Crime on My Hands (24 page)

“And Peggy?” she asked. “Are you trying to say that I shot Peggy in the back?”

“I was about half accused of doing it,” I said. “If I could have done it, you could.”

“Well, then, how about Paul? Whoever shot him must have shot Sev. And I can prove I didn't shoot Paul.”

“Yes, that's true,” I said morosely.

“You needn't sound as if you're sorry it wasn't I!”

“I haven't ever thought it was you. I'm eliminating now. Tell me something. You had a close-up immediately after I did when Flynne was shot. Try to recall everything you saw when you faced the camera.”

She was quiet through a long lane of eucalyptus. I stuck my head out for a periodic look at my trailer. She stuck a lighted cigarette in my mouth and stared moodily at oncoming traffic. The cigarette smoke mingled pleasantly with the smell of eucalyptus.

“I saw Mr. Curtis, first of all,” she said at last. “I was supposed to look at him. Then the man who was actually shooting the scene, and Peggy, and Riegleman standing behind her. Then a couple of electricians – Joe and Charley, their names are – and the men operating the boom. And Sammy, of course. I could see one of the sound men inside the sound wagon. I guess that's about all.”

“Behind them?” I prodded. “Think hard.”

“Even if I had seen anyone,” she said, “I probably wouldn't have noticed. You know the mood I was in. I was supposed to be looking at you. I seem to have seen that little blonde girl in wardrobe. I'm not sure.”

“Did you notice what any of them were doing?”

“No. I didn't care.”

‘I'm sure,” I said more to myslf than to her, “that you have named the murderer. One of those people did the killings.”

“But why? Sev didn't even know them. I know he didn't. He tore around with a different crowd. Aside from Paul, he didn't know anybody in this company except maybe for a few extras. And you can't put the killing on Paul.”

I waited for a break so that I could pass an oil truck before I spoke. When I was half way around, I saw that I was in for a tight squeeze with a big car roaring toward me. The truck driver, with the courtesy of his kind, slowed and slid over to give me room. I honked my thanks and went on.

“Let's take them in order,” I said. “You mentioned Curtis. He seems like a nice little fellow to me. I should imagine that we can eliminate him from the suspect list. Still, he doesn't follow any set pattern of movement. Nobody would notice if he stepped aside and took a shot at somebody.”

“But Sev didn't know him! I'm sure of that.”

“It's a cinch he knew somebody,” I said impatiently. “I'm trying to find out whom.”

“He didn't, though. But go on.”

“Well, there was Riegleman. He's free to move around too. He'd have even more opportunity than Curtis. Are you sure Flynne didn't know him?”

“Of course I'm sure. Look, George. Here's something I haven't told you. Sev came to my room the night we arrived. He wanted to apologize for taking this job. He said he didn't know that I was on the picture or he wouldn't have done it. He also told me that he didn't know anybody. He'd talked to Wanda on the train, but it was just chit-chat. So we figured there wasn't any danger in appearing together on the set. He was always over-meticulous about the situation, aside from that time he got drunk with Paul. He went to fant:astic lengths not to be identified with me in any way.”

“Then that gives us no motive for Riegleman, and whoever killed him had the strongest of motives. Hell,” I said in disgust, “it gives us no motive for anybody. Unless it was the Nelson girl, and he didn't tell you he knew her.”

“The what girl?”

“The blonde in wardrobe.”

I thought about this for a while. Suppose Listless had the motive, and suppose that she could shoot. She had the means and opportunity, then. Would she have acted subsequently in the way she did? Perhaps. She would have made an attempt to get rid of the murder weapon, but–

No, she wouldn't have told us where she threw it. She could have misdirected us by twenty feet, and we'd never have found it.

What, I asked myself, did all this have to do with the identity of Herman Smith? Paul had said he'd heard a rumor, and after he'd checked it, he was going to let me know. What could that mean?

And did Fred's insane telegram mean anything except that he was riding here and there, trying to get information?

I gave it up. For the rest of the trip, we talked about the picture and the faults of other actors.

I looked at the reports in Melva's office. “So these are they,” I said.

