Blood on the Boards

by Gault, William Campbell

  Joe nodded. “I asked Larry Puma last night if he’d seen anybody running up that way. Larry heard the shot.”

  They were walking through the house as they talked, and they were now in Joe’s bedroom.

  Krivick sniffed and looked wonderingly at Joe.

  “Kind of sissy for shaving lotion, isn’t it?” Joe admitted. “The girls seem to like it, though.”

  “My wife does,” Krivick said. “That’s the scent she wears. I’m glad she was at my mother’s house, last night.”

  Joe shrugged. “You know how it is, when you’re handsome and rich.”

  “Not me, not either one. Well, Joe, keep your ears and eyes open for me, won’t you? Once a cop, always a cop. Right, Joe?”

  “Right, Ernie. Say hello to the west side gang for me.” “Sure will. We’ll have to come out here for poker some night.”

  “I’ve got the cards and the chips,” Joe said, “and they’ve never been used.”

  Since Dysart had been released, Joe didn’t phone Sharon as he’d promised. Because there was no point in telling her Krivick didn’t have a case against Alan; she would undoubtedly forward the information to Alan. And it wasn’t a thing Krivick would want repeated.

  At noon, he went to the center to eat, and then over to the park. The playground was loaded with kids from the parochial school near by; the tennis courts were in use. He stood on the top of the slope behind the kitchen, studying the road that led to the service yard.

  The only place of concealment was the incinerator, as Krivick had suggested. He went over to stand behind that.

  There was no place to run from here, except back toward the clubhouse. It was surrounded by a high cyclone fence. And the gate would undoubtedly be locked at night.

  Of course, over under the trees, there was that barbecue grill and oven, but that would require a long flight through a lighted area.

  Joe came around the end of the building to study the curved drive that ran in front of the main door. And here he saw the best possibility for escape. There was a parking area here.

  If the killer had any guts, he wouldn’t run away from the clubhouse. He’d run up the slope, past the body, to this area and get into his car.

  The corner of the building would shield him from Joe’s vision. Then, as the hubbub grew, he could step out of his car, as though he’d just arrived, and walk leisurely to the front door.

  He? Why did he think of the killer as a “he”? It could just as well be a “she.” Either way, this was the logical escape route. The killer could expect a certain amount of indecision from the people in the clubhouse and even the possibility that no one would come out to investigate the noise.

  No, he couldn’t expect that with a playground full of kids. Or she couldn’t. Kids are too nosy.

  Joe turned back toward the clubhouse and saw a man watching him. Joe had seen him around the clubhouse on rehearsal night but didn’t know his name. He was a dark, stocky man.

  Joe smiled, as the man came over, and said, “How are you?”

  “Worried,” the man said. “I’ve suddenly been given special attention by the police. Aren’t you Joe Burke, the—former policeman?”

  “That’s right. I’m not sure we’ve met.”

  “We haven’t. My name is Leonard Smith. Have you any—I mean, could you guess why I am suddenly singled out for special consideration?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Joe lied. “The Department overlooks nothing, of course.”

  “Everything was routine, until about half an hour ago,” Smith went on. “I received no more attention than the rest of the players. And then, this noon, Sergeant Krivick picked me up at the house and brought me over here. He said he wanted some information, that he needed help from someone familiar with the area and I seemed to be one of the few members who was home during the day.”

  “That makes sense,” Joe said.

  “Perhaps. But once here, his questioning led me to believe I was more than a guide. I hardly knew Dysart; I’d certainly have no reason to—to, well, do what was done to him.”

  “How did you happen to know him?” Joe asked. “Was he ever active in the Players?”

  “No. He produced the first picture I ever worked on. I was an assistant dialogue director on Galagan Ridge.”

  “That was a great picture,” Joe said. “I saw it twice, and I’m no movie fan.”

  “He was a great producer,” Smith said. “He had enough taste to avoid the banal and enough sense to avoid the arty. I could use a drink, couldn’t you?”

