“But you can’t expect anyone to admit he knew where the manuscript was,” objected the young publisher. “I mean, if that person stole it.”
“We don’t intend to ask about the manuscript at all,” answered Jupe, “at least in the beginning. First we have to find out who in the coven is still in touch with Madeline Bainbridge, or is getting news of her. I don’t think anyone will be afraid to admit a connection with her.”
Beefy turned north on La Brea Avenue towards Hollywood.
“And you’re going to talk to Jefferson Long for openers?” he said. “Long, the crime fighter? He’s so foursquare and true-blue. I just can’t imagine him being mixed up in anything weird like a coven.”
“He wasn’t always Jefferson Long, the crime fighter,” Jupe pointed out. “He used to be an actor, and he was in Bainbridge’s last picture. He had to know Ramon Desparto. Also, it’s logical to begin our interviews with him, since we know where to find him. The offices of Video Enterprises, which include the studios for Station KLMC, are on Fountain Street just off Hollywood Boulevard. I called there earlier this morning, and he agreed to see me.”
“Did you tell him why you wanted to talk with him?” asked Beefy.
“Not exactly. I said I was doing a report for my school paper as a summer project.”
“Long must like publicity,” said Pete from the back seat. “Even publicity in a school paper.”
“Perhaps we all would, if we were in the public eye,” said Jupiter. He glanced at Beefy. “It’s really nice of you to drive us,” he said. “We could have taken the bus.”
“If I stayed at home, I’d only stew and worry,” declared Beefy. “I’m kind of lost without an office to go to. Besides, you guys fascinate me. I don’t think I’d dare just walk in on somebody like Jefferson Long.”
Bob laughed. “Jupe doesn’t scare easily.”
“And how are you going to find the other people in the magic circle?” asked Beefy.
Pete answered, “My father works for a movie studio. He’s getting us the addresses of Madeline Bainbridge’s friends through the unions.”
Beefy had been navigating carefully down Hollywood Boulevard. Now he turned right on to Fountain and pulled to the kerb in front of a building that looked like a huge cube of dark glass. “We’ll park here and wait,” he said as Jupe got out. “Take your time.”
“Right,” said Jupe. He turned and went into the building.
The reception room was cool, shielded from the glare outside by polarized glass. The tanned young woman at the desk directed Jupe to the elevator, and he rode up to the fourth floor.
Jefferson Long’s office was filled with glass and chrome and furniture upholstered in black leather. The windows faced north, towards the Hollywood Hills. Long sat behind a teakwood desk, his back to the view, and smiled at Jupiter.
“Nice to see you,” said the crime reporter. “I’m always glad to do what I can to help young people.”
Jupiter had a feeling that Long had made that short speech hundreds of times before.
“Thank you very much,” said Jupiter in his most humble voice. He gazed at Long, and he let his round, cheerful face take on a look of almost idiotic innocence. “I saw your telecast the other morning,” he said. “The interview you did at Madeline Bainbridge’s estate. I was surprised! I didn’t know that you were an actor and that you knew Madeline Bainbridge.”
Jefferson Long’s smile vanished suddenly. “I have done more important things in my life than being an actor and knowing Madeline Bainbridge,” he said. He swung around in his chair and gestured towards the shelves that lined one side of his office. “The law enforcement people would be the first to agree.”
Jupiter got up and went to the shelves. There he saw plaques and medallions from cities up and down the coast. There were photographs of Long with the police chiefs of various large and small towns in California, Nevada, and Arizona. There was also a framed parchment announcing that Jefferson Long was an honorary member of a sheriff’s posse.
“Golly!” said Jupe. He hoped that he sounded properly impressed.
“I have some scrapbooks, too,” declared Long. “You can look through them if you’re interested.”
“Well, I’d sure like to,” said Jupiter eagerly. “And a friend told me you’re doing a series on drug abuse. That must be pretty exciting.”
