Crime on My Hands (11 page)

“I suppose,” I said, lightly, “that you could dismiss me if I jeopardized the picture against orders. On the other hand, I feel certain that you wouldn't like to see me go.”

“Of course I wouldn't like it, George, old boy. I think you're magnificent in the role!”

“Thanks. Neither would you like the expensive delay entailed in replacing me. Eh?”

“Quite right.”

“That puts me in a position to make a trade, then. I promise you that I won't jeopardize the picture. If I fail at any time to give a performance that is unaffected by my activity in this matter, I will give up my investigations without a mutter. How say you, sir?”

“A fair compromise, George. Shall we let it stand at that. Righto?”

“Righto.”

We parted friends once more. But when I turned off the light again, I puzzled over Riegleman. Had he told the truth? It was likely that his first consideration would be the picture. On the other hand, had he come to wait in the dark for me, to kill me when I came in?

More questions. No answers.

I couldn't fit any of the persons who had been apparently caught in my trap into the role of murderer. Listless had the opportunity, perhaps, but she was mis­cast as a killer. Wanda hadn't known it was a trap. Melva was an almost impossible choice, and Riegleman, if he hadn't lied about not knowing Flynne, had no motive.

One fact became clear to me: the motive had to be strong. The murderer
had
to be a person with initiative, cunning, and an amazing ability to shoot straight. Given that type in the circumstances that obtained out there in the sand, still you must admit that he ran many chances of failure. He must be certain to kill with one shot, from a considerable distance, a man who was supposed to be jumping around as if redskins were about to drill him with an arrow. He must time his shot so that it was obscured by other noises. He must be able to get rid of the weapon. He must be above public suspicion. The motive, to match these specifications, must have been–!

I began to feel sorry for the person hag-ridden by something which could force him to such lengths. Granting him all the necessary attributes, still he must have known the risks. If his need to kill Flynne outweighed his chance of failure, that need must have indeed been great.

Then I thought of his attempt to kill me, and my sympathy for him did a power dive.

At about that time, I heard my door begin to open again, slowly, cautiously. But this time when the light flashed on there was no shaved ice around my heart. I was becoming inured to facing murderers. I was not even amazed at my steady voice when I said to Paul:

“I have you covered.”

“Then you don't need that beacon,” he replied. “What is this, a police line-up?”

“Breaking and entering might lead to one.”

“Who's breaking and entering?” he demanded. “I came over here to wait for you to come back from dinner. I want to talk to you.”

“One would think I was the producer on this job,” I said, “the way people seek me out. There, is that light better? Now. Did you kill Severance Flynne?”

“Oh, sure,” he jeered. “I wanted to save the company a lunch. You know how prices are these days.”

His black eyes were candid, even a trifle insolent. I said, “Sit down, Paul. You wanted to talk to me?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I just had a thought. It's funny, when you come to think of it, that the only guy who wasn't hired on this picture, the only guy who had a phony work slip, was killed. I don't know what it means, but it's funny, and I thought I'd mention it. Good night.”

“One moment. It seems strange that you would come all the way out here from town, and then slip into a dark trailer only for that. You could have told me tomorrow.”

“Sure. But I didn't want to tell you tomorrow. I wanted to tell you tonight. And I didn't know your trailer was dark till I was within ten feet of it. Your shades might have been drawn. But I did know that you'd be along. So I thought I'd wait here. If the door wasn't open, I was going to sit on the step. In any case, I wasn't going to walk out to my car and get my shoes full of sand again.”

“But why tell me? Why not tell the sheriff?”

“Hell, you're the great detective. I wanted to see if you'd thought of that angle.”

“I hadn't, if it makes you feel any better.”

“It does. So long.” He vanished into the darkness.

Even before I could rearrange the lights, I had another visitor. This was Curtis, the head cameraman, who gave me the impression he was walking around six inches below sea level. He almost had to lean backward to look me in the eye.

“I saw your light, he said apologetically. “I hope I'm not intruding.”

