Killed in the Act

by William L. DeAndrea

  She asked what I was doing, but I wasn’t about to go answering any questions, either. She found out soon enough when she heard me ask for Lieutenant Martin’s office.

  Wilma made a noise that was too dignified to be called a snarl. Then she took some loud breaths, and finally stood up and strode to the door.

  I was going to tell her to stop, but that was the second the lieutenant picked up the phone. “What do you want, Matty?”

  “More crank phone calls, Lieutenant,” I said. Wilma stopped and looked back at me. I gave her my I-told-you-so look. “One crank call, anyway,” I told the phone. “Wilma Bascombe this time, someone pretending to be me.”

  “Yeah? What does she say you told her?”

  “She didn’t say, but it must have been pretty awful. She expects me to tell you something that would get her arrested for murder.”

  Wilma was dazed; literally tottering in her tracks. I dashed around my desk to help her back to her chair. When I picked up the phone again, the lieutenant was saying, “Matty? Matty? What happened?”

  “Nothing, forget it. Only I think we ought to get this straightened out, don’t you? Should I bring Miss Bascombe downtown, or do you want to come up here?”

  Lieutenant Martin sighed. “I’ll come to you. Don’t move. But, Matty, I want you to do one thing for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Next time you hear a little kid say he wants to grow up to be a cop, smack him in the mouth.”

  I told him I would and said good-bye. Now, it became impossible to get Wilma to wait to talk. She told me how humiliated she was, how I must forgive her, and the whole humble groveling number.

  She was still gullible—my phone call to Headquarters could have been a blind. I didn’t point it out to her—I wanted to hear about the mysterious threat, and the equally mysterious confession.

  She told me about the confession first. “Why, because nobody believes me, don’t you understand? If I tell the police I did something, all they’ll do is look for evidence that I didn’t. If I deny it, all they’ll look for is evidence that I did!”

  It made sense, sort of, especially if you grant the premise that people would always believe the opposite of what Wilma Bascombe said. It seemed a little drastic to me, though, especially considering what she told me about the threat.

  Like Lorenzo Baker’s secret admirer, Wilma’s caller had spoken in whispers, making it impossible to tell if a man or a woman had been speaking. And like Lorenzo’s friend, Wilma’s caller hadn’t paused for chitchat. Wilma couldn’t remember the voice’s exact words, but the gist of the whole thing was that Wilma had better get in touch with Matt Cobb, before Cobb and Shorty Stack turned up some “witnesses” who had seen her lurking around the grounds of the Shelby residence in Los Angeles the day Jim Bevic was killed.

  “I was very frightened, Mr. Cobb,” Wilma said gravely. “Everyone in show business knows the kind of things Shorty Stack can do. The kind of things he has done. When he was with Mammoth Studios back in the forties...”

  “The caller didn’t say anything else?” I wasn’t especially eager to know about Shorty’s sordid past; at least not right then. But I did note the fact that this man was feared. I’d have to keep an eye on him. It was likely he was so secure in his job because he had something to hold over the Network. I didn’t want to ever be in a position where he had something heavy to wave over my head.

  “No,” Wilma Bascombe said, “that was all.” She went on to explain, over my protest that it wasn’t necessary, why she had assumed I, or an agent of mine, had made the call. “My number is unlisted, and I knew you had the facilities to find out what it was.”

  “It’s not so hard to get someone’s unlisted number,” I said, but she ignored me.

  “...And besides, I know about this man Stack. I know that you’re his superior. How could I assume you were any different than he is?”

  That hurt. I was preparing a defense of my character when the lieutenant arrived, along with Detective Rivetz. Wilma went through the whole story again for their benefit. Rivetz took notes. When it was over, none of us was happy, with the exception of Wilma.

  “It’s nice to fear something terrible and not have it come true,” she said.

  Lieutenant Martin scratched his head. “I wish there was something we could do about this, but there really isn’t.”

  “And that,” Rivetz put in, “is a damn shame.” He took a piece of paper from his breast pocket with one hand, while with the other, he performed the unprecedented action of taking off his hat.

