Design for Dying by Renee Patrick Page A

“Lillian! Is that you?”
    My landlady had a trove of memories from a checkered show business career and a collection of late husbands, one of whom had bequeathed her a small building on the fringes of Hollywood that she kept in a state of faded glamour matching her own. Her inability to admit she was hard of hearing meant every conversation felt like a play in which I’d blundered onstage knowing only half my lines.
    â€œYes, Mrs. Q.” I stopped at the threshold to her apartment. As usual, I smelled rosewater and the stew that seemed to be forever simmering in the event a platoon of starving soldiers turned up.
    Mrs. Q was certainly dressed to receive them in an ivory and gold housecoat. I placed her age somewhere between fifty and the Pearly Gates. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook for you! I’ve been popping out like a jack-in-the-box to answer it.”
    â€œI’m sorry about that. How many calls did I get?”
    â€œTwo!” A fairly high number, both for me and for Mrs. Quigley’s in general. Life could be very sedate in a building without actresses. “It was the same woman both times,” Mrs. Quigley went on. “She wouldn’t leave her name, just said she’d call back. My land! I haven’t had this much exercise since my Ziegfeld days.”
    In the lobby, I beelined for the phone. The mystery caller was likely Kay; I’d promised to tell her what Edith said about the suitcase. I dialed the Modern Movie offices and got her at once. “You don’t know you’re allowed to leave messages?”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œDidn’t you call this morning?”
    â€œWill this conversation consist entirely of questions? No, I didn’t call. I was waiting for you to telephone me. Spill.”
    I summarized my Paramount excursion. “Wow,” Kay said. “You cost a man his livelihood and it’s not even lunchtime.”
    â€œThat’s all I could think about on the way home.”
    â€œYou Catholics and your crushing guilt. If this Ken stole clothes for Ruby, he deserves to be tossed out on his ear. I’ll take your mind off his woes. I got a peek at the full dossier on Armand Troncosa. Information remains thin on Natalie because she just came over from the Continent, whereas lover boy Armand has been hobnobbing here for months. The Troncosas are rich, obviously. Money from real estate, mining interests, cattle. Ranches on the pampas full of gauchos like Gilbert Roland.”
    â€œGilbert Roland is Mexican.”
    â€œHe is? Are you sure?”
    â€œI read it in your magazine.”
    â€œThen he must be. The Troncosas are also important politically, very lovey-dovey with the generalissimo. I assume Argentina has a generalissimo. These places typically do. By all accounts Armand is the clan’s black sheep. Something of a hothead. The juicy rumor is he killed someone he shouldn’t have back home. A member of another prominent family. Possibly in a duel, if you can imagine. The Troncosas pulled strings and whisked him out of the country until the whole business blows over.”
    â€œHow long does it take a blood feud to blow over? This dossier sounds like pure hearsay.”
    â€œYou want to quibble over details? If there’s a shred of truth in it, Armand’s a likely suspect in Ruby’s murder.”
    Assuming, per Detective Morrow’s caution, that he was the right Armand. “What does Armand do, exactly?” I asked.
    â€œHe’s a playboy. They don’t do anything. His main interest, as Jimmie Fidler mentioned, is polo. You may recall Argentina took the gold medal at the Olympics last year.”
    â€œI cheered at every game.”
    â€œI believe they’re called matches, kiddo. Armand reminds people of his countrymen’s triumph at every opportunity. He was in Berlin for the whole show. His goal is to make polo popular in these United