“Glasses,” she murmured. “Gotta have glasses.”
“I like mine from the bottle,” said Homer.
She waved an imperious arm. “Where do you think you are, little man? Katie Hinds liquors her guests like a lady!” Katie sat down and reached for the phone. “Traffic!” she roared. “I want traffic!” There was a pause. “Traffic? This is Kate Hinds. I want two tall glasses, you hear? Never mind what for! You get ’em up here fast or I’ll come over and bounce something off your fuzzy little head!”
She surveyed Homer critically. “That was traffic, sonny, remember that. You need something? Traffic! You want an aspirin? You got a pain in your liver and want a pill? Traffic! Anything your little heart desires, Homer, you just ask traffic for it. By-and-by comes a pasty-pussed goon with your order.”
“Utopia,” said Homer. “Is this what you do with your time, Katie? Wasn’t that laughter I heard, a while ago? Not knocking yourself out with your own jokes, are you?”
Kate clunked the glass down wearily. The laughing jag was over. The red lips were pouting. “Maybe you’d better scram, Homer—you’re making me sober.”
“My apologies,” said Homer.
“Nuts!” muttered Kate. “You don’t have to humor me. Matter of fact, you caught me with my guard down … I was laughing at myself. I couldn’t help it. You ever been in solitary?”
Homer laughed. “Oh, really, Katie. Don’t tell me you’ve bogged down with a Piperland complex. Good grief, I’ve been treated to a routine of schizophrenics all day.”
Her eyebrows came down hard. Kate was angry. “See here, you animated putty ball, don’t go comparing me with the rest of the moronic gleeps in this place, do you hear? I don’t want to cry on your damned shoulder! I don’t want to cry on anybody’s shoulder! You don’t have to tell me about the others. I know! This damn place—”
She was cut short by a knock on the door, followed quickly by Lloyd Griffin, full of a queasy embarrassment. He half nodded to us.
“I called for a traffic boy,” said Katie, without looking up. “What in hell do you want?”
Lloyd fiddled with his lower lip. “See here, Kate. No need to upset yourself. I just got a call from Mark—”
“Get to it!” she shrilled. “Traffic called Mark, and Mark called you, eh?”
He fingered the bottle. “You know you’re not supposed to drink, Kate.”
“Who the hell said I was drinking? And who gave you orders to tell me to stop, even if I was swilling? What does personnel expect me to do with my time? Sit here and cut paper dolls? Solve crossword puzzles? A hell of a personnel department you run, you dandified drip! Can you tell me what I’ve been working on for the past four months?”
“That fairy tale feature—”
“That fairy tale feature,” she mimicked. “Listen to him rave. I stopped work on the fairy tale feature last year, sonny. For the past four months I’ve been working another story. A fine story. A dandy story. Dick himself told me that they’d use it. That was enough for me. Like a fool I sweated my brain into a manuscript that I thought would at last be usable. For four beautiful months I felt labor pains. I was the busy little bee with that manuscript. I wrote it and rewrote it. I polished it. I corrected it. I poured my heart into it.” She leaned her ample bosom over the desk lamp. “And then what happened, Mr. Secret Service?”
Lloyd Griffin swallowed hard and looked away.
“You know, you lily-livered slob!” she screamed “It was presented to Mark Richmond, wasn’t it? The great Richmond didn’t like it, did he?”
“It was only a minor story flaw,” said Griffin.
Katie drew herself up and sneered. “You’re not only yellow, Lloyd Griffin—you’re a damnable liar to boot! Mark Richmond rejected that story because he knew I wrote it. He doesn’t want me around, yet he can’t fire me, can he? Dick wants me here, doesn’t he? Well, you can tell Dick I won’t stay. I’m getting out of this hole tomorrow, do you understand? Tomorrow!”
Lloyd Griffin sat down calmly, smiling up at Kate with his schoolboy grin. Suddenly he had become the executive again, surveying the scene before him with the quiet stare of a judge.
“Now, Kate, aren’t we getting a bit too emotional about this? You just called me a liar. Aren’t you doing a bit of wholesale lying yourself?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Hell hath no fury,” said Griffin, “like a woman spurned.”
