Quillan shook his head sorrowfully. “I’m not that type of drunk. I just don’t remember. I told you before that I thought I sat down in this room. In this chair!” He was rubbing his forehead feverishly. “The hell with it! Maybe I did hit Lloyd … I hated him hated him more than anybody in this studio, I guess. Perhaps I did go crazy—I often do when I’ve had a lot of gin.”
“You mustn’t get hysterical about this, Quillan.”
P.D.Q.’s spaniel eyes were wet. “Thanks—for nothing. I’ve been talking like a fool. But I appreciate your faith in me, Homer. Not many people in this studio will believe me. What shall I do?”
“Only one thing, for the present. Go home. Keep your mouth shut.”
Homer nudged me out of the room. In the hall he said, “He’s still on the gin-nutty side.”
The long corridor was agleam with small bulbs, as usual. But the little noises of studio activity were gone now. Homer paused at Lloyd’s office door. It was unlocked.
“How about some air?” I wailed. “This place is giving me the screaming meemies.”
“That can wait,” said Homer. “I want you to take a squint through Daisy’s desk, while I examine Lloyd’s.”
“What am I looking for?”
“See if you can spot any office memos. We’re looking for stuff on the Gestapo activities of this department.”
I looked. Daisy’s desk was small and neat.
“I’ve found what I wanted,” said Homer presently, coming over.
He handed me a small yellow sheet. It was a regular inter-office communication blank. The message was handwritten in a loose, rambling script. It read: “Save it for the meeting tonight.” And the signature was Clark Threadgill’s.
“Save what for the meeting tonight?” I asked.
“The name of the man who sent those scandal notes East.”
I whistled. “So that’s why Lloyd was slugged. Sort of widens the field of suspects, doesn’t it?”
Homer grinned. “You don’t know the half of it. Take a look at this.”
He handed me another, a large sheet of paper, full of typewriting and deductions. Lloyd Griffin had left no stone unturned. The list of suspects read like an F.B.I. report:
P. D. Quillan. Evidence uncovered in the stockroom: Newspaper clippings marked in blue pencil. All Eastern papers containing studio items found hidden under drawing board. Also papers found in his old office. Typewritten report of studio difficulties found on him June 15th, while sleeping off his drunk. Suggest watch him after hours.
Jim Boomer. Found talking to P.D.Q. Overheard mentioning latest items in Eastern press. Known contacts with two Eastern reporters at Hollywood Knickerbocker after hours. Both the reporters in theatrical line. Bruce Cummings of the Times and Harvey Oakes of Daily News. Scandal outlet could have been arranged at these meetings. Watch his mail at home.
Eph De Cluny. Ex-reporter. Ex-contributor to Winchell, Skolsky, etc. Had always submitted jokes and such material to these columns and others before employment with us. Always wanted to be a writer. Check revenge motive after last pay cut. An avid reader of Eastern sheets. Watches each paper for his reprinted wisecracks—subscribes to them all. Check with Eastern office on possible newspaper connections before his employment here.
Bart Noyes. On scene when P.D.Q.’s office was searched. Claimed P.D.Q. was framed, since he hadn’t noticed news clippings two hours before they were found. Very good friend of P.D.Q. Spent much time in stockroom with him.
Ed Sigarfoos. Working with me on this. Check later.
Hugh Pentecost. Too obvious. Last pay cut in February. But would Hugh do this? Best connections for releasing information, of course. Check.
Mose Kent. Same connections as Boomer—perhaps more. Doesn’t seem likely, but could be because of many motives. Mose may be sure of other studio connection and only marking time here. Check. Doubt it.
Kate Hinds. Best motive because of M. R. and fact that studio work is slipping. Nothing except that Eastern news connections are as good as Boomer’s and Kent’s, perhaps better. (?)
Ellen Tucker. Nothing.
Daisy. Nothing except for her relations with Boomer, Noyes, etc.
Shmendrick. Through whom?
Cianchini. Check later.
“Very intriguing,” I said. “Lloyd Griffin has out-Himmlered Himmler.”
