Sam understood. He herded the group out of the room slowly. Homer waved me to a seat, whispered something in Buttikoffer’s ear. The inspector nodded and flashed me a half-smile.
When the door closed, Buttikoffer clasped his hands behind his back and stood gazing gloomily. Then he clapped his hands smartly, drew a handkerchief out of his pocket and lifted the gun to a small table.
“Number one,” he said. “Pearl-handled gun. Lady’s gun. Can you place the time, Drexler?”
“Almost exactly, from the blood. The man was shot between seven-thirty and eight-thirty, a little over an hour ago.”
“You’re sure he was shot?” Homer asked. “Couldn’t it have been a suicide?”
“There’s that possibility, yes. I’ll be able to tell you later with more accuracy. Just now let’s say he was shot.”
“From close range?”
“Very. If somebody killed him, the murderer stood no more than two or three feet from him.”
The coroner called two men, who hauled out the corpse. With a nervous handshake, he left us.
Buttikoffer surveyed the gun. “Lady’s gun. You think a dame carried this, Bull? Why would a dame carry a gun in a movie studio?”
Homer explained the gun. “I’d suggest that you call in Barton Noyes, Buttikoffer. Noyes will have something to tell us about Quillan’s whereabouts, I’m sure. He’s Quillan’s best friend.”
“He can wait,” said the inspector. “We got to take this thing in what they call chronological order. No sense getting yourself mixed up, I always say. Now this guy Richmond, why should anybody want to kill him? I know a little about the guy on account of I was in a night club once when a dame beaned him with a flower pot. You think he had some enemies in this place, Bull?”
“Possibly,” smiled Homer.
“This man Quillan?”
“Quillan wasn’t his only enemy. I don’t think anybody among the staff liked Mark.”
“You kidding? You mean the whole place is down on the guy?”
“Not at all. I’d include only the higher paid help. Mark was popular only among the really biggest big shots, I’m sure. He was a good production manager. He did his job well. That’s probably why all the lesser big fry hated his guts. Of course, we can’t include the really underpaid as suspects, Buttikoffer. We’ll have to eliminate the technical men, the animators, in-betweeners and office help.”
“Which leaves?”
“A dozen or so, most of whom you’ve seen in this room. The only two who are missing are Lloyd Griffin and P. D. Quillan. You can cross Griffin off. He’s been in the hospital since mid-afternoon.”
And then Homer explained the slugging in Quillan’s room.
“So Dick Piper doesn’t report that business,” snapped the inspector. “I’m surprised at him, Bull. I am very much surprised. Maybe because of it a man is killed here, too. This is bad—very bad.” He jumped up and almost ran to the door. Then he changed his mind. He walked slowly back to Homer. “I am forgetting my chronological order, Bull. Next thing we want to know is more about the place. This is my system, every time. I start with the murdered man. Then I go on and investigate the place. Then, after that, I get down to the suspects. It works good—I read all about this system in a French police book. Since then I always use the same system.” He waited for a nod of approval from Homer. “The man, the place, and the people, Bull. But now we work on the place for a while. You get what I mean when I say ‘the place’?”
“It’s a bit complex, Buttikoffer.”
“Yeah. I should have explained. What I mean is, like this room. We start on this room. Why is Mark Richmond in this room?” He held up a hand before Homer could answer. “I know. The meeting. He is in here for a meeting. But does he come into this room alone?”
“Positively,” I put in. “Even though nobody saw him come in here alone, you can bet your last buck on it, Buttikoffer. The boys are in the habit of leaving Richmond strictly to himself for one half-hour before each sweatbox meeting.”
“Good,” said Buttikoffer. “Fine. So we have him in here alone and we go on from there. Next thing we know, he’s shot. Fine. The murderer shoots him and beats it. Next question we ask is, who saw Richmond first, after he was shot?”
“The projection boy.”
