Mose nodded. “I didn’t dare light the lights inside. As soon as they’re lit, a small signal flashes on in the hallway to tell the boys the sweatbox is to remain empty unless reserved by a director. Somebody from personnel might have been snooping and found us, if I’d lit the lights.”
“So you sat alone in the dark sweatbox, waiting for Ellen?” asked Homer.
“I sat there for a while, yes, Homer.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. When I opened the door, I was surprised to see the hall lights out. But after a minute I heard Ellen approaching. We’d been together for only a few seconds when we heard Hank yell for you.”
I couldn’t see where all this questioning would lead Homer. There were too many alibis, too many suspects. And all the alibis we had heard so far seemed meaningless. Mose, if he were the guilty one, could very well have conked Lloyd, then dashed back to the sweatbox and waited calmly for Ellen. I couldn’t have spotted him in the shadows down the hall.
Nor could I have seen Ellen. I didn’t see Ellen. I didn’t even hear her, when she passed P.D.Q.’s office on the way to Mose. Was she strong enough to have hit Lloyd a few resounding whacks on the back of his skull, strong enough to knock him out? Ellen was no weakling. California gals are built of solid stuff, well-seasoned in all sports. But it was hard to imagine pretty little Ellen in the role of slugger. Ellen wouldn’t strike with force unless she were attacked. Did Lloyd Griffin attempt to attack her in P.D:Q.’s room? Was Mose Kent covering for her? After all, he had interrupted her story to tell his.
Sugarfoot had the phoniest alibi of all. If he had wanted to slug Lloyd, he could have done it, following the alibi to the letter. He might have entered Quillan’s room from the path under the window and waited until Lloyd arrived. He knew Lloyd’s movements. Wasn’t he chief spy in the personnel Gestapo? After he hit Lloyd, he might have run down the hall, leaving the building through Piper’s office, just before Threadgill entered. By circling the building by way of the path, he could have returned to Lloyd’s office in time to greet Dick and Mark when they entered the building.
But something seemed wrong with the timing of that one. Wouldn’t Clark Threadgill have seen Sugarfoot? Clark had just returned from lunch. He entered the building through Dick’s office, walked into the corridor and found the lights out. For a few moments he groped around for the fuse box in the rear of the building. After he put the missing fuse into the box, he heard my shout and ran to Quillan’s office. Could Sugarfoot have left the building in the few moments while Threadgill fumbled for the fuse box? Could be.
But when I looked past Dick Piper, through the window and over the hills, a sudden brainstorm struck me. I opened my mouth to say something to Homer, but he beat me to the quotation mark.
“I think we can stop the questioning now,” he said, walking to the door. “I want to examine my room again.”
Mose and Ellen followed us to our house nest.
“I just wanted to tell you,” said Mose, “that I’m not the guy who conked Lloyd Griffin.”
“I didn’t think so,” said Homer. “I can’t understand why anybody wanted him pummeled.”
“Lloyd isn’t popular, especially at contract time. He throws his weight around with Dick and Mark when it comes to renewals.”
“Lloyd could have affected even yours?”
“Frankly, yes, although I don’t imagine he did. You see, we story men get to know when the personnel spies are after us. And I know that personnel had nothing on me.”
“How about the scandalmongering? You mean they didn’t suspect you at all?”
Mose laughed. “That’s another story. They sort of suspect everybody in the story department of shipping that dope East. But that doesn’t mean they know everything. Certainly they know nothing about me, Homer, because I happen to be innocent.”
“I’m positive Lloyd knew Mose had nothing to do with it,” said Ellen. “He told me so.”
“Just what did he say, Ellen?”
“It was funny.” She made a little face. “All of us over in publicity have been pretty worried about this mess. Not long ago, Mark instructed us to work with Lloyd on the—ah—espionage end of it. You see we just had to get to the bottom of it—and quickly! I spent hours talking with Lloyd. Lloyd has a lot of respect for Mose. Matter of fact, he told me Mose was the only story man he knew was in the clear.”