“You're the first person who has given the matter a thought, Mr. Curtis. Come in, by all means.”

“I came about the film,” he said.

I offered him a cigarette. “I'd like to keep it a while longer,” I said. “If you can possibly do without it.”

“It would be all right with me, Mr. Sanders. But you know Mr. Riegleman. We'd all lose our jobs.”

“Don't worry,” I said. “He was here only a few minutes ago. He knows I have it. He said nothing.”

Curtis looked uncomfortable and unhappy. “I know that. But it's got to be expressed to the studio by midnight with the rest of the film. You know how Mr. Riegleman is.”

I did know. I said, “If I bring it over before then, will it be all right?”

“Well,” Curtis said, “I guess so. But it would be damned embarrassing for us if you didn't. If anything should happen, I mean. You'd have to cover up for us.”

“I will, if it's necessary.”

He thanked me, grinned, and went away.

I went back to my vigil, which was beginning to seem useless. It was unreasonable to suppose that the murderer, if he hadn't already been here, wouldn't have seen my lights blinking on and off like battleship signals. And if he had intended to steal the film, he'd have given up by now. It would be like trying to steal a pet elephant from a Republican convention.

I ran over the list. All of the principal suspects had wandered in during the evening, except Carla and Sammy. Listless, Riegleman, Paul, and, yes, Curtis. He didn't look or act like a killer, but, being the boss cameraman, he would be able to wander about without arousing suspicion. Since his work was done before the cameras began to roll – in lining up the scenes – he could have found time to aim a gun.

I considered the point raised by Paul. It did seem odd that Flynne, out of three hundred accredited persons, should have been in the way of that one shot. The fact admitted several interpretations, however. The death of Flynne, as such, could have been an accident. The murderer could have aimed at someone else and missed. Not daring to risk another shot, he could have got rid of the gun. In that case, he was biding his time, and we would have another killing.

Another possibility was that the killer had arranged for Flynne to get his spurious work slip so that he would remain anonymous for a time after the killing, which time the killer would use either in escaping or covering up. I didn't like this idea. If the shot had come from behind the camera, the killer was not an extra. He could, therefore, manage to get Flynne a bona fide job in time.

These thoughts and their variations began to rattle around in my head, and I dozed off.

The lights brought me awake, blinking in unison with my caller. Covering a yawn, I said, “This is a pleasure, Carla. I feared you were ignoring me.” 

She looked at me, and for the fourth time said, “But I can't tell you, I just can't!”

We had had nearly an hour of this, and I had seen her become a frightened child. She was not Carla, the dark lady of mystery in
Salted Wine
; she was not the reckless wench of
Calcutta Callie
; nor a Barbary babe. She was a simple youngster with fear in her heart.

“If you won't tell me,” I said, “I can't know what I'm protecting you
from
. Do you want me to guess?”

She looked down at her trim feet. “What would you guess?” she whispered.

“I'd guess that you had something to do with Flynne's death. Shall I go further?”

Her head jerked up in a marionette motion. “I didn't! I wouldn't! The last thing I ever wished him was harm!”

“What kind of a guy was he?” I asked quietly.

It caught her off guard. “He was sweet,” she said reminiscently. “He was sweet and full of dreams. He wanted to be a great engineer once. Then he wanted to be a great pilot. After that, a great financier, a star salesman, and last, a great actor. He was never a great anything.”

She realized that she had told me that she had known him well. Her dark eyes had something of defiance, and something of dislike in them. “You tricked me,” she said.

“Since you told me this much, you may as well tell me the rest.”

“Let me tell you how it is with me,” she said slowly, and little bitter memories were in her voice. “I was a kid from Brooklyn, P.S. one-sixty-four. I was clerking in a dime store, and one day, when I was window-wishing on my lunch hour, Gary Blake came up and asked me if I wanted to go to Hollywood. I told him I'd call a cop and all three of us would talk it over, and he said swell. He called the cop. He really was a talent scout. A ham hawk, he said. He gave me some money and a ticket on a plane, and I didn't even go home to mend the run in my best pair of stockings. That dime store still owes me a week's wages.”

