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“Nope. He’s eating with a fellow who’ll spot me in a second.”
“Who?”
“The feller who directed me in those Western dramas, the Pirate King himself, Jay Tarses.”
Bell shook his head in disbelief. “I figured Brooks would meet Irina first thing. And I hoped he would lead us to Semmler. What’s he doing with Tarses?”
“Balant took a table near ’em. We met up in the alley outside the facilities and Balant told me that Tarses mumbles too quiet to hear, but he heard Brooks jawing up a storm.”
“About Imperial?”
“No. J. P. Morgan is fixing to start a moving picture factory, and he wants Tarses to run it for him. Brooks is troweling it on thick about how much they need Tarses. Tarses is watching him like a snake. So it don’t sound to me like Brooks came to Los Angeles to visit Imperial. He’s come out here to grubstake a new outfit.”
“Maybe he’s meeting Irina tomorrow,” Bell said with little confidence.
“Hell, Isaac, why don’t I just walk in and ask him straight off?”
“I’ll do it. I know Brooks slightly, and I want to watch to see if he’s lying.”
“You want me to back you up?”
“I think between Balant and me,” Bell answered drily, “we can handle one back-East banker… Walt, would you do me a favor?”
“Shore, Isaac. What do you need?”
“Get an auto and park outside the house we took up on Bunker Hill.”
“Keep an eye on Marion?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“You want me to go in the house?”
“No, she’s up so early, she’s probably sleeping by now. Just watch from outside.”
Bell hurried to Levy’s Café. Many of the tables were empty as the late second seating was finishing up. Boot heels clicking on the tile floor, he strode straight to the table where Tarses was listening to the Morgan banker with an expression of unconcealed suspicion. Bell pulled up a chair. Tarses looked up, remembering Bell but not quite sure why. Singleton Brooks, too, recognized Bell, and the banker turned out to have a very fine memory.
“Detective Bell. What are you doing here?”
“My question exactly,” said Isaac Bell. “Why are you dining with Mr. Tarses instead of Mademoiselle Irina Viorets?”
Jay Tarses’s face darkened, as if his suspicions had all been confirmed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were talking to Imperial, too?”
“I am not talking to Imperial. I told you, I came all the way out here specially to talk to you.”
“Oh, yeah? Then why are you meeting Irina Viorets, who happens to run Imperial?”
“I’m not,” Brooks protested. “I don’t know the woman.”
“You know who she is.”
“Of course I know who she is.”
Tarses looked at Isaac Bell. “Mr. Bell, what is it about moving pictures that rewards the worst and punishes the best?”
“What, sir, are you implying?” demanded Brooks.
Isaac Bell said, “Hold on, gentlemen, I owe you an apology. Answer one more question, Mr. Brooks, and I will be able to assure Mr. Tarses that you are on the level. Do you represent the Artists Syndicate?”
