“Who did it?”
He took up his whistling where he had dropped it and carried it through several bars, allegro fortissimo. “We’ll know in an hour or so.”
“Then it wasn’t suicide?”
“It wasn’t suicide.”
I was getting nowhere with him, as usual, and it was too late for me to piece together the patchwork of my own theories.
We got back to the studio fast.
Buttikoffer met us at the main entrance.
“I been waiting for you boys for over an hour,” he said. “Drexler, the coroner, he was here with me. He waited a long time, too, but got called away to a shooting over on the Cahuenga Pass.”
“What was his report?”
“Just like we figured, Bull. Exactly like we figured. Richmond was shot.” He pulled out a sheet of paper, on which Drexler had sketched a diagram of the path of the bullet. “Must have been shot while he sat there. Bullet entered from above the heart and plowed down through him.”
Homer studied the paper for a minute and folded it away absently. “Did you get Quillan?”
“Not a sign of the guy. The boys just finished their third search a few minutes ago. Quillan just ain’t around, I guess.”
We started for the door. “I’ll be in the sweatbox, Inspector. Send in Kate Hinds.”
“Again?” He scratched his head and galloped up the stairs ahead of us.
When we got to the sweatbox door, Homer said, “Wait here, Hank.” He continued up the hall to the turn. A little later he returned and entered the sweatbox. He stood inside a moment. Then he turned on his heel to leave again, glancing at his wristwatch as he passed me in the hall.
I walked into the sweatbox and sat down. Buttikoffer and Katie Hinds followed me into the room. Katie looked tired.
“I feel like the heroine in a nightmare,” she said, giving me her big black eyes. “What does Homer want with me now?”
I said, “I wouldn’t know, Kate. Perhaps the inspector can tell you.”
Buttikoffer coughed authoritatively. “I—ah—we got to go over your story again, lady. You got a lot of flaws in it. A lot of flaws.”
Homer strode in.
“Not at all,” he said, cutting into the nonsense dialogue, and making Buttikoffer squirm. He sat down close to Kate, and took her hand. She didn’t move it. “I’ve been working at a disadvantage, Katie, because I haven’t a friend in the place. We can’t get anywhere with this mess unless we know more about everybody. We must have background knowledge—truth.”
“I’ve told you the truth.”
“So have the rest, Katie—all of them, I’m sure. But sometimes the truth isn’t enough. You’ve answered my questions, yes. But have you told me all you know?”
Katie’s eyes were counting the flowers in her dress design. “I’ve tried to.”
“Even about Mark?”
“Must we go through that again?” She was petulant now. “I’m sick and tired of digging in the dead leaves of my past. What happened between Mark and me was our affair. Why do you insist on making me miserable?”
“Because it’s important. I’m not interested in your love affair with Mark Richmond, Katie. But the story of Mark’s visit to your office last night didn’t ring true. It led me up a blind alley. I couldn’t understand why Mark, after such a long estrangement, should suddenly take you to dinner.”
“I explained that.”
“Not in detail. You told us the story from The Ladies’ Home Journal point of view. You explained exactly how you felt when you saw him at the door. I believed that part of your yarn.”
“Thanks,” she muttered acidly. “Where did my continuity break?”
“In the restaurant. You slanted your tale into a paradox. Did you expect me to believe Mark took you to dinner so he could sleep on your shoulder?”
“Why shouldn’t he? We were old friends.”
“He’s not the type,” said Homer flatly. “Mark took you to the restaurant because he wanted something. What was it?”
“That,” she said, “is none of your business!”
“Very well, Katie, if that’s the way you want it. You’re forcing me to play guessing games—and I’m a boy wonder at them. I think I know the reason why Mark saw you last night.”
“Clever boy. Why did I see Mark?”
“Because of the stocks.”
Her head came up suddenly. “How did you know?”
“I have a trick memory, Katie. You told me early yesterday morning that you were a stockholder in this place, didn’t you?”
