“You’re standing in the parking lot, near your car, correct? Is it dark at this time?”
“Very.”
“Then why are you afraid to drink in your open roadster?”
Mose answered without hesitation. “Headlights, Inspector. My parking spot faces the main gate to the field. Anybody driving in after dinner would have spotted me without half trying.”
“I never saw such a careful drunk,” sighed Buttikoffer. “How long do you stand there thinking things out?”
“Not long. I started almost immediately for the bushes to the right of the main entrance. I sat down behind the bushes and drank half my bottle. Then I decided I should move and walked around to the rear of the building, opened the door to the parking shed and finished the Scotch there.”
“How long does this take?”
“You have me there. I was completely drunk at the time.”
“Fine. This means you are no longer thinking carefully?”
“Exactly, Inspector. My powers of thought were a bit blurred. But my eyes and ears weren’t. When I opened the door to leave and turned my head into the gloom of the shed for a moment to throw away my empty bottle, I got a shock of surprise. Somebody was inside. I had finished my Scotch with a drinking companion.”
“Holy cow!” said Buttikoffer. “That must have been Quillan!”
“It was Quillan.”
“Drunk?”
“Tight as a drum. Matter of fact, P.D.Q. was fast asleep. I wouldn’t have noticed him if he hadn’t rolled over on his side and begun to snore. Before that, he was quiet as a corpse.”
“Did you wake him?” asked Homer.
“I didn’t even try. By that time I was more concerned with seeing Mark Richmond. I entered the building, walked down the corridor and into the sweatbox. Mark was seated in his usual place, in the first row. His head was down on one side. I thought he was asleep. I felt silly, standing there, about to wake him and then have a row. I tried to think the thing out for a minute or so. Finally I decided to leave. I turned for the door. At that very minute it opened and I bumped into Barton Noyes.”
“Dandy,” said Buttikoffer. “How do you know this guy you bump into is Noyes? You are still drunk, aren’t you?”
Mose managed a weak grin. “He spoke to me. No, I don’t mean that. He said something like ‘Damn!’ and then beat it. But I recognized his voice easily.” He lit a cigarette without a fumble.
The story was over.
CHAPTER 15
The Piper’s Children
It was getting late—eleven-thirty by the small aluminum clock over the projection booth.
Clark Threadgill had come and gone. Of all the yarns, his was the most simple, the most obvious and the most credible. He had taken dinner with Dick Piper at The Booth. They ate quickly, for it was important for Dick to finish his business with Threadgill and return to the studio in time for the meeting in sweatbox seven.
When they reached the studio (at about eight o’clock) there were a few more details to be ironed out in their conference. They remained in Dick’s room, chatting. There were no lapses in their get together save for a few minutes during which Threadgill went to his room for some papers important to the talk. In the hall, he saw nobody. It took about five minutes before he located the needed papers in his desk. On his way back to Dick’s office he saw nobody in the hall. They finished their talk and walked back through the hall to the conference room, where they sat for a while. Both then left the building for a cigarette on the lawn. They returned when the hubbub began.
He told his story with a lawyer’s fluency, and when he was finished there were no questions from Homer. He let Threadgill go. This was a surprise to me, because I expected him to ask about the mysterious doodle of the numbers.
“What about those doodles, Homer?”
“What’s that?” Buttikoffer yapped. “What in hell are doodles?”
Homer showed him the slips. “I deliberately forgot these things. It would have been silly to explain to Threadgill that we searched all the rooms in the studio. Lawyers have special words for that sort of thing, you know.”
“Damn foolishness, anyhow,” said the inspector. “These numbers look like a phone number. They got nothing to do with anything.”
I said, “That all depends on who answers the phone.”
Buttikoffer yawned, and consulted his watch. “You want Piper now?”
He got Piper. Dick’s simple pan was waxed with worry. He had just called the hospital.
“Poor Lloyd,” he said. “This is such a shame, such a disgrace to the studio.”