“Yes, them's them. Listen, George, I have always regarded you as being normally bright. Until today. What are you trying to do, make yourself a laughing stock? You can't afford to make people laugh at you unless they pay at the box office. Free laughs will kill you off.”

I looked up from the report on Charley, the electrician. “Riddles, dear?”

“Day after tomorrow, indeed! Who do you think you are, Ellery Queen?”

“Ellery Queen is a myth.”

“Stop lisping! He's a mister. He's a detective. Can you say as much?”

“I can qualify in certain respects. I'm in a hurry, pet. Where's Fred, and why aren't all the reports here?”

“He's out getting the rest. He said for you to look at this clipping. He said you'd know why.”

She showed me a society page about Cecil, Lord Hake, newly burst on local horizons. The one-column cut was of a young man with long, lean features, and a happy smile. His eyes were free from worry. He was a stranger to me, but one characteristic of his face reminded me of McCracken. And the pattern suddenly came clear. I knew why Flynne had been killed. I took from my pocket the clipping I had found in the bag in Flynne's room and showed it to Melva.

“Do you know what clipping service that's from?”

“I think it's Miller's,” she hazarded. “If you'd get more publicity, I might become familiar with them.”

“Get them on the phone for me, and leave the room.”

“But they're in New York!”

“I am under the impression, pet, that even New York has telephones.”

‘I'll wind up in the poorhouse yet,” she said. “Murders that threaten your career, and now long distance calls.”

After considerable delay and telephone costs, I got the information I wanted. I rang Lord Hake next. He was in the hotel bar.

“Hake here,” he said.

“This is George Sanders, Lord Cecil. It occurred to me that you and I probably have acquaintances in common. Such as Percy Wellesley.”

“Yes, I know him.”

“And others?” I suggested.

“Not a doubt, old boy.”

‘I'm giving a party for a few friends tonight. Will you come?”

“It will be a welcome change from society teas, Mr. Sanders. Eightish?” 

Red and Melva broke out of their samba routine as the record ended and came over to my built-in bar. Melva was in highnecked black, and her hair was a red-gold crown.

It was a dressy party. Everybody except Wallingford wore formal dress to some degree, with Riegleman topping the list in white tie and tails. They ran the gamut of fashion, from Listless, in backless blue, to the electricians, in white jackets and boiled shirts.

They sat and stood around in small groups. Now and then a voice raised above the others to fling a gem out of the mild hubbub.

“I thought her dress looked like an old fire hose.”

“...and his speech sounded like Tagalog in a high wind.”

“...it wasn't at Ciro's, it was the Troc.”

Fred and Melva perched on stools, and his long face was solemn. “Don't call me Reverend, bartender. I wish to be as the others, common. Sister Bellows and I find that our best work is accomplished when we simulate wickedness.”

“You have testimonials?” I asked.

“Indubitably.”

He gave me a sheaf of papers. They were the reports on Carla, Riegleman, and Wanda. I began to read.

“Ahem,” Melva said. “In our work, we cannot do our best with dry throats. A glass of ginger ale, p}ease.”

“Just scotch for me, bartender,” Fred said. “My stomach is too weak for carbonated beverages.”

I fixed their drinks, and ran through the reports. I found nothing significant.

“These are the last?” I asked Fred.

“Best I could do in this amount of time. Do you want more?”

“I don't think it will be necessary.”

“Do you mean you know who it was?” Fred demanded.

“I think so. I'll clinch it tonight. Your telegram tipped me the identity of Lord Hake. How did you know?”

“I knew I'd seen him somewhere,” Fred said. “I thought you'd translate that wire. Tell me who's the culprit, George, and I'll fix up a release. Do you keep a typewriter here in the rumpus room?”

“Wait, Fred. I'm not certain. I want to get a game started. If Lord Hake isn't here in a few minutes, I'll start without him.”

“Poker or blackjack? Anyway, deal me in.”

“This is a spelling game,” I said.

“Aw, George! You sound like a high school picnic.”

“I have a reason for it,” I said. “I don't want any objections from you.”

“You can't stop me from thinking.”

