Crippen & Flynn
Chapter One

He knew he was in trouble when he saw the door.

It was down a side street, behind a faded movie theater off Hollywood Boulevard. A simple glass door, leading into a tiny square entry way with a dingy black-and-white tile floor. A box with a series of buzzers was on one side, and a narrow staircase led up to the offices.

But it wasn't any of that. It was the pigeon.

The pigeon that had built its nest in the open window-light above the door. The pigeon that at this very moment was peering down at him with stern disapproval. The pigeon that had to be wondering what on earth this over-dressed stranger was doing easing open the door and heading up the stairs to the offices of Crippen and Flynn.

Of course the pigeon didn't know exactly where he was going, but she was quite right to regard the whole procedure with suspicion. He felt the same way himself.

What on earth was he doing?

Julia had said the same thing. And now that Mark thought about it, she'd had pretty much the same look in her eye. He glanced down at the piece of paper in his hand. 'Suite 405,' it said. Great, he had to climb up to the fourth floor. Why was there no elevator? Surely they'd had elevators back in…whenever this building was built. The forties? No, the theater out front was obviously older than that. The thirties? Whatever, there were definitely elevators.

He arrived at the fourth floor. A door creaked open and a man carrying a large boa constrictor stepped out. He looked concerned and stroked its head lovingly before marching down the hall towards the stairs. He nodded as he passed. The sign on the door said, 'Dr. R.L. Dunn. Veterinary Psychic.'

Typical California. Mark would enjoy telling Julia about that when he got home. These people were nuts. He continued along the corridor until he reached 405. The door was plain, a little stained around the handle and with a small plaque on the right hand side that read, 'Crippen and Flynn. Investigations.' He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded envelope. He unfolded it and dropped a key out into his hand.

The door swung open easily. He stepped inside. The expected musty smell wasn't there—everything was very clean, even the rubber plant in the corner was lush and recently watered. Clean, it may have been, but it was still like a journey back in time.

The room was set up as a waiting room with a small leather couch and two wooden chairs. Between the chairs was a small table holding an ash tray and three magazines, not one of which was more recent than 1975. An ancient and miniscule wooden desk crouched near the door to the inner office. It had a typewriter (electric) and a telephone (the kind with the push buttons that light up when different lines come in). A small African violet in an enameled pot perched next to the phone. It, too, was in excellent health.

Mark opened the door to the inner office and found himself in a space only recently vacated by Sam Spade. He'd have to get a camera from one of those souvenir shops that littered Hollywood. Julia would never believe all this.

In spite of the two names on the door, there was only one desk. A massive mahogany number, speckled with cigarette burns. There was a blotter, a phone, an ancient reel-to-reel tape recorder, and a stack of folders in a broken tray. Two wooden chairs with faded leather seats were carefully placed across from the desk. There were a couple of gray metal file cabinets, one of which held another stack of files and the other another African violet.

Behind the desk was a wooden swivel chair. It was too perfect.

Mark couldn't resist. He sat in it.

He looked at the room for a moment, then reached down and opened the right-hand drawer of the desk.

There it was.

A half bottle of Jack Daniels.

He closed the drawer, smiled a little smugly and leaned back.

The chair fell over. He scrambled to his feet, dusting off his suit and quickly checking it for tears.

"You needn't do that. The floor's clean."

He whirled around. A woman was standing in the door. She looked vaguely amused, but wasn't smiling. Mark did the usual thing and replaced his embarrassment with irritation.

"Can I help you?"

The woman sniffed and looked at him narrowly. She was carrying a mop and bucket in one hand, with the careless ease of someone who does it every day, but Mark had the distinct feeling that it could become a weapon if needed.

"I might ask you the same thing."

They stared at each other. The woman was about thirty or so and skinny in a gawky kind of way, the way that never wears dresses and seldom bothers with make-up. She had long, mousy blonde hair that was dragged back into a pony tail held in place by one of those dreadful plastic clips that Julia said should be taken out and melted down to make Palm Pilots. She was wearing a dark blue t-shirt that had once had a picture on the front, and a pair of jeans with the top button undone. The huge boots on her feet might have been stylish if they didn't look so functional. She was, in fact, the very antithesis of Julia or any other woman that Mark had come across since leaving college.

"I clean the place for Mr. Crippen," she explained, "On Tuesdays and Fridays. Today is Tuesday."

"He's dead. Didn't anyone tell you?"

"He's paid through the end of the month."

Mark looked at her.

"But…he's dead."

She looked back at him, then realization dawned, "Are you from New York?"

