Crime on My Hands

by George Sanders

  Sammy sighed. “So that leaves the sound men, cameramen, grips, props, the boom crew, Paul, Riegleman, me, the script girl, the wardrobe people, and the cook and two waitresses in the commissary.”

  “We can eliminate most of those, Sammy. Most of them were busy.”

  “Who wasn’t?” Sammy objected. “Everybody was busy.”

  “Yes, it seems so.”

  “Maybe it was an accident, George. Maybe •that screwball deputy is nuts on that thirty-eight deal.”

  “Then where did the extra gun come from, the Smith & Wesson?”

  “Yeah,” he said gloomily, “that’s right.”

  “And why did somebody bonk me on the conk?”

  “Yeah,” he said in the same gloomy tone.

  “I’ve thought of something,” I said. “You remembered that when Flynne was shot, I was facing the camera. If the shot came from behind the camera, it had to come from almost directly in front of me. Therefore, I must have been looking in the direction of the murderer. Maybe he – or she – thinks I saw him. That would be plenty of motive to kill me.”

  Sammy’s face brightened. “Say, maybe you’ve got something there.”

  “Well, don’t be so cheerful about it. Here’s what we’ll do next. We’ll go out and spread the tidings. We’ll say that I have the film because I know it contains a vital clue to the murder. You don’t know what it is, and I’m not saying. Suppose you tell a few members of the technical group, and a few of the administrative. I’ll tell a few of the actors. Everybody ought to hear about it inside an hour. Then we’ll see what happens.”

  “What about this film?”

  “We’ll hide it. Rather, I’ll hide it. You run along. I’ll come later.”

  “Why?” Sammy demanded. “Don’t you trust me?”

  “Of course,” I said lightly. “I know you didn’t do it. If you don’t know where the film is, nobody will trap you into any admission, or try to beat one out of you. It’s for your own protection.”

  “How about your protection?” Sammy said. “If Riegleman finds out that I didn’t provide a bodyguard for you, I’ll be in the soup.” He paused. “What I really mean is, if you know where the film is, what’s to prevent somebody from beating the hell out of you?”

  “I am prepared to defend myself. I have a gun. I’ll take it with me.”

  Sammy hunched his round shoulders and left. I stood in the door and watched him for several hundred yards of moonlight until he reached his coupe.

  I turned out the lamp and made a survey. Between my trailer and the surf, a few hundred feet distant, the hard sand was clearly lighted by a lopsided moon. I could see anybody coming from that direction. This also held true on the town side. Bare sand surrounded me. The town was marked by a faint glow half a mile away, and that glow would silhouette anybody coming from that direction.

  Down the beach was a jumble of boulders casting weird shadows. I might be approached from there with impunity.

  I cut in the photoelectric-searchlight circuit and sat down to wait. Somebody, I felt sure, would come through that door before long.

  Time creeps in the dark, with no sense of passage. It fumbles blindly for the next position on the clock, and though each tick is a measurable footstep, it seems never to get its feet off the ground. And so I sat for a couple of years, ears strained for visitors.

  My thoughts came to a head. In one lordly gesture, I lopped from the list of suspects all and sundry who had galloped or grimaced before the camera. The killer must have been behind it.

  Very soon now, the killer would have heard Sammy’s fiction. So, inevitably the killer would come through my door to see what he could see. My low cunning gave me warmth in the darkness that was growing chill.

  Sharpened by tension, my ears caught a sound outside. It grew louder. Footsteps crunched carelessly through sand. Yes, the killer would come in that fashion, openly. For he believed he was unsuspected, and would no doubt have a rational story if he should be seen. I took my small pistol from the window seat beside me and pointed it in the general direction of the door.

  The searchlight snapped on with the opening of the door.

  “Don’t move!” I said. “I’ve got you covered.”

  My agent, Melva Lonigan, blinked blindly in the glare, and shivered. “Thank God for that,” she said. “I’d have frozen in another minute!”

