“Alf’s packing case. Blanks put back there after Caresse was killed. In box they came in. So much going on nobody’d notice.”
“No sale.”
“Why not?”
“Walsh counted the blanks himself. Alf had fifty originally. Now, with the ones still in the Webley, there are forty-eight.”
“Ah ha!” Gordon said. “This I like. Blanks that disappear in thin air. A pistol that gets loaded by a ghost. Let’s make a movie out of it.”
“All I want out of it is Lisa,” Blake said unhappily.
“We’ll get her out, too.”
“How?”
Gordon glanced up at the approaching waiter. “Blood, sweat and rye old-fashioneds.”
The waiter took the empty glasses, wiped the table with a dishcloth, put down the fresh drinks. “Another round,” Gordon said. “Not for me,” Blake said. “Another round,” Gordon said. The waiter went away.
“Hard night ahead,” Gordon said, lifting his glass.
“If you think I’m going to get boiled …”
“Nobody’s getting boiled.” Swallowing twice, Gordon emptied the glass. “Just easing the tension. So we can think clearly.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Got a couple of ideas already.”
Blake eyed him dubiously, wondering how long he had been in the bar. The message, relayed when he called the studio after being released by Walsh, had merely said Gordon would meet him at Luigi’s at four-thirty. But that didn’t mean Gordon couldn’t have come earlier. From the looks of things he had come about five old-fashioneds earlier.
“What ideas?” he asked cautiously.
“Want to talk to Alf. Want to talk to people on set. Want to talk to head carpenter at the studio. Selig. But most of all want to talk to Ashton Graves.”
“That’s going to take time.”
“Don’t care if it takes all night. No place to go, anyway.”
“What about home?”
“Are you kidding?” Gordon bent over, picked a newspaper from the flagstone under his chair, put it on the table. “Take a look.”
The newspaper’s banner line read: CARESSE GARNET SLAIN ON SET. In the center of the page was a photograph of Caresse and below it was a smaller one of Lisa. Under her photograph, two columns wide, was the caption: RIVAL ACTRESS HELD IN MYSTERY DEATH.
Stomach suddenly queasy, Blake began, “I don’t see—”
“Here.” Gordon jerked the paper away from him. “Listen to this.” From the bottom of the page he read: “‘… immediately preceding the fatal shooting Miss Garnet, according to witnesses, quarreled violently with the picture’s well-known director, Josh Gordon, accusing him of maintaining a woman friend in an apartment on Miller Place …’” He crumpled the paper, tossed it back on the flagstone paving. “By now, instead of a candle, Agnes has a machine gun in the front window.”
“What about Miller Place?”
“Machine gun there, too.”
“You can stay with me.”
“Fine. But first we got those people—” Gordon broke off, his pale eyes gleaming. “The naked blonde!”
“What about her?”
“Very odd.”
“Sure. Odd. But what …”
Gordon was waving at Frank Capra, walking across the court. Mr. Capra didn’t see him. The waiter came with the fresh drinks, waited for Blake to finish his old one. It was starting to get dark.
“Great director,” Gordon said. “But no detective.”
“Frank Capra?”
“Neither are you,” Gordon said.
“I realize that.”
“I am,” Gordon said. “Old hand. Directed enough whodunits God knows. Give Capra aces and spades. Comedy his field.” He eyed Blake belligerently. “You going to string along?”
Blake regarded Gordon’s flushed face doubtfully. Stringing along meant almost certain trouble of one sort or another, if only the trouble of getting Gordon to bed. But trouble, provided it was not too bad, would be better than going home to brood alone. Doing anything would be better than thinking about Lisa.
“Well?” Gordon demanded.
“Okay. But we’ll probably both end up in jail.”
“End up with the culprit,” Gordon said.
