I hit Wilshire Boulevard, and many nervous horns jolted me back to reality. I concentrated on the traffic lights and the jitterbug pedestrians and made the studio in ten minutes under par. Shmendrick’s tavern was still aglow with lights, but I avoided the lure and passed his place with my foot well down on the gas pedal.
In the sweatbox, Cianchini, Boomer and De Cluny were lined up in orchestra seats. Buttikoffer squatted where I had last seen him, under the small silver screen. And Homer sat before the group, his hands toying with a long pointer—a meditating maestro before his musicians.
Buttikoffer jumped up when I entered. “Where in hell you been, MacAndrews? We got three pinochle players here looking for a fourth hand!”
“Where are the cards? I’m ready.”
Homer said, “Did you find Shmendrick?”
“He wasn’t in. I went—”
“Never mind.” Homer motioned me to a seat alongside De Cluny. “All right, Inspector, let’s have that table now.” Buttikoffer dragged a small table toward us. “I want you fellows to sit at this table in the same positions you had when you were playing cards before the meeting.”
We arranged ourselves around the table. De Cluny sat on my left. Next, at De Cluny’s left hand, sat Boomer, then Cianchini.
“Who faced the door?” Homer asked.
“I am quite certain I did,” said De Cluny. “I remember staring into Louie’s beautiful face.”
“He’s right,” said Louie. “The door was behind my back.”
“Then you didn’t know, Louie, that Mose Kent looked into the room while you were playing?”
“Mose? I didn’t see him. How could I?”
“Nor did I,” said De Cluny. “And if I couldn’t see him, neither could Jimmy, because he was sitting nearer the hinge side of the door.”
“Yes,” said Jimmy. I didn’t see the door open. I must have been concentrating on my cards.”
“That’s right, Homer,” I said. “You see, in a four-handed pinochle game, one man is always a kibitzer. At the time when I saw Mose, I happened to be the dealer, which meant I wasn’t playing. I distinctly remember noticing that door open after I had dealt the cards. The others were busy sorting their hands when it happened.”
Homer tossed a deck of pinochle cards on the table. “Deal out a hand, Hank. I want to see how long it takes for the usual hand of pinochle.”
I dealt. My partners assembled their hands. De Cluny said, “Three hundred.” Boomer passed. Cianchini passed. De Cluny said, “It isn’t worth a gamble.”
“That,” I said, “is a typical passed hand, Homer.”
Homer looked at his watch. “A minute and a quarter, but that’s normal for a passed hand even in bridge. About how long would it take if the hand were played?”
“That’s an unanswerable question,” laughed Jimmy Boomer. “It depends on the hand itself, the type of player involved and the amount of the bid. A pokey pinochler may sometimes use fifteen minutes to figure his hand and then play out his cards. I’ve seen De Cluny take even longer.”
“That means the dealer would be out of the game completely for fifteen minutes?”
It seemed to me we all nodded in unison. The purpose of his questioning was obvious. I hadn’t thought of the “free time” in a normal pinochle game when four hands were involved.
“Now think back, all of you. During the time when each of you dealt a tough hand, a hand that was played, which one of you left the room?”
There was a short silence. “I cannot speak for the others,” said De Cluny, “but I’m certain I left this room once.”
“Where did you go?”
“I walked down the hall to the men’s room. You remember, Jimmy, it was during that spade hand you played.”
“That’s right,” said Boomer. “But didn’t we all leave at some time or other during the game? We must have, after all that beer.”
Cianchini nodded.
“Let’s finish with your little jaunt first, Eph,” continued Homer. “You left the room and stayed away for about ten minutes. When you walked down the corridor, did you see anything unusual? Did you meet anybody?”
“No one. And I am quite sure I returned in less than five minutes.”
“How about you, Jimmy?”
“I covered the course in the same time and saw nobody.”