“Did he tell you anything of his suspicions?”
Ellen hesitated. “No, he didn’t.”
“She’s a girl scout,” said Mose, chucking her tenderly under the chin. “She’s little Miss Pollyanna herself, Homer.” He turned her face his way. “Might as well tell him what Lloyd said, honey—he’ll find out sooner or later.”
Ellen sighed. “It’s P.D.Q. But he’s wrong, Homer. Everybody knows he’s wrong. P.D.Q. wouldn’t harm a fly—I don’t see how they can suspect him.”
“Did Lloyd ever give you any reasons?”
“There were a few. But I don’t see that they matter. Sugarfoot found a bunch of New York papers in the stockroom. All the items about the studio were circled in blue pencil. He brought them to Lloyd, of course.”
“Is that all?”
“Then the business of P.D.Q.’s drinking. The poor boy’s taken to drink since they put him in the stockroom. He gets violently drunk sometimes—talks a lot. Some of the boys from personnel heard him say things about the studio. He’s very bitter when he drinks. He makes statements about ‘God punishing the fools who cast a man out.’ But P.D.Q. doesn’t mean any harm. He isn’t the one they’re after, I’m sure.”
“It doesn’t seem so,” said Homer. “But didn’t any of the others fall under suspicion?”
“Jimmy Boomer is next, because he’s a friend of all the New York newspaper boys.”
“Boomer is from New York?”
“Straight from Tin Pan Alley,” said Mose. “But they’re crazy if they think Boomer would bother to send those items back home. Jimmy has a fine sense of values, for all his foolishness.”
“Is Boomer one of the privileged few who are allowed to enter this building?”
“Definitely. Boomer and Cashin write all the music in this dump. Nobody would question their walking in here at any hour. Of course, Jimmy wasn’t here—I’m sure. I left him in the sports department when I came.”
I was anxious to tell Homer my idea, but I was disappointed, for Mose walked over and pointed to the window.
“I’m no dick, Homer,” he said, “but an idea just struck me. The window in this room is open. It would have been a cinch for anybody to climb in this way, sock Lloyd and dash out the back, now wouldn’t it?”
“You took the words out of my mouth,” I said.
Homer smiled. “That would be the obvious way to enter this room unseen. But after all, why didn’t our mystery man leave the same way? Hank and I sat in this room for over an hour this afternoon without hearing a soul pass under the window.”
“That’s true,” said Mose. “It’s mostly a shortcut to the parking lot after quitting time.”
“And even then few use it,” said Ellen.
Homer skillfully shifted the conversation, and after a little while Mose and Ellen left us.
“Now, sonny boy,” said Homer. “After you saw the mysterious stranger leave this room, how long was it before you heard him squeak that door open and shut?”
I tried to remember. “Not too long.”
“A minute?”
“Less.”
“Hear any other door slamming after that?” I shook my head. “Good. Let’s go!” And he went to the door.
I attempted to follow him up the hall, but he held me back. “Stand here and close your eyes, Hank. I’m going up the hallway on a door-opening expedition. I’ll open several doors. When you hear a familiar squeak, sing out.”
I closed
my eyes and waited. I heard a door open, but the noise seemed too close and the timbre of the hinges was unfamiliar. I shook my head. That wasn’t the door. Another wait, and another door squeaked open. There was a familiar groan to this one.
“That’s it!” I shouted, and opened my eyes.
Homer beckoned me from the hall. He was standing at a small door on the left side of the corridor about fifteen feet beyond the door to sweatbox seven.
“You recognize the sound of this one?” he asked.
“Positively.”
Homer pointed down the hall. “The next door is marked ‘Ladies.’ I tried it on the way back from Dick’s office, and found the feminine contingent may powder their noses if they have a key. But I’m quite sure that Lloyd wasn’t hit by a girl.”
“Where does this little door lead?”
“To the projection booth. The boy who shows the films enters this way with his cans so he won’t disturb a hectic conference, I suppose. Let’s take a squint inside.”
