She said she would. Now came one last hard part. I had to ask her where she was the night before.
“Last night?” She was surprised. “What happened last night?”
“A friend of mine was killed in a robbery at the Network building last night, Miss Bascombe.”
“I—I’m sorry to hear that, but what does it have to do with me?”
I scratched my head. “Well, among other things, the thief got away with a kinescope of ‘Be Still My Heart’?” I was hating this.
“So?”
“Well, the police have to look at things from all angles, Miss Bascombe. Two people have been murdered. In both cases, you happened to be in or near the city where it took place. Of course, you live near New York, but your being in Los Angeles attracts attention—you realized that yourself when you tried to slip away.”
“Go on,” she said. The ice was back, harder than ever.
“It has to be noticed, too,” I said, “that something connected with each murder, Bevic in the first case and that kine in the second, is tied in with something you might understandably be bitter about.”
“I have explained why I had no reason to be bitter toward Jim Bevic.”
“Pending the outcome of the test on this receipt,” I reminded her.
“Can you please tell us where you were last night?” I asked. “I’m going to have to make a report on this. I’m just trying to be thorough.”
“I was here.” She sighed. “I’m always here. Don’t say it, Mr. Cobb, except when I’m in California, yes. I don’t expect you to believe me.” The world had turned its back on her, but she was bravely resigned to it.
“I don’t suppose you can account for the Rover Boys?” I said.
“They were here, too. Would you like to ask them?”
“No, thank you,” I said, rising. “That’ll be all for now, Miss Bascombe.”
She closed her eyes for a few seconds, as though she were gathering strength, then stood up slowly, suddenly a very old woman.
“Yes,” she said. “For now. I’m sure you’ll be back, won’t you?”
“I’d like to bring your receipt back, when the police are done with it, if that’s all right with you.”
Wilma Bascombe shuddered, but like a good hostess, showed us to the door.
CHAPTER 10
“Why? Because we like you!”
—JIMMIE DODD, “THE MICKEY MOUSE CLUB,” ABC
I WAS LATE FOR the meeting in the penthouse of the Tower of Babble. I blamed it all on Sammy and Murph. First, I had to take Llona back to the Network. Next, I had to go home to change my suit, which had been ripped when Sammy threw me to the ground. Then, as long as I was home, I figured I’d give Spot a break, so I arranged for him to go to the park with the Rhode children from downstairs, and their nanny, Miss Featherstone (pronounced “Fearson”—don’t ask me to explain British pronunciations). Spot likes kids. I made a note to remind Rick and Jane of that when they got back.
Despite all this, it was only eighteen minutes after three when I made it up to the president’s building-wide office on the thirty-seventh floor. They’d made a lot of progress in eighteen minutes—ties were loosened, ashtrays full.
Theoretically, this was a production meeting. The production meeting is a very important part of the creative process in television. That’s where the people who have conceived a show trade ideas with the people who will have to put it to work. At its best, a production meeting can provide an almost artistic satisfaction, like choral singing. Everyone contributes his own little note, and the result is something more than anyone could have come up with on his own.
That’s at its best. This particular production meeting was far from that. For one thing, the cast was wrong. I mean, you’d expect Porter Reigels to be there, as producer-director of the show. Tom Falzet, president of the Network, had named himself executive producer (to get his name in all the publicity material), so he belonged there. Sal Ritafio’s presence was fine, too. Publicity is such an important part of a project like “Sight, Sound, & Celebration” that the constant presence of a PR person is almost a must.
But then there were the rest of us. Me, for starters. Special Projects has about as much to do with producing TV shows as Joe DiMaggio has to do with producing coffee. The same went for Colonel Coyle, of Security, and for Wilberforce, a little barracuda in rimless eyeglasses who was the head of the Legal Department.
They were sitting at a huge table in the mathematical center of Falzet’s office. Numerous assistants and flunkies were there, too.