She grinned wryly, and for a moment the fear had gone.

“That's how sick I was of everything,” she said. “So I got here in a bargain basement dress, no stockings, and a new name.”

“What was your real name?”

“That doesn't matter,” she said. “I worked hard, George, I really did. I had to learn to speak English correctly. I had to learn to walk. I had to change my hands from stalks of limp bananas to useful objects. I found out that you could go hungry for three days and not die, and I know what it is to snag a stocking on the way to a screen test. Those are the things I learned. What I had, I kept – slim hips, full breasts, and a good face. I was built and looked like a siren. I had to learn to act one. But I did, George, and it's the thing I'm most proud of. And I can't stand to have it taken away from me. I can't! That's why I want you to help me.”

“Who would try to take it from you?”

“Everybody, if I'm connected with poor Sev's killing. That deputy sheriff this morning practically accused me of shooting him. I know he could see how frightened I was. I was terrified, and from his viewpoint there wasn't any reason for it if I was innocent. But I am, George, I swear it, and I want you to keep anybody from asking me questions. Because I don't trust myself. I'll go to pieces!”

“I don't like it,” I said. “You're asking me to take you on trust, and although I'm inclined to do it, I can't unless you do the same for me. I love beautiful women, baby. I think they're Nature's noblest. Every time I see one, I want to battle a windmill. But this is such a serious situation that I don't dare, unless you tell me what it's all about. I give you my word of honor that I won't let out your secret.”

She stared miserably at the floor, a slump in those lovely shoulders. Her polo coat hung slackly, and her fingers fiddled aimlessly with each other. She was looking at pictures. I could see them trooping out of the past, a parade of formless forms behind the dark veil of her eyes.

I wanted a cigarette. I wanted a drink, and I was hungry as a flame. I dared not move. I even tried to hold my corpuscles still. Maybe she'd tell, and we could wind this up in a few moments.

I felt that I had all the information that was necessary to point out the killer. Somewhere along the line of suspects who had visited me this evening, I had learned a disturbing fact. What it was I didn't know, but it began to disturb me as I waited for Carla to make up her mind. Was it a word, a gesture, a start, an expression of attitude, a question? I needed a cue to the clue. Perhaps Carla could give it.

I reflected that I could be overwrought and romanticizing, but still it stood to reason that if the killer was among my visitors, then he had come to see what I knew. He must have betrayed his purpose, and I must have observed that betrayal. Perhaps I had buried the observation deep in my subconscious for reasons of psychological distaste. I needed a spur to force it out in the open.

Carla knew something important. That was obvious.

“George.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. Not deliberately hoarse, not deliberately a whisper. She wasn't acting, not now. What she had to tell was something she couldn't say out loud. “It was years ago. Why can't it be forgotten?”

“A man is dead,” I reminded her. “One Severance Flynne. And you knew him well enough to refer to him as Sev.” In a spot like this, I remembered, The Falcon tapped a cigarette against his thumbnail. I tried it. It was an old cigarette, and half the tobacco spilled out. I threw it away.

“Why shouldn't I call him Sev?” she demanded, almost defensively. “He was –”

A foot crunched in the gravel outside the trailer. Carla's voice stopped as though someone had lifted a needle off a record. There was a soft, gentle tap on the door.

I thought “Damn!” and said, “Come in.”

A beard came in through the door.

You get to think of them as beards. They seem to think of themselves as beards. Someone puts up a sign in the casting office, “Beards this way,” and everybody with more than half an inch of fuzz on his face moves in that direction. They take on a curious anonymity. Beards, brown. Beards, white. Beards, long. Beards, trimmed.

Severance Flynne had been a beard.

So was this guy who'd tapped lightly at my trailer door. It took me a good five seconds to recognize him. “Mr. Sanders,” he said apologetically. ‘I'm sorry to disturb you. But you
are
the star of this picture, aren't you?”