“Oh,” he said, “did I? Perhaps I did. Well,” he went on slowly, “Zoe and I worked together for quite some time. We were—rather close for a while. It simply seemed incredible that anybody could have murdered her. Naturally I assumed...” He let it trail away.
“Any reason why she should have killed herself?”
“No. I don't know of any reason. It was—merely an assumption.”
I thought Swallow looked uncomfortable. I let it ride for now. Sherry came back in from outside then and walked over behind her desk. I said, “O.K. See you later, Swallow. You too, Sherry.”
She gave me a bright smile as I went out.
I knocked on Genova's door and went in when he yelled from inside the room. He had a French phone at his ear, but when he saw me his thick black eyebrows drew down and he growled, “All right—good-by,” into the mouthpiece and hung up noisily. He kept frowning at me. “What do you want?” he asked,testily.
“Just like to talk to you, if it's all right, Genova.”
“It's not all right. I got enough troubles without you. Now get the hell out of here.”
This guy and Fanny should hit it off fine. I could feel myself getting hot under the collar. “O.K., if that's the way you want it,” I said. “I thought I'd let you know I've got a client I'm investigating the murder for. The murder we're all mixed up in—including you.”
He leaned back in his chair and started nervously snapping the fingers of his right hand. “So you managed to make it official. You're the nosiest damn man I've seen for quite a while, Scott.”
For a guy about five-nine and a hundred and sixty pounds, he was a little too belligerent. A private detective, though, is still just a private citizen, and Genova didn't have to be nice to me. But he was becoming a trifle too personal, and I was getting awfully fed up with most of the people I'd rubbed against in this case. It would have given me great pleasure to pin Zoe's murder on about six of them.
I said, “Fortunately—or unfortunately—that's what I get paid for. And as long as Bondhelm pays me to—”
“Bondhelm!” He came up out of his chair as if he had springs in his bottom. “Bondhelm! You're working for Bondhelm? Why, that sonofabitch! So help me, if you so much as give us five seconds of trouble on this picture I'll have the law on you. Why, you sonofabitch, you. You goddam son of a—awp!”
That was as far as he got. He was wearing a blue tie, and I shot out my left hand, grabbed the tie, and yanked him toward me. His thighs hit the edge of the desk and he folded over on top of it with his face about a foot from its top. I jerked up on the tie and stuck my face down a couple of inches from his and sprayed words in his face. “Give this a good listen, Genova. You can object all you want to about my nosing around. You can even get a little tiresome. But keep a civil tongue in your head or I'll twist you around till you've got your feet in your mouth. You got that?” I held him a second longer, then shoved him back into his chair.
He landed heavily and sat there for a moment without moving. Then his hands came up and gripped the chair arms till the knuckles showed white. He made a couple of noises that weren't words, just angry choking sounds. His face twisted and his lips parted over his teeth, then he pressed them together and pulled them apart again. I could see the saliva glistening on the inner side of his pulled-down lower lip. Louis Genova was all unstrung.
It seemed like a good time for it, so I leaned on his desk and said, “You know, a man who gets as mad as you are right now could get mad enough even to strangle a woman, I'll bet.”
Oddly enough, instead of getting worse and maybe falling down on the floor and biting his tongue, he got better. Slowly. He stopped wiggling his lips, finally took his hands from the chair arms, and relaxed by degrees.
Normal color flowed back into his face and he said slowly, his poise recovered now, “You take an unfair advantage of me, Mr. Scott. I imagine you do push-ups.”
That was the most human thing I'd ever heard him say.
I took a deep breath. “O.K., Genova. I— I should apologize, maybe. I do apologize. But I think that works both ways.”
He looked at me then. “Yes. Well, I'm sorry for what I said, Mr. Scott.” Pretty soon we were going to kiss each other. He went on, “It was your mention of Bondhelm. Perhaps you don't understand, but he'd do almost anything to— to sabotage production. Perhaps you don't understand.”
