Crime on My Hands (14 page)

“You may remember,” he said, “my instructions of yesterday. These pioneers are threatened with death, and I want the audience to know that. The attack by Indians is not a dress rehearsal. Those Indians want scalps, and money, and guns, and horses. You will die if they succeed. You will die luckily if an arrow finds your heart; otherwise, you will die at their pleasure. This is not make-believe, and you must make the audience believe it.”

He turned to me. “George, you feel certain that your band is strong enough to throw off the attackers, and the thought of defeat is secondary in your mind. Foremost in your thoughts is Carla. You mean to have her. She knows it and exults within herself, for you are Hilary Weston. As I told you yesterday, you will not let your inner fire die down, even in moments of extremity. You see your men fall, you see your wagons fired by blazing arrows, you are grazed across the cheek by an arrow, yet this fight is only a hindrance to the prosecution of your suit with Carla. You send her husband into danger with calculation. But here is an important point. You don't really care whether he is killed or not. If he is, that would be convenient. But you will have Carla, even if you have to kill him yourself. Is everything clear?”

We took our places, after stand-ins had done their bit, and the scene was ready to be shot. I put the events of yesterday and thoughts of my fate from my mind. They were of the past and of the future. I became Hilary Weston, and sight of Carla roused a flame in me. But I could not put Peggy Whittier from my mind.

Sammy was beside her, all right, putting questions to her. She checked her notebook now and then, and when her plain little face turned toward me, Sammy brought it back with a query. Sammy was doing his part.

Riegleman, Curtis, Paul, and a couple of electricians were a scattered group around that focal point. I noted them in passing, and fastened on Peggy. I could feel her eyes on my guns, even though I could see they were not.

“I'll give a rotten performance,” I told my horse. “But maybe you'll be good.”

Cameras began to turn, and I began to ride back and forth as the red horde poured over a sand dune toward us. I shouted my orders, I gave Carla a significant glance as I sent Frank out to die. When the raiders began their bouncing merry-go-round about our circle of wagons, I wrote
finis
to a life with each historic shot from my guns.

Any moment now, Peggy would stop the picture and point out that my guns were wrong.

The scene went on. Leather-fringed and feather-trimmed figures fell inside and out of the circle to lie uncomfortably in that blaze of sun until they could have lunch. The flat, staccato fire of the short rifles shattered the desert's ancient peace. I flung passion at Carla and lead at redskins.

Now the climax of the scene approached when the tide turned and carried away the ignoble redmen, while we pelted them with pellets of death. Cameras had turned for almost ten minutes now, and still they went on. No sign from Peggy. I began to play my part as if Hilary Weston were a man of blood and lust, not straw and brick.

Was it possible that Peggy had for once missed an important detail? I began to hope.

If she allowed the scene to run its course, the odds were in my favor that nobody would notice the discrepancy. Riegleman wouldn't. He didn't care for physical detail. His pictures were built around psychological detail. Sammy would notice, but that was all right. Curtis wouldn't notice; his attention would be on camera angles, photographic excellence, etc. The electricians would concentrate on light and shadow. The projector would probably read a book while the film ran.

Then, when the picture was released, an occasional amateur comedian would drift into the studio asking why I changed guns between shots. But by that time I hoped to have nailed the killer.

And so I began to hope, and consequently to play the part as if I meant it.

The moment arrived when I was to face the camera – represented by Carla on the screen – and express passion in the midst of danger. I was so caught up in the part that I didn't remember that this was the instant of Flynne's death on the day before. I faced the big black box, with my eyes on Peggy Whittier, and registered.

I saw her throw up a warning hand. She was about to stop the scene. Then she pulled her hand down, flattened its palm against her mouth. She stopped what she was about to do, and fear screamed from her eyes. Then she toppled forward, out of her chair, face down in the sand.

I spurred my horse and rode out of the scene.

This unexpected act sent him into a mild series of jumps which kept me busy staying on him. I sawed the reins, gripped with my knees, and forced him toward the camera. Finally, I half jumped and landed running.