Cianchini’s story was different. “I left the room, Homer, but not to visit the john. Don’t ask me why I left—I couldn’t tell you. Maybe it was nerves. Probably I just wanted to stretch my legs. I don’t remember the time, but it must have been about ten minutes to eight. I walked down the hall a bit and came back. I saw two people in the hall when I was out there. One was Ellen Tucker.”
“What was she doing?”
“Doing? She was walking toward me from the direction of the sweatbox.”
“That checks. Ellen admitted returning from the powder room at that time. Who else did you see?”
“You got me there, Homer. When I reached the end of my walk I was within twenty feet of the sweatbox door. The door was closing—somebody was pulling it shut behind him on the way into the sweatbox.”
“You saw only the closing door? You didn’t see a leg, or even a shoe?”
“Only the door.”
Buttikoffer interrupted. “That don’t mean a thing, Bull. Maybe this guy Richmond walks into the sweatbox at that time.”
“You’re wrong there,” said Louie. “It couldn’t have been Mark entering the sweatbox. There were no lights on inside, and I heard a bit of music. That means Mark must’ve been previewing the short when this guy I saw walked in on him.”
Buttikoffer whistled. “Now we’re getting somewhere—fast. What do you do after you see this door shutting, Cianchini?”
“There’s nothing for me to do. There’s nothing queer about a sweatbox door closing. I only thought at the time that whoever walked in on Mark Would get him sore, because he didn’t like to be disturbed during his personal previews. I didn’t want to be around when the poor goof got bawled out, so I headed back to the pinochle game pronto.”
“That’s too bad. That’s a damn shame, Cianchini. One minute more at that door and I’m not here now. I’m home eating corned beef and cabbage with my old lady.”
Homer gathered the cards and shuffled them absently. The game was over. “You fellows go back to the conference room. We’ll be letting you all out soon enough.”
They filed out of the room wearily.
CHAPTER 14
Mose Moseys In
There were only four left to question: Threadgill, Shmendrick, Dick Piper and Mose Kent. Buttikoffer had stepped out into the hall to find out whether Mose was sober. The sweatbox held only Homer and me. He had flipped open his little black book and was staring at the closely scrawled pages with an impish grin.
“Alibis,” he said. “The plot brews into a thick and muddy paste, full of gaps—unwitnessed gaps. From the look of things, any one of these people had enough time to step into that sweatbox and kill our dear Richmond.”
“Any one of them? I can’t see all these people with a motive strong enough. P.D.Q., maybe.”
“We can’t see any further than our nostrils, Hank. We don’t know these people well enough. Who knows how Mark Richmond may have antagonized even a simple soul like Daisy, the stenotype girl? Perhaps she had a little affair with him. Perhaps, she discovered he was shifting his attentions to Ellen Tucker.”
I laughed. “There you go again, writing B picture scenarios.”
“Not at all.” Homer was as serious as I’ve ever seen him. “You forgot we know nothing of what Buttikoffer refers to as ‘history’. We’ve only been in the studio since this morning. Do we know much about Daisy? Or Ellen? Don’t you think it possible Daisy planned this mess? After all, she had access to P.D.Q.’s old room. Perhaps she spotted that g
un in his desk long ago and made up her mind to use it tonight after setting up an alibi in the powder room. Kate and Ellen both saw her in there. They have no recollection of how long she lingered with them. Daisy is a spirited wench. Perhaps the bite of jealousy struck home, finally, and moved her to action.”
“And what did Mark do when she entered his ivory tower?”
“Who knows?”
“Hooey!” I said. “I suppose he let her sit down beside him, went on watching the picture, and suddenly woke to find himself staring over the brink of eternity with a slug in his midriff?”
“Daisy, or Ellen, or Kate,” said Homer. “Any of the girls could have managed this killing.”
“You’ve got a female fixation. What about the boys?”
