Chapter 3

Majestic Studios was in the San Fernando Valley, at the end of a side road that lead into what was left of the wilderness. It was surrounded By a large wooden fence. I headed my Porsche toward the gate and stopped as a wooden-faced guard came out of his glass cage to inspect me, a clipboard in his hand. "Christopher Sly," I told him. "Mr. Devlin's expecting me."

He checked a paper on the clipboard and nodded, Dr. Devlin's office is in the big white building there," told me, jabbing his finger toward a clump of buildings squatting nearby. "You can park out front, Dr. Devlin's secretary will take you in." I thanked him and drove past the gate. There were several large American cars in the parking area, mostly Cadillacs and Lincoln Continentals it seemed. There is one Jaguar convertible, a red one. I snuggled the Porsche next to that, got out, walked to the buildings. The white building was the largest, and it resembled an old Southern colonial mansion, complete with porch and pillars. A large sign said MAJESTIC STUDIOS in letters of gold. I opened the door and walked in. There was a deep colorful rug on the floor, uncomfortable-looking colonial furniture sprinkled strategically about, and portraits on the wall of serious-looking men and women in costumes of long ago.

Behind a large colonial desk set against one wall sat a very contemporary-looking blonde with horn-rimmed glasses, a dazzling smile, and a tight-well-packed sweater. Her legs were tucked under the desk where I couldn't see them, but I bet they were great.

"May I help you?" she asked sweetly.

"Mr. Devlin's expecting me," I told her. "My name's Christopher Sly."

"Oh yes, Mr. Sly," she said. "Just a minute, please, I'll see if Mr. Devlin is busy right now."

She punched an intercom button, waited for an answering "Yes?" and then said, "Mr. Christopher Sly is here Mr. Devlin." Devlin grunted something, and the girl said to me, "You may go in now."

"Thanks," I said, flashing her my most brilliant smile.

I maneuvered around the desk and went through the door into Oscar Devlin's office. It was a large room, with thick carpeting, more pictures on the walls, drapes framing French windows, one wall covered with book-lined shelves, an enormous polished mahogany desk, and several chairs scattered about. Behind the desk, Oscar Devlin sat tilted back in a swivel chair, puffing a big black cigar and staring contemplatively out the windows at the studio lot. At my approach, he swiveled about in the chair, got to his feet, and extended a hand. His features split into a grin.

"Sly," he said, pumping my hand, "glad you could make it. Have a chair, boy."

He was young, probably no more than thirty-five, with long black hair slicked back and streaked slightly with almost theatrical touches of gray. He was wearing an expensive-looking blue suit, with an expensive-looking red tie fastened to the neck of an expensive-looking white shirt. He was short, probably not over five-five in his elevator shoes, and he looked like a small boy behind the huge mahogany desk. He peered owlishly at me behind oversize horn-rimmed glasses.

"Would you care for a drink?" he asked. If you'll join me," I said.

"Fine," he agreed, and stuck the cigar back in his mouth and jabbed an intercom button with an impatient finger. "Diane," he mumbled around the cigar, Will you come in here, please."

"Certainly, Mr. Devlin," Diane said, and a moment later, she flounced in, and I discovered I was right about the legs. She had two of them, and both of them were sheer delights.

"A bourbon and water for me, Diane, and for Mr. Sly here-?"

"A scotch on the rocks," I said.

She was wearing one of those flouncy skirts that resembled a partly opened parachute, with acres of petticoats underneath. She walked over to the bar in one corner, and it was fascinating to watch the layers of clothing bouncing up down above those marvelous legs. A moment later she returned with the drinks, then left the room and closed the door behind her.

"Not bad, eh?" Devlin said.

"Not bad at all," I agreed, enthusiastically.

"My wife," he said.

"Oh," I said.

"Well, let's get down to business. Charlotte Rice is coming over in another twenty minutes. The studio car is picking her up. You've never met Charlotte, I imagine. She's the chaperone for the girls, and a very good woman, although a bit straight-laced. Probably just as well though, considering her job. It wouldn't do the studio any good to have any of the girls get into trouble."

I remembered Naomi mentioning Charlotte Rice, but I didn't want to tell Oscar that I'd already met Naomi.

"Does Miss Rice know why I'm here?" I asked him. "No," he said. "Dave and I are the only ones." And probably at least one other, I thought grimly, remembering the ape who'd slugged me.