“I know what the score is. But I won't do any man's dirty work, Genova. You can depend on that. My concern, and my only concern, is who murdered Miss Townsend.” I waited a minute, then added, “If you don't want to talk to me, you don't have to. But it'll look funny if you don't. Especially to me.”
His face hardened. “Don't threaten me, Mr. Scott. I will absolutely not stand for threats.”
This Genova was actually a pretty hard boy. It occurred to me that he'd be able to take shots at me. Or hire somebody to do it for him. I was still stabbing in the dark, but I said, “Incidentally, Genova, you wouldn't have had a little man following me this morning, would you?”
He blinked at me and looked puzzled. “Little man? What do you mean, a little man?”
“Skip it. You mind a couple of questions?”
He thought about it. “Not if you make it fast. I am actually extremely busy. You might as well sit down.”
I climbed into a chair at the side of the desk—a good five feet from his slightly crumpled tie. “All right, here it is fast,” I said. “Thursday night you were at Raul's. Along with Raul, Swallow, King, Helen, Dot, and maybe a couple of others. I know Zoe left to go to Raul's about eight that night. What can you give me, including where you were then? Also, what's this about Zoe being out to give Swallow trouble—and where was he during the evening?”
“That's all?”
“That's it; at least for now.”
“All right.” He swung his chair around to face me. “I know absolutely nothing about any trouble between Zoe and Oscar, or anything else about her except that she was his secretary. We discussed business till seven-thirty or eight o'clock, at which time I left. The party was growing more ... lively then. However, I was assured the group would soon break up, inasmuch as we were shooting the next day. Swallow, though, had been drinking all evening, and apparently even before he came to Raul's. He quietly went to sleep and I believe he was on the floor when I left. People just stepped over him.”
At another time that might have been an amusing picture. Particularly of the immaculate Swallow. I said, “You know, naturally, that I'm trying to find out who at the party had opportunity to kill Zoe. Would you say that lets Swallow out?”
“I'd say no such thing. All I know is what I've told you.”
“O.K. Now, on the opportunity angle—how about you, Genova?”
He smiled. “Obviously I had no opportunity. I left before any of the others and was home long before any violence that might have occurred.”
“How does that follow? I'm just guessing, but couldn't you have met Zoe? While the others were inside?”
He squinted at me. “Of course not. I left the grounds. Why, I didn't even see the girl.” He frowned. “Why, good Lord, you can't possibly think...”
“I don't think anything in particular. I'm just asking.”
He swallowed, looking a bit strained. “It's idiotic to even suspect I had anything to do with it. I didn't even know the girl except as an employee.” He swallowed again. “Well, doesn't that cover it?”
I got up. “O.K. Thanks for your time.”
“All right,” he said. “I hope you don't bother me again.”
This was more like the old Genova. “So do I,” I told him. As I started to leave he added:
“Mr. Scott, you mentioned opportunity. Doesn't there usually have to be motive also?”
He sure had me there. At least till I found out more about the Zoe-Swallow business. “It'll turn up,” I said. He was pulling at one of his black eyebrows as I went out.
I headed back for Swallow's office. I wanted t
o know more about Sherry's suspicions, but I'd also begun to think that the writer's office might not be a healthy place for her since he'd overheard her accusing him. Kind of a funny thing, too, despite all the other attractive and even beautiful women on the fringes of this case, Sherry was getting to be more and more on my mind.
The studio here was a fairly busy place, and there was really no logical reason for worry to nag at my mind as I neared Swallow's office. But it did until I knocked and heard Sherry's smooth voice answer.
I poked my head inside and said, “Hello.”
“Won't work this time,” she said grinning. “I learned my lesson.”
I went in. Swallow was visible through the open door to a farther room. I asked Sherry, “Any bruises?”
“I haven't looked. Not yet.” She was smiling, and even as sweet and cute as she looked, it was almost a lead-pipe cinch that she had plenty of hell in her. With that incredible shape she couldn't have helped hearing about the differences between boys and girls.
I said, “I didn't mean to rush you.” I walked over and sat on the corner of her desk. “You know, I wish we were chatting under different circumstances, Sherry.”
