Crime on My Hands (13 page)

“Forget it,” I said. “I'll just call you Jackson.”

He gave me a worried look and let it go at that.

The same clerk was at the desk. “Don't you ever sleep?” I asked. “Is Miss Waite in?”

He yawned, looked at the register, and gave a low whistle. “Oh, that one!” He glanced at the key rack. “Sure is.”

“Will you inform her,” I said, “that Mr. Sanders and Mr. Wallingford would like to see her?”

He leered. “Why'nt you just walk in on her? I would.”

“I think you'd better call her.”

“Sissy!” he muttered, and plugged in on the switchboard. “Two gents here to see you,” he said. “You want 'em one at a time or all together?” He disconnected and did better than Barbara Stanwyck on a “Ch-ch!” “Both of you,” he said, winking. “What'll they think of next?”

Wanda's face was scrubbed and shiny. She was in a loose, demure housecoat. Her hair fell in loose golden waves to her shoulders. She looked like a missionary's bride.

“Hello,” she said, like a little girl.

“You look sweet,” Wallingford said. “Tell me, what's giving?”

“Why, Wally,” she said, big-eyed. “I don't know what you mean.”

“All these fumadiddles,” he said sorrowfully. “You should ought to be ashamed, a nice girl. Going to George's trailer in a nightgown.”

“But I wanted to talk to him,” she said plaintively. “And a girl would certainly be safe with George. He's so sweet.”

Now what was she up to, I wondered. Aside from the veiled insult, she had switched her act completely around. Now she was that fresh young thing known to millions, not the flaming temptress of the night before.

“And now this,” I said, giving her the telegram.

She read it. Her lips began to tremble. Her blue eyes glistened with imminent tears. “Who would
do
such a thing?” she pleaded. “I've never harmed anyone. I
like
people. But after all,” she went on matter-of-factly, “it's true. All except the immoral conduct. I–” she spread her hands. “I don't know what to say. It's too late to stop the story now, isn't it?”

“Too late to stop what story?” Wally said. He gave me a dirty look, snatched the telegram out of Wanda's hand, glanced at it, and turned gray-white.

“I can still stop it. Only, who sent in the story?” He stared at me accusingly.

“Believe me,” I said, putting my heart into it, “I didn't.”

“Well, I'll stop it; I'll call up Smith; Smith. Who's this Smith? I'll call the owner of the paper. I'll call my business office, maybe he owes me money. I'll stop the story.”

“Can you?” Wanda said, in a little-girl voice. “Gee!”

“Only,” Wally said, “who sent it in? You got any ideas?”

She spread her hands helplessly. “Somebody doesn't like me, I guess.” Tears began to roll down her pale cheeks.

“Don't talk like that,” Wally said comfortingly. “Everybody loves you.”

I watched Wanda closely. I felt that she was overacting again. Her timing was still off, she used italics. And a speculative gleam entered her eyes when Wallingford said he could stop the story. None of it made sense.

We left, no wiser than before, and found a public phone in the lobby. While Wallingford called, I loafed outside the booth. Paul and Carla went along the walk outside, deep in conversation. I hadn't known they knew each other. I filed that away for future, if any, use.

A little boy came up to me. He was about eight, and freckled. “Hello, you ham,” he said. He turned and ran to the desk.

“Tommy,” the old clerk said to him, “Grandpa'll just beat the living hell out of you if you don't stop saying things like that. He's got to make a living some way, ain't he?” He called over to me. “'Scuse him, Mr. Sanders.”

Sammy came in from the elevator.

“Hi, Fat,” the little boy said.

Sammy ignored him. “I told you I'd catch hell, George. Riegleman is steaming.”

“He is? I thought he never lost his temper.”

“He's really steaming,” Sammy said. “Just wait till he sees you.”

“Hi, Fat,” Tommy said.

“Of course,” I said, ‘I'm devilish sorry. But there isn't anything I can do about it. I may be able to find the film. In fact, I think I can promise it.”

“You were going to trap a murderer last night, too, George.”

“I did.”

“Who?” Sammy snapped.

