Crime on My Hands

by George Sanders

  “He’s gone,” James said. “Just disappeared into thin air. I couldn’t find hide nor hair of him.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  When I reported on location the next morning, I was tired. I had lain awake most of the night pondering the disappearance of Herman Smith and its possible significance. He was a direct contact, he could give us important information, and he was gone.

  Paul had proposed a possible explanation of Flynne’s death. If some person had deliberately aided Smith to get drunk the night before he was to leave for location, we could assume that that person was the murderer. Flynne was beyond questioning; we’d never know from him if he was tipped off to call Smith, or if Smith was tipped off to call him.

  And now Smith was gone. Murdered? We had to find out. He was the critical factor now.

  And so I was tired. I had a pair of Monday morning eyes, red-rimmed, puffed, bloodshot. I was in no condition to argue with Wallingford or Riegleman.

  They were deadlocked over the sandstorm. I had forgotten to mention it to Riegleman, and he reacted to Wallingford’s suggestion with shocked disapproval while Sammy was quietly anxious, looking on. It was Sammy’s expression, I think, that brought me into the fray. His round face was tight, his eyes both bitter and hopeful. He looked at me as if he were drowning and I was the man with the straw.

  “Look at what it means,” Wallingford said. “All the stuff we’re trying to say it means. They fight through everything to give us Highway 101, and Sand Springs, and Hollywood and Vine. Nothing can stop ’em, not even trouble.”

  “I don’t like it,” Riegleman answered. “We have no script, for one thing, and I shudder to think of three hundred people ad libbing at once. We must find the author.”

  Sammy flung a plea at me. He said nothing, but his eyes spoke of McGuire and the missing gun.

  “In the early days of pictures,” I told Riegleman, “they made up the story as they went along. Surely we can film one scene that requires practically no dialogue. I agree with Wally. I think his idea is terrific.”

  Wallingford beamed at me, taking full credit for the idea. “They come to me, these things,” he said.

  Riegleman flung up his hands. “All right,” he said. “It’s your money. Let’s get at it.”

  We worked out the details, with me doing most of the talking. Sammy went off to get the wind machines and cameras set up.

  It was to be a short scene on the screen. We decided on a freak sandstorm that rose and died within a few moments. All we wanted to show was the steel determination of the pioneers, and their attitude during the storm would be as symbolic whether it lasted for minutes or days.

  We decided also to push our actors through actual blasts of sand instead of making a process shot. Since they were to be in it for fifteen minutes at most, nobody would get hurt. Their defenses against it would be all the more realistic.

  We were finally ready to begin, and my starting point was near the two stakes I had driven. The wind machines began to whip up a cloud on the big dune, and we began to stagger through it.

  Carla and I were together. I had sent Frank to some other part of the caravan. Carla and I exchanged a significant glance, in close-up.

  It was a tough scene, and I repented my bid for realism before I had gone fif teen steps into that opaque blast. I wrapped my nose and mouth with a bandanna, and shielded my eyes with my hand. I must arrive at the spot where Listless had thrown the guns within ten minutes.

  But I began to be caught up in the historical significance of the scene. When the men and women we were portraying came to the far edge of the desert, they didn’t know how far it extended. They could see only sand, sparse desert growth, and brown rocks pushing their naked heads against the tide of erosion that had leveled the land about them. Those men and women didn’t know when, if ever, they would find water. They didn’t know whether they would die and leave their bones to bleach with the skulls of cattle which were white warts on the desert’s face. They went on with high courage.

  I have been told that I was very good in the scene. If so, it was because of that sudden kinship with the man I represented. Hilary Weston had set himself a goal; I had set mine. His was to win through to life against odds. Mine was similar. Though he thought in terms of green valleys and fertile fields, and though I thought in terms of freedom from jail and appeasement of the property department, our aims were the same.

  We fought that million-toothed wind for each inch we gained. We were not acting, we were struggling against the elements. Though they were man-made, they had the same effect on us as the blind forces of nature.

