“All right then, I hated him. I loathed him. I despised him. Does that mean anything?”
Buttikoffer gave his face an Edgar Kennedy massage. “Look,” he pleaded. “I don’t want to fight with you, lady. Answer me one question, please. You hate this guy? You hate him when he takes you out to dinner tonight, don’t you?”
Kate didn’t answer immediately. “Women don’t adjust their love patterns like you great big strong men, Inspector. Women don’t hate permanently. It’s like a Katherine Brush story, Mr. Buttercup. Do you read Katherine Brush?”
Buttikoffer threw out his hands. “I give up, Bull. Maybe you can talk sense out of this dame.”
Homer had her talking, and talking sense, within a few minutes.
“I was disgusted with Mark a long time ago,” she said. “I knew he was a heel when I threw that potful of posies at him, but before that, I loved him, Homer. And I thought he loved me, too. We were very happy for almost a year, because when Mark wanted to he could be as sweet and kind and regular as any little girl’s fairy prince. That’s why I didn’t kick him out of the office when I saw him. I knew I didn’t hate him enough for that.” She sighed. “I suppose all this sounds rather confused—this sudden regard for Mark Richmond—but it was a combination of many things. I’ve just told you I’d had a crying jag. I was mellow with sentiment and fatigue. When Mark spoke to me through that door, I knew I couldn’t be mean to him, not then, anyhow. He looked bad. He was worried. I knew it in a minute, because when Mark was worried, his whole manner changed. His eyes—”
“Never mind the slop,” said Buttikoffer. “Where did you go with him?”
“He took me out to a restaurant—the Brown Derby on Vine Street.”
“Did he tell you what he was worrying about?”
“No. He was sweet. We talked old times, about the days when I had just arrived in this town.”
“Fine.” The inspector wrote in a black pad. “You sure you went to this Brown Derby place?”
“I’m not lying,” said Katie. “People saw us—you can check with several people from the studio. Good Lord, don’t you believe anything?”
“It ain’t my business to believe anything, lady. Now maybe you can remember what Richmond talks about. Like did he mention about some special guy hating his guts? He say anything like that?”
“No. We talked about the studio. But Mark didn’t say much I could see he wasn’t in the mood. So I spent the hour just—well I did the talking, that’s all. We finished dinner, and he drove me back to my bungalow.”
“He came inside, right?”
Katie laughed out loud. “So Buttercuppy wants a little sex angle in the story, eh? No, Inspector. He didn’t come inside with me. He dropped me at the door and drove across the street to the studio parking lot. I live just down the block, you know.”
“Yes? I didn’t know, lady. Maybe you can tell me why you go home, then come to the studio?”
“I changed my dress and took a shower. Then I came back because I wanted to sit in on the story meeting. I have that privilege. I’m the only woman writer in these parts and I’ve always sat in on conferences. When I returned to the studio I came through the back door—through Dick’s little entrance. There I met Bart Noyes.”
“Hold on a moment, Kate,” said Homer. “Tell me more about how you ran into Barton Noyes. What was he doing when you saw him?”
“Doing? Nothing. He seemed to be about ready to leave the place. He was coming through Dick’s passage back there when we met.”
“Did he say anything?”
Katie tried to remember. “Yes, he did say something. He asked me whether I had seen Quillan around anywhere. I told him I hadn’t. Barton seemed worried about P.D.Q. He mentioned something about a drunken spree and then walked back with me to my office. We talked for a minute or so and then he left me.”
“You remained in your office?”
“Matter of fact, I didn’t. I walked down the hall, thinking. It seemed to me Quillan must be somewhere in the building and I might help Noyes locate him. I knew there was only one place where Barton Noyes couldn’t search, so I went there.”
“Meaning which?” asked Buttikoffer.
“The ladies’ room.”
Buttikoffer shook his head savagely. “This is where I came in, lady!”
Katie rose. “Is this where I go out? My continuity ends in the powder room. I remained in there until almost eight-thirty. When I came out, the panic was on.”
