Sheri Cobb South Page 6

  “Whoa, there! I never said I wouldn’t do it; I just don’t like being railroaded, that’s all. A fellow likes to think he makes his own decisions.”

  “Then you will?” Frankie pleaded. “Please?”

  Mitch made the mistake of looking into her doe-like brown eyes, and knew he was fighting a losing battle. “If I don’t, you’ll only make a mess of things and probably end up in the slammer, so I guess I’d better come along for the ride. Just tell me one thing.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Why is this so important to you? After all, you hardly knew the man.”

  “You saw what the filming was like this afternoon, after—it—happened. If there’s anything fishy about Mr. Cohen’s death, it needs to be settled, so the studio can get back to normal as soon as possible. The show must go on, and all that, you know.”

  “It would go on just as smoothly if any monkey business was swept under the rug—maybe more so,” Mitch pointed out. “I would have thought Mama’s daughter would have been taught that a lady doesn’t make waves.”

  “Yes, but Daddy is a judge, and Daddy’s daughter believes that a murderer—if there is one—should not be allowed to go unpunished.”

  He regarded her with a curious half smile. “You’re something else, Frances Foster, you know that?”

  Coloring slightly, Frankie looked down and twisted her gloved hands in her lap. “Maybe you’d better call me Frankie. All my friends do, and so far you’ve been an awfully good friend.”

  Privately, Mitch thought he was a damn fool, and wondered if he would live to rue the day he’d hopped aboard a westbound train and met a sweet Southern girl with stars in her eyes.

  Chapter 6

  The Desk Set (1957)

  Directed by Walter Lang

  Starring Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn

  Mitch made an illegal but highly effective U-turn at the next light, and soon they were rolling up to the studio gates.

  “Take off your gloves,” Mitch commanded.

  “What?”

  “Don’t ask questions, just do it. Take off your gloves and put ‘em in the box.” He nodded in the direction of the glove compartment built into the dashboard.

  Frankie gave him a puzzled look but obeyed without protest as they drew even with the security guard’s booth.

  “ ‘Fraid I can’t let you in, kids,” the guard said. “We’re shutting down for the day. There’s been a death, you know. Old Arthur himself.”

  “We know, we were there. Only Miss Foster here—” He indicated Frankie with a jerk of the thumb and an exasperated tone. “—forgot her gloves. Sheesh—women!”

  Enlightenment dawned, and Frankie was quick to take her cue. “I was upset,” she protested. “You would be, too, if Arthur Cohen had just fallen dead at your feet!”

  “Okay, I guess I can let you in for a minute,” the guard said reluctantly as the gate swung open. “Just don’t be long.”

  “We won’t. I know exactly where I left them,” Frankie assured him with perfect truth.

  A moment later, they were in, and only a few minutes after that, Frankie and Mitch were standing in a room that resembled a giant closet, working their way through row after row of clothes of every description. It didn’t take long to locate a dingy coverall for Mitch, although this strained a bit through the shoulders when he tried it on for size. Frankie, however, was a different story, as the women’s wardrobe boasted such an extensive selection. Mitch had high hopes for a leftover costume from Parisian Follies of 1934 consisting of a form-fitting black dress with a very short full skirt and a frilly apron of white organza, but Frankie, seeing this, merely rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the racks of clothes.

  She finally settled on a frumpy yet functional gray dress and chunky black shoes with low heels. Standing before the large mirror, she held it up to her chest and examined it for fit.

  “I’d better check out the locks on those doors,” Mitch said in a rare display of tact, and left the room, allowing her the opportunity to try on her borrowed plumes in privacy. She soon had the satisfaction of seeing that the dress did fit, if one overlooked a slight bagginess about the bodice. Not that it mattered; in an industry based on beauty, no one would look twice at such a dowdy creature. She quickly stripped off the dress and dressed again in her own clothes before Mitch returned.

  Their mission completed, they climbed back into Mitch’s borrowed car and left the studio for the second time in less than an hour. Frankie made a point of putting her gloves back on, and even waggled her fingers at the security guard as they passed through the gate.