The blood rose to her cheeks. “You stupid fool!” she stormed. “Do you think for a minute I haven’t recovered from that mess with Mark Richmond? Are you trying to say—”
“You’re hedging, Kate. I’m talking about Ellen Tucker’s story. You knew Ellen has a story on Dick’s desk, didn’t you? You also knew the story showed great possibilities—perhaps even greater than yours, because of its animation costs? Aren’t you just a little afraid that Ellen’s story has topped the great Kate Hinds?”
“Don’t make me laugh, Lloyd Griffin! I don’t give a hoot in hell about the stories they pick—and you know it! For my part they can have Ellen Tucker. Ellen’s a good kid. She’ll be a lot better if she works hard and keeps her perfumed puss away from Mark Richmond. I’ve got nothing against the gal—matter of fact, I helped her a lot with that yarn. But when a rat like Mark Richmond puts his dirty nose into my office routine, I see red! I’ve turned out my stint of stories, whether he liked them or not. I’m not geared to loaf, and he knows it. I thought I was working for Dick Piper, and Dick alone. If I’m not, I quit—tomorrow! Take that back to Mark Richmond, stooge!”
Griffin shrugged and paused at the door. “Just as you say, Kate. You’re making me report your drinking to Dick, you know.”
“You need no urging, do you, Mr. Rat?” shrieked Katie. “Sure I’m drinking—and having the time of my life!” She lifted the bottle to her lips and swigged a nervous gulp. Then, with a sudden gesture, the bottle left her hand and crashed past Griffin’s head, shattering the glass door into a thousand fragments. “Take the bottle with you, crumb!” she roared. “And tell the boys the drinks are on Katie Hinds!”
Lloyd Griffin shook his head sadly and left.
Homer rose. “It’s been a nice party, Katie. Maybe you want to be alone now, eh?”
“Don’t be a sucker, Homer,” she snarled. “I’m no Garbo. I’m fed up to my ears on solitary confinement.” She reached into her desk and produced another bottle of Scotch. “For the past few weeks I’ve been Shmendrick’s best customer. You’ll like this stuff.” Kate turned to me. “How about running down the hall to the drinking fountain, Hank? You’ll find some paper cups down there.”
“This is where I came in,” I said, and went out.
I turned right and walked slowly down the corridor, counting the squares on the flooring as I went. But my mathematical high-jinks ended about thirty feet ahead. All the lights beyond were out. The narrow corridor was shrouded in a dirty gray-black gloom. For an instant the sudden torture of claustrophobia pricked my scalp behind the ears. I slowed to a furtive gait. My mind full of a mixture of clammy discomforts, I entered the patch of darkness and squinted to get my bearings.
Not far ahead I knew there was a sharp angle, breaking the straight hall at a point just before our office and the quarters of the higher-ups. As I turned the corner a sudden noise froze me to the wall. It was a series of dull sounds, thwacks, half thuds, and they came from the half opened door to our little den. I saw a figure vaguely silhouetted against the gray glass. Somebody ran out into the hallway, hesitated for a moment and raced away through the gloom on rubber soles. A door squeaked open and shut somewhere far ahead. Then silence.
A panicky curiosity gripped me. I ran forward to the door. Somebody had pulled the dark shade down over our lone window. The little office was almost as dark as the corridor. I saw Homer’s swivel chair against the opposite wall. When I reached for the window shade
a low groan jerked my head around and froze the flesh on my shanks.
There was a figure squatting on the floor. Lloyd Griffin! He leaned against the wall at a crazy angle, his chin on his chest. And from behind Lloyd’s head a red river of blood oozed around his neck to form a monstrous stain on his shirtfront.
CHAPTER 6
P.D.Q.—A.W.O.L.
Ten of us were in Piper’s office. Lloyd Griffin had been whisked away to Holly Hospital, a private place. He had gone quickly, in a black ambulance that slid into the parking lot unheralded by sirens.
Clark Threadgill said, “We are most fortunate that this accident occurred in our section of the building, Dick. Not many people saw the stretcher being carried across the lot.”
“I hope so. I certainly hope so,” said Piper, cracking his knuckles. “This is a terrible thing. People on the outside would be horrified.”