Jefferson Long’s handsome face flushed. “It is. Can you imagine, even some people who are employed in legitimate pharmaceutical firms are involved in the illicit distribution of drugs? But I won’t be able to put my series together this year. Some people not very far from here believe that it’s more important to spend money on mouldy old movies than on producing a documentary series on a major problem like drug abuse.”
“Oh,” said Jupiter. “Oh, well. I see. That’s too bad, I guess. But the Madeline Bainbridge movies must have been very expensive.”
“They will be even more expensive when they have been ransomed,” said Long.
“That’s tough luck for you, I guess,” said Jupiter. “Except maybe it could be a break, couldn’t it? I mean, you’re in one of the movies!”
“The Salem Story was an extremely bad movie,” said Jefferson Long. “In fact it was such a flop that after the premiere, I never got another job as an actor. I found a much more satisfying career as a crime reporter.”
“But Madeline Bainbridge retired,” said Jupe. He was rambling like an artless youngster. “My aunt Mathilda remembers Madeline Bainbridge, and she says there was always some mystery about her. She said people used to say strange things about her friends. They used to talk about her and Madeline Bainbridge’s coven.”
“Coven?” Jefferson Long’s face was suddenly wary, as if he sensed some enemy. He smiled stiffly. “Ridiculous,” he said. “A coven is a group of witches.”
“Yes,” said Jupiter. “You worked with Miss Bainbridge. Was there a coven?”
“Certainly not!” declared Jefferson Long. “That is, so far as I know, there was no coven. Madeline Bainbridge’s friends were–they were just the people she worked with, that’s all.”
“Did you know them?” Jupiter asked.
“Well, certainly. I was one of them.”
“Well, maybe some of them knew something you didn’t know,” said Jupe. He gazed at Long without blinking. “Do you keep in touch with any of the others? Do you know where I could reach them? Or maybe you’d be able to put me in touch with Madeline Bainbridge herself.”
“Certainly not!” exclaimed Long. “I don’t have anything to do with those people any more. My friends are all in law enforcement. As for Bainbridge, I haven’t seen her for thirty years–and I don’t care if I don’t see her for another thirty! She was a spoiled, temperamental would-be actress. Almost as bad as that Desparto character she was engaged to. Now there was a real ham!”
“He died after a party at her house, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” Jefferson Long looked old then, and his eyes were bleak. “After a party. Yes.”
He straightened up and shook himself, as if shaking off a bad memory. “But that . . . that was a long time ago,” he said. “I never think about those days now. No use dwelling in the past. And why are we talking so much about Madeline Bainbridge, anyway? I assume you’ve come because you’re interested in my crime-fighting programmes.”
“I came because of Madeline Bainbridge,” said Jupe simply. “I’m doing a paper on her for my course in the history of films. If the paper’s good enough, it’ll get published in the school journal.”
Jefferson Long looked intensely annoyed. “I wish you good luck,” he said coldly. “Now you’ll have to excuse me. I can’t give you any more time. I have a luncheon appointment.”
“I understand,” said Jupe. He thanked Long and left.
“Well?” said Beefy as Jupe got into the car.
“Jefferson Long does not like Madeline Bainbridge, and he doesn’t like the idea of her films being shown on television,” Jupe reported. “Video Enterprises isn’t going to finance a series he wants to do on drug abuse because they spent so much money on the Bainbridge pictures. Long says he hasn’t seen Bainbridge for thirty years and he hasn’t kept up with any of her friends. Also, he denies that there was a coven. He may be telling the truth about everything else, but I think he was lying about the coven. Actually, I think that there is something odd about Jefferson Long, but I can’t quite say what it is.”
Pete chuckled in the back seat. “You’ll figure it out. You always do,” he said. “Anyway, here’s something else to work on. I called my father at the studio while you were gone. He’s got an address for us already. Elliott Farber was Bainbridge’s favourite cameraman, and he was in the magic circle at that Academy Awards dinner! He isn’t a cameramen any longer. He runs a television repair shop on Melrose. Let’s go over there!”