Crime on My Hands

by George Sanders

  I looked up from the report on Charley, the electrician. “Riddles, dear?”

  “Day after tomorrow, indeed! Who do you think you are, Ellery Queen?”

  “Ellery Queen is a myth.”

  “Stop lisping! He’s a mister. He’s a detective. Can you say as much?”

  “I can qualify in certain respects. I’m in a hurry, pet. Where’s Fred, and why aren’t all the reports here?”

  “He’s out getting the rest. He said for you to look at this clipping. He said you’d know why.”

  She showed me a society page about Cecil, Lord Hake, newly burst on local horizons. The one-column cut was of a young man with long, lean features, and a happy smile. His eyes were free from worry. He was a stranger to me, but one characteristic of his face reminded me of McCracken. And the pattern suddenly came clear. I knew why Flynne had been killed. I took from my pocket the clipping I had found in the bag in Flynne’s room and showed it to Melva.

  “Do you know what clipping service that’s from?”

  “I think it’s Miller’s,” she hazarded. “If you’d get more publicity, I might become familiar with them.”

  “Get them on the phone for me, and leave the room.”

  “But they’re in New York!”

  “I am under the impression, pet, that even New York has telephones.”

  ‘I’ll wind up in the poorhouse yet,” she said. “Murders that threaten your career, and now long distance calls.”

  After considerable delay and telephone costs, I got the information I wanted. I rang Lord Hake next. He was in the hotel bar.

  “Hake here,” he said.

  “This is George Sanders, Lord Cecil. It occurred to me that you and I probably have acquaintances in common. Such as Percy Wellesley.”

  “Yes, I know him.”

  “And others?” I suggested.

  “Not a doubt, old boy.”

  ‘I’m giving a party for a few friends tonight. Will you come?”

  “It will be a welcome change from society teas, Mr. Sanders. Eightish?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Red and Melva broke out of their samba routine as the record ended and came over to my built-in bar. Melva was in highnecked black, and her hair was a red-gold crown.

  It was a dressy party. Everybody except Wallingford wore formal dress to some degree, with Riegleman topping the list in white tie and tails. They ran the gamut of fashion, from Listless, in backless blue, to the electricians, in white jackets and boiled shirts.

  They sat and stood around in small groups. Now and then a voice raised above the others to fling a gem out of the mild hubbub.

  “I thought her dress looked like an old fire hose.”

  “...and his speech sounded like Tagalog in a high wind.”

  “...it wasn’t at Ciro’s, it was the Troc.”

  Fred and Melva perched on stools, and his long face was solemn. “Don’t call me Reverend, bartender. I wish to be as the others, common. Sister Bellows and I find that our best work is accomplished when we simulate wickedness.”

  “You have testimonials?” I asked.

  “Indubitably.”

  He gave me a sheaf of papers. They were the reports on Carla, Riegleman, and Wanda. I began to read.

  “Ahem,” Melva said. “In our work, we cannot do our best with dry throats. A glass of ginger ale, p}ease.”

  “Just scotch for me, bartender,” Fred said. “My stomach is too weak for carbonated beverages.”

  I fixed their drinks, and ran through the reports. I found nothing significant.

  “These are the last?” I asked Fred.

  “Best I could do in this amount of time. Do you want more?”

  “I don’t think it will be necessary.”

  “Do you mean you know who it was?” Fred demanded.

  “I think so. I’ll clinch it tonight. Your telegram tipped me the identity of Lord Hake. How did you know?”

  “I knew I’d seen him somewhere,” Fred said. “I thought you’d translate that wire. Tell me who’s the culprit, George, and I’ll fix up a release. Do you keep a typewriter here in the rumpus room?”

  “Wait, Fred. I’m not certain. I want to get a game started. If Lord Hake isn’t here in a few minutes, I’ll start without him.”

  “Poker or blackjack? Anyway, deal me in.”

  “This is a spelling game,” I said.

  “Aw, George! You sound like a high school picnic.”

  “I have a reason for it,” I said. “I don’t want any objections from you.”