“People on the outside won’t hear a thing about this,” said Mark Richmond.
“No, Mark? That’s fine. Gosh, we mustn’t let this get out. We must keep it quiet.”
“Not even Hugh Pentecost knows what happened,” said Threadgill. “I’ve sent a message through to him so he can release this as a case of heat prostration.”
“That’s clever,” said Piper. “That’s good, Clark. We had that heat case last month when Johnny Martin fainted. People will think it’s another one.”
Clark Threadgill looked around the room, fixing each of us with his birdlike stare. “People won’t give this a second thought, Dick—if we don’t inspire them. This piece of news would be a climax to all the dirty stories our mysterious studio Winchell has been sending East. If it gets out, we can be pretty sure someone in this room sent it!”
Dick Piper’s eyes were pleading. “I can’t understand this, fellows, I can’t imagine who wants to give us a black eye. I’m sure nobody in this room—”
“I’m not!” said Mark Richmond. “I’m not sure of anybody here anymore. Are you blind, Dick?”
“You’re being over-dramatic,” said Homer softly. “Surely you can cross Hank and me off your list of suspects.”
“My apologies,” said Richmond, bowing a mock bow. “I referred only to the others. As a matter of fact, Homer, I would suggest you be promoted to a new position in the studio. We need an experienced sleuth around here, you know. I can promise you a fat bonus if you discover Lloyd’s assailant.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Dick. “Will you do it, Homer?”
Homer smiled. “You flatter me, gentlemen. Fiction is my business, not sleuthing. How many people do you employ, Dick?”
“About four hundred.”
‘Five hundred and twelve,” amended Richmond.
“We can eliminate the small fry,” said Homer. “I don’t believe that any one of the technical staff would venture a slugfest with Lloyd Griffin. The man who hit Lloyd came from the upper stratum of your studio society, Dick. He must have been familiar with the movements of everybody in this building to have risked such a fracas so near the important offices.”
“That’s true,” said Threadgill. “As a matter of fact, only story men, chief animators and publicity people are permitted into this section.”
“How many are there, Dick?” said Homer.
Dick Piper looked at Mark helplessly.
“About thirty,” said Richmond. “There are fifteen important story men, about ten chief animators, and the remainder would come in either from personnel or publicity.”
“That’s ridiculous!” roared Katie Hinds. “You’re assuming that none of the lesser twerps would dare enter the studio. You know as well as I do that this building has no elite guard posted at the main entrance.”
“That’s true enough,” Dick said. “But Daisy usually attends to that, don’t you, Daisy?”
Daisy nodded at her lap. “Yes, Dick,” she lisped.
“Did you see anybody come in?”
“I couldn’t. I was—I left to go to the—uh—”
“How long were you gone?” asked Homer.
“When I came out, the hallway was dark. I heard a lot of people in P.D.Q.’s office. When I passed the office I found all you people.”
Homer looked at me. “Tell me what you saw from the hallway, Hank. Try to remember everything—from the time you left Kate and me.”
I repeated my yarn, excluding the counting of lights. My audience listened raptly. Clark Threadgill tapped a pencil gently on Piper’s desk. Mark Richmond scowled. Sugarfoot played with his pinpoint moustache, staring vacantly at the rug. Mose Kent did funny things with his mouth, winked occasionally at Ellen Tucker.
When I finished, Homer said, “Think back carefully, Hank, to when you saw the figure, the silhouette, leaving our room. What sort of a figure was it? Was it tall or short?”
“I couldn’t rightly say, Homer. All I saw was a section of the head and shoulders, the part of the body against the glass door. It seemed to me that the guy was just about average, unless he was stooping.”
“The guy? Couldn’t it have been a girl?”
“Could be. I didn’t notice a hat. But if it was a girl, she had an up-swing hair-do.”
I was sorry I’d said that. Both Ellen and Daisy sported up-swings. Daisy’s hair was braided over her head. And Ellen Tucker combed her ebon locks straight up into a flurry of curls. In a quick, blurred silhouette neither of these would be noticeable.
“Poppycock!” said Mose Kent. “No dame in this room could have beaned Lloyd with enough force to knock him cold!”