“Did I? I might have been kidding.”
“I know you too well not to recognize kidding. You have stock in the Piper Studios. Mark gave you some when you were engaged, is that right?”
She nodded. “Eight shares.”
“And last night he came for your decision—he wanted to buy them back. He’s been after you for some time to sell him those stocks, hasn’t he?”
“For over a year.”
“And what did you decide last night?”
“I told him I’d sell them back to him. He offered me a lot of money—enough money so I could leave this place and begin to write.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
Homer turned to Buttikoffer. “I think you can let Miss Hinds go home now.” He patted her hand gently. “I’m sorry I had to air all this, Katie, but I needed the information from your lips. Deductions are sometimes built on sand. Will you forgive me?”
She paused at the door, half smiling. “You’re a stinking little ferret, Homer Bull, but I love you anyhow.”
When the door closed, Buttikoffer left his perch under the screen, bursting with curiosity. “I don’t get it, Bull. Why do we let that dame go home? What’s all this trash about stocks and bonds got to do with anything?”
“Stocks and bonds are synonyms for money.”
“Then why do we let her go? I tell you that Hinds dame looked mighty relieved when you said she goes home.”
“Why not? She has very little to do with this murder, Buttikoffer—and she looked sleepy.”
“So what? I’m sleepy, too!”
“Inhale, Inspector; we’ll all go home soon. But first, I want to talk to the lad who ran the projection machine. He should have been home long ago.”
“You’re telling me. Six times his old lady calls up to see how he is.” The inspector hesitated before leaving the room. “Anybody else you want me to ship to dreamland?”
Homer smiled. “An excellent idea, Buttikoffer. You might tell Louie Cianchini he’s free to go. The poor boy has stomach ulcers.”
“Two more hours on this case and I got water on the brain,” said Buttikoffer, and slammed the door.
I said, “What’s with the projection boy? Don’t tell me he plugged Richmond—that would be too much like a certain mystery story I just read.”
Homer looked up from his black book. “You’re as bad as Buttikoffer, Hank. I’m bringing the kid back for the same reason that I saw Katie Hinds. Well—almost the same reason.”
“Stocks?”
“Hardly. I think the lad forgot something.”
The projection boy ambled in, his face a gray mask of weariness. Homer asked him gently, “Can we have your account of what happened in the projection room the other evening again? You know, we want you to tell us any details which you may have overlooked before.”
The boy gave his account, but if he had overlooked anything in his previous narration, he was overlooking it just as surely now.
Homer refused to be discouraged.
“Tell me something about Richmond,” he asked the kid. “You’ve shown him films before. What were his eccentricities?”
“I didn’t know him well. All I know about Richmond is that he wanted to be all
alone when he previewed the shorts. Us projection boys used to call him Garbo—among ourselves. He was a nice enough guy when he was pleased, but he could be nasty at times.”
Homer massaged his chin impatiently. “We’re not getting anywhere. Let’s start at the beginning, when you walked into the projection booth. Did you find anything unusual?”
The lad began to see the light. “I guess it was unusual, Mr. Bull. But Mark used to start the films himself, lots of times, when we were a little late. I figured that he got tired of waiting for me and put the first reel on. I see what you mean now, about overlooking things. I was used to Mark’s screwy ways—he did that to me so often in the past that I got accustomed to it. But I can’t figure why he did it last night. I wasn’t late. I made a point of being there on the dot of eight.”
“He didn’t do it last night.” Homer rose. “But I have a pretty good idea who did. You can go home now, sonny.”
The boy ran out, and Sam the cop ran in.
“I just got a call from the main board, Chief. They picked up Shmendrick Schultz getting off a plane in Frisco. He’ll be down here in a couple of hours.”
“Fine,” said Buttikoffer, as though he had a reason for wanting Shmendrick. “That ought to clinch the case, eh, Bull?”
“We don’t need Shmendrick anymore, Inspector. I don’t think he’s done anything wrong.”