Reigels was talking as I came in. “I think it’s a good idea,” he said. He was using the Texas whisper, the same tone of voice Lyndon Johnson would use so often when he wanted to sound sincere. “If we can get Melanie to believe finding that bowling ball is important to us, she’ll play along. You know—”
Falzet interrupted him. “Well, I see you could finally join us, Cobb. It’s nice you can make time for things of such trivial unimportance like this.”
Falzet was in his fifties, slightly horse-faced, but still handsome. He was one of those people I had complained to Llona about—he liked to fill his mouth up with syllables to hear himself talk longer. He was always making himself ridiculous by saying things like “trivial unimportance.” As opposed to what, vital unimportance?
“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry I’m late. Bomb threat.”
A murmur of consternation went around the table.
“Relax,” I said. “It’s all taken care of.” I paused before adding, “I think.” Then, happy in the knowledge that I had done my bit to ensure the meeting would be as brief as possible, I said, “What have I missed?”
Reigels said, “Well, we were just discussing a suggestion by Sal, here”—he slapped Ritafio on the back, hard—“that we tell the press old Matt Cobb is devoting all his energies to getting that bowling ball back.”
“It’s always effective PR,” Ritafio said meekly. “You know, ‘We’ve put our best man on it.’ ”
I had to laugh.
Falzet barked, “Dammit, Cobb, this isn’t funny!” He doesn’t like it when I laugh at something he doesn’t get.
I straightened my face. “No, sir,” I said.
“Anyway,” Reigels continued, “I was about to say I think it’s a fine idea. I know all the wrong ways to deal with Melanie—all that’s left is the one I wouldn’t try.” He grinned. About five years ago, Reigels had directed Melanie in her only box office catastrophe. During the filming, the gossip columnists had a field day, because Reigels and Melanie fought the whole time. Reigels came out the winner (at least in the press) because his cuss-free insults were printable. Unfortunately for him, it had been a Pyrrhic victory. The movie stank, and worse than that, it lost money. Reigels hadn’t worked a whole lot since, and it was no secret he was broke. The rumor was that Falzet had tabbed Reigels for “SS&C” because he would work cheap for the chance to be a winner again.
“I should have learned earlier,” the director said, still grinning, “that that blond mustang just don’t understand it when you say ‘no,’ but you can lead her a mile if you tell her, ‘I’ll try.’ ”
Wilberforce talked quietly, too. While he spoke, his hands constantly tormented a paper clip. I wondered why it didn’t snap. “I don’t like the plan,” he said. “It’s only a gesture to Marliss’s ego. There’s no guarantee she won’t sue, anyway.”
“We could at least delay it until after the dang show has aired.”
Wilberforce nodded. “That’s fine for you, Mr. Reigels. After the show airs, you are through with it. But what if Mr. Cobb fails to find this...toy? Not only would Marliss still be free to bring suit, Mr. Ritafio’s ‘gesture’ could be interpreted as an admission of responsibility.” If Wilberforce had ever in his life been frightened, or excited, or in love, or done anything remotely human, the experience had left no trace in his voice.
“She won’t do that,” Reigels insisted. “Melanie is—well, believe it or not, she
likes to think she’s ‘jes’ folks,’ but that the public sought her out and made her be a star.”
I could see that. It was a crock, of course, but I could see where it would appeal to Melanie Marliss. It would be a nice rationalization for all the privileges of celebrity she enjoyed—the public forced them upon her. It made an interesting contrast, I thought, with Wilma Bascombe, whose hang-up was she didn’t want the public to know she was human enough to care what they thought.
“It may be you’re right,” Wilberforce purred, “but there is also Lorenzo Baker.”
Reigels snorted. “Melanie’s current lap dog.”
“Lap dogs have teeth, and have been known to use them. From what Mr. Ritafio tells us, Baker is very quick to assert Marliss’s status.”
“But the publicity value alone,” Ritafio piped up.
The discussion showed signs of becoming a free-for-all, and I hate those. Without consulting my mind, my mouth said, “Does anyone care what I think?”
Instantly, they all shut up. Falzet said, “Yes, Cobb. What do you think?” And he folded his hands like a kid waiting for a treat.