“Is he still unconscious?” asked Homer.
“In a coma. That wouldn’t be so bad, from what the doctor told me. The terrible thing is that they don’t know when he’ll recover.” He sat down heavily, a mass of angles in the small chair. For some reason he reminded me of a praying mantis, he was that bony. “Have you found Quillan yet?”
“Not a sign of him, Mr. Piper. We were just saying that maybe you could help us locate him. My men searched every inch of this place and they’re out right now searching some more. But we thought there might be some spots they’d miss. You got any ideas where he might have gone?”
“In the studio? But why should P.D.Q. hide in the studio? Have you tried his home? It seems to me he’d go home.”
“He isn’t home, Dick,” said Homer. “And he isn’t in any of the obvious hiding places in and around the studio, unless Buttikoffer’s men overlooked some that a man like Quillan might know.”
“The parking shed,” said Dick, “or the cellar under the publicity department. I can’t think of any other places a man might hide. All the rooms are so open! So are the technical departments. I can’t understand P.D.Q. running away like this. He’s not guilty of murder.” He turned his slightly bovine eyes toward Buttikoffer. “What did the coroner say? I’m sure this is a suicide. My fellows wouldn’t kill a man like Mark. Oh, I know there were petty grievances; there’s bound to be friction in a creative outfit. But murder?” He brushed his hands wearily through his hair. “Not murder.”
“Fine, Mr. Piper. I hope you’re right.” Buttikoffer was salving him. “Just the same we got to make sure, don’t we? What about this guy Threadgill? He says he left your office tonight to get some papers for about five minutes. You remember how he looked when he got back?”
“I don’t get you, Inspector.”
“I mean, for instance, was he excited?”
“Not that I noticed.”
“Does Threadgill like Mark Richmond? He got any reason for bumping the guy off?”
“I see what you’re getting at, Inspector, but you’re wrong. Clark and Mark were always the best of friends. I’ve never heard a bad word pass between them. They rarely saw each other, except when we had a business meeting—public business, like how many pictures we would turn out a year. Or sometimes Clark would go to him for advice. Mark Richmond knew a lot about show business—much more than Clark or me. We considered him an authority.”
“Then how about the other guys? You think any of the others had a special grudge against Richmond?”
Dick Piper bit his lip and shook his head hopelessly. “It’s hard for me to say. What a terrible thing this is. Here I am asked to tell how much my boys hated a man. Yes, I’m ashamed to say that many of the fellows didn’t like Mark at all. I don’t know how much good my opinion will be, Inspector. After all, I didn’t mix with the men as much as Mark did, especially after the features came in. Mark handled all the shorts and came in contact with all the story men and all the gag men. I heard various stories—”
“Through Lloyd Griffin?” Homer asked.
“Well, yes. It was Lloyd’s job to report on personnel. I wanted to know the temper of my staff at all times. It’s very important to keep men happy—they’ve got to be happy when they’re creati
ng humor. For the past six months, Lloyd has been coming to me with all sorts of queer reports. There was the business of the publicity which had to be stopped. Then, along with that mess, I got news of Mose Kent—a very valuable gag man whose work was slipping badly. Mose and Mark never did get along. But everybody in the studio knew that.” He paused to light his pipe, and I saw the match tremble in his hand. He shook it out and put down the pipe. “This thing has got me by the ears. I hate to talk this way about my employees.”
‘Sure. Sure,” said Buttikoffer. “Take it easy, Mr. Piper. All we want is the names. You just name these guys and we’ll write ’em down.”
Dick was a slow talker, made even slower by the subject of his monologue. Homer gave Buttikoffer the high sign to lay off, and it wasn’t long before he had the list complete.