“I didn’t exclude the men, Hank.” He read me a section from his notes, and then explained. “The pinochle game makes it possible for De Cluny, Boomer or Cianchini to have done the job. Sugarfoot’s story checks with yours. He left the conference room shortly after you boys began to play cards. He was free to meander, murder or go to the john. He says he meandered down the hall, and ducked into P.D.Q.’.s room on a hunch that Quillan might have gone there to sleep off his liquor. This checks with the projection boy’s tale of the sport shoes. Sugarfoot has the shoes.”
I said, “I thought that worm wouldn’t stop snooping for Quillan.”
Homer went on. “Hugh Pentecost told me he remained in Lloyd’s office for quite a while, all alone, before Daisy returned from her extended tour to the powder room. That means our friend Pentecost could have skipped down the hall and shot Richmond. No witnesses. Daisy was the only person to see Pentecost before he crossed the hall, later, to join the group headed for the meeting in sweatbox seven.”
“Pentecost wouldn’t swat a fly, even after the fly antagonized him.”
“Surface judgment,” said Homer, “Pentecost may be a refined pervert, for all you know. After all, what do we know about any of these gentle folk? It’s easy for them to keep things from us. Take Barton Noyes. His story checks with Katie Hinds’, but weren’t there a few lonely moments when he might have strolled into the sweatbox? Bart is an intelligent youth, and this murder smells to high heaven of intelligence.”
“I wouldn’t know with the cold in my nose.”
“Blow it. Barton may not be a murderer, but he has the type of mind I’d expect in this sort of job. So has Mose Kent. Mose, of course, had a motive—two motives: Ellen and his contract, though I can’t quite see him killing Richmond because his contract wasn’t renewed. Mose is a drinker—what type of drinker, we don’t know. Is he like Quillan? Does he forget what he’s doing while under the influence of the demon rum?”
“Which is the ten-dollar question?”
“We haven’t reached it yet.” He tucked the book away in his vest, folded his fat fists and half closed his eyes. “Buttikoffer, in his pleasant misunderstanding of a certain French police system, has suggested many interesting ideas. You remember his stupid insistence about our analysis of the ‘place’?”
“I thought we went through that.”
“Did we? Buttikoffer was dead right about the business of ‘place’ first. But we haven’t given this room a chance to talk to us.” He got to his feet and walked to the door, studying the distance between the entrance and Mark Richmond’s death chair. “I want you to sit in Richmond’s seat for a moment, Hank.”
Homer switched off the lights in the sweatbox. Then he opened the door. The anemic light from the hall made him a pudgy silhouette. “Stand up.”
I stood. He walked toward me for a few steps, turned on his heel and relit the sweatbox lights. When he faced me again he was smiling—a fat cat who swallowed a canary. “Obvious,” he muttered. “That hall light is strong enough to silhouette a figure entering this room, isn’t it?”
“You’re talking like Buttikoffer,” I told him. “Any light is strong enough to silhouette a figure when you’re looking from pitch black toward the light.”
“I wonder.”
I had him there, and I knew it. But I never had a chance to begin my argument. Buttikoffer returned from the conference room with Mose Kent. The light of the liquor glow had died on Kent’s face and left it a waxy gray. His eyes seemed to have shrunk in his head. They were pinched and red-rimmed now, almost evil in their pouched blue gray bags. When he saw us his lips curved in a weak and foolish grin.
“Go ahead, Bull,” said the inspector. “He’s sober, but not in the mood to talk to us Cossacks. I called headquarters. The coroner says Richmond was shot from awful close.”
“Close enough for suicide?”
Buttikoffer looked as if he were about to spit. “You don’t know that dope Drexler. Never saw a coroner like him—he won’t commit himself until he’s positively sure. When Drexler says the bullet hit the guy from close, you can bet your pants it was damned close. But that’s as far as he’ll go.”
“Did he give you the approximate distance, in feet?”
Buttikoffer shook his bull head. “He gave me nothing but ‘close’.”