A sparrow suddenly flew up between their legs, disturbed by someone approaching the table. The someone was a slender red-haired girl wearing technicolor make-up and a tan polo coat. “Josh Gordon!” she exclaimed, smiling happily. Back of her, watching, was a slender brunette wearing technicolor make-up and a tan polo coat. Gordon, rising quickly, said, “Darling!” He embraced the redhead passionately. “I heard,” she said. “Terrible,” he said. They embraced again. “All day I thought about you,” she said. “You would,” he said. They embraced again. “Call me,” she said. “I will,” he said. She kissed him, went back to the brunette. Gordon stared after her. She waved. Gordon waved back. She went into Luigi’s with the brunette. “Who the hell was that?” Gordon asked.
Blake said he didn’t know. The sparrow came back. So did the waiter. “Another round, Mr. Gordon?”
“Wait until we drink these.”
“You have.”
“No more for me,” Blake said.
“Right. Work to do.” Gordon looked wistfully at his empty glass, then brightened. “Besides, be plenty of liquor at Ash Graves’ house.”
“We’re seeing him first?”
“Last things first.” Gordon took the check from the waiter, scrawled a tip and his initials on it. “Police taking first things first.”
“How do you mean?”
“Working the wrong way.”
“I don’t get it.”
“From crime to culprit. Wrong way. Ours, backward school of detection. Work from culprit to crime.”
“Fine.” Blake paused while the waiter took the check, said, “Thank you, Mr. Gordon,” and went away. “But who’s the culprit?”
“Fatso Fabro, of course.”
“Fabro? But he’d have no motive.”
“Right,” Gordon said.
“He wasn’t even near the set.”
“Correct,” Gordon said.
“He couldn’t have done it.”
“Exactly,” Gordon said.
T. J. Lorrance
He had no idea how long being sick had taken. Ten minutes. A half-hour. An hour. He had no idea.
His knees hurt from kneeling on the urine-discolored tile by the toilet bowl, his belly ached from the retching that for a long time had dredged up only sour air, his throat was raw from stomach acid and bile. He was still nauseated, but the gagging that triggered the dreadful, uncontrollable convulsions, diminishing in whatever time being sick had taken, had now finally vanished.
He waited a moment, breathing cautiously, and then stood up, placing one hand on the metal wall of the toilet booth to steady himself. He opened the door, saw there was no one in the washroom, and went across to the row of white bowls under the long mirror. As he bent to turn on the water at the end bowl he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror.
The face of a drowned man.
He ran cold water in the bowl, put the drowned face in it. Then, with soap and warmer water and a towel, he washed. With soap and another towel he cleaned his teeth, and finally, with pink mouthwash from a bottle that had stood unused on the glass shelf below the mirror for as long as he could remember, he gargled. Only after he had done all these things did he glance in the mirror again.
Still the face of a drowned man.
And in a way he was a drowned man, he thought hopelessly, studying the pale skin, the pinched nostrils, the bleached eyebrows over the washed-out blue eyes. A man drowned in fear. All his life, now, he would be afraid. He would be afraid of Fabro, more afraid than ever before. He would be afraid for Pamela, who had suffered so much already. He would be afraid for Irene. And he would be afraid for himself, once he had stolen the ledgers. The thought constricted his throat muscles, almost gagged him again. Stealing the ledgers would ma
ke him an accomplice. And as an accomplice, no matter how unwilling, he would be as guilty as Fabro.
Guilty enough to go to the gas chamber.
Trembling, he thrust himself from the wash basin, turned away from the drowned face with the fluttering lips. He could never go through with it. Never. Blindly, unsteadily, he groped for the door, lurched through it into the corridor. For anyone stealing, destroying evidence, there would be no mitigation. Only one verdict. Guilty. He found his private door, stumbled through it into his office. Never. Never could he …
“T. J.!”
Legs curled up under the fawn-colored skirt, light from the windows bringing out copper tones in her brown hair, Irene was perched on one end of his leather davenport. She looked like a schoolgirl, her oval face fresh and innocent. She had been smiling, but the smile was giving way to alarm.
“T. J.!” she cried again.
He found his way to a chair, sank into it.
“Are you sick?”
“No. Not sick.”
“Then what is it?” Slim ankles, slim legs slid out from under the skirt. “Your face!” She stood up, moved tentatively towards him. “A drink …?”