Many people hated Mark Richmond. Dick’s list included De Cluny (because of his demotion from the story department); Louie Cianchini (demotion and also an old, old tale of Mark and Louie’s wife at a studio party); Sugarfoot (demotion—apparently permanent); Mose Kent (contract trouble, gag trouble, and the added trouble over Ellen); Hugh Pentecost (Mark was about to fire Hugh—thought he was no good in publicity); P. D. Quillan (contract and demotion trouble. Mark suspected him of spreading the false studio gossip); Katie Hinds (love trouble); Daisy (ex-girlfriend of Mark’s); Jimmy Boomer (contract trouble plus incompatibility with Mark in every meeting); Barton Noyes (demotion plus great hatred for Mark since his pal Quillan was demoted permanently).
“And of all these, Dick, which do you think killed Mark Richmond?”
“None!” said Dick, aroused for the first time.
“Then you really think he killed himself?”
“Well, yes, I do. I think you’ll find all the people inside are innocent, Homer. And when you locate poor old Quillan you’ll see he was only drunk somewhere. I can’t believe any of my men would do a thing like this. I’m sure it was suicide!”
Homer signaled the interview was over.
“What about that gang in the conference room, Bull? They all go home now?”
“Nobody goes home—yet,” said Homer. “Get them coffee and sandwiches, Buttikoffer. Keep them happy—I think we’ll want more talk soon.”
Dick paused in the doorway. “I suppose that includes me, too,” he said with a nervous grin. “I wanted to go over to the hospital.”
“I’m sorry, Dick. I can’t let you go. You’ll do those others good by staying with them for the few remaining hours. I promise you as soon as I can I’ll have ’em all recessed until tomorrow.”
“You’re right, Homer. I’ll stay.”
Buttikoffer followed him down the hall to break the news to the gang in the conference room. From somewhere in the hills a great bell bonged twelve times. I was hungry for a salami sandwich and coffee, with French fried on the side.
I said, “What next?”
Homer stared moodily down the hall.
“Shmendrick Shultz.”
“You thirsty?”
He shook his head, and backed into the room, Buttikoffer behind him.
“You kidding about that gang back there, Bull? You really want to keep ’em in that coop for a few hours?”
“Perhaps longer. If I don’t get what I’m looking for, we may have to hold them for breakfast. But that doesn’t mean you have to stay on here, Inspector. Why don’t you go home to your wife and corned beef and cabbage? We’ll return in about an hour and meet you here.”
“Good. Fine.”
He half ran down the hall, his big muscled shoulders heaving. There was something nice about Buttikoffer. You felt a spirit of friendliness in his presence, even though it was a relief to see him scamper for his belly fodder.
Homer preferred the rear exit. We circled the building by way of the parking lot, but he continued to the left, walking as fast as his little fat legs would move him.
I said, “What about Shmendrick? Did you change your mind?”
“I’ll get to him later.” We crossed the front lawn and took the winding path toward the two large buildings. “We’re going to pay a little visit to the central switchboard. Barton Noyes told me all the personnel records are stored in a small nest behind the main board. Two girls superintend the card indexes.”
The central switchboard was really four switchboards, set in a row and almost filling the small room. We moved behind the boards and discovered another, smaller room, completely filled with filing cabinets. These bore such mystic labels as “Payroll,” “Equipment,” “Personnel,” and “Refer.” Homer paused at the “Personnel” file and jerked out the top drawer. I pulled out the next one and laid it on the tiny desk.
“This will be simple,” he said. “All these cards bear the records of each employee, including name, address and telephone number.” He pointed along the top section of an index card. “Examine each card for name and address. When you hit a man who lives at the La Jolla Apartments, sing out.”
Our thumbs were very busy for the next fifteen minutes, but the yield was discouraging.
Homer held up a card, finally, and shoved it under my nose.
“This is interesting.”
The card belonged to Mose Kent, and the address was Laurel Canyon. But this late address had been written, in ink, over the typewritten original that fascinated Homer. It fascinated me, too. Mose Kent’s original address read: La Jolla Apartments!
