“Then I suppose I’d better tell you. Carruthers is dead.”
Jordan turned from the plant with a perfectly blank expression. His left hand twitched, then his right rose slowly and tweaked at his beard. “Dead,” he said flatly. It was hardly even a question.
“He was working last night on the fire effects for your prologue. Something went wrong; there was an explosion.”
“He was killed … by an explosion?” Now at last shock and amazement came into Jordan’s voice and countenance.
“Bad one too. Face burnt half off. Harker here found him.”
“Was there nothing that could be—?”
“I didn’t find him till next morning,” said Norman. “It was too late then. I’m afraid it would have been too late at any time; he must have died at once.”
Lewis Jordan shook his white head slowly, as though to clear away some webs of confusion. “Carruthers died … in an explosion … This is terrible, gentlemen. So sudden and so horrible a death … I do not find words …”
Norman could not watch the old man’s pained confusion. Instead he looked again around the room. He saw now what made the difference. The one change was the absence of that pure and unbelievable neatness which he had noticed before. One window curtain hung askew. The papers on the table were strewn about in a more normally masculine manner.
“What is to become of the theater?” Jordan had roused himself to ask.
“I suppose,” said Fergus, “that’ll largely depend on Fennworth as business manager. I think. Andrews has something up his sleeve too, but he’s keeping mum so far.”
The gray cat pushed the door open and slipped in. Jordan sat down heavily. “This is not a world in which to ask for peace,” he said. Nansen hesitated, as though uncertain of his landlord’s temper, and finally climbed unnoticed into his lap. “I try to speak to the world. I write a play pleading for peace and understanding and life …” His left hand began unconsciously to stroke the cat. Then the movement ceased abruptly, and after a few words resumed again with the right. “I find a man who is willing to try this play, despite its commercial disadvantages. And through working on this play of life he goes to his death …”
“It’s tough,” Fergus agreed. “Having this play produced meant a great deal to you?”
“A very great deal. Did it not, Nansen?” He smiled down at the cat. “Nansen knows how much I have worked at that play, how much I have prayed that I might bring these words before men. And I shall yet, though I wish …”
“That was why you arranged the insurance?” Fergus suggested.
“No. Oh no. Though I had not thought of that …” Jordan was silent for a moment, seeming to pursue some new train of thought of his own. “With that, of course, I could produce the play myself, could I not? I could use that—that blood money—”
“Blood money? Come, sir. It’s yours by all rights. Where does blood money come in?”
“I’m afraid I do not like insurance. There are reasons enough why man may wish his brother’s death without adding a—a cash dividend.”
“Then you didn’t suggest it?”
Jordan’s chair was near the open window. The sun struck full on the nape of his neck and he continued stroking the cat, answering Fergus’ questions almost as though in a mesmeric trance. “No. That was Mr. Carruthers’ idea. He told me how much the play meant to him, and how essential it was that he should have me to make the necessary revisions in the text and to help him in the directing—though heaven knows I have done very little. He said that ours was a partnership of such significance that it should be insured. As I say, I am not partial to the principle of insurance; but he was so insistent that I let him have his way. I was so deeply indebted to him already for doing the play.”
Fergus had stopped his pacing and stood still near his host. “And who paid the insurance premiums?”
Nansen, bored with the interrogation, sprang smoothly to the floor. Jordan looked up sharply. The mesmeric spell was broken. “Why should you ask me these questions, Mr. O’Breen? And why should I answer them?”
Fergus paced one complete lap around the room in silence. “Look, sir,” he said finally. “I know a little of what you think about life and man and the world. I’m not your ideal, God knows; but I think maybe, to put it oversimplified, that there’s more of White than Black in me.”
Lewis Jordan half-smiled. “I have always thought so.”
“Then will you accept my word that I have a very good reason in asking these questions? A reason that means a striving for justice and good? And that I can strive a damned sight better if I don’t tell the whys and wherefores?” There was a ring of quiet sincerity in his voice which impressed even Norman.
