Murder on Location (12 page)

“Where did you find out about Pritchett? Did …?”

“No, Billie didn't tell me about Pritchett. You can pass the word along. If she ever starts to talk, it will be because you've run her into a corner. Pass the word back to your boss. And try to brace up. Look at yourself. You're scared of Billie, scared of me, scared they're listening, scared they're hiding under your desk. I bet you weren't so grey when you were just running a real-estate business.”

I walked out, letting the door slam behind me. The fresh air hit me like another shot of rye. And I didn't need the first one. I was muttering wisps of fog at myself as I walked up the street to where I'd left my car, slightly tilted on a snow drift gone black. I felt I was being looked at by about fifty short-barrelled handguns. When I started the motor I didn't expect it to turn over, I expected it to explode. I was getting close to the edge, close to something bigger than Billie, and Mason, and something that made me wish I'd taken a quick peek behind Lowell Mason's bleached desk instead of just talking about it.

When I got back to the Falls I went around to the Clifford Arms, the hotel overlooked by the guide books, to book a room from the bartender in the beverage room. He looked suspiciously at my overnight bag. I found Room 209 without help, one of those places where there is nothing over 40 watts above ground level. It was a bed, a chair and a wash basin at the crowded bottom of a tall slot. Turned on its side, Room 209 would have been something you could almost stretch out in. Coffee-coloured tattered curtains ballooned out below the sash overlooking Lundy's Lane. I could see a spaghetti joint across the street tripping a sputtering neon sign from pink to blue and back again. Looking into the room, with my back to the light, I told myself that it was fine, no better or worse than the place I live in in Grantham except that they charged two dollars a night more. That was probably
because the fire escape here at the Clifford had knots tied in it at regular intervals.

The beverage room was about half full of men dozing or droning over draft beer. There were no women. Ladies and Escorts had a room of their own next to this one where the floor was cleaner and the atmosphere more animated. The room behind the door marked Men's Beverage Room was reserved for serious drinkers.

On the colour TV over the bar, Wally Skeat was giving a newscast. I found a paper on one end of the service bar. There was nothing in it about David Hayes. This far from Toronto, the news doesn't break, it crumbles.

TEN

In spite of evidence to the contrary, I try to get a decent night's sleep and eat regular meals. When I left Grantham it was with the double notion of securing a pillow and getting a bite of dinner as soon as possible. I'd managed the first half, but a telephone in the lobby of Butler's Barracks recalled me to duty. I pulled out the piece of paper where I'd written the name of Furlong's attacker: Harvey Osborne. There was only one in the book.

“Hello.”

“Is that Harvey Osborne?”

“That's right. Who's this?”

“My name's Benny Cooperman. I want to talk to you about what happened last night.”

“I'm sorry. I don't. I've had the newspapers calling all day. I want no part of it. What's your interest in this?”

“I'm not sure. But I'd like to know why you took a poke at Furlong.”

“And connected. I sent the guy sprawling.”

“That's right. Somebody said you moved like a professional.”

“Go on, it was just a lucky punch.”

“I'd like to talk to you.”

“Some other time. I'm busy.”

“I can be there in ten minutes.”

“Don't trouble yourself. Some other time. I got nothing to say.”

Next I called Ed Noonan, and got nowhere after talking to him for five minutes. He wasn't going to tell me who Billie's friend was, and I couldn't make him. So I went into the restaurant.

By now I was beginning to recognize faces belonging to members of the film company. Peggy's two women were pulling apart a club sandwich. I was glad to see movie people ate on the cheap when they could, like everybody else.

“Good evening, Mr. Cooperman. I turned around wondering how I'd got so famous all of a sudden. It was Raxlin, the producer. Tonight he wasn't sitting with his problems, he was half-way through a pink grapefruit. He waved his hand at the empty seat opposite him and I took it.

“I hear that I missed some excitement last night.” His smile looked a little shifty as he bantered. I wondered why he was eating grapefruit so late in the day. Was this breakfast in movieland?

