Final Cut

by Franklin W. Dixon

  "This is my sister, Gertrude," said Fenton. "She, uh, sees a lot of movies and TV."

  "Fenton, I'd be very careful if I were you," said Gertrude. "No one can act that mean without it rubbing off a little. I don't know - "

  "Thanks for the advice, Gertrude," said Fenton, gently moving her out of the office. When she had gone, he turned to Addison and shrugged an apology.

  "You see why I'm tired of playing bad guys?" Addison demanded. "This kind of thing always happens! People boo me when I walk into a restaurant, kids run away from me in the street, little old ladies kick me in the shins - "

  "And being suspected of murder could cost us a fortune," Andrea added.

  Fenton thought a few moments and said, "I think I'm willing to take your case, but first I need you to do something for me."

  "Anything. Name it," Jim Addison said eagerly.

  "I'd like Frank and Joe to be put to work on the project somehow. To nose around a little."

  Jim Addison looked over to his manager, who gave another of her bright smiles.

  "I don't think it'll be a problem. They can probably be production assistants - gofers."

  Frank said, "As in 'go fer' this and 'go fer' that, right?"

  "Right, sweetie," said Andrea. "You'd be little more than errand boys, doing a bit of everything - fetching and carrying, paging actors, whatever.

  "Mel Clifford wants to hire as many local people as he can, so if we tell him that a couple of young local students want a job, he should be happy to agree. Especially if we get J. F. Graham to put in a good word for you."

  "Would Mr. Graham do that?" asked Joe.

  "J. F. will be glad to do me a little favor," Andrea assured him. "He's a pussycat."

  Frank and Joe gave each other a quick grin. It was hard to imagine the dignified Graham as a "pussycat," and they doubted that Graham would care much for the label.

  "So, Mr. Hardy - Fenton - will you?" Jim Addison leaned forward anxiously.

  "You see to getting jobs for Frank and Joe," replied Mr. Hardy, "and I'll take the case. I'll start by getting some background on Fairburn. Frank and Joe, you sniff around and pick up any gossip about him that you can find. Any known enemies, that kind of thing."

  "You got it, Dad," Frank assured him.

  Jim Addison and Andrea Stuart got up to leave.

  "I feel much better knowing that you're on the case," Jim Addison said, shaking Fenton's hand. "And I'll tell you one other thing," he added, looking grim. "Fairburn's friends could fit in a phone booth. You ask around, and you'll see. There are a lot of people who are glad to see him dead, and there are bound to be some who were willing to help him get that way."

  Chapter 3

  At seven o'clock the next morning Frank and Joe were standing just inside the door of a dimly lit sound stage. They had gotten up before six a. m. and didn't feel completely awake yet.

  The soundstage was enormous, like an airplane hangar. It was empty except for the far corner, where a small area was lit from powerful overhead lights. Forty feet above the boys was a network of narrow catwalks where people walked back and forth, adjusting and setting lights. Dozens of other people were milling around below, but it wasn't clear what they were doing.

  "So what now?" Joe wondered.

  "Look for someone in charge," Frank replied.

  "It's seven a. m., and all these people look like they've been here for hours," Joe muttered, only half awake. "Don't they believe in sleep in this business?"

  Before Frank could answer, a voice called out from somewhere in the vast, dim space. "Hey! You two! Are you Frank and Jim Harley?"

  A bearded, balding man in jeans and a shabby sweater came jogging toward them. Static and voices were being emitted from a walkie-talkie on his belt.

  "My name's Joe, not Jim, and that's Hardy, not Harley, but otherwise you got it right," Joe said grouchily.

  "Hardy. Yeah, right," said the man, making a note on a clipboard. "Right. Okay. I'm Hector Ellerby, the first A.D. - "

  "A.D.?" questioned Frank.

  "As in assistant director. I'm the guy you work for. I tell you what to do, and where and when to do it. You have any questions, ask me. You got any problems, come to me. Understood?'"

  "Well, actually, I do have a couple of questions," Frank began, but Hector waved him off.

  "Not now, I don't have the time. I've got to get over to the office. Trish'll show you around. Trish? Trish? Trish! Come on, dear, hustle!"