“Very pretty,” said Buttikoffer. “I think maybe you better sit down a while, lady. You got a very fancy story—very fancy. So Mark Richmond all of a sudden gets friendly with you and takes you to a restaurant? Then you come back here and go looking for Quillan in the ladies’ room? You stay in the ladies’ room for almost a half-hour? What do you think I am if I believe this story? What do you think happens to me if I tell my boss downtown such a fancy business? I’ll tell you what happens—they give me the gate, you understand? You didn’t tell us a thing yet, lady—not a thing! This ladies’ room business is no alibi. Who saw you in this ladies’ room? Anybody see you? Anybody?”
Katie’s eyes smoldered. “You’re a foul-mouthed ape, Buttercup! Are you trying to insinuate I sneaked out of the johnny and shot my lover?”
“It’s an idea. You thought of it before?”
“You’ve been seeing too many B pictures, my puss. I’m too good a writer to louse up a murder with a weak alibi.”
“Fine. Now maybe you’ll tell me something, Miss Writer—anybody see you in that ladies’ room?”
“Of course. Matter of fact, I have two alibis. Ellen Tucker saw me and so did Daisy. It’s lucky for me the gods made women with a weakness for powder, eh, Dick Tracy?”
He let her go after that one, while Homer and I held our laughter in our vests. If Katie was telling the truth she had almost established herself outside the group who might have killed Richmond. But her yarn smelled a little of fictioneering to me, and I wondered whether Homer believed it.
I didn’t have time to ask him, however, for he whispered me away on a sudden errand and I left him alone with a very annoyed Buttikoffer.
I crossed the lot, entered the animation building, where I knew there were some phone booths, and called the hospital where Griffin had been taken. Several feminine voices tried to brush me off with the heat prostration story, but I insisted they let me talk to Doctor Wagner. A guttural nurse finally held the fort.
“Doctor Wagner is out,” she said. “You’ll have to call later. Mr. Griffin is resting nicely.”
“I don’t care if Mr. Griffin is dancing the conga,” I insisted. “The police inspector wants me to talk to a doctor. Would you rather have me send a squad car over there?”
“One moment plee-uz,” she said. And then, “Here’s Doctor Millett.”
Doctor Millett came through. “What is it you want to know, Officer?”
“Everything. How badly is he hurt?”
“We don’t know. He’s been hit several nasty blows in the occipital region, and we can’t tell yet whether he had a concussion or a fractured skull. He’s been given a spinal tap to relieve the pressure, but is still in a comatose state.”
I decided to probe. “How long will he be in the coma?”
“We never can tell in such cases. They vary with each inquiry. He may be this way for two hours, twelve hours, or a day.”
“Can’t you guess? It’s important.”
I heard a chuckle from Millett. “Doctors never like to guess. I’ve seen several such cases. On one occasion the man died after twelve hours. On another, he revived sufficiently to babble incoherently after six hours of coma. Then he recovered. Which guess would you prefer?”
“I’m not choosey,” I said. “Let him recover. I’ll call you back in a few hours.”
“Very well,” said the good Doctor Mill
ett. “But I can’t promise you any change in his condition.”
I hung up and walked slowly back to the main building. From the way Dr. Millett talked it might be many hours before Lloyd would revive, if at all.
Suddenly a daylight bulb lit in my brain. Quillan! It must have been Quillan who hit Lloyd. The pieces fit perfectly. P.D.Q., in a drunken rage, had decided to avenge himself. His first thought would have included Lloyd in the personal purge. He hid in his room and waited for Lloyd. Then he struck Griffin with the shillelagh and retired to the projection booth, knowing that nobody would ever think to look for him there.
But after we found him? Would Quillan go a step further and lie in wait for Mark Richmond? It didn’t make sense, unless P.D.Q. expected to run for it after the second bit of mayhem. At that point in my skillful deductions the fifty-watt bulb burned still brighter. Of course Quillan had planned the business to include Richmond! Why else had he disappeared? Where was he? It occurred to me, suddenly, that Buttikoffer might be wasting time. At this moment, perhaps, Quillan was in his car and bound for some mysterious hide-out while Buttikoffer’s men were searching for him behind desks and bushes.
I circled the main building and approached the gatekeeper. We exchanged pleasantries. “You been on duty since five-thirty?” I asked him.
“I’m on duty from noon to midnight,” said the old man. “I got no union hours.”
“You don’t recall seeing Quillan’s car leave the lot this evening, do you?”