"As far as the outside world is concerned-and the girls themselves, for that matter," he went on, "you're a sort of guardian angel. You'll see to it that the girls don't get into any trouble, that no bad publicity results. But you'll also have the job of finding out which one of the girls is Carol Rutledge. I-uh-trust you'll be discreet in your search."

"With Charlotte Rice around, I'll have to be. Dave said I was to live in the same house with the girls."

"That's right. It's a nice little place, I'm sure you'll like it."

"I'm sure I will," I told him. "By the way, what's your angle, Oscar? I mean, why are you interested in finding Carol Rutledge?"

"Insurance," he said, "although not the same kind that Dave Keller is interested in. We've got a lot of money tied up in our picture, shvkn DEADLY sinners' and a lot more in grooming the young ladies for possible stardom. The Mafia isn't something I want breathing down my neck; they could make a lot of trouble I can't afford. I want you to find that girl so I can get her and her problems out of my hair."

The intercom buzzed, and he jabbed a button.

"Miss Charlotte Rice is here," Diane said.

Oscar gulped his drink. "Better get rid of these," he said, placing his glass in a desk drawer. "As I said, Charlotte is a nice kid but a little bit stuffy. I'd hate to have you two get off to a wrong start."

I swigged mine, handed the empty to him, which he placed in the desk drawer.

"Okay," he said into the intercom, "send her in."

The door opened, and Oscar and I stood up as Miss Charlotte Rice walked in. She had a firm, almost masculine walk, a determined setting of one foot in front of the other to reach a particular destination. She was almost a cliche of the old maid. She was wearing a plain, rather drab dress that managed to make a shapeless blob of her body from neck to well below calves. Her feet were encased in shoes designed for comfort rather than style. Her face was pale, without makeup, her blue eyes hidden under steel-rimmed glasses. Her hair was long and grey and pulled tightly along the side of her head to the back of her neck where it was fastened in a bun.

I had the impression that Miss Charlotte Rice wasn't really trying.

She paused for a moment in the center of the room. "Gentlemen," she said briskly. Then she went forward to pump Oscar Devlin's hand.

"Miss Rice," Oscar said, waving a hand in my direction, "this is Christopher Sly, the private detective who's going to watch over your girls."

She looked me over suspiciously, then seized my hand. The grip was firm and functional. "Happy to meet you, Mr. Sly," she said, staring at me. "To tell you the truth, however, I was expecting someone older."

"I'll get older, Miss Rice," I promised.

"Chris is a very good man," Oscar said.

Charlotte Rice backed herself into a chair and sat very stiffly there. "He may be a good man," she said, "but the fact is, he's a very young man. It would be wiser to get someone older, to avoid temptation."

"I'm sure I can control my emotions, Miss Rice," I told her.

She smiled tightly, without humor. "I wasn't thinking entirely of you, Mr. Sly. The girls are young, too, they're human-"

"Which is why," Oscar pointed out, "we need a good watchman for them. Chris is highly recommended for the job. I'm sure we can all put our trust in him."

There was such a tone of finality about his last statement, that Miss Rice merely shrugged. She stood up.

"Shall we go then? No doubt Mr. Sly would like to meet the girls and see his new home."

"I would indeed," I agreed.

I was thinking more about the girls than the house, and I hoped my enthusiasm didn't show in this direction. Oscar's secretary-wife had caused my blood temperature and pressure to rise, and I was rapidly getting in the mood to get to work.

After another few minutes of idle chit-chat, we said goodbye to Oscar and left. With a mighty effort, I managed to restrain myself from leering at the blond receptionist. Miss Rice probably wouldn't have approved. And neither would Oscar for that matter.

Miss Rice didn't have a car and had taken a cab to the studio, so we were to ride together to my new temporary home. She frowned in a disturbed manner at seeing the Porsche, but she didn't say anything, although she undoubtedly equated fast cars with fast people. She got in very sedately, taking great care that her skirt didn't rise to show any leg as she maneuvered into the bucket seat. We pulled out the the studio parking lot and headed for Hollywood.

It was mid-morning, and not many cars were out on the freeway. I had the top down, and we drove along without talking, the wind whistling about us. From time to time I glanced secretly at my formidable companion, trying to determine just how much trouble she was going to give me. I had to find a birthmark but I couldn't tell anyone it was really a birthmark I was looking for, and I felt certain Miss Charlotte Rice would not be in sympathy with my trying to search for what she would think I was searching for.