  A soft voice came out of the gloom. "Sorry, Hector, I was just getting - "

  "Yeah, right. Look, I have to run. Fred and Jim Hardy, the new P.A.s, are out here waiting. Show them the ropes, will you? Gotta go, bye!"

  "That's Frank and Joe," called Joe, but Hector was already out the door.

  "Don't let Hector get to you," said the voice from behind them. "He's all right. A.D.s are always racing around. It's part of the job."

  The Hardys turned and came face-to-face with a young woman who, even in the dim light, was obviously very pretty. Her black hair was cut in a short style that perfectly framed her large brown eyes. She wore jeans and a shiny black satin jacket, which said Bayport Studios in electric blue.

  "Frank and Joe, right?" She shook their hands. "I'm Trish Cochran. I'm going to direct movies someday. Right now I'm what they call a directing trainee."

  "Nice to meet you, Trish," said Frank.

  "I'll say," Joe agreed eagerly.

  "What's a trainee, exactly?" asked Frank.

  "I'm learning all about how movies and TV shows get made. Meanwhile, everybody gets to order me around. Everybody but you, that is. You guys are the only people around here that I outrank. Well, let me show you around. Come on."

  Trish led them over to the brightly lit area. There, the Hardys saw that furniture had been laid out, surrounded on three sides by "walls" - large canvas flats anchored by hinged legs and weighted down with sandbags. Through a "window" in one wall Frank and Joe could see a painted backdrop of a city street.

  Workers positioned chairs, changed and focused the lens of a huge camera mounted on a wheeled dolly, and maneuvered microphones on the ends of long poles. Others placed props on the desk. Apparently the set was an office of some kind. Two men stood motionless while someone put pieces of tape on the floor at their feet. A crew member measured the distance from the camera lens to the nose of one of the men, who, Trish whispered, were standins.

  "What are they standing in?" asked Joe.

  "They're standing in for some actors," she explained. "See, they're close enough in size and looks to the actors they work for, so that they can replace them and stand in while the crew focuses the camera and sets up lights and sound. That way the actors don't get tired out just standing around."

  Trish walked the brothers over to where a man sat in a canvas director's chair with the name Ivan stenciled on the back.

  Trish said, "Ivan, meet our new P.A.s Frank and Joe Hardy. Guys, this is Ivan Kandinsky, the director."

  Ivan Kandinsky wore a black jumpsuit. Around his neck hung a viewer, which he would occasionally peer through.

  "Frank, Joe. Delighted. Hardy - hmm. Have you, by chance, a relative named Andrew?"

  "Uh, no, not that I - " Frank started to say.

  "No, no, didn't think so."

  A woman ran up with a gun in each hand just then. "Which one should he carry, Ivan?"

  "Let's use the forty-five automatic, my dear." Kandinsky turned to Joe, who was staring at him. "Forty-fives have more presence, don't you think?"

  Joe nodded and Frank tried not to laugh.

  They walked over to the camera. There they met Jerry Morrall, the director of photography, a white-haired man with a bushy mustache.

  "Welcome to our happy family," said Morrall.

  "Nice to be here," replied Joe.

  "Sometimes it is," Morrall answered.

  "Bizarre," Joe whispered to his brother.

  "Over here, guys," called Trish. She stood next to a young man whose hair
was almost to his shoulders. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and headphones. In front of him was a rack with a complicated-looking tape recorder and a lot of electronic gear. Frank was fascinated.

  "Frank, Joe, this is Teddy Silva, the sound man. Everybody calls him Headcase because he always has those headphones on."

  "How you doing?" asked Headcase.

  "Say, what kind of a tape recorder is that?" Frank wanted to know. "Looks pretty special."

  "It's a Nagra. You find them mostly in studios. Cost about eight thousand dollars."

  "Eight thousand - " Frank was stunned.

  "More or less. Are you into electronics?"

  "Definitely," Frank replied.

  "Well, hey, let me show you. Trish, think you could hustle me up a cup of coffee?"

  "Sure thing. Be right back, guys."

  "Mind if I come along with you?" Joe asked, hopefully. He was always more interested in a pretty girl than a tape recorder.

  "Sure, come on. You'll need to know where the coffee is anyway. You'll be fetching your share of it. Oh, hi, Vic." A man had wandered up just then. Joe remembered him as one of the standins. He kept walking, looking very sour.

