“What?”
I stared. “I saw somethi
ng!”
“If you didn’t, I did!” The flashlight beam arced crazily around the mirrored room as Henry grabbed my elbow and lurched away from the hole.
“We going the right way?”
“Christ,” I said. “I hope so!”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Our taxi dropped us at the curb behind Rattigan’s big white Arabian fortress.
“Lordy,” said Henry, and added, “That meter ran overtime. From now on, I’m driving.”
Crumley was not out front by the shoreline but farther up by the pool with half a dozen full martini glasses, two already empty. He gazed at these fondly and explained.
“I’m ready now for your numbskull routines. I am fortified. Hello, Henry. Henry, aren’t you sorry you left New Orleans for this can-o’-worms factory?”
“One of those drinks smells like vodka, right? That will make me not sorry.”
I handed a glass to Henry and took one for myself in haste while Crumley scowled at my silence.
“Okay, spill it,” he said.
I told him about Grauman’s and the basement dressing-room mirrors. “Plus,” I said, “I been making lists.”
“Hold it. You’ve sobered me up,” said Crumley. “Let me kill another.” He lifted a glass in mock salute. “Okay, read your lists.”
“The grocery boy on Mount Lowe. The neighbors of Queen Califia in Bunker Hill. Father Rattigan’s secretary. The film projectionist on high in Grauman’s Chinese.”
Henry cut in. “That gent in Grauman’s …?”
I described Rustler, stashed among stacks of old film with the pictures on the walls of all the sad women with all the lost names.
Henry mused. “Hey now. Did you make a list of those ladies in the pictures up on high?”
I read off my pad: “Mabel. Helen. Marilee. Annabel. Hazel. Betty Lou. Clara. Pollyanna …”
Crumley sat up straight.
“You got a list of those names on the cellar mirrors?”
I shook my head. “It was dark down there.”
“Easy as pie.” Henry tapped his head. “Hazel. Annabel. Grace. Pollyanna. Helen. Marilee. Betty Lou. Detect the similarities?”
As the names rolled from Henry’s mouth, I ticked them off my penciled list. A perfect match.
At which point there was a lightning strike. The lights failed. We could hear the surf roar in to salt Rattigan’s beach as pale moonlight silvered the shore. Thunder clamored. It gave me time to think and say, “Rattigan’s got a complete run of Academy annuals with all the pictures, ages, roles. Her competition is in every one. It ties in with all those upstairs pictures, downstairs mirrors, right?”
Thunder echoed, the lights blinked back on.
We went inside and got out the Academy books.
“Look for the mirror names,” Henry advised.