“I don't know, Sammy. But I mean to know. I'll stake my life on the fact that the killer was among my visitors. It remains only to think it through correctly and I'll have him.”

“Hi, Fat,” Tommy said.

Sammy peered into the phone booth. “What's Mr. Big doing?”

“Squelching, he hopes, a story about Wanda's arrest.”

“My God, did somebody give it to the papers?”

“Let's forget it for a moment. Listen, Sammy, we've got to figure out something on those guns. If we re-take that scene today, I'll be sunk.”

“Me too,” Sammy said gloomily. “McGuire asked about 'em again last night. I'll have Listless go out and look for 'em today. That's all I can do. God knows how we'll get that other gun back from James. I guess we really got ourselves into something, George.”

“It's beginning to seem so, Sammy.”

Wallingford stuck his head out. “He wants to talk to you, George.” He followed his head out. “I told him it was a lie, and threatened to take away our advertising, but he says I wasn't here, so how could I tell.”

I took up the phone. “Sanders here.”

“This is Carl Miller of the
Morning Star
, Mr. Sanders. We met once at an inventors' banquet.” I recognized “Smith's” voice.

“I remember very well, Mr. Miller,” I said cautiously.

“About this story,” he said. “We got it pretty straight. I'd like a confirmation or denial from somebody who was on the scene.”

The telephone booth was hot, and filled with the faint fragrance of Wallingford's after-shave lotion.

“The story is untrue,” I said. “What do you mean by
pretty straight
?”

“What do
you
mean by untrue?”

“She was in my trailer last night in lounging costume, a big fur coat, and stout walking shoes. She didn't remove so much as a piece of lint from her person. The deputy sheriff came in when she was leaving. He had some questions to ask. They left together.”

That was the literal truth.

“I see,” he said. “I won't use the story, then. By the way, good luck. I'd like to have a break on the yarn when you catch the guy.”

“Uh-what-was-that?”

“Fred Forbes wired me, and I presume the other editors, that you were working on the Flynne killing. Our readers will be agog over that. Nearly everybody thinks of you as a detective.”

“I say,” I said, “be a good chap and don't print it, will you?”

“I already have,” he said. “In three editions.”

“Oh, God! Well, I suppose nothing can be done. I'll strike a bargain with you then. If you will tell all the other papers there is nothing in this Wanda Waite story, I'll try to see that you receive special consideration on mine.”

“It's a deal. Thanks.”

I boiled out of the booth, mayhem in each hand for Fred.

“What gives?” Wallingford asked.

“Murder, maybe. Have either of you seen Fred?”

“The story,” Wallingford insisted. “Did you kill it?”

“Oh, that. Yes. It won't run.” I paused. “I've got to find Fred. You two go on, I'll be along.” I went over to the desk. “Is Mr. Forbes in his room, Uncle?”

He glanced at the register. “Nope. Checked out. Said he was goin' back to Hollywood, th' dope. I wouldn't go off and leave that red-head in a public library, even.”

I joined Wallingford and Sammy on their way out. I had agreed not to work on this case any longer, but knew that I could on the quiet. And Fred had spread it over the papers. I didn't like the situation.

I knew that, given a little time, I could find the murderer. And if I did, I'd lose the job I cared most to hold.

“Damn,” I said, as we went through the door.

“Good-by, Fat,” Tommy called after us.

 

Riegleman was furious, but Wallingford could heave his weight about with anybody. They made a curious single impression as they glared at each other in the huge trailer that served as the company office. Each was a quiet man, with a calm exterior. Each imparted a sense of great power on the leash.

Neither raised his voice. They might have been discussing the third at Pimlico. But Riegleman's eyes were black with fury, and his long brown hands were tense on his desk. Wallingford's brown eyes had snapping little lights in them, and his pudgy hands, clasped across his paunch, showed white at the knuckles.

“If the film turns up,” Riegleman said quietly, “then we've wasted time and money in shooting the scene again. And we can't hope to duplicate that splendid performance of yesterday.”