  Carla and I became separated somehow, at about the point where I should begin my search. It was this accident which made my behavior a highlight of the picture.

  I turned my back to the driving wind, and tried to locate the stakes, now far behind. I couldn’t see twenty feet, of course, and a little panic struck me. Was I to fail, after this elaborate preparation? I stared wildly around, trying to find the big dune. I took quick, uncertain steps this way and that.

  When this sequence showed on the screen, everyone who saw it knew that Hilary Weston, beset with death on all sides, threatened with painful extinction, still held the thought of Carla in his mind. Yes, he was bound to deliver his band, but he was also bound to have this beautiful girl.

  As a matter of fact, any thought I gave to Carla was purely accidental. My stumbling this way and that was fright. I collected my emotions and stuffed them back where they belonged. I turned into the wind and pushed on.

  This brought scattered handclaps later, at the preview. It was obvious that Hilary Weston, torn between the power of his desire and his unswerving purpose, decided to reach safety for the greatest number even if a few, Carla among them, were left behind.

  I saw before me the dim, dark outline of the great dune. I skirted its base and stumbled forward to what I thought was the spot Sammy and I had searched yesterday. I staggered and fell to one knee, flinging up an arm to hide my searching eyes. I got up and fell forward again.

  A dull gleam caught my eye, and I flung myself upon it. It was one of the guns. I lay quite still, my back to the camera, and felt in the sand. I found the other gun. I began a series of mighty heaves. I flung myself about, all the while stuffing the guns into my belt. I got to one knee, to my feet. I staggered on, straight at the lens, a gleam of unholy triumph in my eyes.

  When all the stragglers were in, Curtis stepped up and shook my gritty hand. “If I know anything about how a scene will look on the screen,” he said warmly, “you were magnificent. We got every move.”

  Sammy came over to whisper, “Did you get ’em?”

  In my dressing room, Sammy looked at the Smith & Wesson while I made up for a retake of the fight scene.

  “So this is it,” he commented.

  “Fully loaded,” I pointed out, “except for one shot. That was the one which got Flynne, I believe.”

  “What do we do with it?”

  “I’ll turn it over to James in good time. Meanwhile, we flaunt it.”

  Sammy looked blank.

  “I’ll wear those two guns in this next scene. Since we’re shooting it from the beginning, nobody will notice I’ve changed guns except the murderer. You can bet that he’ll notice. As I have said before, he has an eye for detail. When he sees me with the gun, which he’ll undoubtedly recognize, he’ll be driven to action. I feel certain that he has worried about this gun. He planted it on me, and it disappeared. Nothing was said about it. He noted that I carried forty­fives yesterday. Now I show up with the murder weapon in my holster. Such procedure doesn’t make sense. So he betrays himself, one way or another. I have told at least four persons to keep their eyes open during this scene. You must pay no attention to the action being filmed. Watch everyone behind the first camera. I think the murderer will make some covert move.”

  “You can’t fire this gun, George. It’s really loaded.”

  “Sammy,” I said patiently
, “go get me some blank cartridges. We’ll save these, naturally, as evidence. Run along. I’m almost ready. And by the way,” I added casually, “tell Paul I’d like to see him.”

  I wai ted by the first camera, the guns carelessly displayed. Nobody gave them a glance. The electricians were setting up reflectors, Curtis was measuring distances, Riegleman was conferring with the new script girl, sound men were testing with the boom crew. Horses were being led into the wagon enclosure. Sammy and Paul returned, and I loaded the guns. Paul watched with disinterest.

  “I want to apologize,” I said, “for the heroic measures I employed last night.”

  “I’ll never be able to wear a belt again,” he growled, “and I hate suspenders. How come your guns don’t match?”

  I looked at him steadily. “One of them has a sentimental value,” I said.

  He blinked, shrugged, and turned away. As I had hoped, he lingered near the camera as I went off to my place.

