The Con Man Read online

  Together with his considerable and label-covered luggage he was driven through the straggling streets and boulevards of Los Angeles to the Beverley Wilshire, that extremely select hotel that almost faces the Brown Derby and caters for the discriminating visitors to the world film-centre.

  A suite had evidently been reserved for him, for the reception clerk greeted him with a smiling welcome when he mentioned his name and rang for a page while he signed the register. His signature was in keeping with his appearance: boldly black in thick heavy up and down strokes it stood out from the page for all the world to see. “Captain Garvin Chase, London, England.”

  And yet this pleasant and distinguished-looking man who presently followed the obsequious page to the waiting lift had once stood in the dock at the Old Bailey and listened to the scathing remarks of the judge who had sent him down for seven years for fraud.

  Had Detective Inspector Shadgold of Scotland Yard been there he would have given quite another name to the man who had signed himself Captain Garvin Chase with such a flourish. A name that was a little less high-sounding and more plebeian. The quiet Inspector Leekin, who had charge of the record office, and who methodically spent his life filing the history of known criminals, could have added several more names. For the card bearing details of Captain Garvin Chase’s career also bore a string of aliases heading the neatly typed dossier: Thomas Spearman, Tommy the Black and Gentleman Tom, etc., etc. There was, however, no mention of Captain Garvin Chase, and this was not surprising, for the gentleman who called himself by that grandiloquent name had only acquired it in a moment of inspiration during the last three weeks.

  He expressed complete approval with the luxuriant suite that had been placed at his disposal and ordered a syphon of soda. When this had been brought and the waiter had gone he unpacked a flask of brandy from his suitcase and poured himself out a drink.

  With the glass in his hand he strolled over to the window and looked thoughtfully out at the view that lay before him. The view was worth looking at. Three miles away, beyond the foreground of shops and drug stores, filling stations and agents’ offices that line the Wilshire Boulevard, rose the slope of the Beverley Hills, bathed in the golden sunlight which is California’s greatest asset, and dotted with the picturesque white houses in which the stars of filmdom live and have their being.

  The air was marvellously clear, and tasted to the man who stood breathing it by the open window, like a draught of vintage champagne. And yet it is doubtful if he saw very much of the beautiful view that stretched before him and the opulent cars that passed back and forth in the street beneath. For Thomas Spearman was a materialist, and the evidence of the golden material his soul craved surrounded him on every side.

  He had come to Hollywood with no settled plan, but he was an opportunist and a great believer in luck. Here he was in the middle of wealth, and if his quick brain could not find some way of transferring a large portion of it to his own pocket, then the fault was his.

  He pulled out a roll of bills and flipped them over with his long fingers. Fifteen hundred dollars — his entire fortune. The total was disconcerting, and he frowned and pursed his lips. This would not last him very long; some scheme for replenishing the exchequer would have to be put into action at the soonest possible moment.

  He turned from the window as the hotel valet came softly into the room to unpack his things and poured himself out another drink.

  “Leave out the grey flannels and turn me on a hot bath,” he ordered as the man carried his suitcase into the bedroom.

  “Certainly, sir.” The valet bowed and retired into the inner room, and Mr Spearman, alias Captain Garvin Chase, lit a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully until the servant returned to announce that the bath was ready.

  Dismissing the man, he went into the bedroom and began leisurely to undress. Two minutes later he was lying up to his neck in hot water, gazing through the steam with half-closed eyes at the ceiling.

  But his lazy expression was not in keeping with his thoughts, for his alert brain was toying with future plans for his financial benefit. At the end of five minutes he took a cold shower, and as the water beat an icy tattoo on his body his thin lips curled into a smile, for he had evolved three possible schemes for his attack on Hollywood’s wealth. They were only in the embryo stage, but from past experience Mr Spearman knew the details would be developed almost subconsciously.

  He began humming a little tune as he dried himself, and he was still humming it when he passed into his bedroom and began to dress. At a quarter to one he descended the stairs to the lounge, a cool, well-groomed figure in silver grey.

