“Yes?”
Wheeling, Blake found himself facing a gnomelike man wearing sneakers, khaki pants and a faded gray sweatshirt three sizes too large for him. The man’s eyes, too, were three sizes too large for his yellow face, and across a corner of his bald head ran a circling scar that might have been made by a scalping knife.
“My God!”
“Yes?”
“You’re Mr. Orthman?”
“Yes.”
“You scared the bejesus out of me.”
“Yes?”
“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.” For once Mr. Orthman failed to say yes, and Blake went on. “About the Webley-Fosbery you sold Major Studio.”
“Rented, not sold.” Mr. Orthman’s large eyes, brown and not unfriendly, studied Blake’s face. “You are from the police?”
Blake hesitated, then took the plunge. “Homicide.”
“What is it you would like to know?”
“Alf Romero, over at Major, said you had live ammunition for the Webley.”
“I do,” Mr. Orthman said. “But none responsible for anyone’s death.”
“You heard about Caresse Garnet then?”
“Difficult not to have. Radio. Newspapers. Everyone talking.” Mr. Orthman’s expression grew troubled. “Most tragic. But I assure you, Lieutenant—”
“Sergeant.”
“I assure you, Sergeant, I know nothing at all about her … unfortunate demise.”
“Your gun knocked her off.”
“So I read. My pistol, but not my bullets.” Mr. Orthman drifted noiselessly towards the counter with the desk lamp, and Blake, following, saw he was only inches taller than the glass top. “Let me explain.” Lashless yellow lids descended over Mr. Orthman’s too-big eyes, giving his face a mummified look. “Five years ago I bought the Webley from a retired British officer, a Colonel Mortimer, and with it six boxes of ammunition. I bought the ammunition because I knew of no place, short of England, where I could find any for the pistol.” Mr. Orthman paused, then added, “In case it was needed.”
“Needed for what?”
“For motion picture work. I supply weapons for costume pictures.”
“The movies don’t use live ammunition.”
“Of course not, Sergeant.” Mr. Orthman’s voice was gentle, as though he were speaking to a child. “But it is simple enough to convert live cartridges into blanks. As I did for Mr. Romero.”
“How many did you convert?”
“One box.”
“And the other boxes?”
“I still have them.”
“All five?” Blake asked. “Nobody bought one?”
“Nobody.” Moving soundlessly in his sneakers, Mr. Orthman crossed to a portion of wall where drawers had been built in from floor to ceiling. “Let me show you.” He took out a drawer, carried it to a table, shoved aside a crossbow and some arrows with blunt metal tips and emptied out the drawer’s contents. “If you would care to look …?”
On the table were nine cardboard boxes. Four, larger than the others, were made of green cardboard on which were printed black letters. The five smaller ones were white with red letters. Mr. Orthman collected the larger boxes, put them back in the drawer.
“Blanks,” he said. “For a .455 Webley.”
The printing on the remaining boxes read: .325 Webley-Fosbery—Rim Fire. Blake picked up one, saw that the cardboard was fastened at both ends by copper staples. When he shook the box nothing rattled inside. He examined the other four boxes. All were stapled shut and inside nothing rattled.
“Are you sure …” he began, and found he was talking to empty air. Mr. Orthman had vanished. Puzzled, Blake was starting to turn back to the table when a thin rectangle of light appeared at the rear of the store. Simultaneously a faint mumbling of voices arose. Evidently there was an inner office or workroom, which explained where Mr. Orthman had been when he entered the store. And where Mr. Orthman was now.
Moving so he could watch the rectangle of light, Blake lifted one of the boxes, tried with a fingernail to loosen the staple holding the end. Neither cardboard nor metal would give. He tried one of the crossbow arrows, but the point was too blunt to go under the staple. Replacing the arrow, he saw at the end of the table something that looked like a spearhead, except that instead of just being spear-shaped it had two heavy metal projections at the base. It made a clumsy box opener, but by pushing the staples over the point and twisting he got them out. He put down the spearhead, if that was what it was, and opened the box.
