Crime on My Hands (25 page)

“I hope so, too, Wanda,” I said abstractedly. I focussed on her. “Let me try you on my game.”

“Oh, George! I'm having so much fun.”

“This won't take but a second,” I said grimly. “N-e-n. Try that.”

“Oh, all right,” she growled. “Flynne. Or are proper names admissible?”

I gave her a dime. “Is everybody a mind-reader?” I muttered. I went back to the group. I didn't even excuse myself to Wanda.

Riegleman was standing apart, tall and distinguished, looking on. I was beginning to feel like a schoolboy asking a girl for his first date. “Enjoying yourself?” I asked.

“Very good party,” he said pleasantly. “Those electricians are good fun.”

“They're cards, all right.”

“Their antics gave me an idea for a scene in my next picture. I'd like to discuss it with you, as soon as possible. Not here, of course. How about dinner tomorrow?”

“Why don't you come here? I'm a fair amateur chef.”

“Delighted. At eight?”

“Righto. Listen, Riegleman, that game of mine isn't really childish. Let me show you. All I do is give you–”

His blue eyes picked up ice cubes from somewhere, then the ice melted. He smiled fleetingly. “Lay on, MacDuff.”

“M-d-c.”

He frowned into his glass. He frowned at the ceiling. Seconds ticked away. I felt a small elation, a growing suspense. This hesitation began to assume the same significance as the pause in psychiatric association tests. He had the word close to his consciousness, but his subconscious would not allow him to say “homicide.”

At eighteen seconds, he grinned suddenly, and said, “Homicide. I could think of nothing for a moment but midchannel, and I didn't think that would be allowed. How long?”

I told him, and he gave me a dime. “The game does have possibilities, George, old boy.”

My face was beginning to get rather grim as I wandered over to a corner where Wallingford was trying to break away from a childhood tale by Listless. He saw me. “Just the man,” he cried. “Excuse me, honey I got to talk to George.”

We walked away, and presently leaned against an electric horse. “Why do women got to remember when they were all legs and no teeth?” he demanded. “Pigtails yet! Better she should stick to hanging up dresses.”

“She's a nice kid, Wally.”

“Me, I like 'em with teeth. Even for telling about.”

“Wally, let me try you on my game. I think you'll–”

“George, listen.” He looked at his wristwatch. “I got to go. I got to give the baby his bath.”

“At eleven o'clock?”

“It's easier when he's asleep. George, I liked your party, and–”

“Wally, this won't take fifteen seconds.”

He sighed. “Grown men yet,” he muttered.

“L-g-l,” I said.

Instantly, he gave me a list. “Killing, rolling, calling, pulling, and gallon. Now give me a dime, George, and let it be a lesson. Better you should cut out dolls. It don't cost so much. Still,” he added reflectively, “it depends on the doll.”

I gave up. I went over to the bar and sat on a stool. Each person had come up with a word related to death or murder. Instead of avoiding it, they'd leaped at it. Sanders the brilliant, Sanders the wise, Sanders the great psychiatrist.

The doorbell reminded me that my most important guest had not arrived. This must be Lord Hake. I closed the rumpus room door behind me and answered the bell.

“Are you a magnet for crime?” Lamar James demanded. “Where's your telephone?”

“What do you mean, and what are you doing here?”

“Telephone!” he snapped.

I took him into the den, cut out the amplifying system on the phone, and he called for an ambulance. He hung up, looked at me.

“You've got a near corpse out there, George.”

I followed him outside. Under a row of hydrangeas was an evening-clothed body. James put a flashlight on the figure of a young man whose fair hair was matted with blood.

He was Lord Hake. 

Finally all were gone except Lieutenant Archer of the homicide squad, Lamar James, and myself. Archer put his notebook away.

“I guess that's it,” he said. “Some thug knocked him out and robbed him.”

“Then why the repeated blows?” James objected. “It looks like attempted murder.”

Archer smiled tolerantly. “When you have seen as many evidences of crime as I have, you begin to accept the obvious. We don't try to put the worst possible construction on minor crime down here.”