  “So far, so good,” said Mitch, wheeling the Model A Ford into the street. “I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock. What are you going to tell the girls back at the Studio Club?”

  “As little as possible. Oh, I’ll have to tell them Mr. Cohen is dead—that’ll be all over town by morning! And I guess I’ll have to give Kathleen some explanation of why I’m going out tonight dressed like someone’s cleaning lady.” Her brown eyes grew round as a new thought occurred to her. “Mitch, do you think Kathleen might have seen something? She was on her way to see Mr. Cohen only an hour or two before he died.”

  “You scoffed at the notion when I suggested it,” he reminded her.

  “I scoffed at the notion that Kathleen had anything to do with it,” Frankie retorted. “But she might have seen someone suspicious lurking around his office, or noticed Mr. Cohen acting strangely, or—oh, anything.”

  Mitch shrugged as he drew up next to the curb in front of the Frankie’s boarding house. “Couldn’t hurt to ask. See you at nine, okay?”

  Frankie agreed, although somewhat absentmindedly. She snatched up the frumpy dress and shoes and ran inside, eager to collar her roommate. When she opened the door to the lounge, however, she discovered the Studio Club’s other residents had ideas of their own. She had hardly closed the door behind her before they demanded, “What happened? We heard all about it on the radio. Is Arthur Cohen really dead?”

  Frankie sighed. “If you heard it on the radio, you probably know more than I do. It was awful! He came staggering in during filming and fell practically at my feet. The ambulance came and took him away, and nobody would tell us anything at all. What are they saying killed him?”

  “Either a heart attack or a stroke,” Roxie said. “They won’t know for sure without an autopsy.”

  Arching one plucked eyebrow, Pauline regarded the gray dress draped over Frankie’s arm. “Have you been shopping, Frances?” she purred. “I hope you got it on sale.”

  “I—I have a late audition,” Frankie stammered, and headed for the stairs.

  Kathleen entered their room only a few minutes behind her. “What sort of audition is it, Frances?” she asked in her soft British accent.

  “Call me Frankie,” she reminded her roommate. “As for the audition, I don’t know all the details.” Feeling that some sort of explanation was called for, she added, “I don’t know if they’ll finish The Virgin Queen or not, now that Mr. Cohen is dead. I figure I’d better start looking around for a new role.”

  Kathleen sat on the edge of the bed, and reached for Frankie’s hand. “I don’t know quite how to say this, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea, going on an audition so late at night. You haven’t been in Hollywood very long, so perhaps you’re not aware that some ‘auditions’ are little more than an opportunity for an unscrupulous producer or director to get inside a girl’s underpants.”

  Frankie blushed at such plain speaking. And she’d always heard the British were reticent! Still, Kathleen clearly expected an answer, and Frankie was very much afraid she might insist on accompanying her. Taking the gray dress by its shoulders, she shook it out, displaying it in all its frumpiness.

  “I don’t think anyone is very likely to have improper designs on me dressed in this,” she said. “Besides, Mitch is coming with me. He’s driving me to the studio.”

  Kathleen’s brow
cleared. “Oh, if he’s going to be with you, then that’s okay.”

  Frankie was a bit annoyed at the suggestion that Mitch’s mere presence somehow made a girl instantly respectable, but she bit her tongue and sat down beside Kathleen on the bed as if settling in for a long session of girl talk. “So, wasn’t it awful about Mr. Cohen? Did you ever get to see him?”

  “No, there was someone else in his office.”

  “Kathleen!” Frankie’s eyes widened. “Whoever was in Mr. Cohen’s office at that time may have been the one who killed him!”

  “Killed him?” Kathleen echoed in alarm. “I thought he died of a heart attack!”

  “That’s what they’re saying,” Frankie admitted grudgingly. “That, or a stroke. But I’m not so sure.” She recounted the suspicions she’d voiced to Mitch: the quarrel between the two brothers, the strange odor, and the bizarre behavior Arthur Cohen had exhibited just before his collapse.