  “The afternoon is yawning at me,” Joe agreed, “but there aren’t any bars in this neck of the woods.”

  “There’s one less than three blocks from here,” Smith said. “Mine.”

  Joe put a hand on the stocky man’s shoulder. “What are we standing around for? Let’s go.”

  As they climbed into Joe’s new car, Smith asked, “Is this standard transportation for retired detectives?”

  “No. I inherited some money.”

  “Oh? You wouldn’t be interested in backing a picture, would you? A low budget, extremely fine picture with great commercial possibilities?”

  “Not this afternoon,” Joe said.

  “Of course. We’ll talk about it another time. I had to ask, though.”

  Leonard Smith’s home was small but not cheap, with a view of the sea. The walls were shingled, the roof was a shake roof, and the small front yard was buried in shrubs and flowers.

  As they went up the flagstone walk to the front door, Smith said, “I could sell it, this minute, at a ten-thousand-dollar profit. I bought it before prices went crazy out here.”

  The living-room was cozy French provincial and a little too dainty for Joe’s taste. The study was better, paneled in etched plywood.

  The bookshelves that flanked the fireplace were shoulder high and crammed with books, all the books Joe hadn’t understood and hundred of others. The walls above the bookshelves were almost solid with autographed portraits of studio personalities.

  One portrait stood alone on the low mantel, an excellent photographic study of Sharon Cassidy. It was inscribed: With all my love.

  Joe stared at it for some seconds.

  “Beautiful girl,” Smith said.

  Joe nodded.

  “And completely without scruples,” Smith added. “Though, with my experience, I certainly should have been wary of the type.” He went to the small leatherette bar in one corner of the room. “What will it be, Joe?”

  “Bourbon and water, please. Sharon give you a bad time?”

  “Not bad. I made the mistake of thinking she was interested in me.” “And she wasn’t?”

  Smith chuckled. “Take another look at me, Joe. Short and plain and stout. Imagine yourself in Sharon’s shoes. Would you be?”

  “Looks aren’t everything, if you’ll pardon the frankness.”

  “No. There’s influence and money, too. I didn’t have quite enough of either. But I don’t regret it. Norah Payne is the kind of girl I’d like to settle down with. It’s only that I feel so silly with taller women.”

  “She’s a great girl,” Joe agreed. He took the drink Smith was handing him. “You’ve retired, too, Mr. Smith?”

  “More or less. Though not of my own volition. Only two kinds of people are employed in the industry right now, the extremely competent and the superlative schemers. I’m neither.” He went over to sit in a huge leather chair.

  “Television, I suppose,” Joe said. “How about this new three-dimensional stuff?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe, if they’d had three-dimensional characters from the start, this TV garbage would be no threat.” He chuckled. “The movies could be the first major entertainment medium destroyed by wrestlers.”

  “Major or minor,” Joe corrected him.

  “Well, no. Wrestling was destroyed by wrestlers.”

  “I’ll have another drink on that one,” Joe said.

  Smith nodded and rose. “And I.”
/>
  He brought a pair back from the bar with him, and Joe asked, “Did you know Dick Metzger?”

  “Slightly.” Smith paused a moment before handing Joe his drink. “What made you think of Dick Metzger?”

  “Well, you mentioned Norah Payne before, and I suppose I’ve been thinking of her, more or less, since. And thinking of Norah made me think of this Metzger.”

  “You didn’t know him, then?” Smith went back to his chair.

  “No. I never heard of him until Sharon mentioned him, the other night, and I saw the reaction it got from Norah.”

  “He wasn’t much,” Smith said. “A tall and wealthy bundle of charm. In a way he could be called a name-dropper. Only the names he dropped were Plato and Spinoza, Hindemith and Brahms, Rembrandt and Picasso and dozens of others, equally renowned. He knew nothing of these gentlemen beyond the names, but the circles he moved in weren’t likely to discover that. A thirty-two carat fraud.”

  “You didn’t like him, I take it?”

  Smith frowned. “What the hell is this, Joe, an investigation?”

