Felix Driscoll Redux

But I was wrong, only the deceased and I remained. Bobby had decamped. Well, I'd given him enough time. Maybe I viewed it as a minor atonement for my secret sin with Alena. Maybe he was more of a friend of mine than I'd thought. Besides, I'd talked to him long enough to know he wasn't going to tell me the truth.

I wanted to exit too but needed to know the identity of the dead man. The corpse wore only a pair of boxer shorts. I ducked back into the room with the bed. In a pair of pants tossed into a chair I found a wallet. The driver's license indicated the man on the kitchen floor to be Walter Hobbs of that address in Pasadena. Speaking of licenses, I needed to get in touch with the cops or be in danger of losing mine.

But I had somewhere to go first.

Slipping out the front door I got to my car and drove straight to Glendale. When I turned onto Robin's street I saw the flivver parked in her driveway. Went to the front door and knocked, my guts in knots. A minute passed. I knocked again and again no answer.

A locksmith pal had taught me the way key locks work. I keep a square of stiff plastic in my billfold; it opened her door handily enough. The gray cat met me in the front room, meowed at me. When I ignored it, it crouched down and began to clean its paws. No sign of the orange tab. I called Robin's name and got silence in return. Growing worried I lunged blindly into the house. I heard the shower water running in the bathroom. Through the steam I saw a shape moving behind the pebbled glass of the shower door. There was no way I would scare the hell out of Robin after I'd let myself into her home unbeknownst to her. Before retreating to the living room I did a little snooping and found her medication on top of a chest of drawers. She had been taking it ever since I'd known her. I hated it, it made her crazy. On the top shelf of her closet I found what I was afraid I'd find. I took it into the living room, laid it on the coffee table. I sat down on the couch. The cat continued to clean its paws while I waited. When the water in the bathroom shut off I detected the faint rhythmic clunk of a washing machine in the background. Sounds of movement came from the bedroom.

I coughed discreetly, "Hi, Robin, it's me. Me as in Felix. You have company."

She sounded puzzled, "Who's there?"

"It's me, Felix Driscoll. I'm in your living room."

From the bedroom I heard her exclaim: "What!"

Robin bolted into the living room wrapped in a terrycloth robe, her red hair a tangle, face devoid of make up, but she looked so good I knew how Ulysses felt when the sirens sang. My heart felt like a giant fist squeezed it when I first saw her face to face.

She got testy, but under the circumstances who could blame her? "Felix, what?"

"Hi, Robin," I grinned, foolishly. "Where's your orange cat?"

"It got run over." The subject of cats held no interest to her. Instead she asked, "What are you doing here?"

"We need to talk." Also needed to phone a murder in.

"Get out!"

"We talk first."

"I'll call some law."

"I don't think so."

"Oh, you don't? You're in my home. Get the hell out."

"Go ahead, call the cops. You'll be arrested for murder."

She babbled in a frightened stammer: "Exactly what are you talking about?"

"You putting a slug in Walter Hobbs an hour ago."

Robin went white under her California suntan. She opened her mouth to speak but no words poured forth.

"I'm going to have to tell the police," I said. "And I don't want to do that, Robin. I can lose my license if I don't."

She told me where I could put my license.

"Believe me, it's nothing personal," I said.

"Yeah, sure," she sneered. "You hate me because I left you."

"That's got nothing to do with nothing. It's bigger than that, you killed a man."

"How do you know?"

"I watched you go into Hobbs' house."

She stared at me in a fury about to be unleashed. The robe had parted to reveal some spectacular fleshy curves. Her beauty almost took my breath away.

"What can you possibly know?" Robin spat.

"I know enough."

"You may have been watching the house but you weren't inside."

"The cat gave you away."

"What are you talking about?"

"Alena and Bobby Glide both visited Hobbs today after you did."

She thought about that. "What makes you so sure I killed him and not one of them?"

"Walter Hobbs was dead before either one of them got there. I saw you leaving with the cat. The cat had walked in the dead man's blood and tracked it in the kitchen. See, the cat's still cleaning its paws. And that explains why you were showering in the afternoon. Washing your bloody hands clean, Robin?"

Even cursing me I desired her. Her eyes gleamed; I wondered how many pills she'd taken.

"Did you get blood on your clothes? Or bloody paw prints? Is that why you're doing a load of laundry?"