  Whistles called for quiet. Riegleman went into the sound truck and spoke over the P.A. system, his voice booming in precise syllables.

  “This must be the last retake of this scene, ladies and gentlemen. It will be unnecessary to repeat my instructions. You know your parts. I am depending on you to play them well. Are we ready to begin?”

  Sammy signaled, and action began.

  I put the murders from my mind. Several pairs of eyes were examining all my list of suspects. I became Hilary Weston. I was careful, however, to display the murder weapon. I covered the butt of the museum piece with one hand, but turned the Smith & Wesson toward the camera as often as possible. Even if this did not bring any untoward act from Paul, it might when tomorrow’s rushes showed it in close-up.

  Half way through the scene, I reflected that he must still have the gun that killed Peggy. Would he take a shot when I faced the camera today? It was possible. He had noted the gun and commented. He was ruthless, and I was defenseless.

  I must confess that cold sweat trickled down my back as I turned for the close-up of passion. This was the point where two persons had been killed. Was I next?

  The beads of sweat on my forehead were real. The trembling of my hands was not pantomime. Only a few seconds remained in the scene, and I did what has been called one of my finest bits of acting, but I wish to record here that I was not acting. I was not even aware that I was in a picture. When I looked at the camera, it was desperation, not lust, that the camera recorded. Yes, it seemed lustful on the screen. It was obvious that even in the midst of battle I was savoring secret delights to come. And when I narrowed my eyes and pointed the gun at the group beside the camera, it was not thoughts of a sneaking redskin that inspired me.

  For Paul was in that group, and one dark hand was in his jacket pocket. My aiming at him was a reflex action, and I wished with all my heart that my gun was loaded as I fired at him.

  My expression and action brought a gasp to the preview audience several weeks later, as did the quick cut to a tomahawked figure that had sneaked within striking distance of Carla. But he was an afterthought, tossed in to explain my unscripted move. All I was trying to do was startle Paul, to shake his aim, to make him miss.

  The result was rather spectacular. Everyone in the group flung himself to this side or that. Some fell flat on the ground, others jerked spasmodically to one side. Paul flung both hands, empty, over his face. My danger was passed, and the smile of relief which I gave the lens was properly construed at the preview, indicated by the audience’s vast, soft sigh.

  When whistles brought a halt, they crowded around me, flinging praise.

  “George, you were swell!”

  “…finest piece of…”

  “Didn’t know pantomime was one of your…”

  “Worth ten thousand words of dialogue!”

  Riegleman hurried from the sound truck, from which he had watched and listened to the scene, and put an arm across my shoulders. “George, old boy, you’ll get an award for that scene. I’ll give it to you myself if the Academy doesn’t.”

  Hands grasped at mine, hands slapped my shoulders. I was a trifle bewildered. I hadn’t done anything but protect my life.

  “But what I want to know,” Riegleman went on, “is why you fired that shot. It wasn’t in the script, as I remember, and you played the scene day before yesterday with your guns at your sides.”

  That was when I dreamed up the sneaking tomahawker. Riegleman glowed. “A wonderful touch. Let’s shoot it.” He beckoned to one of the Indians and Curtis. They went off to make it.

  The crowd dissolved from around me. Sammy took my arm. “I thought sure as hell I was a goner,” he said. “You should have seen your face. I just knew that gun was loaded.”

  “Did you observe anything?” I asked.

  “Let’s go talk it over,” Sammy said. “Maybe you can make something of what I saw. Want me to put those guns away?”

  I reached for them. My left hand closed on an empty holster. Somebody had taken the Smith & Wesson from me.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Go to your office!” I said. “I’ll see you there in a few minutes!”

  “What’s the matter with you? You look like a label on a carbolic acid bottle.”

  ‘I’m tired of being pushed around,” I said, and plunged off through the sand.

  Paul was alone in his office. He narrowed his eyes at my expression. His hands tensed on his desk.

  “Where is it?” I asked.

