Merryll Manning Is Dead Lucky (26 page)

    “You’re putting Boss Kent in the front seat?”

    “Too right! You think about it. What’s old Borne always yakking about? Motive. Kent’s got a bagful. A beauty. My guess is he put the pressure on Spookie to put his little friend into the show. And when she refused…”

36

After a lapse of two weeks, the 2x3 cards started again the day of the second semi-final – but this time with a twist. I didn’t get one, nor did Sedge or Monty or Al or any of the regular staff. Instead, they were mailed to the contestants. Two of them were so frightened, they wanted to pull out. Only the offer of police protection persuaded them to change their fearful little minds.

    “We’re fools,” muttered Borne to me. “Can’t see the forest for the trees – you know how it is. We should have twigged our man took all those records for a purpose.”

    At least the inspector was talking to me. I suppose he had to. I needed him to identify his men. Most of them I’d never seen before, but no-one was about to slip on to the set in the guise of a policeman. I had my own men check out their warrant cards, and then I had them double-checked by one of Borne’s own sergeants, a stolidly unimaginative officer who could be guaranteed to admit no strangers – even if they should flash a chit from the assistant commissioner himself. And as a further check – and as I was ultimately responsible after all – I wanted to be satisfied that I knew every detail of every face myself. I have a photographic memory and was solidly confident I could spot any ring-ins.

    No live audience, of course. Admittedly, the set was full of policemen – but they didn’t count as an audience. I had all the surrounding corridors covered as well, and two men were detailed to follow Sedge wherever he went. His dressing room was now in Boss Kent’s washroom in the admin building right next door.

    I was taking no chances. I was confident that I’d thought of every contingency – every possible avenue of attack. I was wrong.

    The show went off with only the customary hiccups. All the contestants were in such a nervous state, the teams missed the easiest questions. But one group still managed a big lead and came out such easy winners that the show had no suspense, no surprises, no unexpected turns. It was guaranteed to send even our keenest viewers to instant sleep.

    Well, that was that. Sedge tripped past me with his two bodyguards in tow, while the police were rounding up the contestants. Everything on the set seemed under control, so I decided to follow Sedge to his temporary dressing room in the admin building next door. In fact, now that Boss Kent was tied up in the control room, now was a good time to make a thorough search of his office. I walked up the carpeted stairs to the executive suite and was turning into the corridor when I heard the sound of strong shoulders ramming a door. I ran down the corridor and turned the corner. Two cops were trying to force the door of the washroom.

    “What the hell’s up?”

    “We heard a funny sound inside, and he won’t open the door!”

    “There’s another way in, idiots – through Kent’s bloody office!” I ran further down the corridor, hoping to God that neither Kent nor Sedge had locked it up. But the washroom door was unlocked, thank God. I slammed it open!

    Sedge was sitting on the floor just inside, his head against the tiled wall. His eyes were open, but glazed. It was obvious that he couldn’t see me, couldn’t even feel the blood dripping into his eye from the cross-shaped gash in his forehead. He held a knife in his hand.

    Borne was on the scene at once. Before I had a chance to investigate any further, the bastard threw me out. I was forced to wait in Boss Kent’s office with Monty Fairmont holed up in one corner and Ace Jellis in the other. We heard the ambulance siren coming and going before Borne finally opened the door and allowed us in.

    “Knife comes from the canteen. We’ve established that,” muttered Borne bleakly. “Mr. Cornbeck sticks to his story – what there is of it. Claims he saw her in the mirror: Kathleen Irene Williams. The hair, the dead eyes, the bloodless skin.”

    “Just the face?” I asked.

    “There,” Borne pointed, “in the lower corner of the mirror. But he remembers nothing else. He’s again in a state of shock. Doctor Hammond’s brought in a hypnotist to try to bring him around. I want you, Manning, and you, Fairmont, to come along.”

    “Not me?” asked Ace.

    “Not you, Mr. Jellis.”

    “That suits me just fine!”

The hypnotist turned out to be a brisk, matter-of-fact, know-all type who got down to business with a minimum of fuss. No revolving mirrors, no swinging watch-chain, no look-into-my-eyes malarkey. A swift injection, a wait of ten minutes and we were off.

    The first thirty questions were a lot of dull stuff for which we already knew the answers. It wasn’t until the hypnotist had thoroughly established Sedge’s name, age and career-to-date, that he ventured into unknown territory.

    “Tell us what you saw?”

    “The eyes.”

    “Eyes?”

    “Dead eyes.”

    “Whose eyes?”

    “Spookie’s eyes.”

    “Spooky?”

    “Dead eyes.”

    “How dead?”

    “Horrible!”

    “How did you know they were dead?”

    “She can’t see! Spookie can’t see!”

    “How do you know she can’t see?”

    “Dead! Spookie’s dead.”

    “How do you know she’s dead?”

    “I killed her.”

    “How?”

    “I breathed upon her, and she died.”

    “How do you know she died?”

    “Her eyes. Dead eyes.”

    “What makes you so sure they were dead?”

    “They opened.”

    “Her eyes opened? Dead eyes?”

    A great shudder suddenly took hold of Sedge’s body. He fell back on the pillows, thrashing about wildly.

    “Stop it!” ordered one of the doctors.

    But it was too late. Suddenly Sedge opened his own eyes to their fullest extent. He looked at us blindly for a few horrible seconds. Then he screamed!

37

“Let’s get the whole shebang over and done with,” Boss Kent ordered. “The sooner, the better. Any reason the show can’t be taped early Friday?”

    We all looked at each other. “The audience,” began Monty.

    “No live audience. The contestants are sweating it out. I reckon they’ll all be glad to come in and get it over with a few days earlier. For eighty thousand dollars! Make no difference to you, Peter? Early Friday?”

