Crime on My Hands (10 page)

“Maybe. There must be something highly significant on that reel. I think it will point out the murderer.”

“No kidding?” Paul asked. He frowned. “You'd better not spread the word until you're sure, George. You'll get yourself bumped.”

“Where is your bodyguard?” Riegleman demanded. “I issued orders.”

“Fred and Melva,” I told him. “They just came up. They'll keep me safe from harm. God help anybody who tries to incapacitate me while Melva's around. She'd bite his jugular. “

“You must let the police handle this, George,” Riegleman said, suddenly grim. “You're too valuable a property. If you have any ideas about the identity of the murderer, tell the sheriff. We cannot allow you to run risks.”

‘I'm on my way to the sheriff's office now,” I lied. “Then I'm going to eat.”

Melva came along, was highly cordial to Riegleman, and we went out. We met Sammy coming in.

‘I'm sorry, George,” he said, “but I had carburetor trouble, and I've been in a garage since I left you. I haven't told anybody.”

“I told Riegleman and Paul, Sammy. You get the others. We're going to dinner. Know a good place?”

“Up the coast about ten miles,” Sammy said. “Lee's Kitchen. Good food, but too expensive.”

“See you later, then.”

When we were at Fred's car, I paused, staggered a little, put one hand to my forehead and clutched the car door with the other. Melva was at my side in something less than a second, grabbing my elbow. Her face was the color of the under side of a trout. “
George!
”

“Sorry,” I gasped. ‘I'm desperately tired. Not much sleep last night, and now – all this. And I
must
be made up by eight tomorrow.” I leaned against the side of the car and tried to look faint. “If I could only get some sleep!”

She fell for it. “Never mind about dinner, George. We'll take you back to the trailer. I'll make you some soup.”

“I had soup,” I mumbled. “Just sleep.” I half closed my eyes, and Melva and Fred helped me into the car. They helped me out of it when we got to the trailer. I pulled myself together at the trailer door, looked at my watch, and said, “I'll be able to get six hours sleep. Just don't disturb me in the meantime.”

“George,” Melva said, “about this killing–”

“Tell you tomorrow,” I said. “You don't want my work to suffer, do you?”

“Heaven forbid,” she said. “George, would you like us to tuck you in?”

“No,” I said firmly. “
No!
”

I watched them drive away. Then I went inside, put the searchlight back into the photo-electric circuit, made sure the film can was still there, got my gun, and sat in the dark. Since Sammy hadn't spread the story, it was not yet too late.

Why had Wanda come, then? I had supposed that she had come in response to Sammy's tale. Her implied explanation just didn't make sense. In fact I couldn't see Wanda in this at all. Why was she suddenly out of character? Not the screen character, the demure little thing spreading light among the dark and darkened. But her off-stage character.

I knew Wanda. I knew her as what was known, among actors, cameramen, make-up artists, dress designers, and the rest, as a Good Kid. A girl with a sense of fun, who occasionally thought of weird and hilarious practical jokes. She didn't fit into this new siren role at all.

Because it was definitely a role, and she was proving to be a definitely bad off-stage actress.

Why? Why was she deliberately taking on that role?

What had she been doing in Severance Flynne's room? What was the business of the fingerprints?

Why had she showed up here, slipping through the dark to my door?

I had to shrug off the questions, for I heard somebody else coming through the dark to my door. Somebody else? How did I know? It might be Wanda again. I had a sudden, depressing picture of her constantly arriving, bathed in the brilliance of my searchlight. I sighed and picked up my gun.

The light switched on, and Listless Nelson shielded her eyes with a furred arm. She was dressed for a hard winter in what might have been dyed lemming, and a pair of denim slacks.

I fixed the lights. “Come in,” I said wearily. “I don't want to seem inhospitable, but I want to know why you're here, and why you enter uninvited.”

She wasn't embarrassed. She wasn't brazen. She was just terribly earnest. “I've got to talk to somebody,” she whispered.

“You could go on the radio,” I said. “Listen, Miss Nelson, I warn you that you'll get into serious difficulties if you don't give me some answers. Where were you when Flynne was killed?”