  “You can’t stop me from thinking.”

  “I’ve been trying to start you thinking,” Melva said,. “since I saw you kicked off that freight train.”

  They went away, bickering happily, and I waited for the doorbell to announce Lord Cecil. The boom crew trio came over for a drink. Wanda drifted over in a sheath of green satin. She was a siren again.

  Time passed. No Lord Hake. I rapped on the bar.

  “Last call,” I said, “before the festivities.”

  Nobody moved. They watched me idly.

  “What I have in mind is this,” I went on. “We make the stake a dime. I will give each of you in turn a group of three letters. Within fifteen seconds, you are to give me a word containing those three letters. If you take longer than that, you lose a dime, and vice versa. For example, if I give you c-q-x, you snap back at me with ‘quixotic’ or some other word with those letters. If you don’t, you give me a dime.”

  “I will give you a dime now, George,” Wallingford said. “I will even make you a loan, if you can’t make the rent here.”

  “Charley can’t spell,” said the electrician named Joe. “Could he just make his mark?”

  “No, listen,” I said. ‘I’m serious. This is a good game. You’ll like it.”

  “I got to have a lot more drinks before I like parlor games,” Sammy declared. He came over, moving his bulk across the floor with an airy, surprising grace. “I better start now.”

  “But what does ‘quixotic’ mean?” Listless asked Wallingford.

  “Didn’t you ever eat Quaker Oats?” he replied.

  ‘I’m perfectly willing to play,” Curtis offered. “And after all, Mr. Sanders is our host.”

  “So what?” Joe demanded. “If he don’t like this party, let him go somewhere else.”

  “I am afraid,” I said grimly, “that I must insist on your taking part in this game.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit childish, George, old boy?”

  I glared at Riegleman. He stood, cool, and suave, by the Capehart, and looked at me with amused condescension.

  ‘I’m not childish!” I snapped. “I have a very sound reason for wishing to play this game.”

  “I’ll play a game with you, George,” Wanda said in a sultry voice. “But it won’t be a spelling contest.”

  From the tail of my eye, I saw Wallingford look at her as if he’d never seen her before.

  “If you don’t pay any attention to him,” Joe advised, “maybe it’ll wear off.”

  “George,” Wallingford said, “you have a nice cuppa coffee, black, and go to sleep for a while on this couch. I’ll move.”

  “I haven’t had even one drink–” I began.

  Joe leaped to his feet. He swayed gently. “Then come fill the cup,” he declaimed, “and in the fire of Spring your something of something something fling. What’re we waiting for, Charley?”

  They advanced upon me, and Listless said to Wallingford, “I know that one. Sammy used to recite it to me. ‘The bird of time has but a little way to something, and the bird is on the wing’. What is that word, Sammy?”

  “My God!” Wallingford said.

  Joe and Charley came behind the bar.

  “Take it easy, boys,” I said. ‘I’m getting angry.” They grabbed me. I didn’t struggle. I didn’t want the place to become a shambles. They pulled and tugged, moving me from behind the bar. Their hauling took on a rhythm. As if on cue, they began to
sing,

  “Roll out the barrel, we’ll have a barrel of fun.”

  The boom crew came over and joined in with some fancy harmony. Sammy grabbed Listless and began a snake dance. Soon, everybody was in it, whirling Indian-fashion around me in step to the “Beer Barrel Polka,” which I loathe.

  I had to smile. The situation was completely idiotic. My clenched hands relaxed. Charley and Joe piloted me to a low couch, eased me gently upon a pile of cushions, and Carla came to sit at my feet. Somebody put a drink in my hand, and they all went back to their conversations.

  “This is a nice party,” Carla said.

  I had to grin, but my purpose took the grin away in a moment. “Let me try this thing on you, Carla. See if you don’t think it’s a good game.”

  Her dark eyes took on a look of resignation. “All right,” she sighed.

  “M-d-u,” I said.

  She frowned for perhaps three seconds before her face lighted. “Murder?”

  I gave her a dime.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she demanded. “Are you ill, George?”

