Crime on My Hands (7 page)

I gave it up for the time being. “What now?”

Riegleman said, “I'll tell you what now. We do no more work today. You've been knocked for six and need rest. What's more,” he said to James, “George must have a bodyguard. If the killer has selected him as the next victim, we must protect him until the picture is finished. He is the star.”

I grinned at him, a little sourly. “Let's not endanger the picture, by all means.”

“I didn't mean it so callously, George,” Riegleman apologized. “But the picture
is
a big consideration. We can't jeopardize our investment.”

“This isn't getting anywhere,” Lamar James broke in. “We won't get anywhere until we get some more information.” He turned to Riegleman. “Tell everybody – and I mean everybody – not to leave town.”

He shouldered his way out. I sat up. The brandy was a warm glow in my stomach now. I felt middling well.

Riegleman turned to Sammy. “Assign a couple of good men to stay with George.” He turned to me. “Don't go anywhere without them.”

“All right,” I said.

Sammy waited for me, outside. “I've got the film, George. What about this bodyguard?”

“Not yet,” I told him. “I need to find out a few things. I wish I knew where Flynne was quartered.”

“I thought you might want to know, so I looked it up. He was in room fourteen at the Olsen Hotel.”

“Then I'll take off. You bring the film over to my trailer, and I'll join you there.”

I pushed my convertible at top speed across the sandy road until I reached the highway, then roared the three miles into Royalton. I strolled into the hotel, happy to find no desk clerk, and located Flynne's room.

If I could get some idea of Flynne as a person, his background, habits, and so on, I would be better equipped to work on possible motive, and the one person it fitted.

His door was unlocked, and I went in. The place had been cleaned, the bed made, and his personal belongings put neatly away. These consisted of clothes, a few pipes, a pound can of cheap tobacco, and a carton of cigarettes. Nothing in the dresser drawers was any more personal than this. The mattress of his bed seemed to hide nothing. The porcelain pitcher had water in it, the washbowl was empty. A few clothes hung in the closet, and the pockets were empty except for a couple of ticket stubs from Grauman's Chinese and a fountain pen. On the bed table was a litter of match folders, a couple of pencils, a pottery ash tray, and an empty glass.

Nothing to indicate that this was Flynne's room. No old letters, no initialed handkerchiefs, nothing. A handsome pigskin bag in the closet was also bare of initials, and empty. Empty, that is, at first glance. In one of the fiat compartments I found a newspaper clipping.

It was from a clipping service, but the name of the service had been torn from the pink label pasted to the clipping itself. This read:

TRAGEDY IN MONDESLEY

Lord Hake, member of the House from Burnham and head of one of our oldest families, died of pneumonia Friday midnight in his home, the Woods.

His eldest son, Harry, met his death almost simultaneously in Mondesley when his Daimler ran over an embankment. It is believed that he was hurrying to his father's bedside and lost his way in a heavy fog.

The clipping, which was from an English newspaper, continued with a two-paragraph history of the family. It was all very dull. It meant absolutely nothing to me.

A knock on the door sent the clipping into my pocket and me into the clothes closet. The knock was repeated; after a moment, the door opened stealthily and Wanda Waite came into the room.

She had on a short white dress, her blonde hair was becomingly tumbled. Her lovely long legs were bare and brown. I appreciated the picture she made before I realized that her face was set, grim, and pale.

She looked about the room with frightened eyes, and went swiftly to the bed table. She stood between me and the table, with her back to me, and I strained my eyes through the crack in the closet door to see what she was doing there.

She seemed to be handling and examining everything on the table. Was she searching for something? Was she finding something and putting it in her purse? I couldn't tell. I could see her pick up the empty glass and put it down. She moved to the dresser, picked up and examined the porcelain pitcher and washbowl. She stood for a moment with her hand resting on the metal footboard of the bed. Then suddenly she turned and almost ran from the room. She closed the door softly behind her and went away.

The litter on the table looked undisturbed to me. Match folders, pencils, ash tray, empty glass. The match folders all bore the insignia of the Royalton Hardware Co., Inc. I shut my eyes and tried to remember if I had seen a different folder among them. I couldn't.