All right, I asked for it. Now I had to think something. There were a lot of things wrong with Ritafio’s plan. As far as I could see, all of Wilberforce’s objections were valid. Besides that, it would make Special Projects, and especially Matt Cobb, highly visible. If I fell on my face, it might give Falzet enough ammunition to get rid of me, no matter how friendly I was with Roxanne Schick.
But there was one thing very right about Ritafio’s plan. If it was publicized Network policy to find that stupid bowling ball, then no one could complain when I devoted the whole department to it—and to finding the bastard who took it.
“Jerry de Loon,” I said.
“What?” Falzet looked puzzled.
“Jerry de Loon,” I said again. “It just occurred to me that it would be nice if somebody mentioned his name.”
“Oh. Yes. But what do you think of Ritafio’s plan, Cobb?”
“I’ll do it.”
Ritafio got as close to a smile as he ever did. Reigels said, “That’s a boy!” Falzet nodded judiciously. Wilberforce shook his head. The various flunkies copied their bosses.
“However,” I went on, “I have some comments about how we should go about it.” Translation: I’ll do the dirty work, but I’ll pick the guy who hands me the shovel.
Falzet caught on, realized he no longer had a choice, and signaled me to continue.
“First,” I said, “if the Network is going to make a gesture, let’s make it a real gesture. I think Melanie would be most impressed if the message came directly from the president of the Network, don’t you?”
Coyle spoke for the first time. “I have to agree with Cobb, sir. Only the commander can speak for the entire company.”
It had been a mistake for the colonel to remind Falzet he was there. Falzet asked him what he had done to prevent future thefts.
Coyle replied with the military equivalent of a squirm—the humble bluster. “Well—ah—we have—ah—beefed up patrols by guards—and stationed men—ah—at fire exit doors...”
“Locking the barn door after the cow is gone,” Falzet said, dismissing him. Another thing that irked me about our president was that he could never get a cliché right.
“One thing I don’t want,” I said, “is reporters all over my back. Special Projects is the smallest department in the corporation, and I can’t spare a person just to say ‘no comment’ on the phone.”
Ritafio was about to cry. “But the whole idea is to generate a good press—”
“Then give me somebody, for crying out loud. Can you spare anyone?”
Ritafio’s face lightened a little. “That’s even better!” Maybe this was a production meeting after all. “This way, we can have a professional dealing with the media!” He thought it over for a few seconds. “How about Llona Hall? She’s my best, and she’s free after the banquet tomorrow night.”
“Llona will be fine,” I said.
“I’ll brief her right away,” Ritafio promised.
Porter Reigels beamed. “Terrific, terrific. I’ll go with you, Falzet, when you talk to Melanie. I can apologize to her again for that stupid movie—that always seems to put her in a good mood.”
“She has forgiven you, then?” Wilberforce wanted to know. I decided he was asking because forgiveness was a concept with which he was not familiar.
“Dozens of times,” Reigels drawled. “We get along just fine, now.”
“Then it’s all decided and settled,” Falzet intoned. “But what do you plan to do, Cobb, while Reigels and myself are approaching Miss Marliss?”
“Myself will be working on neutralizing Lorenzo Baker,” I told him. “In fact, I better get started. If you’ll excuse myself?” I beat it before he could tell me how bad my grammar was.
I took the stairs down the two flights to my office, said hello to Jazz, went into my office, and sat down. I looked in my desk for my purple jelly beans, took a handful, then walked over to the brown-glass window. I stood close to it, and looked down on the people scurrying around on Sixth Avenue below. When you work in a tower, every now and then it helps if you take an occasional peek into the real world.
I went back to my desk. The first thing to do was to figure out what I was up against. I had two parallel ambitions: Find Melanie’s toy (for the Network); and find the person who killed Jerry (for me, or maybe for him, or his girl). That much was simple enough, but then the complications set in. What could anyone want the bowling ball for? To bowl? To hold for ransom? Did they plan to make John F. Kennedy’s campaign joke come true, and collect a bunch of bowling balls to make a rosary for the Statue of Liberty? Or was the motive simply to make trouble for the Network? Or was it to bother Melanie Marliss?