  “Anyway, that’s what this dress is really for,” she concluded. “Mitch and I are going back to the studio tonight to have a look around.”

  “What exactly are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know,” Frankie confessed. “I only hope I’ll know it when I see it.”

  “You will be careful, won’t you?”

  “I promise.”

  Having unburdened herself to her roommate, Frankie found it was a relief to have a confidante. When, shortly before nine o’clock, she began the transformation from starlet to cleaning lady, Kathleen was eager to assist, helping fasten the two rows of buttons that held the dress closed in the front and even locating a hair net for confining Frankie’s too-stylish curls. And when nine o’clock came, Kathleen sat with Frankie in the now deserted lounge, listening for the sound of Mitch’s car.

  Frankie didn’t invite him in, since the Studio Club had strict rules regarding male visitors, but opened the door as soon as he rang the bell.

  “You look ravishing,” he told her, grinning broadly.

  “You’re two minutes late,” she scolded, trying not to notice the way his faded blue work shirt strained across his broad shoulders.

  “Sorry about that. Finding a suitable ride took a bit longer than I’d intended.” He led the way to a white van with “Johnson’s Janitorial Service” emblazoned on the side panel, and threw open the passenger door with a flourish. “My lady, your chariot awaits.”

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Let’s just say I borrowed it from a friend of a friend.”

  “I see,” said Frankie, scrambling into the passenger seat. “And does this ‘friend’ know it’s missing?”

  “Ah, but it won’t be missing by morning.” Mitch slammed the door shut behind her and climbed behind the wheel. “If you’re ready, we’ll be on our way.”

  There was almost no traffic at this hour, and they reached the studio in record time. Mitch drew the van up beside the gate, where the night watchman sat dozing in his shack. When Mitch rapped on the window, the slumberer awoke in mid-snore and opened the gate with the too-eager air of one trying to conceal previous negligence.

  “So far, so good,” Mitch muttered once the gate had clanged shut behind them. He pressed his foot to the gas pedal, and soon braked to a stop at the front door of the Monumental Pictures offices.

  “Shouldn’t we park somewhere a little less conspicuous?” Frankie wondered aloud. “Maybe behind the building or at least in the shadow of the trees.”

  “We don’t want to look suspicious.” Mitch had already jumped down from the van to remove a collection of mops and brooms from the back of the vehicle. “Here, do you want a broom or a mop?”

  Frankie took a broom and followed Mitch to the front door, holding it across her chest like a weapon as he picked the lock.

  He grinned at her. “You know, it would almost be worth it to get caught, just to see if you’d really use that thing.”

  “Just hurry, will you?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  A moment later they were inside. Mitch clicked on the light in the foyer, and Frankie squinted against the sudden brightness.

  “Do you really think that’s wise?”

  “We have to act like we have a legitimate reason to be here, remember? I don’t think too many cleaning crews go about their business in the dark.”

  They made their way down the hall to Arthur Cohen’s office. Frankie watched over his shoulder as Mitch worked his particular brand of magic on the door, and soon it swung open.

  “Why do I get the feeling you didn’t learn that in college?” Frankie asked with mingled disapproval and awe.

  Mitch shrugged. “What can I say? I have a well-rounded education.”

  He flipped the light switch, and Arthur Cohen’s private office was revealed, sinister in its very normalcy. The two upholstered chairs where they’d sat during their interview still faced the big oak desk, which still looked as square and solid as it had on that day. A shiny black telephone sat at what would have been Mr. Cohen’s right hand, and beside it lay a small leather-bound notebook. An appointment book, perhaps? Frankie reached for it, almost afraid to hope.

  “Wait!” Mitch grabbed her wrist.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “All good cleaning ladies wear rubber gloves to protect their hands.” He dug into the pocket of his pants and produced a pair. “Besides, if the police do decide old Artie was murdered, you don’t want your fingerprints all over his office.”