  “I may be,” I said. “Excuse me.”

  I went to the bar and fixed myself a drink. Wanda came over. “George, I think Wally is seeing me in a new light. I catch a look now and then in his eyes. Oh, I hope it means I’m through with Mother Hubbards!”

  “I hope so, too, Wanda,” I said abstractedly. I focussed on her. “Let me try you on my game.”

  “Oh, George! I’m having so much fun.”

  “This won’t take but a second,” I said grimly. “N-e-n. Try that.”

  “Oh, all right,” she growled. “Flynne. Or are proper names admissible?”

  I gave her a dime. “Is everybody a mind-reader?” I muttered. I went back to the group. I didn’t even excuse myself to Wanda.

  Riegleman was standing apart, tall and distinguished, looking on. I was beginning to feel like a schoolboy asking a girl for his first date. “Enjoying yourself?” I asked.

  “Very good party,” he said pleasantly. “Those electricians are good fun.”

  “They’re cards, all right.”

  “Their antics gave me an idea for a scene in my next picture. I’d like to discuss it with you, as soon as possible. Not here, of course. How about dinner tomorrow?”

  “Why don’t you come here? I’m a fair amateur chef.”

  “Delighted. At eight?”

  “Righto. Listen, Riegleman, that game of mine isn’t really childish. Let me show you. All I do is give you–”

  His blue eyes picked up ice cubes from somewhere, then the ice melted. He smiled fleetingly. “Lay on, MacDuff.”

  “M-d-c.”

  He frowned into his glass. He frowned at the ceiling. Seconds ticked away. I felt a small elation, a growing suspense. This hesitation began to assume the same significance as the pause in psychiatric association tests. He had the word close to his consciousness, but his subconscious would not allow him to say “homicide.”

  At eighteen seconds, he grinned suddenly, and said, “Homicide. I could think of nothing for a moment but midchannel, and I didn’t think that would be allowed. How long?”

  I told him, and he gave me a dime. “The game does have possibilities, George, old boy.”

  My face was beginning to get rather grim as I wandered over to a corner where Wallingford was trying to break away from a childhood tale by Listless. He saw me. “Just the man,” he cried. “Excuse me, honey I got to talk to George.”

  We walked away, and presently leaned against an electric horse. “Why do women got to remember when they were all legs and no teeth?” he demanded. “Pigtails yet! Better she should stick to hanging up dresses.”

  “She’s a nice kid, Wally.”

  “Me, I like ’em with teeth. Even for telling about.”

  “Wally, let me try you on my game. I think you’ll–”

  “George, listen.” He looked at his wristwatch. “I got to go. I got to give the baby his bath.”

  “At eleven o’clock?”

  “It’s easier when he’s asleep. George, I liked your party, and–”

  “Wally, this won’t take fifteen seconds.”

  He sighed. “Grown men yet,” he muttered.

  “L-g-l,” I said.

  Instantly, he gave me a list. “Killing, rolling, calling, pulling, and gallon. Now give me a dime, George, and let it be a lesson. Better you should cut out dolls. It don’t cost so much. Still,” he added reflectively, “it depends on the doll.”

  I gave up. I went over to the bar and sat on a stool. Each person had come up with a word related to death or murder. Instead of avoiding it, they’d leaped at it. Sanders the brilliant, Sanders the wise, Sanders the great psychiatrist.

  The doorbell reminded me that my most important guest had not arrived. This must be Lord Hake. I closed the rumpus room door behind me and answered the bell.

  “Are you a magnet for crime?” Lamar James demanded. “Where’s your telephone?”

  “What do you mean, and what are you doing here?”

  “Telephone!” he snapped.

  I took him into the den, cut out the amplifying system on the phone, and he called for an ambulance. He hung up, looked at me.

  “You’ve got a near corpse out there, George.”

  I followed him outside. Under a row of hydrangeas was an evening-clothed body. James put a flashlight on the figure of a young man whose fair hair was matted with blood.

  He was Lord Hake.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Finally all were gone except Lieutenant Archer of the homicide squad, Lamar James, and myself. Archer put his notebook away.