  "Oops, Vic's in a bad mood," said Trish.

  "He's always in a bad mood," noted Headcase.

  "That's Vic Ritchey, Jim Addison's standin," Trish explained.

  "What's his problem?" Joe asked.

  Trish explained. "He wants to act, but all he ever does is stand under the hot lights like a statue. Then, when it's time to do the interesting stuff, he's gone. He always doubles for Jim, but he hates it."

  "Sounds boring," Frank remarked.

  "It's a living," replied Headcase.

  "Come on, Joe, let's get the coffee," said Trish. "We have work to do."

  They walked over to a food table, on which were a big coffee urn, trays full of doughnuts, rolls, tea bags, sugar, and plastic foam cups. "They go through hundreds of gallons of coffee a day," Trish commented as she got a cup. "And all the sodas and the tea and tons of doughnuts."

  "Well, they must burn up lots of energy." Joe handed her a napkin.

  "It is hard work, but I love it. I'd almost do it for free." Trish smiled, and Joe stepped back from the urn to give her room to pass. In stepping back, Joe bumped into something very large and solid.

  A low voice growled, "Look where you're going, kid! You made me spill my coffee."

  Joe turned around and found a squat, powerful man glaring at him. He was wearing a T-shirt, now coffee-stained, over a massive set of muscles. He stared up at Joe from under bushy brows.

  Trish quickly said, "Joe Hardy, this is Sam Freed, one of our crew. Joe is a new pro - "

  "This stuff is to drink, not to bathe in," rumbled Freed. "You got that straight?"

  Joe felt his face getting red. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to - "

  "You want to get out of my way so I can get another cup, kid? I'm asking you real nice."

  "Come on, Joe," said Trish. "Let's go."

  "Yeah, that's a good idea," Freed said with an ugly smile. "Be careful and don't trip over yourself or get stepped on or anything."

  Joe was stung by the man's attitude.

  "Hey, I said I was sorry. If that's not good enough for you, that's your problem."

  Freed stepped closer to Joe until they were only inches apart. "Listen, punk," he said softly. "You better run along, right now, or you're gonna wake up with a bunch of footprints all over your face."

  "Try it," Joe answered as he tensed his body for possible action. "You may not find it so easy."

  Freed reached out a big hand and grabbed a handful of Joe's shirt.

  Chapter 4

  Almost without thinking, Joe lashed out and broke Freed's hold on his shirt. He braced for the fight that he knew was coming.

  A voice called out, "Hey, Freed! You going to take all day? Get back here!"

  The big man stepped back and looked at Joe. "See you around - punk," he said softly.

  Joe took a deep breath and relaxed. "That'll really make my day," he replied.

  As the man walked away, Joe noticed Trish watching him with frightened eyes.

  "Sorry," Joe said. "It won't happen again."

  It wasn't till midafternoon that Joe had a chance to tell Frank about his run-in with Freed. They'd been on the move all morning - delivering messages, calling actors from their dressing rooms, and bringing food and drink to crew members who were too busy to leave the set. Now they were passing out coffee.

  "Freed?" asked Frank. "That guy with muscles? I brought him a soda a while ago, and all he said was 'Thanks, kid.' He was nice enough."

  "Well, take it from me," said Joe, "he was ready to punch me out right there."

  "Well, you'd just made him spill hot coffee all over himself. Don't make too much of it."

  Joe wasn't convinced. "I guess we'll see. You get any interesting information yet?"

  Frank shrugged. "No time to make small talk with anyone. I've been kept running."

  Joe said, "I enjoy investigations, but being a waiter is a drag."

  "Come on, the camera crew wants coffee, too," a voice said from close by.

  Jerry Morrall had just worked out a camera angle and chosen the lens for the next scene. Now he was sitting in his chair, watching his assistants make the necessary adjustments. Frank handed him a cup of coffee.

  "Thanks, Frank. So, how do you like show business so far?" asked the director of photography.

  "Oh, it's okay. Interesting people."

  Morrall chuckled. "Interesting, huh? I like your choice of words. Yes, they're interesting, all right."

  Before Frank could ask Morrall what he meant, Joe came up and asked, "Who's the big guy sitting against the wall over there? He hasn't moved all day." Joe pointed to a large, round man who sat with his chair tilted against the wall, wearing a cowboy hat down over his eyes.