Staring at the five rows of tightly packed cartridges, he suddenly wondered why he had gone to all the trouble. Certainly not because he’d expected to find anything, because he hadn’t. Maybe it was just the ordinary reflex of anyone who tried to open something and found he couldn’t. Or maybe it was a morbid desire to see a bullet like the one that killed Caresse. He plucked out a cartridge, cradled it in his palm. It didn’t look very deadly, lying there.
A flicker from the rectangle of light at the rear swung him around. Dimly he made out a dark figure coming towards him. He put the lid back on the box, remembered the cartridge, started to take the lid off again. Then realizing there wasn’t time to replace both cartridge and staples, he dropped the cartridge in a pocket. He was just pushing the second staple in place as Mr. Orthman came up behind him. He quickly put down the box, picked up the spearhead.
Mr. Orthman was carrying a bulky lodger bound in green cloth. Smiling politely, he said, “Ranseur.”
“Ranseur?”
“What you have there.”
“A spear?”
“In a sense. Actually an offshoot of the spear-axe used by foot soldiers in the Middle Ages. The halberd or Flemish godendag. The projections at the base are designed to parry sword thrusts.” Mr. Orthman smiled. “You are interested in antique weapons?”
“Just antique Webleys.”
“Oh, yes.” Regretfully, Mr. Orthman placed the ledger on the table. “A pity, though. I have a bill-gisarme that is a true museum piece.” He opened the ledger, turned a few pages. “Ah, here we are. “Webley-Fosbcry .325. Purchased August 14, 1952, from Colonel A. T. Mortimer, 1451 Rossmore Avenue. Thirty-five dollars!’” He turned the ledger towards Blake. “Would you care to verify the entry?”
“What about the ammunition?”
“Right there, in the next column. Six boxes at one dollar a box. Six dollars.”
Blake found the entry, ink written in a tiny but legible hand. Below it, in darker ink, was another entry: Major Pictures—I B @ $50—$50.00 1/3/58.
“The figure seems large,” Mr. Orthman said apologetically. “But it includes replacing the slugs with paper wadding.”
“All fifty?”
“Would Mr. Romero have accepted them otherwise?”
The answer, obviously, was that Mr. Romero wouldn’t have. After a moment’s thought Blake tried another tack. “And you’re positive you didn’t sell a box to anybody else?”
“The ledger’s positive. That’s why I brought it out. Six boxes purchased, one sold and five remain.” Mr. Orthman’s forefinger indicated, one by one, the boxes on the table. “As you can see.”
Pretty tough mathematics to confute, Blake decided glumly, unless the ledger’s entries were faked. And he didn’t see how they could be. Alf’s purchase would be easy to check, and there would have been no reason, five years back, to lie about the original six boxes. So one from six made five. And five made Caresse’s bullets come from somewhere else. But there was nowhere else, if Mr. Orthman was right. A blind alley, unless—
“What about the Englishman?”
“Colonel Mortimer?”
“Think he might have kept some bullets?”
“I can’t imagine why,” Mr. Orthman said. “Selling the pistol.”
Blake couldn’t imagine why, either, but it seemed to be the only possible solution. He glanced at the ledger. “The old boy still live on Rossmore?”
“Not any more.”
; “Where does he live?”
Mr. Orthman smiled dryly. “He doesn’t.”
“Dead?”
“Three years ago.”
Eyeing the gunsmith’s face, the face of a puckish elf, and then the ledger and the five cardboard boxes, Blake realized he had received what Mr. Orthman would undoubtedly call the coup de grâce. As a detective he was done for. He sighed regretfully. “I guess that’s that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” Blake started away. “But thanks, anyway.” He had taken four steps, was nearing the suit of armor when Mr. Orthman spoke.
“One minute, please.”
Blake swung part way around, then froze. Mr. Orthman was glaring at him over the crossbow, now armed with a blunt arrow. The ancient weapon, bowstring cranked taut, looked extremely deadly. Mr. Orthman looked both extremely deadly and extremely insane.
“What in God’s name …?”
“Just remain still,” Mr. Orthman said.
As Blake balanced in the half-turn he had made, rigid with astonishment and terror, heavy footsteps sounded at the rear of the store, as though soldiers were marching. Presently, out of the gloom, two men appeared, jauntily walking in step. They were big men. One wore a brown Palm Beach suit and a Panama hat. The other wore no hat and a gray gabardine suit. As far as their cheerful faces were concerned, nothing unusual was happening. Brown Suit halted by Mr. Orthman. Gray Suit went on to Blake.