“What? You mean to tell me he wasn’t in this thing?”
“Not in the way you think.”
A sudden light lit Buttikoffer’s eyes. “I get it! Then the whole damn case is still Quillan. I thought so. Well, the boys will pick him up like they did Shmendrick, on some bus or train.”
“I don’t think so,” said Homer. “We’re going to pick up Quillan in less than a half-hour.”
“We?” The inspector almost swallowed his cigar.
“Your men, Buttikoffer. How many men have you here?”
“Over a dozen.”
“Good. Instruct them to station themselves at various spots in the parking lot.”
“The parking lot? What in hell you want with them in the parking lot?”
“I think I know where we can find Quillan!”
CHAPTER 18
The Dawn’s Early Light
Day was not far off. The stars were pale and high and sinking slowly into the milk of dawn. A breeze swirled down from the hills, blowing cold little puffs around my ears and raising the gooseflesh on my shanks. Homer and I stood alone under the tree near the main entrance waiting for the final exodus of our friends from the conference room. He stared fixedly at the door, his hands thrust deep into his slacks and his stocky figure swaying ever so slightly in the wind. That was Homer, unaffected as usual by the chill air, the time of the morning or the strain of waiting for the man he knew had killed Mark Richmond.
He stopped swaying when the first figure came down the steps. I recognized the silhouette at once. It was Sugarfoot. Homer leaned his fat frame against the tree and lit a cigarette.
Sugarfoot came toward us quickly, walking as though he wanted to run. He passed the tree without seeing us and disappeared around the corner of the building.
I said, “Old Sugarfoot’s in an awful hurry.”
“He’s sleepy,” said Homer.
“That’s what I mean. I’m sleepy, too—but I can’t walk that fast when I’m wide awake.”
“You think faster when you’re awake.”
I didn’t bother to answer. The main door opened, emptying the rest of the crowd onto the lawn. Buttikoffer held the rear, bent over Dick Piper in a muffled discussion. We moved out into the cinder path and walked toward the parking lot with Mose Kent and Ellen Tucker, and I noticed that he was holding her hand. The others crowded behind us, a whispering group, embarrassed by their sudden freedom.
Ellen said, “It’s good to get out of that room at last. May I never sit in a conference room again.”
“Did you say good?” sighed Daisy. “I feel like I just stepped out of a nightmare. It just doesn’t seem real any more, all this. Everything, the studio and all, looks so queer so early in the morning.”
Jimmy Boomer palmed a long yawn. “This is nothing, honey girl. Nothing at all. Just wait’ll that fat detective gets you down at headquarters. They love to grill blondes. They put you in big chair and flash colored lights in your eyes.”
“Grill me?” Daisy was frightened all over again. “Why should they want to grill me again? Didn’t I tell ’em all I know?”
“Did you?”
Boomer snickered. “What you didn’t tell them about Mark Richmond would read like Balzac.”
De Cluny played the gallant. “That is not fair, Jimmy. It is too late for such jokes. Leave the girl alone, no?”
“No.”
“I thought not, espèce de cochon!” De Cluny patted her shoulder. “Pay no attention to his stale jokes, Daisy. You know what makes him the beast? It is because he is not used to staying awake in conference rooms.”
There were a few nervous laughs for the brave Frenchman. But they died quickly, and silence set in again.
Buttikoffer brought the group to a halt, like a museum guide, by springing to the front and suddenly facing them with his hands up. Dick Piper followed him forward.
“Everybody goes home for some sleep,” said the inspector. “This is on account of it is getting pretty late and I got no reason for keeping you in that room for breakfast. But that don’t mean we don’t see each other soon. Everybody here reports to me tomorrow—I mean later—at half past eleven. You want to tell them, Mr. Piper?”
Dick’s voice came almost as a whisper, low and tired. “I’m sure everybody understands why we must report to the inspector.” His eyes stared gloomily through the crowd. “We haven’t got very far tonight, and this terrible business must be cleared up as soon as possible, for the good of our studio. You’ll all report to my office at half past eleven. Is that clear?”