Buttikoffer banged a fist on a palm. “Good! Now we are getting somewhere.” He dashed to the door. “Get me the projection boy, Sam. And keep Barton Noyes in the hall—he’s number two.” He paced the floor, looking wise. “You see how it works, Bull? Everything in its place; otherwise we tie the thing in knots.”
The projection boy was very pale. He walked to Buttikoffer, visibly nervous, and stood trembling, swallowing his Adam’s apple eight beats to the bar.
“Sit down, sonny,” said Buttikoffer. “Relax. You got no cause to be nervous.”
The boy sat, fiddling with his spangled tie.
“You been working here, long, sonny?”
“Six months.”
“You know this guy Richmond? Of course you do. How many times you shown films for him?”
“Lots of times.”
“Fine. Every time you show films at a meeting, Richmond is there a half-hour early, right? In other words, you knew you had to be in your booth at eight sharp, right? You got there on time tonight?”
“I’m sure he did,” I said. “I saw him leave the conference room a few seconds before eight.”
Buttikoffer frowned at me. “Let the kid talk, let the kid talk. Now, sonny, tell us what happened from the time you walk into the booth.”
“Nothing happened, honest. I showed the pictures, that’s all. When I finished the last reel, I flashed on the room lights and saw Mark slumped in his seat. I thought he was asleep—that the pictures put him to sleep. I ran into the hall to kid the boys. Then they opened the door and saw he was dead.”
“Good,” said Buttikoffer. “Now, sonny, you left the conference room at eight. You remember who was in the room when you walked out?”
“I think so,” he said, making a thoughtful face. “Four men were playing cards at the big table: Eph De Cluny, Louie Cianchini, Jimmy Boomer and this fellow here. Ellen Tucker was there, too. Then Clark Threadgill walked in, just before I left. That’s all I saw.”
“All right. Then you leave the room and walk up the hall. Do you see anybody in the hall?”
The boy suddenly colored. “I’m not sure,” he said, as though he were sure.
“Never mind whether you’re not sure. I didn’t ask you are you sure? I asked you did you see anybody? Anything? What did you see?”
“I’m not sure. I couldn’t say.”
Buttikoffer leaned over the youth. “Listen. You want to come down with me to headquarters? Your mom wouldn’t like such a thing, sonny. Now you tell me what you saw.”
“It was only—well, it was really only a leg I saw—a shoe, really. I was walking up the hall when I saw this man go into P.D.Q.’s room.”
“Which man?”
“I don’t know. I tell you it was only his leg and shoe I saw. He was almost in the room; just his leg was out in the hall—his shoe.”
“Fine. Now you’re talking. What kind of a shoe did you see?”
“It was black and white—a sport shoe.”
“Would you know it again if you saw it? Say I brought a man in here with this shoe on his foot—you’d recognize it?”
The projection boy nodded dumbly. I tried to remember who had been wearing black and white sport shoes among the men in the conference room—or rather, who wasn’t wearing them. It seemed to me that everybody in Hollywood favored this type of brogan. Mark Richmond himself had died with a pair of these gay boots on. It struck me suddenly that maybe the projection boy was playing dumb deliberately. Perhaps he was trying to shield somebody. A friend among the story men?
Buttikoffer let
him go, called in Barton Noyes, and sat him in the front seat he apparently intended to use as his inquisition chair. There wasn’t a trace of nervousness in Barton’s manner.
“You the man who’s Quillan’s best friend, right? Fine. Now where is this guy Quillan?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since morning.”
“Then you didn’t find him after you left us this evening?” Homer asked.
“No, I didn’t, Homer. I searched the two big buildings on our side of the lot. Then it occurred to me he might have gone home. I drove to his place and rang, but there was no answer. I knew he might have fallen asleep inside, and I wanted to know whether he was in there or not. I forced a window and entered. Quillan wasn’t there.”
“What makes you so curious?” asked Buttikoffer. “Why aren’t you minding your own business?”
“I’m his friend,” said Barton. “I know he’s a changed man when he has too many drinks—you know what I mean, Homer. He goes all to pieces, forgets himself completely when he’s high. He needs somebody around to watch him, that’s all.”