  "Oh, that's Alvin," said Morrall. "He's the unit's driver. But his real specialty is sitting. You'll never find a better sitter than Alvin. He can sit there for hours on end."

  "Does he ever do any driving?" Joe asked.

  "Sure, now and then," said Morrall. "But not while we're shooting here."

  "Did you know that guy who got killed, the writer?" asked Frank.

  "Fairburn? Sure, I knew him." Morrall looked at Frank suspiciously. "Why?"

  "Oh, no special reason," Frank said quickly. "Just curious. Somebody must have had it in for him, I guess," he added, trying to lead the conversation.

  Morrall leaned back with his coffee. Frank could almost see him struggle with his love of gossip and his fear of talking too much. Soon, though, the urge to gossip won out.

  "Well, guys, just between us, there were a few people here who weren't sad to see the last of Bennett Fairburn. Take Mel Clifford."

  "The one who runs the studio?" Joe said.

  "Uh - huh." Morrall nodded, leaned forward again, and lowered his voice. "He used to be a hotshot Hollywood movie producer once upon a time. Then he got himself into a mess. Seems he wrote a few checks and signed somebody else's name. The guy who blew the whistle on him was Fairburn. That was the end of Mel in the movies, and he figured it was Fairburn's fault that he works in TV now. So when they ran into each other here, well - "

  "Jerry!" called one of his assistants. "We're ready to shoot."

  "Okay," Morrall said, rising from his chair. "Hector, anytime now."

  "Let's lose the standins," Ellerby ordered. "Bring in the A team! Ready, Mr. Kandinsky!"

  The standins left, and the actors came in. The set was the office of the private eye and hero, played by tall, handsome Preston Lawrence. Monica Malone, a beautiful brunette actress, played his girlfriend. Lawrence was made up to have a bruised and swollen eye, and a bloody bandage was pasted on his forehead.

  "His bandage needs blood," said Kandinsky.

  "Makeup!" shouted Ellerby. "More blood on Mr. Lawrence's bandage!"

  A man ran in and carefully applied some fake blood fr
om a bottle with a Q-tip.

  "Okay, now let's rehearse it once. Something the matter, Monica?" said the director. Monica Malone was pouting angrily.

  "Ivan, I told you and told you, if the camera's here and I'm there on camera right, you get my bad side. Why can't I be by the desk, and Preston over there where I've been standing?"

  Now Preston Lawrence looked mad. "Oh, come on, Monica! If we switch places, then no one can see my black eye and bandage! I got beat up in the last scene, remember?"

  Watching this exchange, Frank poked Joe with an elbow and winked. Joe stifled a laugh.

  "Now, now, let's be pals," urged Kandinsky, jumping between his actors. "Monica darling, we have to do it this way, dear, or it won't match up with the other shots, you understand? But then we'll turn the camera around and shoot your close-ups with your good profile - not that you don't look gorgeous from both sides, dear - and it'll be fine. Trust me on this, okay?"

  "Well - oh, all right," the actress said, giving Lawrence one last dirty look.

  "Fantastic!" exclaimed Kandinsky, walking back to his chair and wiping his face with a handkerchief.

  "Give me a break!" Joe whispered to Frank.

  Frank nodded. "I wish Callie could see this."

  With the crisis solved, the master, or the full scene, was quickly shot. Then the crew got ready for the close-ups, which meant turning the camera around, changing some lights, and moving furniture. The actors, who had seemed to be very much in love only seconds before, walked away from each other without a word. The "B team" - the standins - took over.

  Just then Mel Clifford came bustling onto the set and called out, "Jerry! Over here!" With Clifford was a tall, very thin man in a dark suit. Morrall joined them and the three moved away to talk in private. Frank and Joe, watching curiously, noticed that Morrall looked worried. The tall, skinny man left then, almost running.

  Headcase called over to the Hardys, "Guys, come over here a sec, will you?"

  They went over to the sound man's equipment. "Just stand there and sort of block me from everyone," he said. "Great, stay right there." Frank and Joe were in front of Headcase, and out of the corner of his eye Joe saw him take out a long microphone set in a plastic reflector, like a small dish antenna, and aim it at the secret powwow.