He opened the door, and a dull red light gummed on from a wall bracket inside. Then Homer blew a short blast through his teeth. I jerked my head through the door. What I saw in that cubbyhole made me gasp. On the floor of the booth slept P.D.Q., and nearby, lay an empty gin bottle. P.D.Q. snored gently.
Homer leaped into the booth, and wrapped a handkerchief around something in the corner.
“P.D.Q. must have been living in the past this afternoon,” he said.
I didn’t understand until he held up the object in his hand. It was P.D.Q.’s walking stick—and the heavy end was well blotched with blood!
CHAPTER 7
Himmler’s “Who’s Who”
“Do you suppose that the Gestapo uses wire-tapping?” Homer asked me. He frowned down at P.D.Q.’s inert figure, snoring in our room. “I’d better not chance a call through to Shmendrick’s. The gal at the main switchboard may have instructions to jot down any outgoing calls. Quillan needs coffee, though, and you’ll—”
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “I’m leaving.”
“Get a quart,” said Homer.
I crossed the lot and ran down the side street to Shmendrick’s tavern. The place was as empty as ever. Shmendrick stood where he had stood before. He spoke through his cigar. “Another rickey, bub?”
“Not just now. Have you any containers? I want a container of coffee—a quart container.”
Shmendrick waddled toward the coffee urn, container in hand. He shot me an evil grin over his shoulder. “What’s up? Somebody pass out?”
His curiosity annoyed me. “Sure, you guessed it, Shmendrick. Who told you? Sugarfoot?”
His face froze. For a flickering second he was angry. Then the fuzzed eyebrows lifted and his oily smile returned. “Nobody’s got to tell Shmendrick what goes on in that dump, see? You know how long I been on this corner? Plenty long! For ten years I been mixing drinks for that screwy mob. I also been sendin’ plenty of coffee into that joint. And I woulda had the sandwich business, too, if that punk Richmond’d kept his big trap shut. Fifteen hundred bucks I was takin’ in on lunches alone until that punk put the finger on me.”
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“Ain’t you seen the studio lunchroom?”
“I see. They built the lunchroom after they got big?”
Shmendrick nodded. “They didn’t need no lunchroom. They done it out of spite. Richmond figures they stand to make more moola from the dopes if they keep ’em on the grounds for lunch.”
I laughed. “Don’t be silly, Shmendrick. How can you be so sure it was Richmond’s idea? Isn’t Lloyd Griffin in charge of things like that?”
He opened his mouth to speak. Then he shut it. I laid change on the bar. “You ever been inside the studio, Shmendrick?”
“I been in plenty. Nobody can’t keep me out of there, either see? You know why?”
“I don’t know from nothing.”
“I go in whenever I like,” he laughed. “That’s on account of I can’t be shoved off, see? Nobody shoves Shmendrick off—not even Dick Piper. This is because I buy a piece of that dump ten years ago, when Piper is lookin’ for backers. I am what you call a stockholder, sonny.”
“You’re kidding, Shmendrick,” I said.
“Yeah, sure, I’m kiddin’,” he horsed. “They should live so long. I got a piece of that dump in my safe as big as a house, see? What do you think I’m livin’ on, sonny—the million bucks I take in this slop joint?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know.
When I reached the door, he shouted after me. “If the java’s for Katie Hinds, tell that broad I’m still waitin’ for the payoff on the last load of stuff I shipped her, see?”
In the office, P.D.Q. was a bit nearer to consciousness. Homer had loosened the little man’s collar, and he looked ten years younger. “He’s almost there,” said Homer. “Shove that container under his nose.”
Quillan took small gulps of coffee, while I told Homer about Shmendrick. We heard the sound of laughter from the path outside. Quitting time.
“He’s better off drunk,” I said. “Why do you suppose he crowned Lloyd?”
“I don’t suppose. He didn’t hit Griffin.”
“If he didn’t; who did?”
“You think too fast,” said Homer. “Quillan didn’t do this job—it’s too pat. Do you remember back thirty minutes ago? P.D.Q was a pretty drunk little man, wasn’t he? Pretty drunk little men don’t usually hide in dark rooms, conk people with shillelaghs and then skip blithely down dark corridors to hide in projection booths.’