Had she put something in her purse? Nothing seemed to be gone from the table. What had she been searching for? Most important of all, had she found it? I began to feel dizzy.

I decided I had better go away. Lamar James would certainly be along soon, not to mention nameless persons who might wander in as Wanda had. This was no time for deduction. I went away with the clipping in my pocket.

Among the gadgets I had installed in my trailer is a photoelectric cell which throws a beam across the door. It is connected to the lights, so that when I set a foot across the threshold the lights snap on. I don't have to fumble around in the dark for a switch.

I plugged a 300-watt daylight bulb, with a reflector behind it, into the light circuit and unscrewed all the wall lamps. I focused this searchlight on the door, at about the height of an adult's eyes. If anyone came through the door at night, he should be instantly blinded. I tested my work, and it was good. Then Sammy arrived with the film, carrying it gingerly, and wearing the expression of a man who has just made off with the Mona Lisa.

“Don't worry,” I reassured him. “It'll be safe with me.”

I looked at the flat shiny can. A harmless-looking thing, but possibly containing the clue to a murderer. Or the proof of someone's innocence. I handled it with care.

“Too bad we're not in Hollywood,” I mused. “I could develop this and make a print of it, and we could look at it.”

“It would take more than that to get my mind off my worries,” Sammy groaned.

“That film probably does contain a fine collection of clues,” I told him. “Perhaps if we could see it, we wouldn't have to set a trap.”

Sammy squinted at me. “Oh.” He was silent for a moment. “It'll prove you didn't shoot him. I remember. You were facing the camera in that scene. Flynne was behind you, in the crowd.”

“If you could only remember where everyone else was at the time,” I said, “it might save a lot of trouble.”

“I couldn't be watching everything,” Sammy said almost apologetically. “I didn't know there was going to be a murder.”

“No. Only the murderer knew that. And that reminds me of something. If the murderer was in the scene, he'd know that the camera would record his every action. He couldn't take such a chance. It must have been someone behind the cameras.”

Sammy sighed. “So that leaves the sound men, cameramen, grips, props, the boom crew, Paul, Riegleman, me, the script girl, the wardrobe people, and the cook and two waitresses in the commissary.”

“We can eliminate most of those, Sammy. Most of them were busy.”

“Who wasn't?” Sammy objected. “Everybody was busy.”

“Yes, it seems so.”

“Maybe it was an accident, George. Maybe •that screwball deputy is nuts on that thirty-eight deal.”

“Then where did the extra gun come from, the Smith & Wesson?”

“Yeah,” he said gloomily, “that's right.”

“And why did somebody bonk me on the conk?”

“Yeah,” he said in the same gloomy tone.

“I've thought of something,” I said. “You remembered that when Flynne was shot, I was facing the camera. If the shot came from behind the camera, it had to come from almost directly in front of me. Therefore, I must have been looking in the direction of the murderer. Maybe he – or she – thinks I saw him. That would be plenty of motive to kill me.”

Sammy's face brightened. “Say, maybe you've got something there.”

“Well, don't be so cheerful about it. Here's what we'll do next. We'll go out and spread the tidings. We'll say that I have the film because I know it contains a vital clue to the murder. You don't know what it is, and I'm not saying. Suppose you tell a few members of the technical group, and a few of the administrative. I'll tell a few of the actors. Everybody ought to hear about it inside an hour. Then we'll see what happens.”

“What about this film?”

“We'll hide it. Rather, I'll hide it. You run along. I'll come later.”

“Why?” Sammy demanded. “Don't you trust me?”

“Of course,” I said lightly. “I know
you
didn't do it. If you don't know where the film is, nobody will trap you into any admission, or try to beat one out of you. It's for your own protection.”

“How about your protection?” Sammy said. “If Riegleman finds out that I didn't provide a bodyguard for you, I'll be in the soup.” He paused. “What I really mean is, if you know where the film is, what's to prevent somebody from beating the hell out of you?”

