The Girl Who Knew Too Much(44)

With Gloria out of the way, he had dared to hope that he was once again in the clear. He hadn’t expected any trouble from the local starstruck tramp, Daisy Jennings. She had sworn she would be his alibi for the night of Maitland’s death. I’ll do anything for you, Nick. She had wanted a screen test in exchange for protecting him. He knew he didn’t have that kind of power at the studio—not yet. But he’d made the promise. With luck, that would be enough to keep her quiet until he could figure out how to stop Glasson.

It was always a woman who got in his way, he reflected—Betty Scott in Seattle; the washed-up gossip reporter, Hackett; Gloria Maitland; Irene Glasson.

It was always a woman.

“It’s true that people will probably assume that Glasson is sleeping with Ward,” he said. “They may even wonder if she was responsible for Maitland’s death. But it doesn’t follow that Glasson won’t write another story about me. And people will read it, even if they do think she is a cheap little whore. I can’t afford any more gossip linking me to murder. Ogden has got to make sure Glasson doesn’t write another piece for Whispers.”

“Mr. Ogden said to tell you again that everything was under control,” Claudia said. “He promised he’d deal with Irene Glasson.”

“You’re useless. Get out of my sight. I need time to think.”

Claudia hurried back into the front room of the villa. A few seconds later the front door closed behind her.

Nick turned back to the dazzling view of the cove. He would not allow a woman to derail his damned-near-perfect life.





Chapter 19




Just when he had begun to think that Los Angeles would defeat him.

“Are you sure?” Julian Enright said into the phone.

“See for yourself, sir,” Marcus Goodman said. “Get a copy of Silver Screen Secrets. If that isn’t the woman in the picture you sent to our office, I’ll eat my filing cabinet.”

Marcus Goodman was the latest in a long line of private investigators and cops who had been paid to make inquiries about Anna Harris. For months all the leads had hit brick walls.

Back at the start it had all looked so easy, Julian reflected. When he’d returned again to Helen Spencer’s mansion, the place was abandoned. The police had given up. The housekeeper and butler had packed up and left. The lawyers were still trying to locate an heir to the big house.

The result was that he’d been able to take his time going through the mansion. He thought he’d gotten lucky when he found the framed photograph of Anna Harris and her new yellow Packard.

In the picture she was standing beside the car looking as thrilled and delighted as a child who had just opened a surprise birthday present. It was clear from her expression that she was not accustomed to such gifts. He’d found the receipt for the car in Spencer’s study.

He’d left the mansion with an excellent photo of his quarry and a full description of the car she was driving. It shouldn’t have been hard to track her. He had played one logical hunch after another, checking hotels and inns within a day’s driving distance. It finally dawned on him that she was either sleeping in her car or staying at cheap autocamps. It was the last thing he had expected. She had, after all, become accustomed to fine hotels and excellent restaurants in the course of her employment with Spencer.

He’d hit another snag because he assumed that she would stay on the East Coast while she tried to find a buyer for the notebook. In his experience, when people ran, they usually ran to places they knew, often quite well. They felt safe in familiar haunts. In addition, as Spencer’s private secretary, Harris must have had some idea of whom to contact in the underground market that catered to thieves and espionage agents.

But there had been no hint of a certain scientific notebook coming up for auction on the black market.

By the time he’d figured out that she might not be on the East Coast, nearly two months had passed. His father had been furious.

He thought the tide had turned when an investigator finally located the Packard. It was parked in a farmer’s yard. The farmer explained that he had found it sitting, abandoned, on the side of a dirt road one morning.

For the first time it had occurred to Julian that his quarry might have resorted to hitchhiking.

Another dead end.

Finally, after more weeks of fruitless searching, he had at last picked up the first hint that Anna Harris had taken the path that so many others in search of new lives had followed. She’d found her way to Chicago and headed west on Route 66.

By the time he’d arrived at that realization, however, another month had passed. Anna Harris was no longer an intriguing challenge; she had become an obsession.