  “Yes. But not of you. I’m interested in the kind of man who’d interest Norah Payne.”

  Smith studied Joe a moment. “Why? You don’t think Norah had anything to do with his death, do you?”

  “That wasn’t why I asked. Let’s talk about the Rams.”

  They talked about the Rams and the unusual weather, about the Players and the Police Department and the Palisades and the murder. Whisky went with the talk, and Joe relaxed on the chaise longue near the fireplace where he could watch the sea.

  It must have been strong whisky. For the talk grew dimmer in his ears, and he dozed off.

  When he wakened, it was growing dark outside. Leonard Smith was still sitting in the big leather chair, but he was now asleep.

  Joe rose to study the pictures on the wall. There were some big names here, and all of the pictures were autographed with affection. He went over to stand in front of Sharon’s picture.

  “Attention-compelling, isn’t she?” came from behind him.

  Joe turned to find Smith’s eyes on him. “She even dominates this gang. Only—sex, isn’t it?”

  “Only? It’s a rather important force. It’s an attraction that reaches men at all intellectual levels. And all social levels. Sharon used her power crudely, or she’d be under contract today, and not at a hundred a week.”

  “How was that?”

  “I’m not a tale bearer. There’s a Board of Directors’ meeting at eight. Are you going?”

  “I’m not a member of the Board.”

  “I am, and there’s nothing secret about us. You may as well sit in. I’ve some steaks in the refrigerator. How about it?”

  “You’re too good to me,” Joe said. “I’ll fry the potatoes.”

  • • •

  Norah was at the Board meeting and Walter Hamilton and Larry Puma and some others Joe knew only by sight. The treasurer, Pete Delahunt, gave the breakdown on the last production, which had been Skylark.

  The total receipts at the door amounted to slightly over two hundred and thirty-four dollars. Total production costs had amounted to a bit over two hundred and thirty-eight dollars. However, there had been a profit of almost thirty dollars on the refreshments: doughnuts, lemonade, and coffee.

  “Which,” Pete finished, “gives us a total profit of twenty-five dollars and eighty cents, a highly profitable three-day showing.”

  Joe laughed—and looked up to discover he was the only one laughing. They were all looking at him painfully.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Pete Delahunt smiled. “And if Mr. Burke would like to pay his two dollars for a year’s membership fee, we can add that to the kitty. And he can laugh all he wants.”

  “I’ll pay,” Joe said. “I was only thinking of Walter’s dream of a building of our own. With one production a month, that gives us twenty-six dollars a month. I never saw anything at that price, out here.”

  Walter Hamilton nodded. “That’s what keeps it a dream. But who wants attainable dreams?”

  “I, for one,” Norah said.

  Larry Puma said, “Maybe we’ll find an angel some day.”

  Hamilton told about the possibility of getting risers. If the Players would furnish the carpenter work, the Park Board would furnish the lumber.

  “And we need risers,” Walter pointed out. “Some of our steadiest customers have complained about getting stiff necks. Any volunteer carpenter in the room?”

  Joe raised his hand, as did Smith and two others. Smith said, “Though I won’t guarantee the quality of my work. And where will we store them when they’re not being used? Not in that closet-sized prop room.”

  Hamilton shrugged. “We’ll think of something.” He leafed through some papers in front of him. “I have a letter here from Jed Bishop, a director at Paramount. It’s in answer to a letter of mine asking him if he’d like to direct another of our productions. He would, and he’d like it to be The Man Who Came to Dinner. Any comment?”

  Pete Delahunt said, “It hasn’t been played around here for years. And everybody knows of it. It makes sense to me. How much of a cast would it take?”

  “Thirty-six, unless we cut it.”

  Larry Puma said, “That nympho character in it would be a natural for Sharon.”

  “If anyone is taking notes, as she should be,” Norah said, “I move that remark of Larry’s be stricken from the record.”

  Larry shrugged. “I was speaking objectively. Miss Cassidy is your friend, Miss Payne?”