James flushed. He said nothing.

“Nobody saw anything, and all your guests arrived in groups of two or more,” Archer said. “Nobody went outside after arrival. If Deputy Sheriff James hadn't dawdled on the doorstep after ringing the bell, even he would not have seen the guy. The ambulance doc said that the body must have lain there between four and five hours. That adds up to one thing: he was probably your first guest, and was slugged as he rounded that turn in your walk that hides a person from the street. If the poor lug recovers consciousness, he may be able to verify that. Well, so long, boys. I have all the names and addresses. If I want to ask any more questions, I know where to find everybody.”

I let him out. James stared at me as I came back and mixed drinks. “Well?” he said presently.

“Well what?”

“What's your story this time?”

I frowned at him. “I don't like your tone, James.”

“And I don't like your glib explanations, Sanders. Lord Hake was Herman Smith, wasn't he?”

“What makes you think so?” I stalled.

“The lower half of his face was lighter in color than the rest. He's shaved off a beard recently. Smith had a beard. Smith disappeared right after that accident in England. I figure he was the younger brother, a remittance man, who inherited when his older brother wrecked his Daimler.”

“That was my conclusion. I verified his identity by telephoning a New York clipping service.”

“You invited him here tonight?”

“Yes, but nobody else knew that.”

“You knew it,” he said.

“What do you mean by that?”

“When you gave me that yarn up north,” James began steadily, as if he were addressing a complete stranger, “I told you it sounded phony. Missing guns, missing film. You didn't kill Paul – but I've got that figured out, too. Those inventions you've been talking about. You're perfectly capable of rigging up something that would kill him by remote control.”

My jaw dropped. “In the dark? From a distance?”

“I'll admit it's a trifle far-fetched,” he said, “but so is a criminal detector.”

“I was joshing.”

“That's what
you
say. I told you the camera wasn't on your hands when Peggy got it. You could have shot her.”

“Don't be a fool!”

‘I'm not being a fool. You're English. Hake is English. He comes into money. You show me a clipping you claim you got from Flynne's bag. How do I know you got it there?”

“Isn't it pretty obvious?” I asked hotly. “Smith loaned Flynne the bag. The clipping was in it.”

“Your explanations are too smooth, Sanders. Here's the way it looks. You didn't know Smith by sight. So when some guy hands in his work slip, you assume it's Smith. So you plug him. Then you find out it's the wrong guy. You know Peggy saw you. You plug her. Paul figures it out, and tries to blackmail you. You plug him. But still you haven't got the guy you were after. So you talk the sheriff into letting you come back here. You invite Hake to the party, and ask him to come earlier than the others. You waylay him and ditch him where he won't be seen until the party breaks up. I think my job is finished now.”

“I won't bother to argue,” I said. “I have proof. I found that missing reel of film.”

“You did, eh?” he drawled.

“I can prove that too,” I snapped. “Because I'm going to run it for you right now.” The surprise on his face pleased me. “Almost the first thing I did when I got back from location was develop and print it. So just sit back and watch.”

“Wait a minute. You have to turn the lights out?”

“Naturally.”

“Then I'll handcuff you. If you're innocent, you won't mind.”

“I don't mind at all,” I snarled. “May I set up the projector first?”

“Sure. I can watch you. Don't make any funny moves.”

I forced myself to cool off as I threaded film. The circumstances did warrant his loose conclusions.

He handcuffed me. I flicked off the lights, started the projector. He watched in silence.

The wagon train came across the dunes at sunrise. I cut a handsome figure on the creamy Arabian, and the close-ups made it obvious that Carla and I had what polite people would refer to as an Understanding.

Now came the critical scene. I was in the foreground, naturally, but we could see Severance Flynne, out of focus, in the background. I galloped up and down, shouting, pointing and then firing the silver­mounted pistols. At a moment when I was facing the camera, looking lustfully at an off-stage Carla, Severance Flynne was shot.