“Quillan?” he asked himself. “That’d be a tan sports roadster. Plymouth. Nope—Quillan’s car is still in the lot, sonny. You’ll find it over there to the left, under that tree.” He pointed toward the low gray fence at the far end of the lot. “P.D.Q. hasn’t gone home yet—not that I saw, anyhow.”
I thanked the old coot and moved down the street, lost in a new series of mental meanderings. If the old man was right, and he must be, it meant Quillan had left the studio under his own power. Why?
The lights from Shmendrick’s tavern cut short my adventures in deduction.
CHAPTER 13
Homer Deals Cards
At Shmendrick’s, the bar was deserted. I took a short breath and squatted at the bar, rapping a palm for service.
“Be right out,” said a voice from somewhere.
“You’ll never keep customers this way, Shmendrick,” I said.
A ferret-faced zombie came through the far end of the bar. “Shmendrick ain’t here,” he said. “You want a drink?”
I looked at my watch. It was nine-thirty.
The makeshift barkeep looked bored. “He just left. You want a drink?”
We weren’t getting anywhere. I ordered a Scotch and tried to think straight. Homer wanted me to talk to Shmendrick. We had seen him cross the studio lot, not too long before. He’d been moving toward his tavern when we’d seen him last. Why had he come to the studio? Where was he now? These were important questions. I sucked at my Scotch.
“Just my luck,” I said. “Just my damn luck. What happens to me shouldn’t happen to a dog.”
The barkeep eyed me. I gulped my drink. “Fill her up again, sonny. And maybe this time you’d better make it a double Scotch.”
He filled it. “You want some pretzels maybe?”
“No. I drink mine straight. I just keep drinking this rotgut till I collapse. I knew it would happen this way. I knew I wouldn’t catch Shmendrick in.”
“What you want Shmendrick for?”
“Doesn’t matter now,” I gurgled. “Too late now. Once I start swilling this stuff I get like a fiend. It runs in the family. My old man was an alcoholic. I just don’t stop till I’ve spent every dime in my pants. What the hell, Shmendrick doesn’t need the dough, anyhow.”
“The dough?” he asked, suddenly alive. “You got dough for Shmendrick?”
I finished the double Scotch and slapped a ten-dollar bill on the bar. “What the hell,” I repeated. “It’ll wait. Maybe I’ll come back next week to pay him off. Tonight I got a date with a movie extra out in North Hollywood.”
He studied the bill, then shifted his weasel eyes my way. “Look here, Bud,” he said. “You don’t want to go around spending other people’s money. It ain’t honest. Suppose you hand over that coin to me, eh? I’ll give it to Shmendrick.”
“Not a chance, not a chance,” I said in my best half drunken drawl. “Gimme my change and I’m off to blow the top of this town.”
He gave me my change, but held my arm. “How much dough you got for Shmendrick?”
“A hundred and a half.”
“From who?”
He was taking the bait. I let the line out. “A dame named Katie Hinds. Over in the studio.”
He whistled. “The old boy wants that dough. He’s been waiting a long time for that dame to shell out. How about you leaving it here with me, Bud?”
I shook off his arm and weaved toward the door. “Not a chance. I got to give it to Shmendrick, in person, sonny boy.”
He ran out from behind the bar and held my arm again. “Listen, bub, you got me by the short hair. I don’t know what to do with you, see? If I let you beat it with that dough I might as well kiss my job good-bye. I don’t know where Shmendrick went. Honest I don’t. He told me he was going to the La Jolla Apartments to see a man. I don’t know the name of the man he went to see. He said he’d be back. Look—do me a favor and wait a few more minutes.”
“Nuts!” I said, and shook off his arm.
He ran after me for a bit, still pleading. “You won’t tell the boss I let you go, will you, mister?”
“Forget it,” I told him. “I’ll be in tomorrow to pay him off.”
The zombie scooted back to the tavern. I ran across to the parking lot, started my car and drove it to the main gate. The gate keeper told me the way I could get to the La Jolla Apartments.
The La Jolla sat on a small hill far from the maddening crowds and the cheap eateries. The entrance hall was pure French pastry combined with Spanish columns and embroidered Italian chairs. There was a Von Stroheim general on duty in the hall. He eyed me with a twenty-dollar-a-week superiority complex.