“Sure, that’s all,” agreed Buttikoffer. “So you weren’t watching him today, and he gets playful and bumps off Richmond, is that it?”
Barton Noyes smiled. “A charming deduction, Inspector. Do you think a drunken man could plan a murder so skillfully? Do you imagine he was so drunk and yet so sober that he could enter this room, shoot Richmond and make his escape—still as high as a kite? You must remember, Quillan climaxed every spree with a sound sleep. Surely, then, he would have been far too sleepy to have gone very far.”
“You got something there,” said Buttikoffer. He walked to the door and barked orders at Sam. “Get a dozen men down here right away and have them search every inch of this place, you understand? I want every corner of this studio combed—and right away. We’re looking for a drunken guy!”
“You won’t find him in the studio,” said Noyes. “I’ve been searching for Quillan since I got back from his apartment.”
“Fine. We’ll look around anyhow. So you came back to find your friend, eh? What time was that?”
“I got back shortly after seven.”
“Where were you at seven-thirty?”
“In the two buildings across the road. I searched them thoroughly. At about a quarter to eight I started over here. I went first to Quillan’s room. He wasn’t there. Then I looked into the sweatbox and found it empty, too.”
“That must have been before eight o’clock,” said Homer. “Richmond would have been in there otherwise. He’s very punctual, isn’t he, Barton?”
“He is, indeed. I’m not prepared to say whether he was punctual tonight, however. I didn’t have a watch—I’m guessing at the time. I’ll tell you this, though. When I left that sweatbox and walked down the hall, I saw Mark entering the building.”
“Through the main front entrance?”
“Yes. I turned in the opposite direction and left the building by the rear exit. I’m no longer a story man, you know, and it would have been embarrassing to meet him tonight.”
“Did you see Mark enter the sweatbox?” asked Homer.
Noyes smiled. “Hardly. I got out of this building as fast as I could.”
“Then why did you come back?” Buttikoffer snapped.
“It didn’t make any difference. When I walked out through the rear exit I ran smack into Katie Hinds. The damage was done—I had been seen. I entered the building with Katie and continued my search through the front offices. I had a hunch I would find Quillan somewhere in this building. I walked with Kate to her office, then went to P.D.Q.’s, Threadgill’s, and later to Lloyd Griffin’s. When I crossed the hall to the conference room it was eight-thirty. It must have been, because I saw you people walking away toward the sweatbox for your meeting. You know what happened after that. I heard the shouting and joined the group.”
“All right,” said Buttikoffer. “That sounds straight. You can go back to the others.”
“Just a minute,” said Homer. “A few more questions. How long were you in Katie’s office?”
“Not long. Just a minute or so.”
“You left Katie in her office?”
“No. She walked out into the hall with me.”
“Did she go back in after you left her?”
For the first time Barton seemed flustered. “I really don’t remember, Homer. I left her at the door and didn’t look back.”
“Then you’re not sure whether she walked back into her office?”
“No.”
“I get it,” said Buttikoffer. “I see your point, Bull. You think Kate Hinds might have walked up the hall to the sweatbox, is that it?”
“We might ask her,” said Homer.
CHAPTER 12
Time for Kate
It was a new Katie, a different Katie Hinds we saw enter the sweatbox. She came in slowly, almost wearily. The zest was gone out of her stride. She stared hopelessly around the room, letting her bleary eyes rest for an instant on Homer, on Buttikoffer, on me. She was pale, quiet and sad.
Buttikoffer surveyed her coldly, measuring her with his pig eyes.
“Sit down, Miss Hinds,” he said finally. “So we meet again, eh, lady? You don’t remember me?”
Katie’s eyes were out of this world. “Remember you? No.”
“That’s what I thought. I couldn’t ever forget you, though, lady. You got a great hand for flower pots.”
Kate stiffened, stared glumly at her knees.