I reached across the couch to an end table and a phone. Robin watched in horror as I dialed.

"Who are you calling? Wait, baby, wait!" The robe fell open all the way as she removed the phone from my hand and disconnected the call.

I waited. "Oh, I'm baby now, am I?"

"Felix, please. I'll do anything." To prove it she shrugged out of the robe. She was still magnificent. "You don't have to do this."

The burden of Ulysses got heavier. "Yes," I said, "I do."

"The cops'll never believe you. It's what's called circumstantial evidence." After she spoke she saw the gun I'd laid on the coffee table for the first time.

I said, "A murder weapon is not circumstantial in a court of law."

Suddenly she seemed to be entertaining thoughts of grabbing the pistol, formerly hidden in her closet. When she made her play I smacked her. She fell hard on her magnificent bottom, breasts heaving. Her lip puffed up immediately but I hadn't struck her hard enough to draw blood. I guessed I was still in love with her or I'd've belted her into the middle of next week.

The brightness in her eyes had been replaced with disbelief. "You hit me!" she spat.

"Not hard enough to split your lip, babe. That fat lip'll be gone tomorrow." I scooped the pistol off the table and put it in my jacket pocket in case she got any more hostile notions.

I said, "You should have ditched the heater. Why didn't you?"

She said something concerning my mother and me. "Such talk, Robin. C'mon! Spill it!"

"I borrowed it from a friend."

"Meaning you had to return it? Once the deed was done and the owner had the gun back in his possession it could never be traced to you. The friend might tie in to an official investigation, but the murder weapon probably never would. Was that the idea?"

"Felix, remember old times. Just don't call the cops on me. Please." She came into my arms, squirmed against me. "We can be together again. I promise to make it good for you, baby."

Even counterfeit affection from Robin is hard to ignore. Only with great difficulty did I disentangle myself from her embrace. I wanted to believe that she still wanted me, wanted me back, but I knew better. My mind fought the knowledge. I probably always will be in love with her.

I found the willpower to say, "Robin, put your robe back on."

"And then what?"

"We talk about Bobby and Alena."

The cat had finished grooming. It made a lazy approach toward me, rubbed up against my pantsleg.

Robin picked her robe off the floor, belted it tightly.

She asked for a cigarette. I gave her one.

Then she began to talk.

*********

Night had fallen by the time I got back to the studio. The guard at the shack knew me and raised the gate for my car. Lights on tall steel poles blazed on many empty parking spaces. Among the two dozen or so cars remaining I spotted my client's Rolls in a reserved slot. I parked next to it. In the buildings ahead I saw lights on in a few windows.

I found Bobby seated at the desk in his office with a nearly empty bottle of whiskey alongside a bucket of melting ice. In the ashtray a pile of butts made a small mountain. The telephone was close to his left hand. He looked up from his Scotch on the rocks with a hopeful look on his face but the expression on mine chased his look away. Neither one of us spoke. I went over to the window overlooking the back lot and thrust it open. The tired palms didn't look so tired in the coolness of the evening. The gladiators had all gone home for the day. In the valley beyond the orange trees cast spectral shadows.

The night air smelled good in the stale office. I selected a shot glass from the sideboard and helped myself to his whiskey.

Silence hung between us like a zeppelin.

I tossed my shot back neat, trudged back to the open window. As I stared out into the night I asked Bobby without looking at him, "Are you getting drunk?"

"Chasing away my problems."

"It's past quitting time."

"What have I got to go home to?" he snorted, feeling sorry for himself. He said as an afterthought: "Hey, Felix, I'm sorry I beat feet on you this afternoon."

"I can forgive that." There were other things I couldn't.

"Have you talked with Alena?"

"No. Have you?"

"She ain't takin' my calls."

"I found out why. At least I think I did."

That got his attention. "Don't keep me in suspense. Tell me."

I kept looking out the window. A prop man with a dolly opened a set of double doors in the big building and went inside. "Do you know an actor named Walter Hobbs?"

"Name doesn't sound familiar, should I know him?"

"Maybe not by name." I looked over my shoulder at him.

His face got dark. "Was that the stiff in the house?"

"Right. The house you followed Alena to this afternoon."

"So what if I did?"

"Bobby, you hired me to handle this. Why didn't you let me handle it like we agreed and you keep out of the picture?"