“It better be,” rasped Buttikoffer. “Anybody trying to take a side trip to Palm Springs by his lonesome will all of a sudden find he’s got company, you understand?”
“You don’t have to threaten these people,” said Dick. “I’m willing to guarantee these men and post a bond on them.”
“That ain’t necessary, Mr. Piper. I didn’t say I was arresting anybody—yet.”
“And I don’t think you ever will. I think you’ll find later I was right—that nobody in our studio would kill a man. I’m sure Mark Richmond was a suicide.”
“Fine. I hope you’re right, Mr. Piper. I also hope that fellow Quillan can prove he was in Alaska when the shot was fired.”
There was an uncomfortable gap of silence.
“Quillan will turn up,” said Dick slowly. “And when he tells his story it’ll be an honest one. Poor P.D.Q. had nothing to do with this. You don’t know the fellow the way we do.”
“I can’t wait to meet him,” ‘said Buttikoffer. “Meantime, we might as well break up this lawn party and get some sleep.”
The knot of people broke up. In the East, beyond the black hills, a shaft of gray-blue light stabbed high into the sky. It would be really light soon.
De Cluny and Daisy moved off to the right. He had elected himself guardian of the delicious Daisy. I watched her slide her sleek shanks into his car and wondered whether he would take her home or decide to head for Griffith Park to see if the grass was wet. Could be.
Jimmy Boomer and Hugh Pentecost strolled in the other direction, where I saw the jalopy hulk of Jimmy’s roadster already gleaming in the half-light. It was a Model A Ford, equipped with every modern automobile accessory in the world. Hollywood gag minds run to such living samples of their prowess. Could such a mind as Jimmy’s plot murder, too?
Barton Noyes meandered alone toward the main gate. He should have been going home with P.D.Q., in Quillan’s little car. But Quil
lan’s car keys must have disappeared with the little man, leaving his friend to the mercy of the trolleys and busses. I felt a twinge of sympathy for Quillan’s roommate and opened my mouth to shout after him, to offer him a ride. But Jimmy Boomer had the same idea at the same moment. I heard him yell to Barton. But Noyes thanked him wearily. “I’d rather walk, Jimmy,” he said. “Do me good.”
Mose Kent and Ellen Tucker walked hand in hand in another direction. I heard the sweet, low hum of her voice talking to him.
It was a comfort to know that these two were free, that Mose had had nothing to do with Mark Richmond’s death. Now they would probably get married, buy an FHA bungalow and live happily under the easy rent system for the rest of their days.
Or would they? A sudden disturbing thought brought me down to earth with a shock. Everybody was leaving the studio. Everybody had been asked to return tomorrow. Whoever had murdered Mark Richmond still had many hours of freedom, many hours in which to make his escape. Of course, Buttikoffer’s detectives would probably park themselves in mysterious places to watch all these people.
But detectives had been fooled before. Why had Homer allowed them the freedom of their own beds this morning? Was he already positive that P.D.Q. had killed Mark? It seemed to me he was making a mistake—a horrible mistake.
But you never know, with Homer. We crossed the lot, the last five in the group to leave. Homer chatted quietly with Dick Piper and Clark Threadgill. Buttikoffer and I followed.
“I think Griffin will be all right,” Homer was saying. “I visited him last night, and the doctor reported a slight improvement.”
Dick was pleased with the news. “That’s swell, Homer. Then it wasn’t really serious?”
“It’s still serious; all head injuries are. But he has already passed the stage of coma. He was talking coherently at nine last night.”
We paused at Dick’s car.
“Really?” said Threadgill. “Did he say anything about who hit him?”
Homer smiled. “He couldn’t be that coherent, Threadgill. His talk for the most part was hysterical, comatose babbling.”
Was Threadgill’s sigh a sigh of relief? “Poor fellow. I hope he comes through it all right.”
He Died Laughing Page 14