Riegleman met me. “What the hell are you doing? he shouted above the din.

I pointed behind him. He looked and fell in behind me. Between Peggy's shoulder blades was a circle of blood, slowly spreading on her organdy blouse. She was dead.

Some six hours after Peggy's death, I was in jail.

It was not, the sheriff told me in my cell, really an arrest. I wasn't to be charged with anything.

“Tell him what it is, Lamar,” Callahan urged.

Lamar James allowed the corners of his thin mouth to twitch. “No need to stand,” he told me. “Relax. Sit on your bunk.” I did so, and he went on, “Look, Mr. Sanders, we know a couple of things. We know that Miss Whittier must have seen something yesterday. The way I put it together is this. She didn't attach any importance to what it was she saw; she didn't know that she had seen the murderer. But when that point in the scene was reached today, she remembered. You say she flung up a hand, and then put it to her mouth like she was afraid. And the killer knew what was going on in her head, so she got a slug in the back.”

“If I hadn't messed around with that film,” I said bitterly, “she'd still be alive.”

“Not necessarily,” James protested. “The killer knew that she knew something. She'd have thought of it sometime, and she'd have had to die just the same.”

“It's my fault that she's dead,” I insisted. “And I'll see that her killer dies for it if it's the last–”

“Now that's part of why you're in jail, Mr. Sanders.”

“Call me George.”

“Okay, George. Now, you were looking directly at her when she got it. The shot came from a point along your line of vision, extended beyond Miss Whittier. You can be certain that the killer saw that; he has an eye for detail. And it's no secret that you're messing around in this case. So all right, what happens? He may think that you saw something – like Miss Whittier – that would lead you to him. So you're next on his list. So this is a protective arrest.”

“Your solicitude is a thing of tender beauty,” I said. “I shall note it in my memory book.”

“You can get sore if you like. But this is a legal move, and we can hold you.”

I stood up. James's brown eyes didn't waver before mine. “There were a couple of hundred others out there, any one or all of whom could have seen what I did. Why single me out of the ruck?”

He gave me a sly smile. “I might as well put my cards on the table, George. I told you last night that I know you're hiding something. I don't like it. I almost arrested you then. But this is a better pretext than illegal parking, and it'll give us a chance to have a little talk.”

“I told you I'd talk to you any time.”

“Words,” James said. “Just words. When I ask you direct questions, you fluff me off. I'm going to get the truth from you even if I have to bring in a lie detector.”

I looked at Sheriff Callahan. I felt again that the big man couldn't be depended upon to act rationally. He was in charge, but Heaven only knew what he might do under any given circumstances. I could talk to James; I could give him sincere evasions. He'd think them over before acting; he wouldn't get angry. But Callahan–

“Sheriff,” I said, “I'd like you to be the first to benefit from an invention of mine. The lie detector brought it to mind. I'm working on a dingus that will make the lie detector seem like a kerosene lamp. The main problem of a peace officer is not to detect lies. Your own grandmother will lie herself blue in the face if she feels like it.”

“My grandmother's dead,” Callahan said seriously.

“A ouija board would prove me correct, then. But I didn't mean any specific person. My point is that everybody tells lies. You don't need a gadget to determine that. This person lies to her husband, this one to her lover, this one to his wife, this one to the whole country via radio or newspaper. A lie detector only indicates a condition which you knew existed all along. A criminal detector is different.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“That's what I'm working on. I'm using the old principle of the divining rod. Now we know, scientifically, that emotions cause an irradiation of detectable essences. Witness the dog. He senses that you're afraid, so he bites you. If you're not afraid, he goes back to his avocations, whose name, of course, is legion. A dog is busy, busy, busy.”