He fiddled with a cigarette, lighting it before he answered me. "I'm eaten up with jealousy, I can't help it. After you left the lot today I decided to drive by Alena's house. Before I got there I saw her Caddie on Mulholland. I stuck to her like glue."

I turned back and looked out the window some more. "A Rolls Royce is a real inconspicuous car, great for tailing."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Why'd you hire me anyway, Bobby?"

"You're the only private detective I know, it seemed like a good plan at the time. I thought maybe you could help." Bobby sounded anxious, "Was Alena really seeing that guy? The dead guy?" Pushing away from the window I settled into the same chair I'd occupied that morning. "You know she was, but you have nothing to be jealous of now."

"Why, because the punk's dead?"

I nodded. "Apparently the late Mr. Hobbs was quite a Romeo."

He snorted again, "Not anymore."

"True. The man's dead. I guess one of his girlfriends caught him cheating with another one of his girlfriends. Did you know Alena's friend Robin was in love with Hobbs? She was at his house a lot. She would even take her cat with her when she stayed for days at a time. Alena met Hobbs through Robin. Then Alena and Hobbs started to see each other behind Robin's back."

"Behind mine too!" interjected Bobby.

"You know how Robin is, she thinks she's God's gift to men. If any boyfriend of hers had something going on on the side and she found out about it, she's capable of killing him in a jealous rage."

"Are you saying Robin killed the guy?"

"She has a terrible temper."

"What can you say, Felix? She's a redhead."

"Her medication has severe side effects. Depression, anger, mood swings. You know about her medicine." It wasn't a question.

Bobby said, "I know about the pills. Do you think that's what made her flip her lid?"

"That, and her king-sized ego. The thought of being thrown over for another girl, especially a movie star like Alena, would eat away at her. Not to mention the fact Alena's successful in pictures; Robin's only had two or three bit parts. Robin was as jealous about Hobbs two-timing her as you were about Alena."

Although the Scotch had loosened Bobby's tongue he offered no comment. He clinked the cubes around in his glass, poured another drink. The skin of his face sagged like a drunk's.

I continued, "There's a defense attorney in Santa Monica who I convinced Robin to hire. I just got back from his office, he's going to surrender her tomorrow to an assistant D.A. I owe a favor to. At her trial this lawyer can get a lot of mileage out of her prescription medicine with expert witnesses."

He drank his drink in one gulp, wiped his mouth with back of his hand, "You're a helluva guy, Felix."

"So I guess the case is over now. It turned out pretty good for you, all things considered."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well for one, the guy who was hauling Alena's ashes is now out of the picture. Permanently. And Alena lost a lover she can never get back. Maybe she'll look you up again and things will be happy ever after. Just like in the movies."

Even though my last statement had been sarcastic the thought seemed to cheer him; a smile brightened his dark face. "I never thought about it like that."

"Didn't you?"

The smile went away, "Didn't I what?"

"You knew about Hobbs all along, knew who he was, where he lived. You were lurking in his backyard whether you tailed Alena over there or not. I saw Alena drive up, you weren't around. The way I remember it you came in through the back door. You'd been manipulating Robin and wanted to see how certain events played out."

"Felix, you're blowing smoke. What do you mean manipulate?"

"You put her up to it. You set things in motion, you knew about the unpredictable nature of the medicine she took. You're the one who told Robin that Alena was playing house with her boyfriend. You're the friend who lent her the gun that killed Walter Hobbs."

I took the gun in question from my coat pocket and plunked it down next to the Scotch bottle. Bobby looked blankly at it, then down at his feet for a long time. I wondered what he found so fascinating down there.

He finally looked up, "That pistol doesn't belong to me."

"I think the cops will say otherwise."

"You're going to rat on me to the cops? I hired you, I'm your boss!"

"I believe the correct term is accessory to murder."

The door flew open behind me and two bruisers marched in. I was halfway out of my seat when I heard Bobby say, "Escort this chump off the lot and don't be gentle about it."

That's when the fisticuffs began. I'd put the first joker down with a quick combination when the second one raked the barrel of his revolver across the side of my head. Blood streamed down my face. I started to fall but with great effort remained upright. Bobby pushed past me and out the door, with his gun. I'd taken the precaution of unloading it before presenting it to him but I couldn't let him get away with state's evidence. The goon raised his gun for a second swipe at my cranium and I caught him a good one in the midriff with my fist.

