“King,” I said, and stopped. I didn't know what I could say. I tried again. “I told you once before, let's not be silly. Haven't you got anything better to do?”
He grinned widely. He figured he had me crawling now. “Scott,” he said, “let's settle this once and for all. I said I was gonna break your neck. Didn't you hear me?”
“I heard you.” I could hardly get the words out, I was so mad. I could feel the sweat starting to come out on my face, and my hands were again squeezed into fists so tight that I could feel the pain where my fingernails cut into my palms.
We stood facing each other, staring into each other's eyes from about six inches apart, and finally after what seemed like an hour King's lips curled and he said, “Well, well.”
He took another breath, let it out, then turned his back on me and swaggered slowly away. With the tension abruptly ended, conversation swelled up again. I could imagine what was being said.
Raul started barking orders to his crew and I just stood there behind his chair for a few seconds, feeling a little sick inside and not wanting to look at anybody. Then I turned and walked back to Sherry. She looked curiously at me. I might have imagined it, but I thought she looked disappointed. In me.
“What was all that, Shell?”
“King wanted to break my neck. Didn't you hear him?” My voice still wasn't under control.
“I heard him, Shell. You sound funny.”
“I feel funny. King and I had a beef last night, after you left. Guess he wants more. Let's forget about it, huh?”
She didn't say anything else. Neither did I. We were standing in semidarkness about thirty feet behind where Raul sat, the two of us by ourselves now. Swallow had wandered off somewhere. I wanted to talk to Swallow some more, and also to others who were here now, so Sherry and I stood quietly while preparations were completed for shooting the next scene.
Raul shouted, “Get this one and we knock off for lunch.” Things quieted down and I could see Helen and two other women standing in front of the cameras. Some of the lights were moved and one of the shirt-sleeved electricians standing about twenty feet from Sherry and me adjusted a junior spotlight that lighted up the background behind the three women.
As I watched, my breathing went back to normal and the dryness eased out of my throat. I'd had just about enough, I was thinking. First a guy shooting at me, and now this mess with King. The thought of that bullet hole in the side of the Cad started the tenseness pulling slightly between my shoulder blades again and I looked around the spot where we stood, looked into the grayness and the shadow, at the unused equipment looming darkly in the gloom. Nothing moved, and I realized that I had actually been looking for something moving near us. I shrugged. I was getting too jittery. It was the dimness in here, the lack of reality and the shadows.
Finally Raul called, “Action!” again and the scene got started. I watched for a minute, then thought I heard something overhead. It seemed a little unlikely, but in the quiet as the take proceeded I had thought some kind of noise had come from above us. I glanced at Sherry, but she was intent on the action before the cameras. I looked up.
There was one of those catwalks overhead, almost hidden in the darkness high above us, and squarely above Sherry and me there was a heavier blob of shadow. For one queer moment I remembered that darker shadow I'd seen as I swam through the water of Raul's pool, and then that heavy blob above us moved.
I strained my eyes at the movement, hardly believing what I was seeing, and just as I decided that the shadowy outline must be that of one of the huge arc lights, it toppled from the catwalk and plummeted toward us.
Chapter Eight
FOR A fractional part of a second, only a breath of time, I stared as the bulky metal hung on the edge of the catwalk and started to fall. Then I yelled, “Look out!” and leaped to my right, my hands outstretched as I crashed into Sherry and sent her sprawling forward. Her scream knifed through the silence as the rending crash came from behind me when the light hit the floor.
Raul shouted something, but I didn't hear what it was and I was only barely conscious of the other shouts and cries, for even as the light crashed behind me I was leaping for the spotlight that the electrician stood by a few feet away. I grabbed the edge of the spot and felt its heat against the skin of my hands as I swung it around and up toward the ceiling.
The light fell on the narrow catwalk and I saw a man racing along it toward the far wall. I trained the strong beam of light on him and saw his hand go up before his eyes, trying to block out the blinding glare. Then he stumbled and yelled hoarsely as one foot slipped over the edge of the catwalk. For a moment he hung there, with his arms waving frantically, then fell, screaming. His body dropped through the beam of light and into the darkness beneath it, then thudded sickeningly against the floor as the scream stopped abruptly.