  Chapter Eight

  I flicked the switch and plunged us into darkness. “Come over here and sit down,” I hissed. “And be quiet.”

  “But why?” she demanded.

  ‘I’m waiting for a murderer. Let’s hope he didn’t see that light.”

  “I hope Fred saw it, George. He wouldn’t like our being unchaperoned in the dark.”

  “Oh, Lord,” I said. “Fred too. With three of us in here, the murderer couldn’t get in anyway. If you’ll kick at the door we’ll have some light.”

  The searchlight blazed again, and Melva shielded her eyes. “Do we have to have that beacon?”

  I fixed up some bearable lights and glared at her. “I suppose there is some explanation for your impeding the wheels of justice. And why did you come out without a coat? That dress, what there is of it, may be suitable for a warm night in Hollywood, but you’re three hundred miles north, and on the coast.”

  “We made it in five hours,” she said smugly. “Fred drives like a fiendish angel. Or vice versa. Have you got an old blanket or something, or a stove? If you cut my throat, I’d bleed crimson icicles.”

  I turned on my electric heater, and she stood beside it. “Mmmm. That feels good!”

  Shoes crunched on sand outside, and Fred Forbes came in. He arranged his horse face in mock suspicion. “The lights go out, the lights come on, the lights go dim. What goes?”

  “George has another invention,” Melva said. “You kick a hole in space, and there is light. It probably won’t make any money, but it’s cute – in a blinding sort of way.”

  Fred grinned. “I never have been able to decide whether he’s trying to be a poor man’s Edison, or just Don Ameche.”

  “Don’t scoff,” Melva admonished. “Everybody laughed at the Wright brothers, remember. Though I must admit,” she added thoughtfully, “they never tried to hook a fire siren up to a mouse trap. George, I’m awfully glad that gadget didn’t work well. Aside from problems with the SPCA, think of the mouse. A great big THING screaming in its poor little ears after it was trapped.”

  “The one I liked,” Fred said dreamily, “was that radio self-tuner that was allergic to the human voice, and switched automatically to music when the commercials came on. That would have been nice – if it had worked.”

  “Your bargain-counter wit,” I said, “is excruciating, and I mean painful. Not all my inventions were failures.”

  “Law of averages,” Fred said. “It’s with you all the time. How’s that telephone gadget coming on, the one with a loudspeaker and mike in every room?”

  “None of your business. Sit down. When you stand, you look as if you’re falling apart.”

  He grinned. “I am kind of loose jointed, I guess. Listen, I got a great idea. We give out that you’re going to–”

  “We will not!” Melva cut in. “George, you’ve got to stay out of–”

  “Stay out?” Fred cried. “Stay out? The opportunity of a–”

  “The opportunity to get himself–” Melva interrupted.

  “Be still!” I said. “I feel like an old bone between you. What, if anything, is this all about?”

  Melva waved Fred to silence. “I’ll tell it. We heard, about three o’clock this afternoon, that somebody had got himself killed. So we came – I, to protect you; Fred, to ruin you.”

  “If you’d switch roles, I’d have more fun,” I said... I don’t need protection.”

  “Then where did you get that bandage?” Melva demanded. “What’s under it?”

  “A lumpy head, darling. The murderer bopped me.”

  Melva gave a stricken moan.
“Oh, George!”

  “I wasn’t hurt very badly,” I reassured her.

  “Thank God for that,” she said with deep feeling. “If you get knocked off, I might as well go out of the agency business.”

  “Your solicitude,” I told her, “is a thing of terrible beauty.”

  She pointed a stern finger at me. “You stay out of this murder, you hear? I can’t afford it.”

  Fred said, “But–”

  Melva cut him off with a savage gesture. She directed slit-eyed suspicion at me. “Are you playing detective on this?”

  ‘I’m not playing,” I said bitterly.

  “Then I’m going to stay right here and see that you keep hands off,” she said grimly. “Listen, do you know what happens to smarties who look for murderers? They find ’em, sometimes, only they never know about it. I am not going to let you get yourself killed. That’s final.”