  A waiter brought him a glass of orange juice, and as he sipped it rather unappreciatively — his natural inclination was for something stronger — he glanced languidly about him.

  The lounge only held a smattering of people, for there were not many visitors at the Beverley Wilshire at that time of year. Mr Spearman, however, allowed his eyes to rest for a fraction of a second on two fat and expensively dressed American gentlemen, and he mentally noted them as the type who might probably be useful.

  He lunched carefully but sparingly, and in the afternoon went for a walk to survey the ground. In the evening, immaculately attired in a beautifully-cut dinner suit, he sauntered across to the Brown Derby at which he had previously booked a table for dinner.

  The place was crowded, as it usually is. Faces which had become common in the newspapers of the world were to be seen on every side, and after he had selected his dinner with great care and given his order, Mr Spearman leaned back in his chair and surveyed the scene about him with the eye of a connoisseur.

  Here were people whose weekly earnings would, to use Mr Spearman’s mental expression, put him ‘on velvet’ for many months. Here were riches which, by the exercise of a little ingenuity, might be side-tracked into his own pocket.

  As he slowly ate the beautifully-cooked food that was presently brought to him a feeling of pleasurable contentment stole over him. The world, or rather this part of it in which he found himself, was his oyster. An oyster which, to judge from his surroundings, held a considerable number of pearls.

  Nobody knew better than Mr Spearman that the oyster is a notoriously difficult thing to open except by an expert. But then he had spent the greater part of his life in opening oysters with varying degrees of success, and Mr Spearman watched. And then one man suddenly glanced at his watch and rose to his feet.

  He called the waitress, hurriedly paid his bill, and with the little man following at his heels, went swiftly out of the restaurant. Mr Spearman also rose, and skinning a bill from the roll in his pocket laid it on the table. As he made his way towards the exit he passed the girl who had served him, and murmuring that she could keep the change, went out quickly in the wake of the others.

  He saw them walking along the Wilshire Boulevard in the direction of Culver City. For a moment he hesitated, and then with an imperceptible shrug of his shoulders he started to follow. Apparently they had no suspicion that they were being shadowed, for they never once looked round, but continued on their way until they reached North Maple Drive.

  They turned into this wide and pleasant residential thoroughfare, which is lined on either side by the picturesque villas of the more wealthy of Hollywood’s residents, and went on until they came to the drive gates of a big house three-quarters of the way up on the right-hand side.

  Here the taller man paused, said something to his companion, and they passed through the entrance.

  Mr Spearman had to walk quickly to keep them in sight, but now he slowed and his brows drew together in a frown. Should he follow them and try to learn what had brought them to this big and pretentious-looking house, or should he go back to his hotel? He decided to try and learn a little more than he knew already.

  It has been stated that Mr Spearman was an opportunist and a great believer in luck. He believed that here fate had thrown in his way an opportunity which if he followed it up would prove
advantageous. Discretion whispered to him to be careful, but he turned a deaf ear to the whisper, and turning in through the wide gates, began to make his way cautiously up the well-kept drive.

  Two hours later he came back, and as he walked swiftly down the Wilshire Boulevard in the direction of his hotel there was a smile on his face.

  For quite by accident that night Mr Spearman had stumbled on a piece of information that, handled properly, he considered would put a fortune in his pocket and make him independent for the rest of his life.

  Chapter 3

  THE SCHEME

  Mr Oscar Levenstein was a man who liked the good things of life. From the time when forty years previously he had worked outward from the small and dirty top-floor garret in a mean street in the Bowery his mind had held only one objective, and that was to acquire as easily and with as little effort as possible the money that would supply him with the luxuries his microscopic soul craved.

  And at the age of fifty-two he had achieved his mission. Given a certain ruthlessness and an entire disregard for the feelings of others, no conscience and a willingness to use every means, legal and otherwise, it is not difficult to amass a considerable fortune. And Mr Levenstein possessed all these attributes. He had risen to his present position as managing director and virtual owner of the biggest picture-making corporation in Hollywood by trampling underfoot every decent instinct.