I felt a little sick. I pulled the beam of light down till it splashed over the crumpled body several feet from me. Several of the cast and technicians were moving either toward me or the man on the floor, and I left the spotlight trained across the room on the unmoving figure there, then walked toward it. I heard voices crying, “What happened?” “What the hell's going on?” and a woman's voice repeating, “He fell! I saw him fall!” as I walked past those who were already in front of me. Two men were standing between the man on the floor and me, and as I stepped around them somebody found a switch and lights brightened this whole area of the sound stage.
There was no doubt that the man was dead; his neck was twisted and bent at an impossible, almost comic, angle. His horn-rimmed spectacles lay a few inches from his nose, one lens shattered, the jagged pieces of glass reflecting the light that poured over him. The little bald spot had eaten its way outward as far as it ever would. Apparently I hadn't lost the little man in the green Chevy this morning; I'd lost him now. I knelt by him. There was no breathing, no pulse. I looked at his staring eyes; one pupil already appeared larger than the other. He was one dead little man.
Raul pushed through the gathering crowd of shocked and curious people. He put his hand on my arm and said, “For God's sake, what happened, Shell?”
I turned and looked at him. I was so jittery that for a moment I even searched Raul's face to see if I could read any guilt or insincerity there. Then I realized I was being silly and answered him, “I don't think I know exactly, Raul.” I pointed to the catwalk above us. “What kind of screwy setup is that up there? Where does that thing go?”
“Huh?” He followed my pointing finger. “Oh, that? Goes over to the wall. Runs into another one over there, too.” He pointed to another catwalk that led off at right angles from the one above us. “Damn things are all over the place. Why, what's that got to do with—with this mess?”
“The little guy there tried to drop a light on my head. That was the crash you heard. I guess he meant to take off in the confusion. Or get down and back in the crowd. Who is he, anyway?”
Raul looked at the little man and swallowed. “Think his name's Henson. He's a grip.” He swallowed again. “He was. You put the spot on him?”
“Uh-huh. That wasn't in the script. I wasn't supposed to be able to jump around.” Suddenly I thought of Sherry. I swung around and headed back to where I'd left her sprawled on the floor, then I saw her standing a few feet from me, leaning against a wooden beam. I walked over to her.
“You all right, honey?”
“I guess so.” She managed a weak smile. “Some—some more bruises, but I think that's all.” She paused and then added, “Thanks to you. What happened, anyway? What does it mean?” She looked back to the crumpled arc light that had narrowly missed us.
I didn't get to answer her.
A door at the side of the room crashed open and Genova descended upon us like a thin Napoleon. His booming voice preceded him. “What's the matter? What's the matter? What happened? What happened?” He was getting unstrung again. Apparently somebody had reported to him that there was confusion on the set and he'd come
to add some of his own to it. “Raul,” he yelled. “Raul!”
Raul was kneeling by the body. “Here, L.G.” he said, and Genova wheeled and walked up beside him. He spotted the dead man and stood looking down at him, speechless for a few seconds, then he said rapidly, “What's this? Who is this man? What happened?”
I gave Sherry's arm a squeeze and walked over to the center of activity. “He's dead, Genova,” I said. “He was up—”
Genova snapped his head around at the sound of my voice and his bushy eyebrows crawled up his forehead like black snails. “You!” he roared. “You! You did it! You're trying to ruin me! I'll have—”
It was my turn to interrupt. “Shut up a minute, Genova. Get it through your head that the guy's dead. This isn't any picnic; that little man just tried to kill me. Come over here.”
I spoke so roughly and sharply that my voice cut through the confusion and Genova followed me to the broken light on the floor. “Take a fat look at that,” I said. “The dead guy pushed it off the catwalk there"—I pointed and Genova looked up and then back at my face—"and I was just lucky enough to hear him. I swung a spot on him and he fell. Get it through your head, Genova: He was trying to kill me.”