“Trouble, friend?”
Eyes fixed on the crossbow, Blake said uncertainly, “I don’t know.”
“I’d say yes.” Gray Suit grinned at Mr. Orthman. “He ain’t gonna run, Emil.”
“Kind of sad he don’t,” Brown Suit said. “Never seen a guy shot with a crossbow.”
“Nor I,” Mr. Orthman said, reluctantly lowering his weapon.
“Still wouldn’t move,” Gray Suit advised Blake. “Not yet.” He ran the palms of his hands over Blake’s chest and hips and then felt his pockets. Whistling softly, he removed the bullet.
“Whatcha got?” Brown Suit asked.
“Bullet. But no rod.”
“Maybe he shoots ’em out his nose.”
“Look,” Blake said. “I can explain—”
“Later,” Gray Suit said.
“Bullet,” Brown Suit said happily. “Now where d’ya suppose he got it?”
Mr. Orthman said, “I believe I know.” He picked up one of the white boxes, pulled out the staples, lifted off the lid. “Yes. One cartridge missing.”
“Bad,” Gray Suit said.
“Better shoot him, Emil,” Brown Suit said.
“Now wait a minute,” Blake said. “I can explain—”
“Later,” Gray Suit said.
Smiling broadly, Brown Suit came towards Blake. “Don’t you recognize us, Sergeant?”
“Fellow officers,” Gray Suit said.
“Homicide,” Brown Suit said.
Josh Gordon
Five more minutes ticked by, were lost forever. In the anteroom, beyond the open door, the people waited patiently, stolid passengers in one of life’s minor bus stations. Agents, messengers, trade paper representatives, lesser Major executives, actors in two-hundred-fifty-dollar suits, child actors with their mothers, young actresses without their mothers, they were used to waiting. They sat silently, mildly curious eyes fixed on the inner office. Another five minutes wandered off into the past. Gordon began to feel annoyed. Both at Fabro, and at the watching eyes. The eyes made him feel like an orangutan, newly caged after a voyage from Borneo. He wondered what would happen if he leaped onto the travertine desk, began to snarl and beat his chest.
The notion pleased him, but instead of leaping he crossed to the recessed bar, poured himself a second rye. He would have liked to leave, even though the liquor was free, but Fabro had him hooked. Four months hard work invested in the picture, a big chunk of dough hanging on its completion; he damn well had to know if and how it could be saved. He was raising the glass to his lips when he saw standing in the doorway a gaunt man in white coveralls.
“All right if I come in?” the man asked.
Gordon lowered the glass, thinking the angular face looked familiar. “Sure. Lonely in here.”
“Suits me fine.” Entering, the man added darkly, “Better lonely than with him.” Under his left arm was a cardboard box. He went past Gordon, went back of the desk and put down the box.
“Aren’t you … Selig?”
“Yep.”
“Picture with me back in the forties?”
“Yep.”
“Road to Glory?”
“Yep.” Selig produced some wooden pegs from a pocket, a hammer from another. “Head carpenter now.” He moved to the shelf on which stood Fabro’s Oscar. “Only do important jobs, like pounding nails in walls.”
Someone else spoke from the door. “Mr. Fabro?”
It was the pale detective who had clobbered Blake, Sergeant Grimsby, notebook in hand. He stepped into the office, said primly, “I’d like to see Mr. Fabro.”
“He should be back within twenty-four hours,” Gordon said.
Grimsby blinked. From behind the desk came a sound of hammering. Grimsby’s eyes flickered, returned to Gordon. “You’re joking, of course.”
“Am I?”
Grimsby stared uncertainly. Then, jaw tightening, he looked at the notebook. “I have a question to ask of …” He broke off, said sharply, “You!”
Wheeling, Gordon saw Selig frozen in the act of taking something from the cardboard box on the desk. A dueling pistol, it looked like, with intricate silver tracings on grip and barrel. He moved aside to let Grimsby go to the desk.
“What have you got there?” Grimsby asked ominously.