Her face sobered immediately and I knew she was thinking of Zoe again. “Look,” I said softly, “I didn't know Zoe, myself, but if you liked her I know she must have been O.K. The thing now is to find out the who—and the why.”
She glanced toward the open door of Swallow's office, then back at me. “I suppose so.”
“Look,” I said. “I'd like to see some of the people on the set. Why don't you and I have a look? You can show me the way. O.K.?”
She smiled that impish smile. “O.K. Just a minute.” She got up and walked to Swallow's door. “Oscar, we're going over to the set. All right?”
“We? Who's we? Oh, Scott. Hello again. Fine. I'll go along with you, if you don't mind.”
I did mind a bit, but he was already coming into the outer office. We went out and down the hall, Sherry in the middle. She grabbed my arm and hung on, friendly as a pup. I wanted to put my arm around her and squeeze her. I couldn't help contrasting Sherry with Helen. Maybe Helen had a trifle more polish, more smooth glamour, but this Sherry had enough for me. Take Sherry and Helen to the beach and Helen would lie on the sand under an umbrella; Sherry would be out in the surf riding the breakers. I had an idea I'd be out there, too.
We went from the Administration Building across the lot to Sound Stage 3. The red light was burning over the entrance, which meant that shooting was going on, so we chatted and made small talk till the light winked out, then the three of us went inside. I'd heard someone say they were shooting the temple scenes, and I could see the set about fifty feet from the door we'd come through, past a whole mess of people, most of them standing quietly. Overhead were a number of scaffolds and catwalk affairs, some with lights and other equipment not presently in use on them, and around the set itself was what looked to me like a million dollars’ worth of machinery: cameras, mikes, booms, dollies and trucks, reflectors. Several sizes of lights were focused on the set, and two big cameras were visible straight ahead of us.
We picked our way over some electrical cable on the floor and walked up to within a few feet of the set. I saw Raul talking to another man and I asked Sherry, “What's going on now? O.K. if I barge over to see Raul?”
“Might be better to wait, Shell. He's talking to Frazier, the director of photography. Fixing up the camera angle and lighting for this scene, I imagine. You mind waiting?”
“Not with you. Besides"—I nodded toward the set—"this is kind of a kick.”
I watched the activity while Sherry kept me informed about what was going on. Finally Raul went over to a little canvas chair with “Director” painted on its back and sat down. Frazier and the head electrician finished lighting the set, then somebody yelled, “First team!” and Helen walked out of a little knot of people and up to a small altar in the center of the set. She leaned back against it and waited.
She was wearing a brown thing that looked like tanned skin—animal skin—hanging in jagged shreds down her smooth thighs and barely covering her breasts. Very nice it was; maybe I'd ride a couple of breakers and at least come in to say hello. Then I spotted King just off the set on the edge of light. He had on shorts of the usual leopard skin and a necklace of polished claws was around his neck, light glinting from them when he moved. He looked approximately as big as Gargantua. Well, I wanted to talk to Gargantua about an item in this A.M.'s Crier; I had a pretty damn good idea who'd given Fanny her “scoop.”
I'd have to wait until this scene was over, though, so I watched as the last touches were given the lighting. Then Raul turned and said something to the assistant director near him and the assistant shouted, “Roll ’em!”
A bell rang somewhere and after a few seconds the man on the mike boom called, “Speed!” and some guy stepped up in front of the camera lens with one of those little two-stick hinged affairs that said, “Scene 121,” and clapped the sticks together. Raul yelled, “Action!” It seemed that it took one hell of a lot of yelling to get this thing started. But it appeared to be on its way now, and I noticed that King had climbed up on a raised platform out of camera range and was squatting on his haunches. Helen stood in front of the altar, and as the electrically operated cameras preserved it all she made a mess of mystic signs and sank to her knees. Some more scantily clad savages, female, came in and made signs and went out. Helen fiddled around up there for half a minute more, then King let out a wild yowl that nearly scared the pants off me and leaped down beside the altar. Helen turned, screamed—I didn't blame her a bit; I'd have screamed, too—and fought briefly with King as he grabbed at her. Then suddenly she fainted and King picked her up with remarkable ease and slung her over his shoulder. He walked off the set with the cameras, it seemed to me, trained squarely on Helen's lovable behind.