“That’s close enough,” said Homer.
He walked to the rear row of seats and sat down. Mose leaned his head on a hand and studied Buttikoffer’s shoes. The inspector reclined under the screen and closed his eyes. “We got all night, Bull. You want I should wake you for breakfast? How about this guy Kent?”
“Shall I tell you what happened to Kent tonight, Inspector?”
“How do you know what happens to this guy?”
“I’ve got a good imagination. Stop me if I’m wrong, Mose. You left the restaurant half plastered and came over here to raid Katie Hinds’ liquor closet. You then found yourself a quiet nook and began to finish a bottle of Scotch or rye or whatever your mood demanded. After the bottle you found yourself quite happy. Not altogether drunk, mind you, but happy enough to have reached the point of daredevil bravado; you felt the time was ripe for a heart-to-heart talk with your rival, Mark Richmond. You had many reasons for this. You might have wanted to talk to him about your contract. I don’t believe you thought much about your contract tonight, however. You were more concerned with Ellen. You wanted to find out whether there was anything more to Mark’s interest in her than a casual executive’s desire to help a girl with story talent. Aside from these reasons, you were also jealous of Richmond. In your heart of hearts you suspected he might have wooed Ellen away from you. Am I right so far?”
“As right as the voice of my conscience.”
“Good. You finished your bottle and walked into the hall. For a moment, perhaps, habit held you away from that door to the sweatbox. Suddenly you heard footsteps. You didn’t like the idea of being caught standing half-drunk before the forbidden room. You opened the door and walked inside. You blinked your eyes to find Richmond in the gloom, and when you finally did locate him you were staring at a dead man. You then left the room quickly and started for the main entrance. Nobody saw you in the hall. When you passed the conference room you thought it would be a good place to hide in. You opened the door a crack and discovered that the room was full of people. You left the building, crept beside the bushes to the right of the entrance and fell asleep. Hank and I found you there, and later the policemen. Am I far wrong in my guesses?”
“You’re almost exactly right,” said Mose.
Buttikoffer awoke. “How come you got this guy figured, Bull? You see him before now?”
Homer rejoined us. “No, I have not. You remember Hank told us he saw Mose Kent’s face in the door of the conference room. Before that, Louis Cianchini noticed somebody enter the sweatbox. Obviously it must have been Kent he saw.”
“Was it?” said Mose. “Remember, I told you all your guesses weren’t correct.”
“Touché! I stand corrected, Mose. If it wasn’t you Cianchini saw, who was it?”
“Barton Noyes.”
B
uttikoffer made a Keystone Comedy take, and the ashes of his cigar dropped on his vest among the gravy stains. “I don’t get this! Where are you standing when you see Noyes enter the sweatbox?”
“I’ll get to that, Inspector. Cianchini saw Barton Noyes walk through that door. Here’s the way it happened: Your guesses were almost too accurate, Homer. You have a fine and sympathetic mind for the vagaries of drunken behavior. Your first mistake was the business of the liquor. I didn’t raid Katie’s supply chest, I bought a bottle of Scotch up on Hollywood Boulevard, after I left the restaurant.”
“Where?” Buttikoffer interrupted, scowling. “Just where do you buy this liquor?”
“Must I remember?”
“Why not? You got a bad memory?”
“My memory was never bad, Inspector. But can you tell me where you buy your gin?”
The inspector wrestled with his memory and lost.
“Where was I?” said Mose. “Oh, yes—I bought my liquor and returned to the studio. When I reached the lot I thought about a suitably hidden drinking spot. I was going to finish the bottle in my car, but the fear of sudden detection changed my mind. I have an open roadster, and it would never do to kill the bottle behind the wheel. I was thinking clearly. Remember, I had an edge on when I bought that Scotch—the sort of rummish edge that promotes clear, sharp thinking in me. I surveyed the building carefully before I decided upon a berth.”
He Died Laughing Page 11