  “This is the receipt you got from Bevic,” he said, handing Wilma the paper. “Cobb gave it to us to test. It checks out completely genuine.” Wilma took it from him and thanked him. She raised a hand in a gesture of benediction, looked benignly at the three of us, and said she hadn’t been so happy since 1950, when the man she loved had gone off to Korea.

  “I think you really should tell your own story, Miss Bascombe,” I said. “There’s no disgrace in speaking out for yourself. Maybe others could learn from your life. And once it’s all out in the open, you wouldn’t have to be your own prisoner any more.”

  For the third time she rose to go. “Perhaps you’re right, Mr. Cobb.” She smiled, a warm smile this time. “Good-bye.”

  I promised to set up a meeting with a sympathetic editor at Austin, Stoddard & Trapp. She thanked me and the lieutenant and Rivetz again, and left.

  The door closed behind her. I turned to congratulate Rivetz for trying niceness for a change, but he was laughing.

  “She’s up to something,” he said joyfully. “How much you want to bet?”

  “Shut up, Rivetz,” the lieutenant said.

  “Just talking,” Rivetz said mildly. So much for that change of heart.

  “Are you going to be back for the show?” I asked the lieutenant.

  “Damn right. Anybody wants to try something tonight, they’re going to have to do it right under my nose.” Rivetz grunted his agreement, and they left.

  I turned on the office TV to the Giants game on another network, and watched the game with one eye while I got a head start on Monday’s work—okaying the work schedule for November, reading and approving Jazz’s rendition of the monthly report to the Board, things like that. The Giants hung on teeth and toenails for a thrilling 9-6 win, so I left the post-game show on while I tried to call my apartment. That there was no answer was a mild surprise, but I wasn’t worried—I figured Llona was out walking Spot or something.

  I did some more work, then tried again. Still no answer. After about two hours of this, I did start to get worried. I almost forgot, in fact, to switch on “Sight, Sound, & Celebration” at six o’clock.

  I toyed with the idea of watching the show from someplace more immediate than in front of a TV screen, but I wasn’t eager to hobnob with the various big shots who would be taking up those theater seats in the control room. Six hours was a long time to stand up in back of a set, which is what I’d have had to do if I went into the studio itself, so I decided to skip it.

  Besides, I wasn’t about to be inaccessible in an on-the-air studio at a time like this. With my luck, that would be the precise time Shirley called from Costa Rica with information that would make the world make sense. Until and unless I heard something from her tonight, Mr. M. and Colonel Coyle could have the responsibility for Studio J all to themselves. I wished them joy of it.

  In the meantime, I leaned back to enjoy the show.

  And it was one hell of a show. The first ten minutes were devoted exclusively to an introduction of talent. Name after name went by, each bigger than the last. Then the Anchorman came out. He always looked like everyone’s rich uncle—tonight he looked like your rich uncle as a guest at your wedding—tuxedoed and as proud as if he were singlehandedly responsible for the success of not only the Network, but all of American television.

  The show came back from a commercial to a monumental production number that used practically all of that h
uge, multileveled set. It was a salute to the Network’s music, with the dancers wearing costumes from past Network hits, and dancing to the theme music that through sheer weekly repetition, is a part of every TV watcher’s mental luggage forever. There was great camerawork, special video effects, and unbelievable color. It looked like Reigels had a winning show here. TV had come a long way from the blue-gray talking shadows that had flickered on a postage-stamp screen and captured little Matt Cobb’s imagination so many years ago.

  It occurred to me that little Matt Cobb had come a long way with it. I was on the inside, now, like a kind of electronic Alice. But TV was still magic to me. In spite of everything.

  The Anchorman started to work his way around the hall. His first interview was with Hans Lafgar, age 100, who was the last survivor from the cast of Die Walküre that had started this whole craziness off.