“You speak true,” Wallingford murmured sadly. “You can't kill a man but once. But if the film don't walk up and say
Papa
, we're fish in a kettle. We can't take a chance on the weather. Was this really desert, we could count on plenty of sun. But you can almost throw a rock in the ocean from here. We'll shoot it over.”

This made sense, and Riegleman's attitude was puzzling. True, he watched his budget like a father watching a virgin daughter. On the other hand, he wasn't a person to take risks. If the film turned up, we could use the better of the two, but we must be certain of one. His anger, though controlled, showed him dead set against retaking the scene.

I put in my oar, and Sammy and Paul looked at me slaunchwise. Their eyes told me how many kinds of a fool I was to get into this fight.

“I feel certain that I can locate the film, Wally,” I said. “I can't guarantee it, but I think I know where it went.”

“George, you're a good boy,” Wallingford said. “And I like you a lot,
but
. Why didn't you get it already? And where is the killer you thought you could catch?”

“I was theoretically correct,” I said.

“Sure, sure,” he soothed. “You're smart, too. But you didn't deliver nothing, George, but a hole in the budget. You play detectives good, my boy, when somebody writes the dialogue. But this ain't play. We got to take that scene over. Besides, we can't shoot the sunset till the author writes one. And where is he? The office says he's here, but I never seen an author yet that wouldn't let you know. So we shoot the scene over. And that's my final word.”

Wallingford went out. Riegleman looked at Sammy. “All right,” he said with a set face. “Let's get at it.”

Sammy came to my dressing room as I finished making up. He carried two holstered .45 Colt revolvers on a cartridge belt gleaming with brass shells.

“Listless couldn't find the guns,” he said gloomily. “And I can't stall McGuire much longer.”

I buckled on the belt. “We can't possibly get away with this, Sammy. Peggy has an eagle eye. She'll spot the change of guns, McGuire will be called into it, and that peering sound will be you and me from behind the eight ball.”

“What do you want to do, then? Throw in your hand?”

“I can't. James would arrest me sure as hell. He would have last night, if Wanda hadn't made a diversion. All I can see to do is go out there and hope.”

“That hope's as slim as I used to be. But I'll tell you what, I'll try to keep Peggy interested in something else. If I can keep her eye off you, maybe we can get away with it.”

I thought of my past life as I went out to get my horse, and speculated on the changes that might be wrought here this morning. Until now it had been a good life: Manchester Technical School, cotton brokerage, four years in Patagonia with a tobacco firm, and finally into this ridiculously overpaid profession. I had had fun with my sideline of inventions, I had made enough money, I knew an adequate number of people. That, I suppose, constitutes a sort of happiness. At any rate, I was willing to continue indefinitely along those lines.

But I wasn't fooling myself. I could get into serious trouble this morning. It was not inconceivable that I could be charged with and convicted of the murder of Severance Flynne. The circumstantial evidence, once it became known, could be twisted all sorts of ways. The photographic proof of my innocence was missing.

The curse of an imagination is that you not only picture the worst results of a situation fraught with danger, you elaborate upon them. I saw myself in the courtroom, target for jeering eyes and bladed tongues.
Why did you kill a harmless man like Flynne? He never hurt anybody in his life. It was deliberate murder without provocation. You didn't shoot him? We shall prove, your honor, that the accused had the murder weapon in his possession. We shall show that he attempted to hide that fact. We shall produce witnesses who saw him go to the victim's room shortly after the death. We shall ask what happened to this so-called proof of his innocence. He had the film. We have no reason to assume that it was stolen from him. Why did he destroy it? Was it because it showed him killing that good and harmless man, Severance Flynne? Was it?

Please omit flowers.

I saw myself in the death house, waiting for proof that never came. Waiting day after day, listening for that rush of footsteps, that jubilant voice announcing my innocence. Whose voice? My lawyer's, no doubt, for my friends would have deserted me.

I was not gay.

Nor was Riegleman, as he called the principals together like a referee before a fight. His dark eyes were sullen, and his long face was grim. But he had decided, apparently, to carry on in the best fashion. If the scene was to be retaken, it must be good.