"Yes. Why do…"

She shrugged slightly as if this explained everything, then she put the bucket down, kicked it into place across the floor and started mopping. Mark watched helplessly. He'd never been very good at this sort of thing--ordering people about and such. He always just hoped that things would go as they should, and that if they didn't someone else would come along to sort them out. He watched for a while, then it occurred to him that he should be doing something. He sat back down in the chair and pulled the stack of folders towards him.

After a while the girl stopped mopping and went out. She returned with a watering can.

"Shouldn't you have done that first?"

"Sorry?"

"Watered the plants," he wished he'd kept his mouth shut, but it was too late now, "Shouldn't you have watered the plants before you cleaned the floor?"

"Do I tell you how to detect?"

She turned and began watering.

"No, but…Well, actually, I'm not a detective. I'm just the descendent. I'm here to close things up."

"Uh huh."

"Do you have a name?"

"Sure," she reached into a pocket and pulled out a slightly bent business card.

Mark looked at it. It was beyond plain. Just a white rectangle with 'Phillippa Morris' printed on it and a phone number in the Valley.

"And this is what you do?"

"For now."

"Are you an actress?"

"Nope."

The conversation, such as it was, appeared to be over. She took the watering can out and came back with a duster. This time Mark kept his trap shut. He went back to looking at the folders. So far there hadn't been anything more recent than 1982.

Bang!

They froze. It was the outside door. There was the clack-clack of irritated heels across linoleum and the office door flew wide. A woman strode inside and stopped in front of the desk, glaring at Mark. She was old, old enough to have greeted the boys back from Europe in '45, and dance the lindy on a Saturday night; old enough to have loved Sinatra and disliked the Beatles as long-haired interlopers; old enough to have settled down to a life of soap operas and photo albums, but she still sported an impressive mass of carefully rolled and coifed platinum hair, full makeup and heels. She was wearing a pretty sharp green suit which had probably been in and out of fashion four or five times since she'd bought it, though right now it was in so it looked good. She was clutching a green patent bag and wore an honest-to-god hat. Mark felt hot just looking at her. It had to be 85 outside if it was a degree. The overall effect was Baby Jane, and the expression was the one Bette Davis used when she served Crawford the rat.

"Are you Crippen?"

She had the studied diction of old movies, the kind where women work their way up from waitressing to being captains of industry.

"Well, I'm…"

"Is your name Crippen?" Mark glanced over at Phillippa, who was standing, duster in hand, clearly enjoying every moment of this.

"Um…Yes. Yes, it is. But…"

"You're younger than I thought." It wasn't a compliment.

"No…you see…"

"I guess that should explain it."

Mark was mystified, he looked at Phillippa, pleading. She just shifted her weight to the other foot.

"Well, there's no point in beating around the bush," the woman fixed him with a laser stare, "He's dead. Thanks to you he's dead. That's what I came to tell you."

She stopped expectantly. Mark snuck a peak at Phillippa again. She was dusting.

"I think I should tell you…" he began, but it was no use.

"Wait till Friday, you said. Sit tight, you said. That was three weeks ago. And now he's dead. They killed him and it's your fault."

"Now, ma'am, I really need to…."

"I want to know where you were, why he's dead, and what you're going to do about it."

"But…"

"I'll tell you what you're going to do. You're going to find out who did this. They're calling it an accident, but you and I know that isn't the case. He might've gone any way, God knows he was old enough, but he'd never go like that. Not him."

Mark waited. She appeared to have stopped.

"Now, Mrs…" he paused.

"Lanham! Lanham, don't you pretend you don't know it. Bill Lanham was my husband. We were married for forty-five years. Forty-five years. He never listened to what I said though. Always went his own way. I told him he never should've started nosing around. But he never would listen to me. And now look. Dead as a doornail. Well, you find out what happened, or so help me Abraham I'll sue your yuppie ass to kingdom come!"

She spun on one impressive heel and flounced out. Mark and Phillippa stared at the door in stunned silence for a few moments. Then a slow smile spread across the cleaner's face.

"Amazing! She's like Lauren Bacall in The Big Sleep," she laughed, looking at Mark who looked like anything but Bogie with his handmade suit, too-carefully tied tie and two hundred dollar haircut.

"What was that?"

"That," explained Philipppa, "Was the wife of the client. Or ex-client."

"What?"

"He had one client. He only came into the office three days a week towards the end. For the client. It was some guy from the old days, I guess. The file's probably there."

Mark began looking through the files, then felt something and looked up. Philippa was watching him.

"I'm just looking for it so I can get her number and explain the whole thing. I'm not a detective."

Philippa nodded, "Well, that's me done. See you on Friday."

She gathered her things and was gone before Mark could explain that he wouldn't be here on Friday. He was going to wrap things up and be on his way home by Thursday.

Lanham. There was the file. He sat down and opened it.