“Very well,” said Jordan. “Let it be this way. Although confidence should answer confidence … But you may know what you are doing. We paid the premiums jointly. Is there anything else you want to know?”
“Two things. A, when you last saw Carruthers.”
“At rehearsal Wednesday afternoon. He was much as ever. We spoke of … of the effects for the prologue …”
“And b, how much you paid him to produce your play.”
“Paid him? I paid him nothing.”
Fergus’ mouth gaped in soundless amazement. “Nothing? He was producing this play for the sheer love of the thing?”
“I assume so. Why? Does he usually charge a fee?”
“Did you know Kingsley Bennett?”
“I have met him, yes.”
“Carruthers bled him dry and dropped him. Two weeks ago he committed suicide.”
“You mean …” Jordan picked his words hesitantly. “You mean that Mr. Carruthers caused that poor man’s death? That he was dishonest—extortionate in his demands?”
“You knew about Betsy.”
“Yes. But I thought that perhaps that was a conventional business agreement; I know so little of the practical side of the theater.”
“If it’ll save you any tears, sir, you can take it from me that Rupert Carruthers was running strictly a racket. And if you’ll forgive my saying so, I’m damned if I know how you got in on it.”
“So am I,” said Lewis Jordan slowly and seriously. “Damned …You are sure, however, that he was killed in an explosion?”
“The explosion,” Fergus replied in a slightly more accurate form, “took half his face off.”
“Then it is …” He checked his speech and extended his right hand. “It was kind of you to come up here to tell me this. And if I can answer any more questions for you, please call on me. I shall come to the theater tomorrow to learn what has been decided.”
Norman, glancing back as they walked from the house, could see Jordan seated again in the chair near the window, with the sun beating on him. His face was reposeful now; somehow their visit seemed to have brought him a strange kind of peace.
“I’d like to see him get that hundred thousand,” said Fergus unexpectedly. “I’ve an idea it’d do more good in his hands than in the treasury of the Southwest National. But a bonus wouldn’t exactly do me any downright harm. Hell, life should be simple.”
As the yellow roadster left the track leading to Jordan’s house, they could see a cloud of dust advancing up the dirt road. As it drew nearer, its core proved to be an ancient jaloppy which a Joad might have scorned. It passed them, enveloping them in its dusty mantle, and turned off down the track which they had just left.
“I’ll be damned,” said Fergus. “Either that dust is giving me delusions or that was Adam Fennworth.”
“What’re you doing tonight?” Fergus asked Norman as they left Griffith Park and came out on Vermont.
“Taking Sarah to dinner and seeing what happens next.”
“Fine. I’ve got a date with Betsy; why don’t we all go some place together?”
That seemed a good idea. It seemed a better idea yet after they had shaved, showered, and raided the beer-teeming icebox of Fergus’ bungalow.
“You understand I woul
dn’t keep a stock like this on hand just for myself,” Fergus said at the first round.
“I’ve got a sister,” he explained on the second. “She likes her beer.”
“But,” he concluded some time later, “she’s going to be sort of peeved when she gets home today.” He clicked shut the icebox, which now contained nothing but food. “On to a peaceful evening. Sarah and Betsy and the joy of living.”
“I thought,” Norman observed in a voice which might have been clearer if he had bothered to lower his stein first, “that detectives worked twenty-four hours when they were on a case.”
“Sure. That,” said Fergus frankly, “is why I made this double date. I’ve got questions to ask Sarah, and she won’t notice so much with you and Betsy along.”
“Sir,” said Norman, “you are a double-dyed daggard.”
“Watson,” said Fergus with great dignity, “you are drunk. C’mon.”
Norman hoped that the landlady did not have a sensitive nose for breaths. “We’re calling for Miss Plunk,” he announced. “She’s expecting us.”
“Is she now!” said the landlady.