“I've been trying to start you thinking,” Melva said,. “since I saw you kicked off that freight train.”

They went away, bickering happily, and I waited for the doorbell to announce Lord Cecil. The boom crew trio came over for a drink. Wanda drifted over in a sheath of green satin. She was a siren again.

Time passed. No Lord Hake. I rapped on the bar.

“Last call,” I said, “before the festivities.”

Nobody moved. They watched me idly.

“What I have in mind is this,” I went on. “We make the stake a dime. I will give each of you in turn a group of three letters. Within fifteen seconds, you are to give me a word containing those three letters. If you take longer than that, you lose a dime, and vice versa. For example, if I give you c-q-x, you snap back at me with ‘quixotic' or some other word with those letters. If you don't, you give me a dime.”

“I will give you a dime now, George,” Wallingford said. “I will even make you a loan, if you can't make the rent here.”

“Charley can't spell,” said the electrician named Joe. “Could he just make his mark?”

“No, listen,” I said. ‘I'm serious. This is a good game. You'll like it.”

“I got to have a lot more drinks before I like parlor games,” Sammy declared. He came over, moving his bulk across the floor with an airy, surprising grace. “I better start now.”

“But what does ‘quixotic'
mean?
” Listless asked Wallingford.

“Didn't you ever eat Quaker Oats?” he replied.

‘I'm perfectly willing to play,” Curtis offered. “And after all, Mr. Sanders is our host.”

“So what?” Joe demanded. “If he don't like this party, let him go somewhere else.”

“I am afraid,” I said grimly, “that I must insist on your taking part in this game.”

“Don't you think it's a bit childish, George, old boy?”

I glared at Riegleman. He stood, cool, and suave, by the Capehart, and looked at me with amused condescension.

‘I'm not childish!” I snapped. “I have a very sound reason for wishing to play this game.”

“I'll play a game with you, George,” Wanda said in a sultry voice. “But it won't be a spelling contest.”

From the tail of my eye, I saw Wallingford look at her as if he'd never seen her before.

“If you don't pay any attention to him,” Joe advised, “maybe it'll wear off.”

“George,” Wallingford said, “you have a nice cuppa coffee, black, and go to sleep for a while on this couch. I'll move.”

“I haven't had even one drink–” I began.

Joe leaped to his feet. He swayed gently. “Then come fill the cup,” he declaimed, “and in the fire of Spring your something of something something fling. What're we waiting for, Charley?”

They advanced upon me, and Listless said to Wallingford, “I know that one. Sammy used to recite it to me. ‘The bird of time has but a little way to something, and the bird is on the wing'. What is that word, Sammy?”

“My God!” Wallingford said.

Joe and Charley came behind the bar.

“Take it easy, boys,” I said. ‘I'm getting angry.” They grabbed me. I didn't struggle. I didn't want the place to become a shambles. They pulled and tugged, moving me from behind the bar. Their hauling took on a rhythm. As if on cue, they began to sing,

“Roll out the barrel, we'll have a barrel of fun.”

The boom crew came over and joined in with some fancy harmony. Sammy grabbed Listless and began a snake dance. Soon, everybody was in it, whirling Indian-fashion around me in step to the “Beer Barrel Polka,” which I loathe.

I had to smile. The situation was completely idiotic. My clenched hands relaxed. Charley and Joe piloted me to a low couch, eased me gently upon a pile of cushions, and Carla came to sit at my feet. Somebody put a drink in my hand, and they all went back to their conversations.

“This is a nice party,” Carla said.

I had to grin, but my purpose took the grin away in a moment. “Let me try this thing on you, Carla. See if you don't think it's a good game.”

Her dark eyes took on a look of resignation. “All right,” she sighed.

“M-d-u,” I said.

She frowned for perhaps three seconds before her face lighted. “Murder?”

I gave her a dime.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she demanded. “Are you ill, George?”

“I may be,” I said. “Excuse me.”

I went to the bar and fixed myself a drink. Wanda came over. “George, I think Wally is seeing me in a new light. I catch a look now and then in his eyes. Oh, I hope it means I'm through with Mother Hubbards!”