"Is something troubling you, Mr. Sly?" she asked suddenly.

"No, why?" I said, puzzled.

"You were staring at me," she said. "I don't like to be stared at. It makes me uncomfortable."

"Sorry," I said. "I was just thinking that I hope you and I will be friends."

"I don't see why we can't get along," she said. "You and I are both concerned with one purpose-protecting our girls from any harm. That is your purpose, isn't it?"

"That's what they tell me," I said, straight-faced. "I'm here to do a job, and that's what I'll do."

We drove the rest of the way in silence, except for Charlotte Rice pointing out terse directions. The climbed into the Hollywood Hills, past expensive homes with lots of green space between them. At the top of one hill, with a magnificent view of the city, was our objective.

It was a white mansion set off the road with a large circular driveway curving among stately trees to the doorway. It was an impressive looking structure that probably cost Majestic a fortune to rent. I parked in the driveway out front, got out and went around to help Miss Rice from her seat. The skirt went up over her knees this time, but, gentleman that I was, I averted my eyes and pretended to not notice.

She took my arm, and together we walked up the steps to the massive oak door. She fished into her purse, found a key and applied it to the lock. I opened the door and followed her in.

There was a short hallway that was unpretentious, but beyond it was a room that could have been used as a railroad terminal. It was a large room, with thick carpeting on the floors, a huge chandelier hanging from the ceiling, doors on all sides, and a staircase that started against one wall and spiraled upward to the second floor.

"The girls are probably out at the pool," Charlotte Rice said, leading the way.

We went through the farthest door, through a sort of alcove that led to the back of the house. I had the impression we were taking a shortcut and bypassing a maze of rooms. The last door opened onto the backyard, which had been fenced off by an eight foot concrete block fence. The house was old and stately and sort of dignified, but this setup was an addition that was intensely modern.

A large concrete patio confronted us, with exotic palm and banana trees strewn strategically about. In the center of the patio was a huge pool, built irregularly and surrounded by natural rocks and greenery to simulate a lagoon.

It was impressive, but even more impressive was the collection of young ladies scattered in and about the pool. Everyone of them was wearing the skimpiest of bikinis, and every figure in the group was magnificent. They looked up with interest as we approached them..

"Girls," Miss Charlotte Rice announced, and as they gathered I agreed wholeheartedly that they were without any question girls, "I'd like you to meet your new bodyguard, Mr, Christopher Sly."

I gulped and nodded greeting. I was speechless at the sight of all that female flesh so near and yet so far.

They were all girls, and yet they were individuals, too. Hairstyles and colors were different, body measurements differed, but basically the general pattern was the same. And there was one other difference, I reminded myself: one of them had a birthmark in an unusual place.

Charlotte Rice introduced them individually to me. There was Joanne Murray, a baby-faced blonde with a grown up figure; Christina Ekberg, a tall Swedish type, with long platinum hair; Mary Ellen Cuthbert, a southern brownette with a voice full of cornpone and chitlins; Carmen Cervantes with long jet-black hair and dark flashing eyes; Janet Hooper, with short light brown hair and a full tanned figure; Eva Slater, with a streak of white running through her coal-black tresses, and dark penetrating eyes; and Naomi Burke, a red-haired, smiling creature I'd met before.

The introductions left me breathless, with my heart pounding at the thought of living among these fantastic female creatures-and in anticipation of the great challenge that lay before me.

"Mr. Sly," Charlotte Rice said, and from the frown on her face I sensed she'd been trying to get through to me for some time. One of the girls giggled, and I blushed self-consciously. "Mr. Sly, I'll show you to your room now."

"Thanks," I said.

I glanced briefly at Naomi, who gave me a big wink, then followed Miss Rice across the patio, forcing myself to not look back at the girls who had continued their sunning and splashing.

We went into the house, Charlotte leading the way, back through the alcove. We took a different turn this time, going into a large kitchen that had been brought up to date with all electronics had to offer. A pretty young lady with dark hair and flashing eyes and a pert nose was performing the chores necessary to making a meal.

"Annette," Miss Charlotte Rice said, "this is Mr. Sly. He'll be staying with us for a few weeks."

"How do you do, Monsieur," Annette said in a marvelous French accent.

"Happy to meet you, Anette," I said, which was perfectly true. Annette was a French doll.

"Annette is the only servant we have here," Charlotte told me as she led me away and the French girl returned to her chores. "She's an imported domestic."