  That’s when Llona came in. “Hi, Matt,” she said. “What are you doing up here?” There was a note of something forced in her cheerfulness; she looked pretty well done in. Apparently, it had been even a rougher night than I had thought.

  “Hello, stranger,” I told her. “Where have you been all afternoon?”

  “Oh, walking around the park with Spot. Then I went downtown to my apartment to change, and I lost track of time. How’s the show?”

  “Believe it or not, it’s as good as you and Ritafio promised it was going to be.”

  “Impossible,” she said. She sank into a chair. “This business can get to you,” she said. I agreed. She looked at me quizzically. “Why aren’t you downstairs?”

  I told her about waiting for Shirley’s call. Llona said, “Oh,” kicked off her shoes, did that cute scissors trick with her legs, and sat back to watch the show. For a little while. Then she got up and started walking around the office with her arms folded across her breast. She went to the window and looked out at Manhattan, which is something to see, even on a Sunday night.

  I didn’t want to make a big thing of being worried about her—I waited until a commercial came on before I asked her what was on her mind.

  She turned from the window and said, “I’m thinking about us, Matt.”

  So now it was official. There was an “us.” “And?” I said.

  “I don’t know. I’m afraid.”

  “No need to be,” I told her.

  “Oh yes, there is. I’m not going to let you take me from myself, that’s for sure.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  She leaned on her fists over my desk. Her face was stern, and her voice was tight. “It means I have plans and—and dreams that I’m not going to give up. Not even for you. Especially not for you.”

  I took her hands from the desk, held them in mine. “What have I asked you for, Llona?” No answer. “Well?”

  “If you had...”

  “I know, if I had it never would have gone this far, right?” The commercial was over, and the Anchorman was shouting from the screen about something. I turned the volume down. I went to Llona, took her by the shoulders, and pressed her into a chair.

  “Look,” I said, “I never told you ‘I like you, but...’ did I? I wouldn’t ask you to give up a dream any more than I would ask you to cut off an ear. If you want to run for President of the United States, or run away to that island you’re always talking about, go ahead. I’ll be proud of you for it.”

  She bit her lip and looked at me. “You really mean that?”

  “Want it in writing?”

  “I think maybe I can take your word for it,” she said. I bent and kissed her.

  After that was finished, Llona said, “Matt, I think I ought—”

  The phone rang, and I held up a hand for Llona to pause. “Matt Cobb,” I told the phone. It was Harris from the outer office. Shirley was on the line.

  “Put her through, Harris,” I said. “This could be it,” I told Llona. “Cross your fingers.”

  There was a click in the receiver, then live, from Costa Rica, it was Shirley Arnstein.

  “Faster than usual, Ace,” I told her. “What did you find out?”

  Shirley sounded glum. “You’ll have to tell me that, Matt. It looks like a fizzle to me.”

  “Where are you?” I asked. “Did you talk to McHarg yet?”

  Shirley’s answer was lost in a blare of fast, angry Spanish. Somebody said something about somebody’s mother, then there was a crash.

  “What was that?” I demanded.

  “Oh, nothing. I’m calling from the police station—only phone in the village. They just arrested somebody for selling the chief a sterile rooster. Ignore it.”

  There was a noise like an elephant falling on a kettle drum. I ignored it. “Okay, what happened?”

  “Well, he has a villa just north of here. I just mentioned around town that I heard he was interested in doing a book, and a jeep came by to pick me up in less than two hours. Matt, he looks like a corpse. Remember how jolly and confident he used to look on all the talk shows, before he took off with the money? Now, he’s two inches from death. He keeps going to sleep while you talk to him.”

  There was a sound of glass breaking in the background. Either rooster fraud was a serious offense, or the suspect had objections about being booked.

  “Okay,” I told Shirley. “He’s sick. Cheaters never prosper. What did he say, for Christ’s sake?”

  “He says he didn’t tell Jim Bevic anything, once he found out that Bevic was planning his own book, and wasn’t especially interested in working with McHarg. Called him a crook. It’s important to McHarg that this caper stay notorious—‘On top of history,’ is how he puts it.”