Her eyes widened. “Why, I was watching Sammy telling everybody how to do right.” Her eyes became softly blue. “Gee, he's swell.”

I looked at a spot just over her head for a moment. If she had been watching Sammy, and if Sammy was behind the cameras, what else did she see? According to such evidence as I had, the shot had come from near – or in line with – the first camera. I tried to put myself in a position that might correspond to hers. There would have been Riegleman, Sammy, the script girl, the cameraman, in one group. Then the boom crew and the technicians scattered around in the foreground. She would have had almost all of the possible suspects in sight.

“Miss Nelson,” I said. “How is your memory?”

“I won a prize in reciting, in seventh grade. But I don't think Sammy would be interested.”

“I might be,” I said. “Try to pretend you're back on the set today when Severance Flynne was shot. Try to remember if you noticed anything that seemed unusual.”

She didn't understand. She stared blankly from enormous blue eyes.

I explained. “I'll stake my shirt that nobody in the scene killed him, Miss Nelson. The psychology is all wrong. If I'm correct, then someone behind the camera shot him, and behind the first camera, at that. So we know the approximate location from which the shot was fired. If you were watching Sammy, you had a large group under observation. Did any of that group do anything out of character?”

“I don't know,” she said in a small voice. “I didn't pay any attention to anybody but Sammy. That's what I want to talk to you about.”

A sudden thought struck me. Maybe Sammy had done something unusual. Perhaps that was what she was trying to tell me.

“Yes,” I said softly. “Tell me.”

“Well, uh, my mother told me about him when I told her he had come to work on our lot. Mother said she saw him when he was a boy, dancing. And she said he was like a bird. That's what she always said, a bird. Sometimes she said a hummingbird, but mostly just any old bird. And I couldn't see how, Mr. Sanders. He's so fat, and all. But mother talked a lot about him, and I started watching him when I could, and you know he sort of walks graceful. Like he didn't have any body, sort of. And then I accidentally waited for him one night, when I knew he was coming out the gate, and we – well – got acquainted. And, Mr. Sanders, I
like
him. I even told mother, and, well, he came to dinner, and we started seeing previews together, and he bought me a compact once. And now,
this
. It's awful!”

I didn't dare distract her. I sat quietly while she sniffled into a ridiculous piece of chiffon. She raised her eyes, which were beginning to puff under the lids.

“He stood me up!” she wailed. “He was supposed to see me tonight, and it's almost ten o'clock. He's mad because I threw those old guns away, but I did it just to keep him out of trouble. What can I do, Mr. Sanders, what can I do?”

I felt like slapping her. “Did you come over here just for that? Slipping into my trailer when it looked empty? Really?”

“I got so worried,” she said tearfully. “I thought he might be here, and when I saw it was dark, I thought he might come back. I was just going to come in out of the cold. I wasn't even going to turn on your lights.”

I looked at her until she dropped her eyes. Was she telling the truth? If so, she was a liability here, and the best I could do would be to throw her out. On the other hand, she was quite possibly lying. This ingenuousness could be a pose. In that case, what could I do? I could accuse her of trying to get the film and destroy it; I could charge her with having fired the fatal shot over the heads of Sammy and the others; I could demand a reason why she had tried to incriminate and then to kill me–

But could I? Had she had an opportunity to switch guns on me? I couldn't remember. She could have been in that group around me when the scene ended, and have escaped notice. For, although she was pretty. she was colorless. I wouldn't have seen her if she hadn't wanted me to see her. No, all l could do was accept her story and give fatherly advice.

“The moon won't sulk,” I said, “if you don't see Sammy tonight. It'll be around tomorrow night, and fuller, too. As a matter of fact, Sammy has been working with me tonight. He couldn't get away. But he should be almost finished by now. He may be waiting at your place.”

“Oh, heavens!” she cried. “And if I'm not there, he won't wait.”

She turned and ran. I sighed and began fussing with the searchlight again, and she stuck her head back in the door.