“All this detective work was only part of Lloyd’s job. Lloyd didn’t like this work. I’m sure he didn’t. If he had liked doing this sort of thing, he’d have made a much more thorough report. This paper full of names is almost meaningless.”
“How can it be? Certainly one of those names did the dirty work.”
“Maybe,” said Homer. “This list is dated in March, which makes it over a month old. There might have been other reports after this one. Perhaps Lloyd had planned to make his last report—the name of the saboteur—only this afternoon. He might have been on his way to deliver that name to Dick Piper when he was waylaid.”
I couldn’t follow him. If the scandalmonger knew he was being reported, he must have access to Lloyd’s files. Did that mean he was somebody close to personnel? Or had Daisy tipped him off? Perhaps Daisy knew more than we imagined.
We walked out the main entrance and around the side, following the little path that led under P.D.Q.’s office window. Under the window Homer paused and beckoned me to boost him up for a squint.
I clasped my hands and lifted him slowly. Homer remained at the window level for only an instant before he signaled me to let him down.
“The poor little slob,” he whispered. “It’s almost as I thought it would be, but not quite.”
“P.D.Q. is asleep again?”
Homer shook his head. “P.D.Q. is crying. His head is bent over his desk and he’s sobbing like a babe.”
“I feel sorry for that little squirt,” I said.
“So do I,” laughed Homer. “But I’m a bit envious, too. Quillan is well on the way to a crying jag this time.”
“Great jumping ginch!” I whistled. “He sure runs the gamut of jags. I thought he was sober when we left him!”
“So he was. But he’s replenished his larder. I spotted a half filled bottle of gin at his left elbow!”
CHAPTER 8
Hide and Seek
P.D.Q.’s supply room was an added wing to the first big animation building across the lot. Homer paused at the door, listening.
From inside came the sound of furtive movements—footfalls. Homer pulled me back into the shadows. Then we saw the door knob turn slowly. A man stepped through the door and almost brushed us with his elbow. He was holding a large manila envelope.
“Hello, Barton,” said Homer. “In a hurry?”
Barton Noyes wasn’t in a hurry. If he was surprised to see us, he didn’t show it. He laid the envelope on the desk, lit the light in the stockroom and motioned us to come inside, deadpan.
“I’m glad you came,” he said. “I was on my way over to the main building to look for you. I’ve been hearing things.”
“Things?” Homer lit a cigar.
“Things,” said Barton. “Little sounds. Murmurings. Whisperings. It’s rather a new experience for me. Not too long ago when I was a story man, my ears weren’t attuned to this sort of thing, Homer. I listened only when spoken to. But now that’s all changed. Somehow, perhaps through my connection with personnel, I find myself acting like a cheap sleuth in a dime thriller. I’ve developed a prying complex. I watch people’s faces. I listen to stray snatches of conversation. I catalogue arguments, investigate motives. That’s why I tell you I’ve heard things—I know something has happened near the seats of the mighty. Am I right?”
“I don’t know. What have you heard?”
“Nothing—and everything. I met Ellen Tucker in the hall a while ago and asked her where P.D.Q. was. She looked
at me and said, ‘I don’t know.’ Then she almost ran away from me. Then I saw Sugarfoot scurrying along the corridor next door. He scurried faster when I tried to catch him. I finally shouted to him and he stopped. ‘What’s up?’ I asked him. He looked surprised—too surprised. He’s a weak spy—much too weak for personnel.” Noyes smiled grimly. “What’s happened, Homer?”
“Nothing,” said Homer. “Have you seen P.D.Q.?”
A shadow of worry crossed Barton’s lean face. “No, I haven’t seen him. Matter of fact, I came over here looking for him. I haven’t seen him all afternoon.”
“You’re a good friend of Quillan’s aren’t you?”
Barton nodded. “I’m his best friend, Homer.”
“Ever get drunk with him?”
“Drunk with him? But of course. Always. P.D.Q. never touches the stuff without me, you know.”