It was relatively quiet now. Genova stared at me for a moment, his mouth sagging a little. He looked dazed. Finally he said plaintively, “Do you know what this is costing me? Three thousand dollars. Every hour it costs me three thousand dollars.” His voice got stronger; this was something of which he was positive. “I'll be ruined,” he said loudly. “You're trying to ruin me!” He turned and looked at all the others standing a few feet away and shouted, “He's working for Bondhelm! Ask him! Ask him!” There was an exclamation point after every word.
Raul walked forward. “Look, L.G.,” he said quietly. “I'm not sure what happened here, myself, but I don't see how it could have been Shell's doing.”
“He's working for Bondhelm,” Genova muttered uncertainly. He just couldn't get all this through his head.
I said, “Genova, listen to me a minute. I've told you what happened. I sure as hell didn't plan it. The person responsible is that little guy on the floor, or somebody he was doing his dirty work for.” I looked slowly around the room—at King's dark face, Helen in her brief costume, a couple of other women's faces I recognized, then back past Raul to Genova again. “Somebody here,” I added. “Somebody in this room who wanted me dead.”
It got as quiet as the inside of a coffin. I heard the rustle of cloth as a woman moved slightly, and change jingled faintly as Raul took his hand from his trousers pocket. I said, “This is for the police now.”
Genova mumbled something softly and looked pained, and spurts of conversation shot up again. Suddenly I remembered one face I hadn't seen in the group.
“Where's Swallow?” I asked abruptly.
“Right here, old boy. You want me?”
He was leaning indolently against a table on my right and slightly behind me, smoking a long cigarette. “No,” I said. “Just curious.”
He stared back at me blandly as the sound of sirens penetrated into the sound stage from the open door. At least I wouldn't have to call Homicide; somebody had already phoned the police.
I walked over and stood beside Sherry. The noise behind me swelled up almost to normal and she said quietly, “Thanks, Shell. For pushing me out of the way, I mean. Golly, it scared me.”
I grinned down at her. “To tell you the truth, honey, I'm not positive whether I pushed you out of the way or just banged into you while I was running like hell.”
She smiled. “It doesn't make any difference. Shell, are you really working for Bondhelm?”
I groaned inwardly. I'd hoped Sherry, at least, wouldn't share Genova's low opinion of me. But she didn't look angry or contemptuous, just interested.
I said, “I'm working for Bondhelm, it's true. But only to find out who killed Zoe. Maybe he's got some not very nice reasons for wanting me nosing around, but they're not my reasons. He's just paying my way.” I swallowed, realizing it actually did make a difference to me, and added, “I'd kind of hoped you'd take that for granted.”
She smiled sweetly up at me. “I do, silly. And you were calling me honey.” She put both her arms around my right arm and squeezed it gently, one warm breast soft against it. Then she let go and said mischievously, “Why don't you poke that old King, anyway?”
When she'd squeezed my arm like that. it had sent a tingle all through me, but I think I liked her words almost as well. Funny how good it made me feel when the idea penetrated. In addition to everything else, I was thinking, this was a smart little cookie.
I was still trying to think of something to say when the siren slowed and stopped outside. Right afterwards the two plainclothes sergeants who had conducted the interrogations with Captain Nelson at Raul's place came in. They were the two detectives assigned to the case, and now they had something else to chew on. Genova looked like a man who was slowly bleeding to death.
It was two o'clock before I'd gone through my story enough times, including the episode of the bullet hole in my Cadillac, and could leave. Before I took off I talked with Sherry on the set and arranged to meet her that night. She'd be having dinner at Joseph's on Cypress Avenue, she said, but after that she'd be at her apartment, at least by eight P.M. There was no chance to talk much more to her in all the hubbub and confusion, so I told her I'd see her at eight and left. On my way out I saw Helen, who made a face at me and tossed her head. It seemed I was developing a real talent for getting people mad at me. I didn't care too much right now, though; I could still feel the warmth of Sherry's yielding breast against my arm.