“Gee, thanks, Mr. Sanders!” she said. She pulled her head out of the door like a blonde cork, and padded off across the sand.

Had the trap been sprung? I pondered on this as I sat in the dark. Oh, the trap had been sprung in the physical sense. Twice. Vanda and Listless. Melva, too, for that matter. But had I baited the trap for a weasel and caught three mice?

Wanda was off the list of suspects. But was it possible that she had seen the killer and was afraid to tell? She knew Flynne, slightly at least. Could she have known the motive? Was that why she went to his room? To collect evidence, or destroy it? Was she hiding the killer?

Had Listless killed him? Was she capable of even firing a gun, much less performing a feat of marksmanship that would spin William Cody in his grave?

I had a bookful of questions, but not a word of answers. And, besides, I was beginning to get sleepy. My mental stature didn't come in for many kudos there in the dark, empty trailer.

My next visitor was Riegleman. 

“Turn that bloody thing off!” he yelled, as the beam blinded him. “Are you trying to sear my eyeballs?”

I did nothing of the sort. I suddenly felt as if my heart had been packed in shaved ice. This was the first time I had ever faced a murderer, and it wasn't like in the movies at all. On the screen I was even a little reckless, daring the murderer to make a move, knowing that I had three tricks – and a knife – up my sleeve. Not here. I didn't want Riegleman even to wiggle his ears.

“What do you want?” I asked, surprised that my voice didn't squeak.

“I want to talk to you. What the hell did you think?” he shouted. “Put out that blasted light!”

The ice melted around my heart, and I did things about lights. I held the gun in my jacket pocket, though, with a sweaty hand.

“People don't usually come slipping into dark houses,” I pointed out, “to talk to absent occupants. You knew I was intending to eat dinner.”

“I owe you an apology, of course,” he admitted. “May I sit down, or does that gun mean that I must elevate my hands?”

I took my hand, empty, out of my pocket. ‘I'm a little quick,” I said. “Did you kill Severance Flynne?”

He stared at me, as if I were something out of Lewis Carroll. A slithy tove, for example.

“I just wanted to know,” I told him. “You see, I have contrived a ruse to trap a murderer. You knew about it, for I told you myself. When I saw you come in that door, I felt that you could be after only one thing – proof of guilt. Although,” I added wryly, “I must admit that door has been busy as the entrance to a pub on a hot day. Well, what did you want to talk about?”

Riegleman's gloomy eyes were accusing. “I went to see the sheriff. You told me you were on your way there. You didn't go. I want to know why. I ordered you to drop all this nonsense about catching a murderer. We're up here to shoot a picture, not to let you lose sleep. Nor to let you be killed. You're a valuable property.”

“Do you realize,” I said, “that a human being has been murdered, and that the value of a human life is far above any shadow play you may produce?”

He stared at me. “Neither of us ever heard of this, uh, Flynne, is it? I, for one, don't know any more about him than I did before he was killed. Oh, I'm sorry for the poor fellow. But his death means very little more to me than the death of a native in the Australian bush. But, this project means a great deal to me.
Seven Dreams
is very likely to be my triumph. Yours, too, George, if you pay attention to business.”

“Let me clarify my place in this situation, Riegleman. I am in a position to learn who killed a man. Peculiar circumstances have put me in that position. I must do what I can – for reasons which we won't go into here.”

“Why not? Let's go into them. I'm interested.”

“No.” Could I tell him that I had had the murder gun in my possession, that I had lied to the police, that I had withheld evidence, that Lamar James might come looking for me at any moment? I could imagine his screams of rage. Riegleman would fight for his budget like a tiger for her cub.

“Very well,” he said calmly. “You say that you must persist in this idiotic conduct, I say that you must not. We reach an impasse, then. I should imagine that your contract has a clause covering such a condition. We can invite you to give up your professional career and starve as a private detective.

“George,” he went on in exasperation, “you won't make a farthing even if you succeed in this folly. That's what I can't comprehend. There's nothing in it for you.”

There was deep feeling in this. I knew that Riegleman's attitude toward money was intense, and of long standing. Which gave me a lever.