  “I guess that’s it,” he said. “Some thug knocked him out and robbed him.”

  “Then why the repeated blows?” James objected. “It looks like attempted murder.”

  Archer smiled tolerantly. “When you have seen as many evidences of crime as I have, you begin to accept the obvious. We don’t try to put the worst possible construction on minor crime down here.”

  James flushed. He said nothing.

  “Nobody saw anything, and all your guests arrived in groups of two or more,” Archer said. “Nobody went outside after arrival. If Deputy Sheriff James hadn’t dawdled on the doorstep after ringing the bell, even he would not have seen the guy. The ambulance doc said that the body must have lain there between four and five hours. That adds up to one thing: he was probably your first guest, and was slugged as he rounded that turn in your walk that hides a person from the street. If the poor lug recovers consciousness, he may be able to verify that. Well, so long, boys. I have all the names and addresses. If I want to ask any more questions, I know where to find everybody.”

  I let him out. James stared at me as I came back and mixed drinks. “Well?” he said presently.

  “Well what?”

  “What’s your story this time?”

  I frowned at him. “I don’t like your tone, James.”

  “And I don’t like your glib explanations, Sanders. Lord Hake was Herman Smith, wasn’t he?”

  “What makes you think so?” I stalled.

  “The lower half of his face was lighter in color than the rest. He’s shaved off a beard recently. Smith had a beard. Smith disappeared right after that accident in England. I figure he was the younger brother, a remittance man, who inherited when his older brother wrecked his Daimler.”

  “That was my conclusion. I verified his identity by telephoning a New York clipping service.”

  “You invited him here tonight?”

  “Yes, but nobody else knew that.”

  “You knew it,” he said.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “When you gave me that yarn up north,” James began steadily, as if he were addressing a complete stranger, “I told you it sounded phony. Missing guns, missing film. You didn’t kill Paul – but I’ve got that figured out, too. Those inventions you’ve been talking about. You’re perfectly capable of rigging up s
omething that would kill him by remote control.”

  My jaw dropped. “In the dark? From a distance?”

  “I’ll admit it’s a trifle far-fetched,” he said, “but so is a criminal detector.”

  “I was joshing.”

  “That’s what you say. I told you the camera wasn’t on your hands when Peggy got it. You could have shot her.”

  “Don’t be a fool!”

  ‘I’m not being a fool. You’re English. Hake is English. He comes into money. You show me a clipping you claim you got from Flynne’s bag. How do I know you got it there?”

  “Isn’t it pretty obvious?” I asked hotly. “Smith loaned Flynne the bag. The clipping was in it.”

  “Your explanations are too smooth, Sanders. Here’s the way it looks. You didn’t know Smith by sight. So when some guy hands in his work slip, you assume it’s Smith. So you plug him. Then you find out it’s the wrong guy. You know Peggy saw you. You plug her. Paul figures it out, and tries to blackmail you. You plug him. But still you haven’t got the guy you were after. So you talk the sheriff into letting you come back here. You invite Hake to the party, and ask him to come earlier than the others. You waylay him and ditch him where he won’t be seen until the party breaks up. I think my job is finished now.”

  “I won’t bother to argue,” I said. “I have proof. I found that missing reel of film.”

  “You did, eh?” he drawled.

  “I can prove that too,” I snapped. “Because I’m going to run it for you right now.” The surprise on his face pleased me. “Almost the first thing I did when I got back from location was develop and print it. So just sit back and watch.”

  “Wait a minute. You have to turn the lights out?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Then I’ll handcuff you. If you’re innocent, you won’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” I snarled. “May I set up the projector first?”

  “Sure. I can watch you. Don’t make any funny moves.”

  I forced myself to cool off as I threaded film. The circumstances did warrant his loose conclusions.

  He handcuffed me. I flicked off the lights, started the projector. He watched in silence.

  The wagon train came across the dunes at sunrise. I cut a handsome figure on the creamy Arabian, and the close-ups made it obvious that Carla and I had what polite people would refer to as an Understanding.