“Cut!” That was Raul yelling again. A bell rang a couple of times and noise bubbled up around us.
I turned to Sherry. “Seems like nice work.”
She laughed. “Doesn't it? They're finishing up here today. The rest of the shooting is on location out of town.”
I saw King walk over and say something to Raul. “Excuse me a minute, Sherry. Be back in a shake.”
I walked up to Raul, sitting in his canvas chair. He spotted me as I came up and gave me a big grin. King didn't give me a big grin.
“Hello, Shell,” Raul said. “You looking for a job?”
“Not exactly. How's it going?”
He bobbed his head. “Going good. We'll finish up O.K. Everything under control. What's with you? How'd you get in here?”
“I'm back at work.”
He raised an eyebrow. “The obvious thing?”
“Yeah.” King was looking at me, which is to say he was glaring at me, so I said hello to him.
He didn't answer. His jaw muscles danced a little.
“Say, King,” I said. “You see Fanny Hillman's column this morning?”
“I saw it, crumb.”
I could feel that old, familiar tightness starting to squeeze my stomach muscles. I said, “For a grown man, you've got the shortest damn memory of anybody I ever saw.”
“My memory's fine. I remember how funny you looked on your butt.”
“About that column in the Crier this morning,” I said quietly. “Any idea how that obvious error got into so conservative a rag?”
“Now, how would I know, Scott? You looking for trouble?” He came around Raul's chair and stepped up in front of me. I had given this guy a short spell of blankness just the night before, but he wasn't the least bit frightened of me. I wasn't exactly sure whether he frightened me or not. Looking at him, I was positive that he was holding his breath, and right then he took a deep breath. His stomach looked like a flesh-covered washboard, and I wondered if it would go ping! if I slapped it. I didn't slap it.
“No,” I said, “not exactly. I mean I'm not looking for trouble. But I'm curio
us about that item. Among other things.”
I suddenly noticed how quiet it had become. My voice was abnormally loud because I'd been trying to talk over the buzz of conversation and sound of people moving around. Some men were still working on the set, moving the altar now. I glanced around. Everybody near us was looking our way, standing motionless as if expecting some fireworks. It seemed likely that they'd get to watch some.
King was about six inches from me and now he said, “I'm gonna tell you something, Scott. I'm gonna break your damn neck.”
That was all he said. Somehow I'd expected more. Then he put a large hand on my chest and shoved me back about six inches.
That's all it takes. Because of some peculiar quirk in me, that is the easiest way in the world for anybody to bring out my worst side. I could feel my cheeks get hot and it was almost as if I could hear the blood rushing through my brain. I balled up my fists and started to lunge back at him just as Raul said frantically, “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” and at the same instant I realized what I'd been about to pull.
I didn't know for sure that I could take King in a brawl, though after last night I thought the odds were in my favor. But even if he threw me to the floor and jumped up and down on me I couldn't afford to clobber him. If I so much as gave him a fat lip, all hell would break loose: Bruta, the star of the show, wouldn't be able to emote in front of the cameras and Bondhelm would practically die of happiness. This was exactly what Bondhelm had hinted at last night: “If, by any accident, you should interrupt shooting...” Involuntarily I shuddered, and my fists peeled open. It seemed suddenly as if everything was ganging up on me in this case. And I couldn't think of anything to do about it.
King had his head stuck forward on his trunklike neck and his ludicrous chin was pushed forward, making a beautiful target somewhat like a ledge of granite. Everybody was still looking at us, waiting for the fearless Shell Scott to tear King limb from limb, or vice versa. And here I stood wondering what the hell. I'd had it. I was stuck in the damn tree and the beavers were mad at me.
Way of a Wanton Page 7