“Yes. So if you’d please tell her …”
“I would if I could, young man, but you’ll have to find her for yourself.”
“What do you mean?” Fergus asked quickly.
“I mean that she sneaked out of this house this afternoon. Cleaned her room out, not a stick or a stitch of her own things left. Not even a note—just a twenty-dollar bill pinned to the dresser.”
Norman was suddenly dead sober.
Chapter 10
“If you want breakfast, you’d better get up.” Norman awoke with a start. His first stunned impression was that he was naked in a strange bed in a strange room with an utterly strange girl shaking his shoulder.
“I’m a working woman,” the girl added. “I’ve got to get the hell out of here pretty soon. So get up, like a nice playwright.”
The blur that was the girl’s face began to settle into a recognizable shape. “You’re Miss O’Breen,” said Norman.
“Smart lad. That’s the way to tackle a problem—right to the core of it.”
“But how did I—”
“I come home last night after a hellish day to find all the liquor in the house gone, the kitchen full of cans and bottles, and my brother trying his damnedest to pour you into bed. My bed too, if you please. And you kept muttering, ‘But you’ve got to find her! You’ve got to!’”
Gradually now Norman began to remember how Fergus had vainly questioned the landlady, even exerting his Irish charm to get a fruitless look at the empty room, how they had hurried back here, how Betsy had rustled up a meal of sorts while Fergus was persistent on the phone and Norman took shot after shot of rye (which he normally detested) to keep his nerves up.
“Look,” said Maureen. “This is no time to sit there and let the pageant of your life unfold before your glassy eyes. Are you having breakfast now or aren’t you? I thought,” her voice grew a little more kindly, “you might want to get up early and go on with your search.”
“Thanks.” He started to get out of bed, then remembered his unpajamaed state and halted. “I’ll be ready in a jiffy.”
When he appeared at the breakfast table, Maureen regarded him admiringly. “For the condition you were in last night, you look marvelous. What’s your secret?”
“Healthy living,” said Norman, wondering abstractedly who had trepanned his skull last night and why. “Got a morning paper?”
“Nothing in it for you. Fergus and I looked.”
But nonetheless Norman seized the paper and pored over it with as close attention as his head would permit. He hardly knew what to expect—news of a ransom note (though who that knew Sarah had money enough for a ransom?), rumors of white slavers, even (though his mind shied away from this) Body of Young Actress Found … All the most melodramatic thoughts coursed through his throbbing brain. Because people don’t just disappear, leaving a twenty-dollar bill and no note. There must be reasons, and those reasons cannot be …
The paper told him nothing. As he tossed it aside, Maureen set before him a pot of black coffee, a pitcher of tomato juice, and a soft-boiled egg.
“You’re an understanding woman,” he sighed. “You’ll make some man a fine wife.”
“Damned right I will. But I’m marrying a man that practically doesn’t drink. All my training on Fergus and his little friends is just plumb wasted.”
The tomato juice was a stream of icy bliss. “Miss O’Breen …” Norman began.
“Maureen’s simpler. After all, we’re practically bedmates now.”
“May I ask you a question?”
“If it’s where’s Fergus, he’s out and about—I think on your business.”
“My business?”
“Finding this Plunk wench. Look.” Maureen paused in buttering her toast and regarded Norman seriously. “Do I understand you’re in love with this girl with the incredible name?”
Norman took a hot gulp of coffee. That was the question he had been asking himself for the past twelve hours. “I hadn’t really thought it out that far myself,” he tried to explain. “Until maybe last night. As she said, we met cute. She was fun, and a little more than fun. There was something about her that … I don’t know. Nothing you could analyze or make words out of, but—I was interested. That was as much as I’d admit to myself. But when she up and vanishes like this after all that’s happened at the theater, I—Well, it’s pretty much played the devil with me.”
“Diagnosis, love,” said Maureen tersely. “Prognosis, hell. And how long have you known this fascinating female?”
“Since Monday.”