A real headache, and I hadn’t even started speculating about the stolen kinescopes, yet. Kids’ shows and “Be Still My Heart.” What for? First I thought the kines could have been a blind for the theft of the bowling ball, then I turned it around and said the bowling ball was taken to obscure the motive for taking the films. Then, as unlikely as it seemed, I considered the possibility that both had been stolen as a blind for the murder of Jerry de Loon.
And as long as I was thinking grim thoughts, I finally let an idea that bad been gnawing quietly at the bottom of my brain all day into my conscious thoughts. Maybe Jerry was in on the thefts. I could see it as a variation on the prison-escape scene that’s been in thousands of bad movies and TV shows. Jerry is in cahoots with someone in a plot to despoil the Network of its treasures. Jerry lets his confederate (who has hidden out somewhere in the building) into the library. They load the kines, along with the bowling ball, into some oversized knapsack or something—or even better—(I was really getting started now)—the kines are already long gone. Jerry (in this theory) has been stealing them, one a night, from the library, slipping them under his coat. That’s why he works late so often—he doesn’t want anyone to back into him on a crowded elevator and come up against a concealed can of film.
Anyway, whatever the cohort plans to get away with, he has it, and is ready to go, when Jerry says, “Let’s make this look real good, like on the bad movies and TV shows. Hit me on the head.”
So his friend hits him. Just a friendly tap, he thinks, but he doesn’t know anything about hematomas, emboli, and the like. The friend goes down the fire stairs, and waits for Jerry to get over his wooziness enough to pull the fire alarm and mask the confederate’s exit from the building.
“Aah, shit,” I said in disgust, but I couldn’t fool myself into thinking that wasn’t the best theory yet. Not that it was a great theory by any means, but it did explain why the bowling ball and the kines were apparently taken on the same night—they weren’t, but the bowling ball had been taken to create that very illusion, and set the police on the trail of a Mr. Universe who could carry that much film at one time.
Unfortunately, it didn’t explain what Jerry, or h
is helper, or Mr. and Mrs. America and All the Ships at Sea, for that matter, wanted with kinescopes. Nostalgia? Jerry could have looked at those kines whenever he wanted to, even after he left the Network. The plan was to open the library, by appointment, to anyone who wanted to use it. The Network would get a tax credit that way. Maybe he was planning to start a fire somewhere—some old film stock burns like crazy. But if a fire was what the thief had in mind, gasoline would be easier to get, surer to use, and harder to trace. The only other possible reason I could come up with was that the thief planned to carve them up into triangles and corner the market on guitar picks.
I was depressed; not only because I liked Jerry and hated to think of him as a crook, but because a careful survey of all my speculation failed to show the first hint of a lead, or even a question to ask that one could check the answer to.
Unless, of course, the bizarre bowling ball business really was connected with the murder of Jim Bevic five days ago. Then there were leads enough to retire on. There was the question of what Bevic had been doing in Costa Rica; what he was doing after that in Los Angeles; what (if anything) Shelby, Green, and Brockway had to do with Bevic’s death (besides providing the premises and finding the corpse); and finally: did Wilma Bascombe have anything to do with it at all? It was heartening to realize two great American police forces were eagerly pursuing all these questions.
The trouble was, I was a New York Boy, and this looked like a California crime. Except for Jerry de Loon, every important figure in this case, down to and including Melanie Marliss’s bowling ball, either resided in Los Angeles (Melanie, Lorenzo Baker, Porter Reigels); was in Los Angeles at the time Bevic was murdered (Wilma, or Bevic himself); or possibly both (Shelby, Green, Brockway). But whatever the category, they had all left the land of Sun and Fun for the city of Hustle and Bustle.
And, I had to keep reminding myself, there was no guarantee there was any connection at all.
Still, it couldn’t hurt to get a few facts. I swallowed a last gooey morsel of jelly bean, sighed, and buzzed my secretary on the intercom.
Killed in the Act Page 9