“Tell me about it,” said Homer. “What sort of a drunk is he? Belligerent? Forgetful?”
“Both,” said Barton. “That’s why I always accompany him on his occasional benders. Drinking is a release for him.” He thought a moment. “I find it hard to classify P.D.Q.’s type of jag, however. I should say he’s the stubborn type of drinker. He will drink until liquor produces the desired effect.”
“And the effect?”
“A sort of harmless belligerency. He wants to make a speech, or fight, or make love to a strange girl.”
“And the morning after?”
“The after effects? None to speak of, except he’s a little sorry he got tight the night before.”
“Why? Does he remember what he’s done?”
“Never.”
“And he’s afraid he may have done something wrong?”
“Exactly,” said Barton. “That’s why he insists I always go along with him.”
“Let’s take Quillan on a hypothetical drunken orgy,” said Homer. “He buys himself a bottle of gin and begins to gulp it down right here in this room. Then he takes the bottle across the lot to another building and finishes it there. He has thus far consumed about a quart of gin. He sits himself in an empty office and falls asleep.” Homer paused. “Does that sound like P.D.Q.?”
“Possibly.”
“Remember that at no time on this drunken spree does Quillan try to fight, seduce a damsel or deliver a political speech.”
“It’s still possible. I’ve seen Quillan fall asleep on less than a quart—much less.”
“And when he awakes, does he remember much?”
“Nothing except the last conscious moment before complete drunkenness.”
“Good!” said Homer off the desk again. “Now, Barton—where does Quillan keep his liquor?”
Noyes shrugged. “If you mean where in this studio—I honestly don’t know. I’ve seen him borrow many a bottle from Katie Hinds’ office.” Barton tapped nervous fingers on the desk top. “You’ve found him drunk somewhere—is that it? Is that what all the excitement’s about?”
“Not exactly, Barton. P.D.Q. has been on an afternoon drunk, yes. But, more important than that, he was drunk in the immediate vicinity of a slug-fest.”
Noyes jumped. His mouth was a hard line. “Somebody hit P.D.Q.? When did this happen?”
“Nobody hit Quillan,” said Homer. “Lloyd Griffin took the beating, in Quillan’s old room over in the main building.”
I saw a half-smile on Noyes’ lean face while Homer told the story. He was neither sympathetic nor much moved. His keen eyes shone with a queer light, as though he were picturing the battered Lloyd and enjoying the picture. Once or twice he asked a question. He was interested in the approximate time of the incident, the movements of Sugarfoot and Clark Threadgill.
When Homer had finished, Noyes said, “A sad tale. Was Lloyd hurt badly?”
“Concussion.”
“And you suspect P.D.Q.?”
“I didn’t say that. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure Quillan had nothing to do with this affair. I know, however, that most of the big boys will not agree with me. Quillan had the opportunity, the motive and the shillelagh. I’m willing to allow him the opportunity and the shillelagh, but I can’t quite see the motive. That’s why I came over here, Noyes. I wanted to examine this stockroom and re-enact the incident of the news clippings.”
Barton Noyes laughed a low laugh. “I’m glad you found me here. I’m more than glad I found out about Lloyd at this time. You want the history of the news clippings? Fine. I’ll tell you.”
It was a short tale, full of treachery. On the day when the news clippings were found in P.D.Q.’s room, Noyes had visited with Quillan for two hours in the morning. He left his friend at lunch hour and returned a few hours later. In the meanwhile, Lloyd Griffin had discovered clippings hidden under some drawing board on a shelf. When Noyes returned, Griffin was in Quillan’s stockroom, the papers in his hand. There was a small scene between Lloyd and Quillan, in which Quillan protested his innocence, but to no avail. Lloyd couldn’t be convinced the news clippings might have been dropped on the shelf by someone else.
At this point Noyes came forward with an alibi for his friend. He had been to the very shelf where the clippings were found earlier that morning. He had noticed nothing under the drawing board. Surely if the clippings had been there in the morning, Noyes would have seen them.