  “Well, sure,” I said. “He’s hardly in a position to enjoy the money, is he?”

  “I guess not. The amount he got is important to him, though. He—mira, idiota!”

  “Are you all right?” I asked anxiously.

  “Somebody spilled rum on me. Where was I? Oh, right, the money. He says he could have gotten more if he took more time to set it up, and made fewer promises to the investors. He says he scared off the smart ones.

  “He told me, though, it was a real thrill for him to have met all those celebrities, and taken their money away from them.” Shirley went on to list a few.

  I interrupted her. “And, of course, your friends and mine, Ken Shelby and Lenny Green.”

  There was an enormous, roaring crash, then silence. I was afraid the phone had gone dead, but it was just the end of the fight. I wondered who won.

  Shirley cleared her throat. “That’s just it, Matt,” she said.

  “That’s just what?”

  “McHarg swears up and down that he never got a nickel from Shelby and Green, or anyone connected with them.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “Do you think there’s too much violence on television?”

  —DAWS BUTLER, “BEANY AND CECIL,” ABC

  I MUST STILL HAVE been able to speak, because I distinctly remember hearing Shirley answer questions. It seems to me, though, that I stood there screaming and stamping my feet on the floor. That was what I felt like doing.

  The next thing I actually remember saying was, “Okay, Shirley. Good job, as usual. Come home as soon as you can.”

  “Right, Matt,” she said. “Sorry.” There was a click as she hung up the phone, but my line stayed open.

  Harris Brophy’s voice said, “Matt?”

  “Harris? Were you listening to the whole conversation?”

  “Sure,” he said placidly.

  I blew up at him. “Look, Brophy, any time you want this job, just say so—”

  Harris laughed. “No way, José.”

  “—but until then, I’ll tell you anything I want you to know. This line stays private. Is that clear? And another thing...”

  The door opened, and Harris walked into the room. “I figured it was silly to get yelled at over the phone when I was only ten feet away,” he explained. “I’m sorry, Matt, but it’s at least partly your fault, you know.”
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  “Yeah?”

  “You run this outfit like the Three Musketeers. It’s easy to forget who the boss is.”

  I shook my head at him. “What do you want me to do? Brand my initials in your hide?” From her chair, Llona laughed. Harris grinned, along with her.

  I joined them. “Okay, Harris,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Shirley’s message. Do you think we ought to fill the police in on the ramifications?” He didn’t spell out the ramifications—that was a compliment. My name has the honor to appear on the short list of people Harris Brophy doesn’t consider stupid.

  Llona wanted to know what Shirley had said.

  I told her.

  To judge from Llona’s face, she was more upset to hear it than I had been. “What—what does that mean?” she asked. She seemed almost afraid of the answer.

  I shrugged. “If he’s lying, all it means is that he’s managed to keep up with the news from the States in spite of isolation and creeping senility.”

  “Shirley did mention a stack of recent copies of the Times around Ollie’s place,” Harris pointed out. I had forgotten that—it had come during the mental spasm after Shirley sprang her surprise.

  “That’s probably it, then,” I said. Old Ollie wants to be remembered as everyone’s favorite old scoundrel. He’d rather not be associated with nasty people like killers and murder victims.

  “But if he’s telling the truth...” I paused to think, chewing the inside of my cheek. “If he’s telling the truth, that certainly explains Jim Bevic’s trip to California. That’s a statement that begs to be checked out.”

  “If he’s telling the truth,” Harris said, “the attempt on Shelby and Green makes no sense at all. I mean, McHarg’s not getting the money makes it look like some funny business pulled by the two of them, right? So why try to kill them?”

  I told him I couldn’t believe he was asking me. All I could do was add this latest item to the theft of the bowling ball, and the kines; the crazy threats against Baker and Bascombe; and all other of the opium-dream details of this fiasco.

  I sighed. “I suppose Lieutenant Martin ought to be told about this right away. Come down to the studio with me, Harris—he’s probably not going to be easy to find.”