“Pistol,” Selig said.
“Where did you get it?”
“Got two of ’em.” Selig lifted another pistol from the box. “Twins.”
“On the table.”
“They ain’t loaded.”
“On the table.” Selig, his face puzzled, placed the pistols on the travertine surface. Grimsby eyed them, asked, “Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where did you get them?”
“They stolen?”
“Where did you get them?”
“Fabro,” Selig said reluctantly.
“Where did Mr. Fabro get them?”
“Place called Orthman’s. Carry all sorts of—”
“I know Orthman’s.” Grimsby picked up one of the pistols, sniffed its muzzle. He sniffed the other pistol’s muzzle. Then he held the two pistols together, comparing the barrels.
“Impossible,” Gordon said.
Grimsby looked at him coldly. “In detection nothing is impossible. The bore’s large enough to carry a .325 slug. And a firing device could be attached.”
“Then you think …?”
“Actually, I don’t.” Grimsby permitted himself a chill smile. “Rust in both barrels, precluding the possibility of their having been used for some time.” He handed the pistols to Selig, who looked as though he had been listening to a conversation in Greek. “What are you supposed to do with them?”
“Me? Why, hang ’em up there.” A pistol in each hand, Selig turned to the shelf back of Fabro’s desk. “On those pegs I just put in. Over the new Oscar.”
Grimsby eyed the golden figure already on the shelf under the jeweled dagger. “Mr. Fabro has two Oscars?”
On the heels of his words came Fabro’s voice from the outer office. “T. J., Miss Earnshaw. Find him!”
Other voices, some demanding, some imploring, clamored, “Mr. Fabro!” and then Fabro appeared in the doorway. Elbowing aside a plump woman trying to press a script upon him, he lumbered into the office, slammed the door in the plump woman’s face. Halfway to the desk, he halted abruptly, glared at Selig.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Pegs,” Selig said. “For your pistols.”
“I told you Thursday morning.”
“Just fixin
’ it,” Selig explained patiently. “So they kin be put up.”
“Get out!”
Not hurrying, Selig put the pistols back in the cardboard box. He put the hammer in a pocket. He found a spare peg, put it in another pocket. He picked up the box. At the door he paused, looked solemnly at Gordon.
“Like I said,” he said. “Better in here lonely.”
Still not hurrying, he went out.
Fabro, now back of the desk, sank into his chair. “Unions,” he growled. He pulled a piece of Kleenex from a drawer, wiped his forehead. “Can’t fire anybody.” He balled the Kleenex, dropped it on the rug and mustered up a tired smile. “Except myself.”
Grimsby’s thin lips curled in a brief, perfunctory response. Then, a schoolteacher again, he glanced at his notebook. “I have a question, Mr. Fabro.”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Gordon says the blanket was off the body when he went into the tent.” Grimsby paused, flipped the notebook’s pages. “Yet when we arrived the body was covered.”
“Yes,” Fabro said. “I pulled it up.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Fabro’s voice was uncertain. “I suppose … because that’s what you do with bodies. Cover them.” His eyes closed in somber recollection. “She looked so … vulnerable, lying there.”
Grimsby wrote in the notebook. Then, ball point pen poised over the page, he asked, “Did you touch anything else?”
“No. Just the blanket.”
Grimsby wrote again in the notebook. He looked at Gordon, wrote something else. He closed the notebook, put the pen away and went to the door. He paused there, said, “I’m glad your stories coincide, gentlemen,” and went out
Fabro, watching from the desk, grimaced. “Cold potato.”
“Cold? Alongside him, absolute zero is tropical.”
“Blanket,” Fabro said reflectively. “Not important.” He sank back in his chair, covered his eyes with a palm. “Where was I?”
“Chasing T. J.”
“No. The picture.” Again he picked up the exact words. “I liked Blake’s speech for Caresse. ‘Black’s the fashion for dying …’ But he can do even better with the new ending. At the jail where the girl says good-bye to the white hunter.” The voice emerged from the stomach loudspeaker in a scratchy monotone. “He blames himself for what has happened, but she is above human frailty, like a figure in a Greek tragedy.”
Black Is the Fashion for Dying Page 10