    Peter thought for a moment and then shook his head.

    “What about me?” I objected. “There’s a problem and a half for you. I’m a contestant, remember. We both saw Sedge only yesterday. No way in the world will he back this Friday or any other Friday this month or next.”

    “From what I saw, there’s no way in the world that Sedge will be back on deck – ever! But that’s no problem. You compere. We simply announce that budding contestant, Merryll Manning, is no longer with us.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “From now on, you’re dead.”

    “Thanks very much!”

    “Remember, Manning: From now on, you’re this Don Ellin character. To the viewers, to the goddamned press, to every mother’s son.”

    “Just great! I don’t even
like
the name.”

    “You thought it up,” Kent gloated, “so now you’re stuck with it.”

    “What about the questions?” Monty asked.

    Kent waved his hand. “They’re in the executive washroom. Sedge insisted on moving his goddamned desk and his junk make-up table and all his nickel-and-dime chattels into my washroom. Sedge has his many good points, but fearlessness is not one of them. That man was scared of his own shadow. If he’d stayed in his own dressing-room where he belonged, he’d be sitting with us right here, right now. So how about it, Peter? Can you get that desk of his good and open?”

    “Of course he can,” said Monty. “He’s done it before!”

    But Peter was not so sure. “Is it the same desk?” he asked.

    “What the Sam Hill do you think I’m telling you? Will you get your…” Boss Kent choked back a word. “Take a goddamned look at the thing!”

    Kent’s impatience was more than justified. Peter Tunning had risen from his chair, but was now standing irresolutely in the middle of the floor.

    “We’re all right behind you!” urged Monty.

    Despite his obvious fear at entering the suite, Peter allowed himself to be guided to the roll-top desk which, though of sturdier quality than the adjacent dressing-table, still looked way out of place in Kent’s soft-lit, blue-tiled executive washroom.

    The lock was difficult: impossibly small and set deep into the wood. Easy to smash, mind you, and no match for a jemmy, but who wants a splintered desk? Although no valuable antique, it was Sedge’s property, not Kenovarnie’s. Even Ride-Roughshod Kent was unwilling to damage it; but Peter had it open in thirty seconds flat. In fact, he was obviously mighty pleased with himself. With a triumphant little smile, he retrieved Sedge’s briefcase and handed it to Monty. Of course, the briefcase was locked too, but that sort of laughable lock wouldn’t deter a three-year-old child. I had it open in two minutes.

    “Don’t keep me in suspense. Let’s see the queasy questions.”

    I was about to protest, but Monty got in ahead of me. “Against the rules, Mr. Kent! Only Manning should know them, not us! Not any of us!”

    “Is it against the rules to know the names of our carpet-bag contestants?”

    “No, no. I’ve got that list right here: Merryll Manning: Hollywood…”

    “Scratched,” said Kent.

    “That’s dead right!” Ace Jellis agreed.

    Monty pulled a sour face. “I was coming to that – if you’ll give a man time to open his mouth!”

    Kent clapped his hands together. “Never mind the bickering! We don’t have much time. Let’s all get to it.”

    “You’re sure you want it taped, Friday?” asked Monty.

    “What’s the matter with you, Monty? You got shredded ears? We just discussed all that.”

    Monty hunched his shoulders. “Nothing! Just a thought.” He turned to me: “The police will be here?”

    “Of course! I’ll tee that up. We’re still under threat.”

    “That’s what I meant. Last time, the threats were all mailed to the contestants.”

    “So? Goddamn it, Monty! What are you getting at now?”

    “You’ve changed the day, Mr. Kent. You know what that means?”

    “There won’t be time for Mr. Two-by-Three to send any threatening letters!” I butted in.

    “My heart breaks!”

    “Today’s Wednesday,” I continued. “Friday, we have the contestants in here for the show. Even letters mailed right now wouldn’t reach them until Friday. So we bring the contestants in tomorrow and put them up for the night at a swell hotel where Borne and his men can keep an eye on them.”

    “Good thinking, Merryll,” agreed Boss Kent.

    “What about the stage?” Monty asked. “I’ve got to send out calls for the technicians and all our usual casuals.”

    “Manning’s using his head. You’ll send out calls, late tomorrow. So what if first-choice can’t make it? Cameramen and set dressers are a dime a dozen. You know that!”

    “I like to work with the same crew!”

    “My heart bleeds! I’m getting this whole cretinous show under wraps before anything else happens. Do I make myself clear, Monty?”

    “I guess so.”

    “I say again for all to hear: I’m getting this whole cretinous show under wraps quick smart. You all hear me? Fine! We’ll rehearse Friday morning, and tape first thing after lunch.”

    “No good,” Peter said. “I am at work Friday afternoon. I have appointments. I cannot break my appointments. I cannot come.”

    “You have appointments? You can’t come? So who needs you?” Kent asked.

    Peter bounced out of his chair. “You speak to me, but you have no respect!” he shouted. “Always you have no respect. I show you! Monty and me, we come to you. We crawl on our knees. We beg you to help us with our show. You want money, money, money! I pay, pay, pay! You sell extra time.
Our
time! You keep the money – all of it! You keep the money.
Our
money! You spit in our face – Monty and me. You spit at us! We don’t need you! We cancel! We go someplace else!”

    Boss Kent was no man for a crisis. He backed right down. “Hell, Peter, it was just a way of speaking. I’ve got the greatest respect for you and Monty. You know that. What can I say?”

    “You will apologize.”

    “Hell, sure: I apologize. Let’s not fight about trifles. You can’t come Friday afternoon, so we tape Friday night. Simple. Easily fixed.”