Katie Hinds gave a hoarse laugh. “Speak for yourself, Moses. I nearly put little Lloyd to sleep, with a bottle of Scotch, just a few minutes before the big ruckus!”
There was a sticky silence.
“How about the sound of footsteps, Hank?”
“There were none. Whoever left that room wore rubber-soled shoes. I would have heard more noise from hard heels.”
“That’s just dandy,” said Homer. “Everybody in Hollywood wears some type of soft-soled footgear.”
The phone rang and Dick answered it, his face alive with worry. “Doctor Wagner? Yes, this is Dick Piper. Oh, that’s bad, that’s terrible, doctor. You must do me a big favor. You’ll probably be bothered by reporters, later on. Tell them it’s a case of heat prostration, will you? Thanks—and report to me every hour or so.” He put down the phone and rubbed his eyes. “Poor Lloyd is in a coma—he’s had a serious concussion. I’ll never forgive myself for this, Mark—never.”
“Nonsense, Dick.” Mark Richmond put an arm around Piper’s shoulder. “You’re not to blame. Lloyd was working on my orders. I had told him to try to ferret out the louse who was sending all those stories back East. I’m sure he was in P.D.Q.’s room for an important reason. Lloyd had promised to deliver the scandalmonger into my hands by tomorrow morning.”
“Then you didn’t really know?” asked Dick. “This afternoon you said—”
“I said I’d know pretty soon. I didn’t want to make any accusation until Lloyd had verified the evidence he had on hand.”
“But what could he expect to find in that room, Mark? The room’s been vacant for a year.”
“That room’s been occupied and you know it,” said Mose. “P.D.Q. has been using it for night work right along. I’ve seen him in there myself. You’re not insinuating that poor old Quillan had anything to do with this?”
Dick was apologetic. “Please, Mose, I’m not insinuating anything. I know that P.D.Q. used the room. Mark and I decided to let him have it for his night work. It would have been cruel to take it away from him.”
Richmond said, “The room was empty because we didn’t want to hurt Quillan any more than we had to. His work was slipping. He was demoted. Yet Dick didn’t want him to feel he couldn’t ever make a comeback. We allowed him the room for practicing animation at night so he could regain, perhap
s, his old job as chief animator.”
“Then why wasn’t the room occupied during the day?” Homer asked.
“Because we never needed it until you came, Homer. We put only selected story people in this section. Since you were to work on a new project, a bit removed from the usual Benny shorts, I decided to give you a room in this part of the studio. Working in the noisy shorts department would have affected you, I knew.” He managed a gruff laugh. “I recognize the fact that a writer wants his little ivory tower.”
“Thank you. Though in my case it didn’t matter. My creative soul thrives on noise and confusion.” He turned to Ellen Tucker. “I saw you pass Kate’s door, shortly after Hank walked out. Mind telling me where you were going?”
“I was on my way to sweatbox seven,” she said. “I thought I’d find Lloyd there. He passed my office on the way here and told me he wanted to see Hugh. Hugh—”
Mose reached over and patted her head. “Don’t tell the boys a fib, honey.” He faced Homer and grinned. “Ellen had a date with me. I wanted to talk to her. I phoned her from the sweatbox and told her to come over.”
“Were you there when she arrived?” Mark Richmond asked.
“You heard me! I said I was in the sweatbox!”
Ellen said, “I passed P.D.Q.’s room on the way to the sweatbox. Of course I didn’t bother to look inside. There was no light on in there, and I was concerned only with groping my way to meet Mose. When I got to the sweatbox, Mose was standing in the doorway. We had just said hello when we heard Hank run out of P.D.Q.’s room and shout for Homer. We walked down the hall and arrived when Homer did.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I remember seeing them on the way back, just after the lights went on again.”
“Still it would have given him time—” began Mark.
“Hold on,” said Homer. “Let’s not jump at conclusions, Richmond. Ellen says she passed the room, noticed nothing, and walked ahead until she met Mose in the doorway of the sweatbox. I assume, then, that since the door to the sweatbox was open, there were no lights on inside. Otherwise the sweatbox lights would have illuminated the hall.”
He Died Laughing Page 4