“Whom,” he said, “did you wish to see?”
I gave him my best boy-scout grin. “Schultz,” I said. “I’m looking for a Mr. S. Schultz.”
“We have only one Schultz,” said mon commandante. “Archer S. Schultz, of Public Pictures.”
I took a gamble. “Archy—here?” I exploded. “That’s swell! Archy’s Sam Schultz’s brother. What room’s he in?”
“Apartment 6E. But you’ll have to wait, while I phone.”
When he turned for the house phone, I moved fast toward the elevator, made it and started up before the admiral reached the desk. The kid at the controls had seen the by-play and helped me by closing the door quickly.
“Thanks,” I said. “Old iron-face will be peeved when he finds out you took me up, won’t he?”
“It’s a pleasure to fox that slob,” said the kid. “Serves him right. What’re you selling?”
“I’m a summons server. Did you take up a gorilla about an hour or so ago? Big guy with gold teeth?”
The kid didn’t remember. But he was cooperative. “I’ll let you off at the top floor and go down again to talk to Milt. We’ve both been on duty since five, so Milt must’ve taken him up if I didn’t.”
He opened the door and I stepped out into the hall. “Wait here and I’ll send him up to you.”
I gave him a dollar and lodged myself in the huge Italian throne set between the elevators. It was a long hall, a narrow hall, a hall of doors and green wallpaper and thick carpeting.
I came alive, suddenly, when a door opened at the far end of the corridor and a man walked toward me through the gloom. Suppose this were Shmendrick, through with his visit at the La Jolla? What would I say to him? Would I take him by
the arm roughly and jerk him downstairs to my car? Would I reason with him? Or would I say, simply, “Come along, Shmendrick; the police are waiting for you”? After all, Homer hadn’t told me to follow Shmendrick. The idea of trailing him to the La Jolla was all my own, and I was almost ashamed of it. I determined to pursue a course of dumb innocence if I met Shmendrick. I was an errand boy from Homer, and nothing more.
The man in the corridor entered the broader section of the hall. I saw he was not Shmendrick, after all. I pressed the elevator button and lit a cigarette. Milt and his elevator arrived.
“That guy you want didn’t go anywhere in the building. I saw him sitting in the lobby for a while, waiting for somebody. Then he went away.”
“How long ago?”
“Not too long. But you might find him in the bar—he went that way, through the door to the bar.”
I, too, went through the door. The bar was deserted, except for a thin-lipped bartender. I ordered a Scotch and asked him if he had noticed a man with gold teeth and a cigar.
“Kind of a short, square, muscle man with a head like a chimpanzee?” he asked.
“You hit him on the nose,” I said.
“Hit him yourself,” said the barkeep. “If the guy you want is the guy I saw, I’m not hitting him anywhere. My man’s Shmendrick Shultz.”
“You know him?”
“Used to work for him over in his dump near the studio.”
“Does Shmendrick come in here often?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I’ve been all over Hollywood looking for the guy. Somebody told me he’d be over here.”
“Yeah? And what might your name be, sonny?”
I told him. He turned his back on me and busied himself with his bottles. “Never heard of you. Where’re you from?”
“The studio. I’ve got some dough for the guy,” I said. “I owe him some dough and I thought I’d pay him off before I head East.”
He studied me for a while. “An honest kid, eh? Well, I’ll give you, a lead. You’ll find Shmendrick back at his place. He left here maybe half an hour ago.”
I could have kicked his bony rump for wasting my time. But I didn’t. I stalked out of the place. My hunch had laid an egg. The pattern of my reasoning was primitive: Homer wanted Shmendrick. Shmendrick was important. Therefore Shmendrick’s appointment at the La Jolla was important. But was it? After all, the La Jolla apartments were big—the largest cluster of flats in Southern California. Thousands of people lived at the La Jolla, all of them rich, all of them big in the many businesses of Los Angeles. Shmendrick might have made a date with one of his rich bookies. Or he might have gone there for a short chat with somebody in the lobby. He might have been plotting the fourth at Santa Anita. He might have been chewing a cigar with an insurance agent. He might have—
He Died Laughing Page 10