"A what?"

"A girl who came to the U.S. agreeing to work as a domestic for a year. She's a very capable cook. I understand her father is a famous chef on the French Riviera."

"Hm," I said, noncommittally, but I was thinking of Annette the girl rather than Annette the cook.

Then I shook my head in consternation. I was going to have my hands full enough-in a manner of speaking-without adding to my burdens. It was the first time in my life I'd thought of a pretty girl as a burden.

We entered a corridor that had four doors running off it. Charlotte Rice opened one of the doors and went in, switching on a light.

"This is your room," she said. "The bath is next door. Annette and I have rooms across the hall. The girls' bedrooms are upstairs."

"Doesn't that make watching them a bit difficult?" I said.

"Not at all. You won't be in your room all the time. Besides, the stairway upstairs is old and creaky and it passes directly over our rooms."

"I see," I said, noting that this would also make my sneaking upstairs difficult.

"Did you bring all you'll need with you?"

"I have a suitcase in the car."

"Fine. If you need anything, I'll be right across the hall. Oh yes, lunch will be served in an hour in the dining room."

I wondered how thin the walls were, but I said only, "Thanks very much."

She went to the door, paused, "Mr. Sly-"

"As long as we're going to be neighbors, why not call me Chris," I suggested.

"Because I prefer to keep our association on a purely business level," she said. Her tone wasn't unfriendly, but it wasn't warm either.

"Oh," I said.

"Let me make myself clear, Mr. Sly," she said. "I am the chaperone here, and I'll not tolerate any-any goings-on. You're a young man-much too young for this particular job, but apparently Oscar thinks otherwise and he's the one who pays the bills-and with all these young girls around, undoubtedly you will be tempted to try and-I believe the word is 'make out.' I suggest you do your best to avoid this temptation, and I'm sure we'll get along."

"I think I get the message, Miss Rice," I said.

"See that you heed it," she said. "And while you're at it, stay away from Annette, too."

Then the door closed behind her, and I heard her footsteps go across the hall and the sound of her door opening and closing. Apparently, Miss Charlotte Rice had a severe case of spinsterhood and probably virginity, neither of which were likely to be cured, at her age and with her attitude toward the good things in life. There were eight lovely girls living under the same roof with me and-chaperone or no chaperone-I was going to see them, and not merely because it was my job, either.

I took from my breast pocket the photograph Dave Keller had given me. Carol Rutledge-a pretty, smiling girl about 25 years old, with light brown hair and eyes that were mischievous and sparkling. She looked like a girl I'd like to know. Nick Matcha had good taste.

But I didn't recognize the girl in the photograph as any of the 'seven deadly sinners' I'd seen out by the pool. As Dave had pointed out, it's easy for a girl to change her appearance-a different hair color, different hair styling; even a different arching of the eyebrows would change her, and with what Carol had at stake plastic surgery wouldn't be too much to expect.

Except there was the existence of a small diamond-shaped birthmark. When I found that, I'd have the girl I was looking for.

There was a soft knock at my door. Hastily, I returned the photograph to my pocket, before answering.

"Chris-" Naomi said.

I put a finger of warning to my lips. She slipped inside, and I closed the door behind her.

"Old lady Rice probably has her ear to the wall right now," I whispered.

Words weren't necessary for what we had to talk about. Naomi threw her arms around my neck and pressed herself close to me. She was wearing a skimpy white bikini that showed off everything but a birthmark, and the feel of her very female body against me was pleasant and stimulating. Our lips met, worked against each other, and I could feel the fires start.

She broke away. "I'm in the first room at the head of the stairs," she whispered huskily. "Can you come up tonight, when Rice is asleep?"

I nodded. "A herd of wild chaperones won't stop me." I didn't mention a herd of creaky stairs.

"By the way, do you know a fellow-" and I described the ape who cloppered me in my apartment, after asking about her.

She thought a moment. "No, I don't think so. Should I?" , "Not necessarily," I admitted.

"Well, I've got to change for lunch. Miss Rice informed us that with a man in the house, we'd all have to be decent young ladies. No more eating in bikinis or walking around in underwear." She blew me a kiss from the doorway. "Later," she said.

I frowned at a sudden thought. "Charlotte Rice said I was your new bodyguard. That means there was one before me. What happened to him?"

"Oh, didn't they tell you," Naomi Burke said brightly. "He was murdered!"