I said, “It’s a short short story. Mose probably lived in La Jolla when he arrived in Hollywood. He must have held out until the boys told him what a sucker he was; then he moved to respectable diggings in the canyon.”
“A noble deduction.” He motioned me back to the files. Ten minutes and three hundred index cards later I hit Lester Zucker. Lester Zucker, whether he knew it or not, was the last straw. We replaced the files and left the room.
“I wonder whether Shmendrick has salami on rye,” I said.
But Homer was at the switchboard, ramming a plug into a hole marked: “Conference Room, Main Building.”
“Hello,” he said. “Let me talk to officer Sam.” There was a pause. “Sam? This is headquarters. Get a pad and pencil. Got it? Fine. Now pass the pad and pencil around the room and have everybody there write their name and address on it.” Homer covered the mouthpiece.
“Party games?” I teased. “Why didn’t you find out about the La Jolla resident when you questioned those people in the sweatbox?”
“Because I am smart and you are a dolt. I didn’t want anybody in that bunch to know what we knew—the fact that Shmendrick must have visited one of them this evening. Hello—Sam? Have you got the list? Fine. Remember—I just want you to look for it, not blab it into the telephone. After I give you the address I’m going to name all the people in the room. When I hit the name belonging to the address you’ll just say ‘yes’—nothing more. All clear?” A short pause. “No! I’m going to tell you the address. All you do is keep your trap shut and look for it. Clear? Good. The address is: The La Jolla Apartments.”
There was a very long silence. Then Homer said, “You’ve got it? Great. Now tell me this—is it a man who lives there? It is a man, eh? Let’s see now, is it Dick Piper? Mose Kent?”
Pause.
“No? Fellow named Sigarfoos? Jim Boomer? Clark Threadgill? It is? Fine—that’s all I wanted to know. No, nothing more. Just put that list in your pocket.”
Homer’s face was lit with a new light, his legs alive with new energy. I galloped after him into the darkness, across the lawn and over to the parking lot where we boarded my roadster.
“The first stop is Shmendrick’s,” he said.
I shot into gear.
“The first stop?” I moaned. “What is this, a midnight tour of Hollywood?”
“Maybe.” He thwacked me on the back. “You’ve split this business wide open! Congratulations!”
�
��Thanks for nothing. What have I done wrong now?”
“Wrong. Your simple noggin struck the lost chord, Hank. You gave me the first real lead when you tailed Shmendrick to the La Jolla.”
I wanted to ask him a few whys and whats, but we were already squealing to a stop before Shmendrick’s tavern. The neon lights paled out just as we left the car, and inside the main bar lights died at the same moment.
“Closing early, eh?” Homer said, leaping from the car to the tavern door in a few springy bounds. He rapped hard at the oak door. Through the square little window we saw my young friend, the barkeep, shuffling front. He stopped at the other side of the door and squinted at us.
“What do you want?”
“Shmendrick. We want to talk to the boss.”
“He ain’t in; he left town.”
I said, “You want to make a quick fin?”
“Not if I have to open the door. It’s against the boss’s orders.”
I pulled out a fin. I waved it before his little thin face.
“I ain’t opening the door,” he insisted.
“You don’t have to open the door,” said Homer. “Just open this little window so that we can talk without yelling.”
He shook his head stubbornly.
I waved two fives. His head almost stopped shaking. Now he was moving it with less fervor.
Homer took the two fives and added a ten.
The barkeep stopped shaking his head. He opened the window slowly to grab for the bills. But I had both my hands around his skinny neck before the twenty fish crossed his palm. I squeezed.
“Open the door, you little heel, before I slap your ears off your head!”
He made a sound like water going down a drain. I heard the bolt click back and pressed my way inside. We dragged him back across the floor and slapped him onto a bar stool.
“And to think my drunken grandfather once told me all barmen were honest,” I said, tightening my grip on his collar. “Now start drooling, Mr. Mickey Finn, and drool fast!”
He began to talk.
He Died Laughing Page 12