  The trail of his success was marked by ruined homes and broken hearts; the deaths of at least three men could be indirectly traced to the result of Mr Levenstein’s business acumen. But this disturbed his peace of mind not at all. He was a man who seldom looked back. All his attention was concentrated on the forward march. The dazzling golden beacon that glittered in the darkness of his soul was the only thing that mattered.

  He was a rich man — even in that city of wealth this was openly acknowledged — but he was the type that could never be rich enough. In the old days he had craved dollars; when dollars came to him he wanted hundreds; when he got hundreds he set his mind on thousands. So the vicious circle went on.

  Sitting at the great desk in the luxuriously furnished study of his house on North Maple Drive, he was an unprepossessing figure. Considerably below medium height, his fat little legs barely touched the carpet. His bloated body, flabby and unhealthy from overindulgence, filled and overflowed the padded chair. His enormous head, bald save for a fringe of grey-black hair, seemed to grow out of his chest, for his neck was so short and fat that it was scarcely discernible. He was a man of many chins, and an unhealthy skin that was leaden-hued and repellent, His mouth, small and over-red, was almost obscured in the folds of his puffy cheeks, and his eyes, deep-sunk beneath hairless brows, had the hard glitter which can be seen in the eyes of a snake.

  Yet in spite of his physical drawbacks he radiated a certain power. He was smoking a cigar and frowning thoughtfully at the blotting-pad in front of him, when there came a tap on the door and a footman entered. He advanced noiselessly over the thick pink carpet and presented the contents of a salver for his master’s inspection. Mr Levenstein glanced at the card, grunted and removed the cigar from his lips.

  “Show Mr Guinan in,” he said, and his voice was a surprise and a revelation, for it was deep-toned and melodious, with a rich timbre which would have done credit to a leading actor.

  Mr Levenstein was very proud of his voice. He had, in fact, carefully cultivated it. On more than one occasion it had succeeded in charming several thousands of dollars out of the pockets of his victims to his own.

  The footman withdrew, and presently came back ushering in two visitors.

  “Good evening, Mr Guinan,” said Mr Levenstein, addressing the taller of the two men, but making no effort to rise. “Sit down, will you?”

  He nodded casually towards two easy chairs drawn up in front of the huge flat-topped desk. Lefty Guinan gave a quick glance round, mentally appraising the richness and quality of the room, and lounged over to the chair which his host had indicated. He waited until the footman had gone out and closed the door, and then he introduced his companion.

  “This is Spike Munro,” he said with a jerk of his head towards the man who had come in with him. “I’ve brought him along because maybe he’ll be useful. He’s worked with me before.”

  “You know your own business best,” said Mr Levenstein, noncommittally. “Have you told him anything about the scheme?”

  “I’ve told him as much as I know myself,” answered Guinan, “which isn’t very much. He knows that we’re here to crab the making of this new picture you told me about.”

  “Then he knows more than I do,” interrupted Mr Levenstein. “Because you’re not here for that purpose at all!”

  Lefty Guinan looked at him in astonishment.

  “But say,” he protested, “what’s the big idea? That’s what you told me when we talked in Chicago. You had some scheme of starting a fire — ”

  “Whatever ideas I may have had then,” said Mr Levenstein, before he could complete the sentence, “you can forget. I’ve struck a much better plan.”

  “Oh, I see,” — there was a note of relief in Guinan’s voice — “I thought for the moment that the whole thing was off, and we’d come all the way from Chicago for nothin’. What’s the new scheme?”

  Mr Levenstein dropped the butt of his cigar into a large ashtray, pulled a silver box towards him and carefully selected another. It was characteristic of him that he made no attempt to offer the box to his two guests.

