Freddie’s frantic first thought was that Lulu had decided to confront Emerson, or that the suspect had gotten wind of her investigation of him. With sickening dread Freddie sought Emerson out, only to find him already under unobtrusive guard by one of Hearst’s undercover men. Hearst was discreetly keeping an eye on him until the police could get the arrest warrant ready. He breathed a deep sigh of relief. So Lulu was safe. But where could she be?
He decided to check one more time in case Lulu had gone back to her room. On the way through the grounds he found a quieter, rather pensive Patricia taking Charlie and Gandhi for a sunset walk. “Patricia, have you seen Lulu?” he asked.
“Not since the big family reunion,” she replied in something of a daze.
“You doing okay?”
She shrugged. “Not much is going to change, I suppose. But any psychoanalyst will tell you that it’s best to get secrets out into the open.” Now that he knew her real age, he wondered how anyone had ever believed that the precocious girl was only ten. Well, he thought, people believe what they’re told. When a credible source tells you something is true, you accept it.
“If you see her, let her know I’m looking for her.”
Then, as if recharged by the notion that a mystery was afoot, she seemed to perk up. “Golly, the show’s just about to start, isn’t it? Does she have stage fright? We can help you look for her, can’t we, fellas?” She reached down to pat the dogs. “Charlie has been longing for her, as always, and wanders about whining like a disheveled sad sack whenever she’s not around. Charlie! Where’s Lulu? Find Lulu! Seek!”
Freddie knew that Charlie couldn’t have any idea what Patricia was talking about, but the little dog became immediately excited at the mention of Lulu’s name, dancing on his hind paws as Patricia encouraged him. Freddie smiled indulgently at the endearing little terrier.
“Go on! Where’s Lulu? Go find her! Good boy!” And Charlie was off and running, dragging the portly Gandhi along reluctantly in his wake. Freddie and Patricia ran after him. He headed back to the main house, yipping madly. Once inside he circled, sniffing the air and snuffling at the floor. Then, with a little growl, he ran for the stairs that led down toward the kitchen and the housekeeper’s and butler’s offices.