“She didn’t leave a note?”
“No. Nothing.”
“And you still haven’t called the police?”
“Stone, I just can’t do that; I think I’ve already explained why not.”
“The tabloids.”
“Yes. That, and the fact that I don’t really feel that she’s in any danger.”
“What do you expect me to do, then?”
“I’ve told you about the dinner party tomorrow night.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve done something unusual; I’ve invited a reporter. The following day, there’ll be a story recounting the evening and the guest list. Your name will be mentioned.”
“And you think she might read it?”
“Almost certainly; she follows the trade papers closely.”
“And you think she might try to get in touch with me?”
“I’ll see to it that it’s mentioned that you’re staying at the Bel-Air.”
“And if she doesn’t call me?”
“Then I’ll take your advice on how to proceed. I promise I will.”
Stone shrugged. “It’s your decision, I guess.”
Calder handed him a card. “Here’s my address and all my private numbers. Wear a tie, dinner’s at seven, and people are usually on time. I’m five minutes from the Bel-Air.”
Stone took the card. “I’ll be there.”
“Oh, if you’re not busy tomorrow and you’d like to visit the studio, call my secretary—her number is on the card—and she’ll arrange it.”
“Thanks, I might do that. By the way, Vance, are you aware that two men have been following you all evening?”
“What?”
“They’re in a car parked about thirty yards behind us. They followed us into Spago, too.”
Calder glanced over his shoulder and smiled, revealing astonishingly white and even teeth. “Oh, those are my boys; they watch my back.” He held out his hand. “Thank you for coming out here, Stone. I hope you don’t think I’m too much of a fool for handling it this way.”
“I hope it’s the right way,” Stone said. He got out of the car and watched the Bentley disappear into the scented night, followed by Calder’s backwatchers. He wondered if somebody had been watching Arrington’s back.
5
After breakfast the following morning, Stone called Betty Southard, whose name and number were on Calder’s card, said he’d like to see the studio, and was given the address and was told to be at the main gate at ten-thirty. He was on time.
He gave his name to a guard at the gate and was directed to a parking lot just inside. As he got out of the car a golf cart pulled up, and a tall, slender woman got out and came toward him. She seemed to be in her late thirties and was comfortably but elegantly dressed n a pale Italian suit; her hair was a deep auburn and fell around her shoulders. “Mr. Barrington?” she asked. “I’m Betty Southard.”
“I’m Stone,” he replied, shaking her hand.
“Welcome to Centurion Studios; hop in and we’ll get going.”