He shook his head.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m not sick.”
Her eyes were bright with concern. “It isn’t Pamela?”
“No. Not Pamela.”
“Then what?”
He shook his head again.
“It’s Karl,” she said suddenly. “You’ve been quarreling.” She came closer, her face accusing, yet somehow motherly. “More than quarreling. I felt it in Karl’s office.”
He mustered up a wan smile. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” So close now he could smell her perfume, she bent to look at him. “He hit you, didn’t he?”
“No.”
“Poor T. J.,” she said softly. “With blood on his lips.” Gently, with a finger, she touched a corner of his mouth. “Why did he hit you?”
“Please, Irene.”
Her eyes, luminous with compassion, came close to his. “Why?”
“I … I can’t tell you.”
“Poor loyal T. J.…”
Still closer came her eyes, and she was kissing him, her mouth warm against his. For a moment he remained still, feeling the warmth run through arteries and veins, and then he slid free, scrambled to his feet.
“Oh, God!”
“Was it that bad?”
“What if Karl saw us!”
“If he can hit you,” she said, smiling, “why can’t I kiss you?”
Up through the misery, perhaps from the glow her touch had left, came unbidden a wry thought. “I’ll get beat up every day.”
She came towards him again. “Lipstick and blood,” she said. “The Fabro family.” She took a handkerchief from her pocket. “Hold still.”
One hand against his cheek, she was gingerly daubing at his lips when the intercom speaker clicked.
“T. J.?” Fabro’s harsh voice demanded.
It was almost as though he were in the room. In sudden terror Lorrance swung his eyes up to Irene’s face, found terror there, too. Frozen, not breathing, they stared at each other.
“Damn you, T. J.! Answer me!”
Involuntarily, he started to move, but Irene’s hand tightened against his cheek. They waited, motionless, like children hiding from a giant.
“Little pipsqueak,” Fabro’s voice growled, and the speaker clicked off.
Irene smiled tremulously. “Two little pipsqueaks.”
“You’d better go.”
“Not yet.” Her hand still was on his cheek. “Not until you tell me.”
It came back then, hopeless, black despair. “I can’t …”
“It’s as bad as that?”
Dumbly, he nodded.
“Something terrible. I could feel it.” Her troubled eyes searched his face. “Does it involve you?”
He nodded again, feeling his lips begin to quiver.
“My poor T. J.” With her other hand she took his arm, drew him close. “Frightened, as I am frightened.” Cheek against his, mouth close to his ear, she whispered, “Please. Tell me what it is. Tell …”
Under the soft pressure of breasts and belly and thighs, his body slowly relaxed. But in his mind, in an agony of rejection, a wild voice cried out. No, Irene, no, the voice cried. Can’t you see? You’re the last person I can tell. The very last person in the world.
Richard Blake
The brass knocker brought hollow echoes from the cottage. Gordon tried the knocker again, then the door. It opened and he stepped through the doorway, calling, “Anybody home?” There was no answer. He went into the cottage.
After a moment a light came on, and Blake saw he was standing in front of a small entrance hall with an umbrella rack and a hooked rug. Reluctantly, he closed the door, tiptoed across the rug into the living room. It was a handsome room, paneled in dark wood and with a low beamed ceiling. In front of a stone fireplace was a big wooden coffee table flanked by two oversize couches covered with subdued chintz. By the lamp Gordon had turned on was a massive chair of cordovan leather. Back of the chair rose a wall of books and a cabinet, the door to which Gordon was just pulling open. The cabinet contained pewter mugs and dishes. Gordon promptly closed it.
“Where the hell …?” he muttered.
“Where what?”
“Liquor. Should be gallons. Let’s try the kitchen.”
Blake eyed him uneasily. “Housebreaking?”
“Honored guests,” Gordon said firmly, starting toward a door at the back of the room.
“Are you sure it’s the right house?”