  “Where is what?”

  “The gun you took out of my holster. I’m going to take this office, and you, apart if you don’t give it to me.”

  He leaned back, his mouth dropped open. “Come again?”

  “I don’t want to argue,” I told him. “Just give me the gun, and you may remain intact. You may. It isn’t definite.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, George. I know you’re serious. But you’re talking acrostics.”

  I took the slack of his shirt in one hand and pulled him to his feet. “I don’t really want to hurt you, Paul, but I’ll make you an unpleasant memory if you don’t hurry.”

  He didn’t struggle. His black eyes weren’t defiant, they were bewildered. “I can’t stop you, I guess, George. You’re almost twice my size, and I’m in lousy shape. But, honest to God, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He seemed to be telling the truth. A little doubt raised its head inside mine. My grip relaxed for an instant, and he jerked away. I leaped after him, crowded him into a corner.

  “You confessed to the killing,” I said. “But you deliberately tried to make me believe that you lied. I did, and dismissed you from consideration. But here’s what you did. You shot Flynne. You switched guns on me. You planted that prop gun in Carla’s wagon. You pleaded ignorance of Flynne’s identity. You came to my trailer that night to find out if the film showed anything damaging to you. Then you shot Peggy with your other gun, because you knew she had seen you. Then you made a confession, with false data, to throw me off. But I see through it now. So where are the guns?”

  His black eyes began to water. He made no effort to defend himself. “I didn’t... kill anybody!” he gasped. “I thought... Carla would be accused. I don’t know... anything about a gun. But listen, I’ve... got an idea.”

  I dropped my hands, but kept him in the corner.

  “It just occurred to me,” he said. “Herman Smith was leading a double life, sort of. I got a notion that fits into this picture.”

  “What does ‘sort of’ mean?”

  “Listen, George,” he said earnestly. “It’s hard to say exactly what I mean. I can see how you’d jum p to the conclusion you reached, but you’re wrong. You can go ahead and search this place if you want to. If I took a gun from you, I haven’t had time to do anything with it. It has to be here. It isn’t. I’ll help you search.”

  He meant it, which in turn meant that the gun wasn’t here. He interpreted my half smile correctly.

  “I insist,”
he said. “I’ve got to clear myself on that score. I didn’t kill anybody, and this will help prove it.”

  We went over every inch of the office – including the wastebasket, this time. There wasn’t any gun.

  “You could have tossed it into one of the trucks,” I said.

  “So could anybody else. If it turns up in one of them, it doesn’t necessarily mean that I did it. You’ve got no proof, George, that I’m involved in any way. So you’ve got to string along with me. I’ve got an idea.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “No, because it’s dopey. It’ll just lead you off the track if it doesn’t work out. I’ll find out today, and come over to your trailer tonight.”

  I felt sick. As he said, I could do nothing. My notions were based on deduction and application of psychology. I couldn’t go to Sheriff Callahan with them. “Look, Sheriff, I have no proof at all, but he did it. I feel it here. I can’t find any motive, and I can’t prove that he had the opportunity. But I’m sure, so will you charge him with murder on my hunch?”

  Callahan, even Callahan, would snort at me.

  “Give me some idea of what you’re going to do,” I said.

  “It all depends,” he said, “on who Herman Smith really is. I heard a rumor once. I want to check it. If it’s true, you can find a motive, all right.”

  “What was the rumor?”

  “I haven’t even got that straight. I have to check with a couple guys in Hollywood. Then I’ll tell you tonight.”

  What could I do? I did it. “All right, but God help you if this another lie. Paul, you’re in this up to your neck. I can have you held for questioning, if nothing else. Maybe you’d better tell me some more about Carla and Flynne before I go.”

  “Not unless I have to,” he said. “There’s no reason why it should come out except to free her from suspicion. She’s got a great future. If it all came out, she’d be hurt commercially.”

  “If you’re going to marry her, you don’t want her earning ability impaired. Is that it?”