He straightened from his crouch in one convulsive movement and seemed to leap several feet to one side where he fell, kicked a few times, and lay still. The action was so realistic that it detracted from my close-up.

When it was done, I turned the lights on. James grinned ruefully.

“That certainly lets you out,” he said. “I apologize.”

I held out my wrists. He removed the cuffs. I was still miffed. “I ought to knock you across the room.”

“Sure, but let's finish that drink. So what's the story? You know more than you've told.”

“In the first place, I didn't ask Lord Hake to come early. He suggested eight o'clock. I asked the others to come at nine, which they did. I wanted to verify a few ideas of mine, and Hake could give me confirmation.”

“Such as?”

“I have no proof,” I objected. ‘I'm going to make a phone call later. If Hake comes to, he can tell me. Otherwise, I'll have to try something else.”

James got to his feet. “Well, let me know.”

“Come out to the set in the morning,” I said. “Maybe I'll have something then.”

“You'd better. You've only got two days to deliver on that sappy promise to those reporters.”

After he had gone, I began to agree with his description of my promise. I put in a call to London.

The first person I saw on the set the next morning was the beard. I nodded to him. “Still sore?”

“In spirit, no,” he said. “I carry my own cushion, however, to sit on. I want to tell you, Mr. Sanders, how I appreciate the job you're doing on
Seven Dreams
.”

I blinked. Why should he care? “Thanks,” I said shortly.

Riegleman came into the big sound stage, and after him the technicians. “Blast the blasted writing profession,” Riegleman said. “I suppose we'll do those mission shots today. If I ever catch up with that Connaught person, I'll make him wish he'd never sharpened a pencil.”

The beard interrupted. “Mr. Riegleman–”

Riegleman gave him the icy eye. “You're not needed today! Only the principals are in this scene. Who in the bloody hell let you in here, anyway?”

“Mr. Wallingford brought me in.”

“What the hell for?” Riegleman demanded.

“I went over to see Mr. Wallingford laH night, and I told him–”

“I see,” Riegleman said curtly. “And you talked him into giving you a bit part. Well, I've got no place for you. You'll have to wait until that brainless author shows up, and I don't care if B.G. Wexel himself says you should have a close-up. I'll let you know when you're wanted.”

He turned back to me, but the beard tugged his sleeve. “Mr. Riegleman, Mr. Wallingford expressly told me–”

Riegleman whirled, white with fury. “I told you–“ He paused and looked at the beard, slit-eyed. “What are you doing here, and who are you?”

“I'm Arthur Connaught,” the beard said.

There was one of those silences that simply can't be described.

Riegleman stood perfectly still. His face looked as though it had gotten stuck. At last he said, “You're who?”

“Arthur Connaught,” the beard repeated. He looked surprised, as though we should have known it all the time.

I grabbed the back of a chair and held on to it tight. Riegleman sank down in one and stared.

“You're Arthur Connaught, the author,” he breathed. “Then why in the hell did you play in the mob scene, bobbling on a horse as if it were a typhoon?”

‘I'm sorry about the horse,” Connaught said apologetically. “You see, I'd never been on one before. I hope I didn't ruin any film.”

“That reel was lost, fortunately,” Riegleman said. The color began to come back to his face. “Didn't you know we were looking high and low for you–?”

Connaught – I still thought of him as The Beard – shook his head and looked unhappy. “My agent told me to report on location. When I got there, someone shoved me into a line. There was a sign saying ‘Beards this way.' I don't know much about the motion picture business, Mr. Riegleman. So I just did as I was told.”

Riegleman and I looked at each other. Then we both looked at Arthur Connaught. While everybody had been searching for him, he'd been playing an extra, a beard, in the story he'd written. Getting a thousand dollars a week for it, too. I wondered how the business office would ever straighten that out on the budget.

“Never mind,” Riegleman said at last, and very gently. “Anything can happen in this business.”

“Authors should never wear beards,” I added consolingly. “They're confusing. Besides, they draggle in the ink.”

Connaught's eyes met mine for an instant. For the first time I saw a smile fleet across his face.