  Seeing the logic of this argument, Frankie made no protest, but tugged the gloves over her fingers. The pages of the little notebook were harder to turn with gloves on, but it didn’t take much to tell her what she needed to know: the book was arranged as a daily calendar, with every page bearing a scrawled combination of names, times, or phone numbers. She flipped to May 12, and ran a finger down the page. It appeared that Mr. Cohen had had an eleven o’clock appointment with someone named Harold Fountain, and twelve o’clock was simply penciled in “M.” Maurice? Frankie wondered.

  “Get a move on,” Mitch said impatiently. “We haven’t got all day.”

  Frankie closed the notebook and replaced it on the desk.

  “Okay, let’s get out of here.” Mitch nudged her in the direction of the door.

  “Wait.” Frankie frowned, sniffing the air. “What’s that smell?”

  “What smell?”

  She sniffed again. “It’s the same thing I smelled earlier, when Mr. Cohen collapsed.”

  Mitch took a tentative sniff or two, then followed the source to a metal canister on a shelf behind Arthur Cohen’s massive desk.

  “Bingo!”

  He pried open the close-fitting lid, and he and Frankie almost knocked heads in their eagerness to peer inside. The canister was slightly less than half full of what appeared to be dried and chopped leaves of a very pungent species.

  “What is this?” Mitch asked, digging his hand inside and letting the stuff run through his fingers. “Pipe tobacco?”

  “No.” Frankie suddenly remembered the other time she’d smelled that particular odor. She had been standing in the hallway just outside this very office, and then, as now, the smell had made her want to sneeze. “Achoo! It’s Mr. Cohen’s—achoo!—herbal tea. He drank it for his indigestion, and—oh, gosh! Maurice said that some day he was going to kill himself drinking it!”

  “That must have been some job interview you had!”

  “I told you, it wasn’t—achoo!—an interview—”

  “Quiet!” Mitch raised one hand abruptly to silence her.

  “Believe me, if I could stop sneezing, I—achoo!—would!”

  “Shh! Someone’s coming!” Mitch snapped the lid back on the canister and returned it to the shelf. On the desk blotter, a fine dusting of leaf and stem pieces left a circle of pristine white where the canister had sat.

  “Oh, damn!” muttered Mitch.

  “Language,” scolded Frankie. She swiped her hand across the blotter, dusting off the herbal detritus as best she co
uld.

  A moment later the front door flew open and a voice, magnified by a bullhorn, announced, “Come out with your hands up! We have you surrounded!”

  Chapter 7

  Angels with Dirty Faces (1938)

  Directed by Michael Curtiz

  Starring James Cagney, Pat O’Brien, Humphrey Bogart, and Ann Sheridan

  “Don’t shoot!” Squinting against the glaring white beams of two flashlights, Frankie eased herself through the open door and down the three broad, shallow stairs to the ground, hands held over her head as she groped her way down each step with the toe of her shoe. “We’re unarmed.”

  As if to test the truth of this statement, a tight-lipped young police officer in a heavily starched blue uniform came forward to frisk her—a procedure that to Mitch, following in her wake, seemed to take an excessively long time.

  “And now,” said the policeman, administering a similar treatment to Mitch in a far more perfunctory manner, “suppose you tell me what the pair of you were up to, prowling around studio headquarters after hours.”

  The policeman’s badge identified him as Officer Kincaid. Mitch, who had assumed the preponderance of Irish policemen on screen was an invention of Hollywood, put it down as one more instance of art imitating life. “Well, Officer, I guess you’ve heard about what happened to Arthur Cohen today. Say, can I lower my arms already? They’re starting to go numb.” Receiving permission, Mitch flexed his biceps a couple of times before letting his arms drop to his sides. “You see, we were there when it happened. In fact, Miss Foster here was standing so close that old Arthur nearly fell on her.”

  “Mm-hmm,” muttered the police officer, scribbling something in a small notebook. “You two work for Johnson’s Janitorial Services?”

  Mitch looked puzzled. “No, why?”