“‘Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might …’ Fergus isn’t the only O’Breen that can quote Shakespeare. But what’s this about meeting cute? Sounds like my pet producer at Polly; that’s one of his great expressions.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk about.”
“Polly? Want me to put in a good word for you with G. G. at Research? I’d be glad to, but I don’t think it’s necessary. To tell tales out of school, I think you’ve got that job in your pocket right now.”
“No! Oh, that’s sweet music. But it seems roughly six and three-quarters years since I had that interview. So damned much has gone on, and I can’t help feeling so much more is to come … But what I wanted to ask you was about how Sarah and I met. It was Monday evening in the drugstore at Hollywood and Vine.”
“Oh,” said Maureen. “Was it?”
“Sarah’s party walked out on her and left her stranded with the check. I rescued her. There were three other people in that party: Carruthers and another man and you.”
“Oh! Good Lord, is that who this Sarah is? Yes, I remember, Carruthers had one of his actresses along, but I didn’t catch her name. But for any sakes, I don’t see anything so special about her.”
“It’s my discerning eye,” said Norman modestly. “But I didn’t know you knew Carruthers?”
“I ran into him on the Boulevard and we got to talking about plans for having Polly scout their shows. Time went on, and he asked me to have dinner with them; though God knows I didn’t expect to be taken to a drugstore with the Derby half a block away.”
“And who was the second man?”
Maureen lit a cigarette. “Know what, Norm? Fergus is corrupting you. The O’Breen curiosity is nothing to this. Finished your egg?” She held out the package. “Have a smoke.”
“Thanks. But who was he?”
“I don’t know. An actor, I guess. I don’t even remember.”
“You must have known him. You called him Vernon.”
“Oh yes! I do remember. Vernon Crews. Plays bits at Polly. Pretty good, too. But look, I’ve got to get to work. You stay here and finish up the coffee. More tomato juice in the icebox if you want. Fergus’ll probably be back any—”
The front door swung open with a bang. Sturdy steps paced through the living room, and Fergus O’Breen
strode into the kitchen. He was not whistling, and his pace was not quite so springy as usual.
“Have you found her?” Norman started to say, but he had got no farther than “Have you—?” when Fergus grunted, “No,” sat down at the table, and poured himself some coffee.
“Your little friend’s all right,” Maureen said. “Anybody with that much curiosity is immune to hang-overs. And now I’ve got to dash. So long, children.”
“I’ve seen Andy,” said Fergus glumly. “He’s putting out the dragnet. If there’s any way of locating her, official routine’ll do a damned sight more than we could. He’ll phone here if anything breaks.”
“Fergus …” Norman began hesitantly.
“I know, kid. It’s tough. I’m worried about her myself. But anything that can be done will be done.”
“Fergus, what do you know about an actor named Vernon Crews?”
Fergus all but spilled his coffee. “One hell of a brokenhearted lover you turn out to be! Here I’m trying to be sweet and consoling, and what do you want but movie gossip!”
“No, tell me. There’s a reason. What does he do?”
“All right. Acting’s half of Vernon’s career. The rest of the time he’s a professional ribber.”
“And what might that be?”
“It’s a career that couldn’t exist outside of Hollywood. He takes on various outrageous personalities for practical jokes. Like when Vittorio Mussolini was being feted here a few years back. Crews posed as an eccentric composer and told Vittorio all about how he was composing a tone poem on the glories of bombing called The Ardent Rose and could Vittorio give him some firsthand ideas. The Duce cub fell for it so hard he’d promised the ‘composer’ an Italian government subsidy before the gag was revealed.”
“What does he look like?”
“Crews? Damned if I know. I’ve only seen him in character make-up. But why this sudden interest?”
“I’ve been worrying about Sarah—”
“As well you might,” Fergus put in dourly.
“—and I’ve been trying to piece together everything I know about her.”
“And Crews fits into that picture?”
The Case of the Solid Key Page 12