“I don't think he was hurt. He walked away.”

“Sure, I fixed him an ice-pack in my suite. We had story problems, otherwise I'd have let him get to bed. We didn't break up until three a.m. He took some sleeping pills I gave him. Regular prescription. What else could I
do?” He looked at me for sympathy, so I shook my head at the crazy things people will do for a few million bucks.

“It can't be easy keeping things afloat these days.”

“Things never float. They do everything but float. I've got backers on my neck who don't go for the international stuff, investors that want the crime element played down, others that don't like the sex angle. As far as I'm concerned, I can live with the sex, but what are backers if they don't try to spoil your appetite. I've got a new assistant director, who may have to return to L.A. to testify in a dangerous driving case. So what if he's never worked with Sayre before. Furlong, pool Neil, dies every time I talk of changing one comma in his script. Peggy's agent wants the part ‘modified.' Victoria St. Omer doesn't like working outside. Dawson Williams is drinking. Sometimes I think that Sayre doesn't want to make this picture at all. If he wasn't the best there is, I'd be worried. Everybody wants something. Everybody knows exactly what he doesn't want to see in this picture, but can't tell me what he does.” I thought he was going to pop a couple of pills about now, but he didn't. Give him another year or so.

“I spent four years putting this package together. When I picked on Furlong, he was a TV writer, a nonstarter in the picture business. Now he's a name, with a play running on Broadway. Did you see it? Terrible cast. I don't know what they were doing up there on the stage. And the girl: she was an embarrassment. You know her agent tried to get her a part in this picture. Honestly, I tell
you, you try to be polite and go backstage. Nothing would make me break up this cast. Okay, so I took a chance on Miranda. I couldn't get insurance, but what the hell, I did it for Neil. This is the most important picture she'll ever make. It could be a come-back. She needs the picture more than it needs her. That's between you and me. Neil's written a honey of a story. I'm just worried that it may be coming true.”

When the waitress came, I ordered spaghetti and coffee. Raxlin ordered a soft-boiled egg of precisely three minutes to be served with dry whole-wheat toast. We both watched the bow on the back of the girl disappear toward the kitchen.

“Did I hear straight that you're a detective?”

“You've got good ears.”

“So, who are you detecting? Me? Peggy? Who? What's the matter, the cat's got your tongue?”

“Nothing to do with you. It's a private matter.”

“In a pig's eye. Private. Nothing's private. You want to know something? I'm impotent. I can't get it up anymore. How do you like that? I've got the best-looking girls in the world falling all over me and I'm as dangerous as a eunuch in a harem. I've got starlets and college girls crazy about me, and I'm embarrassed to say ‘Okay, let's go.' So don't tell me about secrets, Mr. Cooperman. Listen. This afternoon I had two visitors. Two businessmen who very politely asked me to make changes in the script. How did they get the script? I don't know. But they had it all right. They had the parts they didn't like
marked in blue pencil. Like professional editors. Only they weren't editors. They weren't asking me to make the changes, they were telling me. Like in that movie, they gave me an offer I couldn't refuse. Lawyers they looked like. Nobody raised his voice. That's why I'm asking you about your work. Are you looking for work, Mr. Cooperman?”

“First I have to find a missing wife. The husband paid me to find her. She's been bitten by the movie bug. That should interest you. She wants to get into pictures.”

“Better she should take an overdose. It's quicker.” Raxlin was trying hard to look twice his age, but in spite of the big city line he was shooting me, he looked like he'd been thrown out of a third-rate commerce course. He'd learned to talk like a movie producer from the movies. He was going on about something called “golden time” as the food arrived.

“And this woman, the wife, are you close to finding her? How much longer is it going to take?”

“There are complications. Her boyfriend has just got himself murdered.” Raxlin started beheading the top of his egg, which he did with all the panache of a real headsman.