“Limey house,” Gordon said. “Ash Graves a Limey.” He opened the door. “Probably no rye, but Scotch just as—”
He broke off, hand on the doorknob, head cocked to one side. Blake heard it, too; a muffled voice shouting muffled words and over the voice a faint roaring noise, like distant wind. Back of the door was a narrow hallway. As they went down the hallway, the sounds grew in volume, but the words shouted by the voice came to Blake’s ears as gibberish, like words said backwards on a tape recorder.
At the end of the hall, light seeped through the crack of a not-quite-shut door. Gordon pushed it open, went cautiously into the room beyond. And with the opening of the door the words over the roaring suddenly took shape.
“Run softly, softly, horses of the night …”
Blake stepped into the room. He saw it was a bedroom, saw a four-poster bed with a quilted spread, a mahogany highboy, a squat dresser with a mirror, two windows cloaked with brown monk’s cloth. He saw on the dark wood floor a khaki hunter’s shirt, sweat-stained under the sleeves, and khaki trousers and an olive green pith topi. He saw underwear and wool socks on a cane chair.
“The stars move still, time runs …”
Voice and roaring were back of a second door that stood open across the room, and from the door billowed steam. Gordon moved forward.
“… and Faustus must be damned.”
At the door, by the cane chair, Gordon halted and peered into the steam as the voice cried:
“… Who pulls me down?”
Suddenly, to Blake’s utter amazement, Gordon grasped the cane chair by seat and back, whirled and flung it into the steam.
“… O, spare me, Lucifer!—” cried the voice before the crashing chair cut it off.
Gordon, following the chair, vanished through the door. Completely bewildered, Blake stared at the billowing steam. The roaring, the now silent voice, the flung chair made no sense at all. He edged forward, and at the same time the roaring diminished and the steam began to clear. Through it he dimly made out a glistening floor of black marble, a black bidet and a shower stall of frosted glass and black marble. On the wall of the stall, bright against the marble, were six chromium shower controls. He saw that Gordon, leaning through the open door of frosted glass, was turning these off one by one with his right hand.
In his left hand he held a .45 Colt automatic.
This was strange enough, but what Blake saw as the water from the lower shower heads cut off and the white steam that lay like ground fog on the stall’s bottom cleared froze him in startled horror. A naked man lay there, a thick man with scarlet skin and legs made of leather and steel. He was lying on his side, his cherry-red face in a pool of moving water by the drain, his mechanical legs thrust out at right angles to his trunk. He was motionless, apparently not even breathing, and his blue eyes were glazed. By the stumps of his legs, where the leather straps were fastened, stood a bottle of brandy.
Unable to wrench his eyes away, Blake gaped at the grotesque figure while Gordon emerged from the shower, put down the Colt automatic and began to dry shoulder and sleeve of his coat with a bath towel.
“Close,” Gordon said.
“Not dead …?”
“Groggy.”
“But his skin? Why red …?”
“Hot water.” Gordon threw down the towel, came back to the shower. “Let’s get him out of here.” He stepped into the stall, said tentatively, “Ash?”
Ashton Graves’ lips moved but no sound came out. Blake saw blood oozing from a cut on the lower lip. The lips moved again, said, “Yes …”
“Think you’re clean enough now?”
Using both hands Graves pushed himself to a sitting position. In rising, his head brushed the cane chair, upside down under the chromium shower controls. He glanced at the chair and then at Gordon, his lobster-red face dazed. “Apparently don’t like … Marlowe’s Faustus.”
“I don’t like people who put Colt automatics in their mouths.”
“Seemed … good idea.”
“Messy,” Gordon said.
“Not in shower. Wash … blood away.”
“For Christ’s sake, Ash!”
“I know. Suicide cowardly.” Graves glanced up at Gordon again, his lips curving in a faint smile. “Even a neat one.”
They lifted him to his feet and while Gordon held onto an arm Blake found a terrycloth robe. They put it on him and walked with him to the bedroom. The air felt chill after the steamy heat of the bathroom. They helped him onto the bed, pulled the spread over his metal legs.
Gordon asked, “What’s your doctor’s name?”
Black Is the Fashion for Dying Page 13