Quillan had left the room for a few hours after Noyes went to lunch. It would have been easy for anybody to enter the stockroom while he was gone, plant the clippings and disappear. But Lloyd didn’t want to believe this story. He preferred to take Quillan’s guilt for granted, caution him and then leave.
“It was an obvious plant, of course,” said Noyes bitterly. “Somebody in this place has connived to put P.D.Q. on the spot—and succeeded.”
“You’re sure Quillan didn’t actually hide those clippings?”
Noyes held up the manila envelope. “I wasn’t sure until an hour ago, Homer, but this envelope convinces me! Several times this afternoon I looked into this office. I wanted to talk to P.D.Q. After my third visit I decided he must have gone off on a bat. It isn’t like P.D.Q. to desert his post for more than an hour or so at a time. When quitting time came, I took for granted the fact that he must be asleep somewhere with an empty gin bottle. Once before he had gone to the parking shed to drink his troubles away, so I crossed the lot and looked for him there.”
“Why didn’t you search his old room—wouldn’t that be a likely resting place for him?”
“Not at all. P.D.Q. never uses that room in the daytime.”
“Suppose I were to tell you we found him in there this afternoon, drunk as a lord?”
“He would have to be drunk to go in there. I’ve never seen him in that room during the daytime—he uses it only at night for practicing his animating.”
“I believe you,” said Homer. “But this incident in P.D.Q.’s room is too full of paradoxes. Did you pass under his window when you went to the parking shed?”
“No. I took the other way around, following the path on the other side of the building on the edge of the parking lot. P.D.Q. wasn’t in the parking shed, so I returned to this building and the stockroom. He wasn’t back in his room, either. I asked several people down the hall whether they had seen him go out or return, but nobody remembered seeing him since lunch time. I then went to my office and made several phone calls. I called Louis Cianchini, thinking perhaps P.D.Q. was spending time in that story unit this afternoon. But Cianchini hadn’t seen him. I called personnel to see whether he had checked out. He hadn’t. I called his bungalow. There was no answer. Finally, overcome by curiosity again, I crossed the lawn to this building and entered by the rear door. It was then I saw Sugarfoot.”
“What time was that?”
“About an hour ago. He was scurrying along the corridor, headed for the front exit, as I told you. He made some feeble excuse for his haste, and he
left immediately.”
“You think he came from this room?”
“Think?” laughed Noyes, handing Homer the manila envelope. “Take a look at this stuff. I found this envelope shoved under the desk blotter.”
The envelope was full of news clippings, all of recent vintage. The items were marked again in blue pencil—a choice assortment of rumors gathered from trade papers and columnists. Homer folded the envelope into his pocket. “How long were you in this room before you discovered the clippings?”
“I found that envelope right away.”
Homer stared down at the desk. “Does P.D.Q. use blue pencils?”
“Whoever planted that stuff in here knew a lot about P.D.Q.’s former art work. He invariably sketched his foundation drawings in blue.”
“Good!” Homer started for the hall. “Where’s Sugarfoot’s room?”
Sugarfoot’s room was in the same building, far up the main corridor. Noyes led the way silently.
There was no light on in Sugarfoot’s room. We entered without knocking. Sugarfoot himself rose out of the gray gloom to face us, his rodent pan alive with surprise.
“I say,” he said. “Hello. This is a surprise.”
“Sit down!” said Noyes, and pushed the quaking figure roughly backward.
Sugarfoot sat down hard. I lit the light.
Homer turned to Sugarfoot. “Dick Piper sent us over. I want to ask you a few questions.”
“Oh, yes? Well, why not?” Sugarfoot fidgeted. “But I’ve already told you all I know—I mean about—” He shot a bewildered glance at Noyes.
“Barton knows about this afternoon’s slugging,” said Homer. “And I’m quite convinced your story is truthful.”
Sugarfoot was relieved. “Well, of course it is. There’s no reason why I—”
“No,” said Homer. “None at all. What I’m interested in now is what you did immediately after you left Dick’s office.”
He Died Laughing Page 6