  “What have you found out so far, George?” Fred asked.

  “Whatever it is,” Melva broke in, “he’s forgotten. Look, Georgie, you came to me only a few days ago saying you’d never take another role as a gumshoe. But I knew different. It’s in your blood. When I heard about this guy – what is his name, anyway? – getting killed, I knew you’d be in the thick of it. So I’m here to tell you you can’t go back on your word.”

  Fred took her by the shoulders and pushed her onto the window seat. Neither his action nor expression invited any protest from her. “You stay there,” he said. “You be quiet.” He turned to me, ignoring her. “Here’s my idea. You can solve this thing, can’t you?” He put a hand tightly over Melva’s mouth as she started to say something.

  “I’d have had it wrapped up if you two had stayed where you belonged,” I said. “God knows what will happen now.”

  “You’re on the track of the killer, then?”

  “Or vice versa,” I said, touching the bandage.

  Melva bit Fred’s hand. He jerked it away. “That’s what I mean,” she said. “Are you trying to put me out of business?” she demanded angrily. “George got mixed up in this thing and he got his head cracked. He’s got to get out.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “I’m a suspect.”

  “Oh, Lordi” Melva moaned. “There goes your career!”

  “If I could have a word,” I said. “That is, if you don’t mind too much. I’ve been under the impression that both of you are working for me, though I am sometimes confused on that point. At any rate, your emoluments are deducted or deductible from my income tax, and I think that makes you, legally, my employees. As your boss, then, I have an order. Scram!”

  “Not until we know what goes on,” Melva said firmly. “You’ll have to throw us out bodily. If you do, I’ll have you arrested for assault.”

  “You’re trespassing on my property,” I pointed out.

  She pulled her skirt up above her knees and arranged her beautiful legs in a witness-chair pose. “I was just bringing him some calves-foot jelly,” she said to an imaginary panel of twelve, “and he attacked me.” To me, sweetly, “Do you think they’d believe me – or you? Which?”

  “I am not amused by idle threats.”

  “You think they’re idle? Try putting me out!”

  “She means it, George,” Fred said. “She had me arrested once. She gave me a cigarette case, and I gave it to my baby brother. That made her mad, and she claimed I stole it from her and sold it to him. She’d have had him pinched as a receiver of stolen goods if he hadn’t been under-age. So don’t give her an opening.”

  I went to the door. ‘I’m going out. I’m hungry. You two can stay here and vegetate if you like.”

  They were after me like fox hounds. “We accept with pleasure,” Melva said. “It’s a long time since you took us to dinner. Shall we go in your car or ours?”

  “Going out?” a voice asked from the door. Lamar James lounged there, eyeing us steadily. He came inside. ‘I’m glad I caught you,” he said to me.

  “Caught him?” Melva echoed. “He didn’t do anything. He was with me all the time.”

  James ran an appreciative eye over her. “Who are you, Miss?”

  I made the introductions. “My agent, and press agent,” I explained.

  James nodded. “How did you know Mr. Sanders was in a jam?” he asked Melva.

  “When murder comes,” she said, “can George be far behind?”

  James grinned briefly. He looked at me. “I came over for our little talk. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Good,” I said. I turned to Fred and Melva. “I’m happy that you dropped in. I’ll see you in Hollywood.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Melva said. She turned to James and added, “We have a considerable investment wrapped up in this piece of property, and we intend to see that he stays intact. He’s no good subdivided.”

  James’s eyes sparkled a little. ‘I’m getting tired,” he said levelly, “of this Hollywood attitude. Can’t you people get it through your heads that a man has been killed? It’s a human life gone. No matter who or what he was, it was his life and he wanted it. But–” He paused and ran a hand over his hair. “I never saw such an outfit. Mr. Riegleman is worried about his shooting schedule. What’s his name – Paul – is afraid he’ll lose his job because a stranger sneaked in with somebody else’s work permit. That fat guy, Sammy, tells one lie after another. And Mr. George Sanders gets in my hair at every turn. Meanwhile, a man is dead! Maybe he wanted to live, just the same as you. Can you get that through your heads?”