“Never saw the like of it,” said Buttikoffer. “The way you beaned that guy—what was his name? I forget. Anyhow, I guess maybe you remember me now. You remember the night you hit that guy with the flower pot?”
For the first time Katie looked squarely into Buttikoffer’s eyes. There was a spark of the old Kate in that look. But it died quickly. Too quickly.
“Fine,” said Buttikoffer. “I thought it’d come back to you. Funny thing, now I recall the guy’s name. It was Richmond, wasn’t it?”
Katie got up. “Your repartee stinks, mister,” she said icily. “Is that all you brought me in here for? If it is, I’m leaving!”
Buttikoffer stepped back gingerly and held up a hand. “Now, now, lady. No hard feelings. You just sit down and we start all over again.”
Katie sat. “Why don’t you give Homer your questions for translation, Mr. District Attorney? You need an interpreter!”
Buttikoffer lost his sense of humor. “Never mind the cracks, sister! You answer my questions like I want or I take you to a quieter spot, see?”
She looked at Homer. “Do I have to answer this ape?”
“I think you’d better, Kate. Inspector Buttikoffer is only trying to find Mark’s murderer. We’ve all got to help him.”
“All right,” said Kate. “But you don’t have to ask so many damn fool questions, Mr. Buttercracker. I can give you a running continuity and save you a lot of tongue.”
“Fine,” said the inspector.
“Where do I start, Homer?”
“Perhaps you’d better begin after quitting time.”
“That’s a long time back, but I’ll try. Let me see—was it after the third bottle? I guess so. You knew I had another bottle after I returned from Dick’s room and the Lloyd Griffin inquisition?”
Homer smiled slowly. “How should I have known? Did you drink it alone?”
“Not quite. I had just started it when Quillan came in, looking down in the mouth. I felt sorry for the poor kid—he looked ready for a nap in a coffin. We had a drink.”
“What were you drinking?” asked Homer.
“Gin. He insisted on gin, and you know me, Homer, the customer’s always right. I gave him gin. He had a few drinks while I watched him and tried to get him to talk a bit. It was killing me the way he just sat there and stared. But Quillan didn’t
say much at all. I left him to take a trip to the powder room, and when I got back he had left, gin and all.” She paused to think, but began again as soon as he she saw Buttikoffer’s mouth open. “Don’t ask me, Inspector—I know the next question. Where did he go? I don’t know. He might have gone anywhere, but if I know P.D.Q., he sat down in the nearest chair to finish that bottle.”
“She’s right, Buttikoffer,” said Homer. “I saw Quillan afterwards, in his room with the gin bottle. Carry on with your continuity, Katie.”
“You like the continuity? I returned from the johnny, of course, and sat alone in my room for a long time. You can imagine why. Our little party in the afternoon had left me with a dark green taste and a couple of regrets. I was sorry I had tried to brain Lloyd. I was sorry I had let myself go that far, though I wasn’t even high when I threw the bottle, believe me. I sat there just feeling sorry for myself. The whole business—the drinking, the studio, my work—all rose up to bother me again. I had a small crying jag all by my lonesome, Homer. I cried for a long time. Then I fell asleep.”
Buttikoffer scratched his head and turned to Homer in confusion. “What goes on here? You believe all this, Bull?”
“Of course. What happened when you woke up, Kate? What time was it?”
“I don’t remember.”
“It was dark, wasn’t it?”
“I found that out later. When I woke up, you see, my office lights were on and the blinds were drawn. You should have asked me why I woke up, Homer—that would’ve been a good detective question. I’ll tell you. I woke up because somebody was tapping on my door. It was Mark Richmond. He stood outside in the hall, looking in at me through the broken glass in my door. He wanted to talk to me. He said he would like to take me to dinner.”
“Wait,” said Buttikoffer. “How come this guy Richmond all of a sudden invites you to eat with him? You two hate each other, am I right?”
Kate shrugged her shoulders wearily. “You want an account of my love life, too, Mr. Butterfingers?”
“You don’t love this guy anymore. You hate him.”
He Died Laughing Page 9