  “The new scheme,” he said slowly, when the cigar was alight and burning evenly, “is much simpler and more effective than a fire or anything else I can think of. The fire, I think, would be rather clumsy and would inevitably destroy the property. A thing which I don’t want to do if it can be avoided.” He glanced quickly round the room as though to assure himself there were no eavesdroppers. “My object, as you know, is to smash Mammoth Pictures so that I can acquire the property for a song. I wouldn’t even mind paying its market value if Myers would sell, but he won’t. The only way I can get it is to break him.” His voice was even and without emotion. He might have been discussing any ordinary business proposition, which, according to his own peculiar code, he was. “He’s spent every penny he can lay his hands on for this picture,” he went on, “and is deeply in debt with the banks as well. The trade show has been fixed and duly advertised. If that picture is not forthcoming — ” He shrugged his shoulders. “ — well, that’s the end of Myers and Mammoth Pictures.”

  Lefty Guinan moved impatiently in his chair.

  “You’re thinking ahead of me, boss,” he said, shaking his head. “I know all this you’re tellin’ me. You said the same thing in Chicago. The question is: What do you want us to do?”

  Mr Levenstein’s hard eyes regarded him coldly.

  “I’m coming to that, if you’ll kindly refrain from interrupting me,” he said.

  Lefty Guinan muttered an apology.

  “When a picture is completed,” said the man behind the big desk after a pause, “it’s in the form of a negative, like an ordinary still photograph. From this negative a print is made to be sent to the cutting-room to be cut and edited. That is to say, the scenes, which are all numbered, are put in their right order or altered at the discretion of the editor and the director. At this stage of the proceedings there is — with the exception of the daily ‘rushes’ which are short lengths of film printed daily from the negative for the convenience of the director so that he can see how his work is progressing — only one print of the film in existence. The one on which the cutter is working.” He leaned slightly forward. “If this and the negative were stolen there would be nothing left but to take the picture all over again.”

  Guinan drew in his breath with a long soft hiss.

  “I get you,” he breathed. He shot a quick glance at the silent man by his side. “You want us to steal the film?”

  Mr Levenstein nodded.

  “Exactly,” he said gently. “Simple, isn�
��t it? But I assure you very effective. If that negative and the print which the cutters are working on, together with the ‘rushes’ should be stolen and — destroyed, Mammoth Pictures would be finished. They haven’t got sufficient capital to make the film over again.”

  “I’ll say it’s a stroke of genius,” said Lefty Guinan admiringly.

  “It’s a good stroke of business,” grunted Mr Levenstein. “Now, then, here’s my proposition. Deliver that negative and print into my hands and I’ll give you fifty thousand dollars.”

  Guinan’s faded blue eyes brightened greedily.

  “Fifty per cent, on account.” he said, “and it’s O.K. with me.”

  Mr Levenstein blew out a cloud of smoke.

  “You shall have twenty-five thousand dollars in cash tomorrow morning,” he agreed.

  “Why not a cheque now?” suggested Mr Spike Munro, speaking for the first time.

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Levenstein without heat. “Do you think I’m going to give you anything which could be traced back to me? If you do, think again! I’ve got nothing to do with this business, you understand — nothing whatever.”

  “That’s O.K. with me,” said Lefty Guinan, and Mr Spike Munro grunted an assent. “The job shouldn’t be so very difficult, but I shall want some information. How do I know I’ve got hold of the right film?”

  “You can tell by the title,” replied Mr Levenstein. “It’s called ‘The Man-God.’ Do you understand anything about photography?”

  Guinan nodded.

  “Well, then, you’ll be able to distinguish which is the negative.”

  “Where do they keep the thing?” asked Lefty Guinan.

  “In a safe in the laboratory,” said the man behind the desk. “Come here.”

  He pulled open a drawer and brought out a sheet of paper. Spreading this out on the blotting-pad in front of him, he picked up a gold pencil, and as Lefty Guinan got up and went round the desk to his side he began with quick light strokes to sketch a plan of the Mammoth Studios. “Here are the general offices,” he said, as his hand moved swiftly over the blank paper. “Here’s the projecting theatre, to the left here is a corridor ending in an iron door — you’ll have difficulty with that — it’s always kept locked and it’s pretty strong.”