“All I need is a killing,” he said, like we'd been talking about a twist in the plot of Neil's script. “Today I had to arrange to kill a story about Peggy that would sink her and this picture. Straight blackmail, nothing in it, but I'll fight that out after the picture is in the can. So I bought time. When I'm not on the rack, I'll say ‘print and be
damned!' I'm in the picture business. What am I, a crusader? I beefed up security just in case. There must be more off-duty cops picking up an extra buck here than there are tourists in this town.” Then he glanced up at me over the dripping opening in his egg. “Murdered? What are you talking about? Where?”

“Next door at the Tudor.”

“They don't tell me anything that doesn't have to do with the picture. Who was he? Some local man? I hope they keep it under wraps. That's all I need, a killing. I'll have screaming backers.” Raxlin was watching me chop up my spaghetti with the edge of my fork. “You should eat some fruit, have a salad. You're asking for trouble.”

I couldn't figure him out: half the time he sounded as sensitive as a length of sewer pipe, then he'd surprise you.

“How many movies have you made?” I asked. He didn't choke, he just took a new bite of toast and chewed it thoughtfully.

“This is number eleven. My first four and my last four have all grossed between six and seven million. The other three I don't talk about. Better forgotten.”

“How did you start?”

“My first picture I'm not so proud of. You know what a snuff movie is?” I shook my head.

“It's a low-budget horror-porno-sexploitation film with the rape and murder of a girl at the end. Horrible things. I've seen real ones from South America. Disgusting. But ours was only a fake. Nobody got hurt; it only
looked that way. Girl called Moonflower in it. I'm ashamed to mention it. Though it made money. It made a lot of money. After that, I did
Brides in the Bath
. We did it mostly in 16 and blew it up to 35. We got a Wardour release on it and it went international. It grossed four million five in its first nine months. I followed that with
Mercenaries
with Jack Hogarth, then
Gestapo Agent
. For the last few years I've been doing musicals and science fiction. Why should I be any different? Did you see
Brother Can You Spare a Dime?
They didn't think I should leave the question mark in the title. Crazy. My last picture was
The Time Top
based on an old comic strip. Today, the funny papers is where you have to go to find properties.”

“Tell me more about the thugs that called on you.”

“They weren't thugs. They were businessmen. I've seen both. I know the difference.” There was still a mark on the left side of his face where the businessmen had chipped their calculators. He might have gone on, but at that moment another of the walking wounded came into view. The bluish mark on Neil Furlong's chin suggested that Harvey Osborne had landed a left. He was wearing a brown corduroy jacket with a fuzzy turtle-neck jersey under it. He looked like he was going to cry. He sat down next to me facing Raxlin.

“Marvin, the police have taken Pye in for questioning.”

“Miranda? You have to be joking. But why? What has she …? What do they think she's done?” To me he added: “Miranda is Neil's wife.” I nodded.

“She's not been arrested. But they've taken her in for questioning. It's about that shooting at the Tudor this morning. Miranda had talked to the man who was killed. If anything happens to her, I'll …”

“Take it easy. Nothing's going to happen.” Raxlin was pumping up and down in his chair, not taking his own advice. “When did this happen?”

“A local cop. I don't remember his name …”

“Was it Savas?” I prompted.

“I don't know. Yes, I guess it could have been. Anyway, he said he had some questions he wanted to ask her. They talked in her suite for half an hour, and then she knocked on my door to say she'd been asked to go with the officer to assist in the investigation. That was around 7:30. It's nearly ten now and she's not back.”

“I know Savas,” I said. “He's a good cop. He won't frighten your wife. He won't hurt her.”

“He hurts her and this town won't forget! I promise you that!” This was Raxlin. Furlong was just looking at the table. He tilted his head in my direction and nodded his thanks for the ounce of reassurance I'd given. It wasn't much to offer. I tried a question.

“How well did she know David Hayes?”

“That's the dead man?” said Furlong. I nodded. “She told me that she'd met a sensitive young man with talent. She was always meeting sensitive young men with talent.
Good God, I was one of them. This one was a writer and actor and she said that she would try to help him. She asked if I could do him any good. But I've been so busy with this script and all the changes …” Raxlin cleared his throat.