“I am prepared to defend myself. I have a gun. I'll take it with me.”

Sammy hunched his round shoulders and left. I stood in the door and watched him for several hundred yards of moonlight until he reached his coupe.

I turned out the lamp and made a survey. Between my trailer and the surf, a few hundred feet distant, the hard sand was clearly lighted by a lopsided moon. I could see anybody coming from that direction. This also held true on the town side. Bare sand surrounded me. The town was marked by a faint glow half a mile away, and that glow would silhouette anybody coming from that direction.

Down the beach was a jumble of boulders casting weird shadows. I might be approached from there with impunity.

I cut in the photoelectric-searchlight circuit and sat down to wait. Somebody, I felt sure, would come through that door before long.

Time creeps in the dark, with no sense of passage. It fumbles blindly for the next position on the clock, and though each tick is a measurable footstep, it seems never to get its feet off the ground. And so I sat for a couple of years, ears strained for visitors.

My thoughts came to a head. In one lordly gesture, I lopped from the list of suspects all and sundry who had galloped or grimaced before the camera. The killer
must
have been behind it.

Very soon now, the killer would have heard Sammy's fiction. So, inevitably the killer would come through my door to see what he could see. My low cunning gave me warmth in the darkness that was growing chill.

Sharpened by tension, my ears caught a sound outside. It grew louder. Footsteps crunched carelessly through sand. Yes, the killer would come in that fashion, openly. For he believed he was unsuspected, and would no doubt have a rational story if he should be seen. I took my small pistol from the window seat beside me and pointed it in the general direction of the door.

The searchlight snapped on with the opening of the door.

“Don't move!” I said. “I've got you covered.”

My agent, Melva Lonigan, blinked blindly in the glare, and shivered. “Thank God for that,” she said. “I'd have frozen in another minute!” 

I flicked the switch and plunged us into darkness. “Come over here and sit down,” I hissed. “And be quiet.”

“But why?” she demanded.

‘I'm waiting for a murderer. Let's hope he didn't see that light.”

“I hope Fred saw it, George. He wouldn't like our being unchaperoned in the dark.”

“Oh, Lord,” I said. “Fred too. With three of us in here, the murderer couldn't get in anyway. If you'll kick at the door we'll have some light.”

The searchlight blazed again, and Melva shielded her eyes. “Do we have to have that beacon?”

I fixed up some bearable lights and glared at her. “I suppose there is some explanation for your impeding the wheels of justice. And why did you come out without a coat? That dress, what there is of it, may be suitable for a warm night in Hollywood, but you're three hundred miles north, and on the coast.”

“We made it in five hours,” she said smugly. “Fred drives like a fiendish angel. Or vice versa. Have you got an old blanket or something, or a stove? If you cut my throat, I'd bleed crimson icicles.”

I turned on my electric heater, and she stood beside it. “Mmmm. That feels good!”

Shoes crunched on sand outside, and Fred Forbes came in. He arranged his horse face in mock suspicion. “The lights go out, the lights come on, the lights go dim. What goes?”

“George has another invention,” Melva said. “You kick a hole in space, and there is light. It probably won't make any money, but it's cute – in a blinding sort of way.”

Fred grinned. “I never have been able to decide whether he's trying to be a poor man's Edison, or just Don Ameche.”

“Don't scoff,” Melva admonished. “Everybody laughed at the Wright brothers, remember. Though I must admit,” she added thoughtfully, “they never tried to hook a fire siren up to a mouse trap. George, I'm awfully glad that gadget didn't work well. Aside from problems with the SPCA, think of the mouse. A great big THING screaming in its poor little ears after it was trapped.”

“The one I liked,” Fred said dreamily, “was that radio self-tuner that was allergic to the human voice, and switched automatically to music when the commercials came on. That would have been nice – if it had worked.”

“Your bargain-counter wit,” I said, “is excruciating, and I mean painful. Not all my inventions were failures.”

“Law of averages,” Fred said. “It's with you all the time. How's that telephone gadget coming on, the one with a loudspeaker and mike in every room?”