  “They’re bosom companions,” Leonard Smith said, and ducked the purse Norah threw at him.

  Hamilton rapped on the table for order. “All right, that’s enough. And while we’re on the subject of Sharon, I’d like to remind you she’s one of ours. I’ve already heard in town about Dysart coming over to see her; that must have been leaked from our group. I’ve seen a lot of little theaters go to pot, and one of the main causes is a group breaking up into cliques. I don’t want that to happen here. Sharon may not be your idea of the all-American girl, but she’s one of us and she brings a lot of patrons through our door. If you can’t get along with her, stay away from her.”

  There was a silence in the room, and everyone looked uncomfortable.

  Leonard Smith said quietly, “That was a long speech for you, Walter. I’ll second it.”

  Norah said humbly, “All right.” Then: “All right!”

  Hamilton said, “We’re agreed, then, on The Man Who Came to Dinner?”

  There was a chorus of “ayes.”

  “Opposed?”

  Silence.

  “And one more bit of good news,” Walter went on. “The local Methodist Church is buying up the Thursday nights for the next four months at a hundred and ten dollars a night. That’s four hundred and forty dollars we can pick up any time we want to.”

  Applause, murmurs, subdued jubilation.

  Norah asked, “Will they want the kitchen, too?”

  Hamilton nodded. “Inasmuch as we’ve averaged about thirty-five dollars a night for the last three Thursday nights, I thought it only fair for them to have the kitchen profit. They’ll run it.”

  “And I can finally see a play,” Norah said.

  Which ended the Board’s business. Larry and Walter and Smith went out to the stage for rehearsal. Norah and Joe went into the kitchen.

  “You weren’t home today,” she told him. “I phoned.”

  “Why? Something I needed to know?”

  She shook her head. “I just phoned. The beach, I suppose?”

  He smiled, and shook his head.

  “Riding around in that big car, I’ll bet.”

  He shook his head.

  “Golf?”

  “I don’t play it.”

  Silence. She went over to get one of the huge coffeepots. She brought it to the sink and half filled it. Joe came over to take it from her, and put it on the stove.

  He offered her a
cigarette, and she took it. She put it in her mouth, and he held a light for her. She didn’t meet his gaze.

  He put a finger under her chin and lifted her head up to where she was looking at him. “I was with Leonard Smith, all afternoon.”

  Her eyes were cool. “It’s none of my business.”

  “Come on. I was teasing you before. Smith thought the police were suspecting him, and we got to talking about it, and then we went over to his house and had a few drinks and we both fell asleep. And then we made dinner, and came over here.”

  “Cozy, aren’t you two?”

  “He’s a nice guy.”

  “All right. Did he come over to your house to tell you he was worried about the police?”

  “No. We met here. I was looking over the scene of the crime, as they say in the magazines, and the police had brought him here. We recognized each other, and—well, that’s it.”

  The door behind them opened, and Joe turned to see Sharon standing there.

  She smiled. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

  Norah opened her mouth and closed it.

  Joe said, “Your boy was released, wasn’t he? You know about it, of course.”

  “I know about it, but he’s not my boy. I thought you were going to phone me.”

  “By the time I got to Sergeant Krivick, Alan had already been released. So there wasn’t any point in my phoning.”

  Sharon sighed. “You’re a painfully honest man. Is there any coffee? I’m not on for ten minutes.”

  “There’s some instant coffee in the prop room,” Norah said. “I’ve just started the big pot.”

  Sharon went through to the prop room.

  Norah asked, “And what did you learn, Ellery, after your investigation of the scene of the crime?”

  “I saw a way it could be done.” He told her his theory about the parking area.

  “I see. And Leonard came late?”

  “No. They investigated him for a different reason.”

  “A reason you are not prepared to divulge, Mr. Burke?”

  “Exactly. No offense, now. I was a cop too long to go blabbing everything I know. Quit making like a wife.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I see. Yes.”

  Sharon came back into the kitchen, a cup of coffee in her hand. “Fighting?”