“Sure is,” Callahan agreed. “Had a dog when I was a kid, always into something. Hen houses, stables, living room, kitchen, drank soup off the table if you turned your head. My old man got drunk once and decided we didn't need a dog. So he lashed old Shep to a roasting pan, slathered him with bacon grease, and started to roast him in the oven. Would've, too, only Mom smacked him with a horseshoe the old man carried around in his pocket for luck. Shep spent the rest of the day licking off bacon grease, having a hell of a time. After that, every time he saw a rope, he'd try to find a pan to lay down in.”

I veered him back to the subject, while Lamar James gave me a fishy stare.

“You're a keen observer, Sheriff, and have a remarkable memory. Just the type to use the criminal detector to the utmost. As I say, it works on the divining rod principle. We establish an electrical field around a pointer which is connected to a dial that fits in your lapel. Now you may walk along using this pointer as a swagger stick, keeping one eye on the dial, of course. If you don't get killed in traffic, you will see the variations on the dial. Here comes a girl in a red dress, say. As she passes, the needle just quivers, gently. She has criminal tendencies, but they are suppressed by her desires for attention – the red dress proves that. Now you approach a man in a derby hat; the needle doesn't move. He's probably a junk dealer. Ah, but now we see something! That little man scattering bread crumbs to the pigeons sends the needle zinging against the pin. Here is an arch criminal. So you don't ask him any questions; you toss him in the clink and beat hell out of him. Eventually he confesses to being head of a narcotics ring, and gives you the names of his confederates. You call in the FBI, give your information and prisoner to them, and receive a congressional medal. You'd look well in a congressional medal, Sheriff. You deserve one. It isn't every small town sheriff who breaks up a gang that has brought insomnia to G-men by the gross.”

“I hate dope,” Callahan said. “Ought to be stamped out, anybody handles it ought to be killed. Where is this here criminal detector? How much does it cost?”

‘I'm going to make you a present of the first one,” I said, “as a token of admiration and esteem. If you will go to my trailer, you'll see an ornamental knob on a panel to your right just as you enter. Turn that knob to the right, and the panel drops down to reveal a desk. In the upper right pigeonhole you'll find a set of drawings. If you'll bring them to me, I'll put in the finishing touches, and you can have a criminal detector in a few days. Think of it! Just by walking around, you can weed out the undesirables in your community. Ship them across the county line, and you'll have the cleanest little city in the world.”

“Well, it sounds kind of screwy, but then you're an actor. I'll give it a whirl, though. What can I lose? See you later.”

The sheriff went out, carefully locking the door behind him, and Lamar James frowned at me. “That's a hell of a way to treat poor old Jerry. He's really a good guy.”

I have no doubt of it,” I said. “But if I talk, I want to talk to you alone. I know how you operate, but the sheriff baffles me.”

“Okay, talk.”

“I want to make you a proposition.”

“Shoot.”

“I want to give a party here tonight, and invite a select list of guests.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded. “A party! What do you think this is, a dormitory?”

“I can't understand why you should object. You tell me I'm not actually under arrest. I'm more or less a guest. Why can't I ask my friends in to see me?”

“But in a jail!” he said.

“Home is where the heart is,” I said. “What difference if it's jail or Chattanooga? “

“Who ever heard of a party in jail? What would people say?”

“If it turns out to be a good party, they'll probably say they wish they'd been there. Is there a law?”

He pondered. “No, not that I know of. But nobody ever gives parties in jails.”

“Then we establish a precedent. Who knows, maybe it'll become a fad. ‘Mr. Spike Donovan requests the pleasure of your presence on Thursday at 8 p.m. Black tie. Cell 26, Block B, Tier 4. R.S.V.P.' I like it. Jails need gaiety. Maybe we could work up a revue. The Ball & Chain Beauties. Or the Jailbird Jamboree. Music by the Arson Eight.”

“What's the reason for this party?”

“On the surface,” I said, “it's to wish Peggy Whittier hail and farewell. Best wishes for whatever, if any, the future may hold for her. She'd want it,” I lied. “She was that kind of person. That's the on-the-surface reason. The real reason is to trap her murderer.”

He slitted his eyes thoughtfully. “How do you expect to do that?”