Vomit spewed from his mouth as he bent double and danced a painful little jig but kept his pins under him. I had no more time to fool with him so I grabbed a fistful of .32 from under my left armpit. He'd pulled his iron first so as far as I was concerned fair's fair. None too gently I put a goose egg on his skull. He hit the carpet like a sack of cement. The first goon I'd punched tried to stagger to his feet but I pressed the snout of the .32 against his forehead. I reached inside his coat and relieved him of his revolver. As I tucked it in my waistband I wagged my gun in admonishment at him: "Stay put, tough guy."

I snatched his partner's pistol off the floor then chased after Bobby. As I ran I threw that gun into the first trashcan I came to, the one by the flirtatious receptionist's desk. I removed the revolver from my waistband because it interfered with my running and ran with a gun in each hand. Bobby had a big head start on me. As I slammed through the glass front doors of the office I saw him two football field lengths ahead of me, making for the parking lot. If he lit out in his Rolls I might never catch him.

I knew yelling at him wouldn't make him stop; also robbing me of precious breath I needed for our little sprint. Blood got into my left eye from the nick above my temple; I figured I had a concussion but forced myself to pick up the pace.

When Bobby reached his car he raised his unloaded gun and pulled the trigger several times before realizing his folly. Hurling the gun at me he began fumbling with his car keys. The murder weapon skittered past me on the asphalt, Bobby missed by a mile. While he tried to open the driver's door of the Rolls I closed the distance between us. I hoped he'd flood the damn thing trying to start it in his haste but no such luck. The engine roared to life.

With fifty yards to go I reholstered my .32, went down on one knee and took aim with the long-barreled revolver. Never for an instant was Bobby my target, I wanted to puncture the tires. By the time I'd spent all six shots I had flattened both of them on the passenger side. That didn't stop Bobby. He steered the car right at me and gave it the gas. Straight towards me the Rolls shot like a rocket.

I stood like a deer frozen in headlights. At the last minute I flung the empty revolver like a knife at the windshield before I jumped out of the path of danger. Something told me as I rolled painfully across the hard ground that Bobby swerved to avoid hitting me at the last minute. The tires squealed and the engine revved before a mighty tearing of metal reached my ears. The car had crashed into one of the light poles in the parking lot. The pole tilted precariously but the light still shone, illuminating Bobby's desperate face as he bailed out of the car.

He scurried toward the huge cinderblock edifice.

"Damn it, Bobby," I howled at the top of my voice as I struggled back to my feet.

He ran and I ran and I didn't feel much like running just then. I wanted to just sit down and have a nice peaceful heart attack. On I went though. Our footfalls on the asphalt echoed in the night. The double doors of the soundstage building swung open spilling light and people into the parking lot. Bobby pushed past the onlookers and vanished from sight inside.

The Silver Cinema contract players apparently recognized one of the studio's producers and moved to thwart my pursuit. Without missing a step I reached into my jacket. It's amazing what miracles a madman with blood smeared on his face, shouting and waving a handgun can perform. The employees parted like the Red Sea.

Unchallenged I passed through the doors into the cavernous building. I glanced from side to side looking for Bobby. Except for one brightly-lighted section where a late scene was being shot the rest of the place stood in total darkness. I'd been in that building once or twice before and knew a manmade catacomb of cameras and stage sets lay ahead of me. Bobby, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

Heading back to the double doors I found the electrical junction boxes and systematically threw levers until the whole joint was floodlit. One burly character in overalls looked like he intended to undo my handiwork until I gave him one of my meaner looks.

"I'm gonna call the cops, fella," he threatened.

"Don't just stand around jabbering, do it," I urged. That shut him up. I asked him, "Is there any back way out of here?"

He saw I had put my automatic away. After hesitating a moment he shook his head: "It's all locked up tight as a drum except for these doors here," he jerked a thumb behind him at the entrance Bobby and I had used.

"What's this all about?" demanded several of the cast and crew.

"Don't let Bobby Glide leave this building," I ordered.

"Why?" they clamored.

"Police business," I said and left it at that. "Somebody call the law if you haven't already."

As I stalked back into the bowels of the building I heard much mumbling and grumbling. Over my shoulder I barked, "And leave all the lights on!"