“He might have been sober when he did it.”
Homer sighed. “If he were that sober, would he take his bludgeon with him? There is a point in drunkenness when a man’s wits are a bit sharper than the norm. If P.D.Q. had operated in that period, he would have dropped the stick out of the window, or hidden it. No, Quillan was far too drunk to have slugged Lloyd.”
“But how do you account for the shillelagh in the projection booth?”
“I don’t. The man who put the stick into the booth might have been aware that P.D.Q. lay asleep inside. After all, he did drink a bottle of gin in that booth. Perhaps the slugger happened to see him in there before he went for Lloyd. Wouldn’t that make a perfect spot for dropping the shillelagh? On the other hand, perhaps the slugger didn’t know that P.D.Q. was inside until he opened the door and the red light flashed on. Seeing P.D.Q. wouldn’t prevent him from leaving the stick. It made the slugger’s case perfect. He dropped the stick inside, closed the door and then ran outside sans shillelagh.”
“That makes the case easy. All we have to do is wait until someone suggests that P.D.Q. had something to do with this business.”
“Check!” said Homer. “And that’s the big reason for keeping our discovery a secret.”
P.D.Q. awoke, finally, full of apologies. “I suppose I’ve done it again,” he said, “though I didn’t mean to. You fellows can’t understand what that stockroom does to me.” He rubbed his forehead wearily. “I hope that nobody saw me.”
“Where were you?” asked Homer. “Did you fall asleep in this room? Try to remember, Quillan.”
P.D.Q. closed his eyes and frowned. “I can’t. I thought I fell asleep in this room.” He looked at us, dazed. “Does it make any difference?”
“It might matter a lot,” I said.
Homer shook him gently. “This is important, Quillan. Do you remember where you started to drink?”
“Yes. I always start in the stockroom. But I remember crossing the lot and reaching the parking shed. I sat there for a while, I guess, then walked in here.”
“Where is the parking shed?”
“Behind the building, near the back entrance to Dick’s office.”
“Then you remember coming inside through Dick’s office?”
“Oh, yes, I
’m sure of that. I recall opening the door carefully because I didn’t want to come in if Dick could see me.”
“What time was that?”
Quillan didn’t know. He didn’t know anything after the moment when he set foot inside the building. He was the type of drunk who forgets. Could he have forgotten that he slugged Lloyd Griffin?
“When you entered the building, P.D.Q., do you recall seeing anybody? In the hall?”
Quillan struggled with his memory, and I thought I saw the color rise in his cheeks. “No. The hall was empty, I’m sure, when I came in.”
“Then you walked directly into this room without seeing a soul?’
“Yes. I walked right in here. I’m pretty sure it was this room.”
Homer pointed to the right. “Who has the office next door?”
“Threadgill.”
“Couldn’t you have walked into Threadgill’s office by mistake? Were you sober enough to know the difference?”
P.D.Q. stared at Homer helplessly. “Oh, God, how should I know? What difference does it make? Has something happened? Why are you asking me all these fool questions?”
“Lloyd Griffin’s been hurt.”
Quillan staggered to his feet, his eyes suddenly alive. “Lloyd’s been hurt?”
I eased him back into his chair gently, while Homer explained. The little man’s face was a caricature of amazement.
When Homer finished, P.D.Q. had his head in his hands. “Oh, my God,” he moaned, “you think I hit Lloyd. You think I got drunk and came in here to commit murder.”
I patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t be silly, P.D.Q. Nobody called you any names—we know damned well you wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
“Do you?” he sobbed. “How can you be sure? I’m not. I can’t remember whether I hit him or not.”
“Forget it,” said Homer. “I know you didn’t slug Lloyd, Quillan. You couldn’t have. But you can help us track down the man we want. If you could only remember where you were when you last sat down. Do you recall walking into the projection booth of sweatbox seven?”
He Died Laughing Page 5