  The silence was uncomfortable.

  ‘I’m sorry,” Melva murmured. She paused and said apologetically, “It’s only natural to think of your own interests.”

  “Yeah, all right. Well, Mr. Sanders, what about these two? Will you talk in front of ’em?”

  I sighed. “Show me an alternative.”

  “I could arrest you,” he said flatly, “and we could talk in your cell.”

  “Arrest me for what?”

  “We’ll come to that later.”

  “They’d better stay, then,” I decided. “I may need a friend on the outside. What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s sit down,” he said. “Instead of standing here like prize-fighters waiting for the bell.”

  There were barely enough seats. Melva ran her eyes around the crowded space. “Hang out the S.R.O. sign, Fred.”

  James flicked her a glance, and she colored under it. “Now,” he said to me. “You say that Miss Folsom couldn’t have shot Flynne. How do you know?”

  “She isn’t the type,” I said.

  James shook his dark head doggedly. “That doesn’t go with me. There isn’t any ‘type’, and you know it. You’re holding back information, Mr. Sanders, and I want to know what it is.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “I’ve known Carla for several years, and I know she hasn’t the capacity for murder. She’s a very sweet, gentle person.”

  “Look, Mr. Sanders, I know you’re no dope,” James said patiently. “That girl is scared. You knew it, and you rushed in to defend her. I didn’t go on questioning her, because I got lots of time. I thought I’d wait, and see what happened. But I got to thinking it over, and I knew you’d have kept out of it if you didn’t have some reason to believe she didn’t fire the shot. I mean an actual, concrete reason. What is it?”

  “My faith in her,” I said gravely.

  “Galahad!” Melva muttered. It was a bad word in her mouth.

  I continued to hold tight. “I have nothing else to say,” I told him.

  “All right. We’ll lay that thought away, and take up another one. You said the slug came out of a Smith & Wesson thirty-eight. You can’t tell that by looking at the hole.”

  “Why not?” I demanded. “Remember, I found the body. I could study the wound while it was fresh.”

  “What made you think it was a Smith & Wesson?”

  He had me there. Unless I could read the trade mark, I didn’t know a Smith & Wesson from a Webley.
“It’s very simple,” I said. “The characteristics of small arms are definite, according to make and type. I have made some study of these, in my own modest way. As a result of my research, I was able to identify the make of weapon.”

  James snorted. “Look, you’re going to have to tell all this to a coroner’s jury tomorrow. So you’d better make a better story of it than that. Because, you see, I’m the coroner, too.”

  “If I tell the truth, I have nothing to fear.”

  “Yeah, if. Tell me one difference in the ballistics characteristics between a slug from a Colt thirty-eight Special and a Smith & Wesson same.”

  “If I so choose,” I said, unfairly, “I can order you out. I needn’t talk to you. I’m not under arrest.”

  He sighed. “Yes, you are too under arrest. I hoped I wouldn’t have to do this. But I’m trying to nab the person who killed Flynne. I haven’t any interest in amateurs who want to show off for the newspapers, which the presence of your press agent indicates. I hoped you’d tell me what you know, because you know some things I don’t. But since you’re so troublesome, you’re under arrest.”

  “On what charge?” I asked quietly.

  “Illegal parking,” he said. “We got a city ordinance that says nobody can establish living quarters on our beach. Sure, you can be bailed out or pay a ten-dollar fine, but not before tomorrow. Because Judge Guilding has gone home, and he doesn’t like being disturbed. In the meantime, you and I can have a little heart to heart talk for a few hours. Come on!”

  Chapter Nine

  He didn’t really want to arrest me. That made us even, I didn’t really want to be arrested.

  This may sound over-fastidious, but there were other, and important considerations. I am no believer in truth prevailing over all. History is smudged with wars between the true and the false, and you may toss a coin for the winner. So, although I had not laid Severance Flynne dead in the dust, I was not completely certain that I could convince Lamar James or a jury of that fact.