Chapter Nine
I DROVE downtown to City Hall, took the elevator up to the Temple Street floor, and walked down the long hall to Room 42: Homicide. Captain Phil Samson looked up from his desk in the inner office when I entered.
“Hi, Shell. At it again?”
“Yeah. I been talking to so many high-powered characters I figured it was time I relaxed with a pooped-out cop. Got to slow down once in a while.”
“Hah!” He reached for one of his odious black cigars, stuck it between his strong teeth, and scowled at me. Sam and I had been scowling and growling at each other for years, but there's damn little we wouldn't do for each other. His age shows in his gray hair but not in the size or set of his big jaw. And I'll say this for Sam: In a world where honesty is still the greatest and rarest virtue, he's an honest man. He'd have had my respect for that, even if I hadn't liked the old warrior.
He said gruffly, “She was killed by John Smith. Now hurry and get your name in the papers and we'll pick him up.”
I grinned at him. “I already got my name in the papers. Seriously, you getting anywhere?”
He shook his head. “Not much yet—but I understand we're getting quite a lot on you.” He shifted the cigar, clamped his teeth into it. “Give us time. You're talking about the Townsend one, I suppose.”
“Uh-huh. I was there; guess you know that.” He nodded, and I spent the next five minutes briefing him on the story from last night to now and getting odds and ends from him. After I'd told him about the latest episode I said, “It comes out the little guy was a grip. Worked around the sets—named Henson, James Henson. I know damned well he was only a hired man paid to fix my wagon, but naturally he's not talking. Two to one he's the sharpshooter who missed me, too.”
Sam frowned. “I wonder how long you'll last,” he said, looking at me curiously. Then he shrugged. “Well, I'll get the reports from the Hollywood boys, but this is the first I've thought much about Bondhelm. We'll see.”
“Think he could be mixed in the murder?” Sam got out a wooden kitchen match. I hoped he didn't light that stinking cigar. “You know better than that, Shell. Maybe her Aunt Mary killed her. It's a little too soon to figure.”
“Yeah.” We shot the breeze a while longer, then I got from him the names and addresses of everybody who'd been in the Thursday night group and also at the
Sunday afternoon party. The names were the same except that Archer Block, the other writer, had been present on Thursday, and two of the girls, Susan and Peggy, hadn't been around then. That left those I was interested in.
Sam lit the cigar, and smoke—I'd swear it was green smoke—spewed out of his mouth. It was time I left. “Sure easy for you to get rid of me,” I told him. “You got anything for free?”
He blew smoke at me. “Nope.” He paused. “On second thought, there's one thing you might think about. The girl was pregnant.”
“Zoe? The dead one?”
“That's right. Don't know who yet.”
I thought about it. I remembered a lot of things, and maybe now I knew why Swallow had said, “She's killed herself.” “Sam,” I said, “I'll give you odds. Swallow—Oscar the fancy Swallow. The writer man. Just a hunch, Sam.”
“Oh?” The big jaw wiggled on his cigar. “We'll find out.”
I took a breath, choked a little for Sam's benefit, then got up. “Two more little things you might gnaw on, Sam. One, it looks like somebody phoned Fanny Hillman right after King and I beefed. Her deadline was eleven P.M. and Ben already told me she didn't get the info from the police. Two, somebody also got in touch fast with this Bondhelm guy because he called me about nine P.M.”
He nodded, and as I went out he told me to watch myself. He didn't have to tell me; I had a hunch that if I didn't look alive I'd be dead.
Back in the Cad I sat thinking for a minute or two, then pointed the buggy's nose toward the Hollywood Freeway. Little Dot English wasn't working today, her stint in “Jungle Girl” having been finished some days back, and she might have some things to tell me. For all I knew, she might have some things to show me.
She was in a suite in the ritzy Francis Hotel. Not room; suite. Dot was doing all right. I rang and heard footsteps come toward the door, then Dot's tousled blonde head poked out and she said, “Oh, hello. Mr.—Mr. Shell?”
Way of a Wanton Page 8
