“That’s to be expected, I suppose. Any ideas on it, Joe?”
“None. I brought the coffee into the prop room.”
When he went back to the prop room, he could hear Sharon’s voice in the kitchen, and it didn’t sound frightened. He heard: “You bastards don’t overlook anything, do you? Are you digging back nine years on all the Players?”
Krivick’s calm voice: “All the ones with criminal background, Miss Cassidy. When was the last time you saw Lonnie Goetz?”
A silence, and then: “The last time I talked to him was seven years ago, the day he told me he was getting married.”
“And the last time you saw him was when?”
“I don’t remember. He spent a lot of time in night clubs, and I saw him in places like that, from a distance. But I’m sure I haven’t seen him anywhere for five years. He died two years ago, you know.”
“I know. Any of his former pals ever look you up?”
“None. That part of my life ended the day Lonnie walked out on me. I thought it was dead and buried. I suppose the papers have this?”
“They won’t get it from me, Miss Cassidy. You were seventeen when Lonnie walked out on you?”
“That’s correct. You mean, Sergeant, you’re not giving this to the newspapers? They’d love it, wouldn’t they?”
“I don’t know, Miss Cassidy. We got the rumor about it, and now you’ve admitted it. If you hadn’t, we’d have no proof you weren’t lying. Now that you have admitted it, it would be a crummy trick for me to broadcast it, wouldn’t it?”
“I think so. Maybe I got the wrong impression of policemen, living with Lonnie. Sergeant, I apologize for some of the things I called you.”
“I’m used to it. Will you tell that Mr. Puma to come in next?”
“With pleasure.”
Joe was bending over the coffeepot like a non-eavesdropper when Sharon opened the door.
“I’ll take some of that,” she said, and leaned against a battered davenport. “Who else was listening?”
“Nobody. Nobody else and nobody. Though I’ll bet it would make interesting hearing.” He poured her a cup of coffee and brought it to her.
She took it and nodded her thanks. She sat down on the davenport. “That sergeant in there isn’t typical, is he? He seemed nice.”
“He’s typical. He’s very active in the Boy Scouts. A good man, in my professional opinion.”
Sharon frowned. “Oh, he wanted me to tell Larry Puma to come in now. Would you do that for me? I don’t want Larry to think— Well, would you?”
Joe was already on the way to the auditorium.
When he came back, and Larry had gone into the kitchen, Sharon asked, “Did the sergeant tell you about Lonnie, too?”
“Lonnie who? I didn’t even know we had a Lonnie in the Players.”
Sharon’s smile was scornful. “Stick with the coffee, Joe. You’re no actor. So he did tell you?” “Cream?” Joe asked. “Sugar?”
“Neither, thanks. I was fifteen when I met Lonnie. I was seventeen when I left him. Or he left me, rather. You’d be surprised at the people Lonnie knew, Joe. And what he knew about them.”
She learned about life from Lonnie, Joe thought. Just like in the soap operas. He said nothing.
Sharon’s voice was low. “He knew producers and oil men and some of the best people in town.”
“Some of the worst people from the best families, you mean,” Joe corrected her. “I was a cop a long time, Sharon. I’m not real bright, but I know the kind of people you mean. Some of our biggest movie stars, but none of our best. Some of the our richest citizens, but none of our sound ones. And all the degenerate misfits from the otherwise fine families. You left Lonnie, but you never left his viewpoint.”
“Yes, grandpa. The world is bright and clean and nothing pays off like virtue and thrift.” Joe said nothing, burning slightly. Sharon said, “You’d have wound up with big feet and a small pension if your aunt hadn’t died. Don’t drown me in your platitudes, Dick Tracy.”
“Okay. Get off my back. Who can tell you anything?” Joe heard the feet of the players coming down the steps and he started to pour the coffee.
Gabble, gabble, gabble and the smoke of half a dozen cigarettes. Friendly people and fairly bright chatter, but no warmth for Joe. Because Norah wasn’t there? Or because Sharon had been so cynical?
Sharon said little. More than once Joe looked over to find her eyes on him. Once she made a face at him.
Then the door from the kitchen opened, and Larry Puma came through it. He said, “Leonard next.”
Leonard looked surprised for a second, and then he gulped the rest of his coffee and went through the door. He closed it behind him, and there was a moment’s silence in the prop room.
Larry went over to the coffeepot and poured a cup for himself. He came over to sit next to Joe. “What’s this business about the parking? What does it mean?”
“I don’t know. Where did you park?”
“The night of the murder? On the bend in front. Somebody was pulling away as I came in and there was a hole, so I grabbed it.”
“You wouldn’t remember who was pulling away?”
“I don’t even remember what kind of car it was. That sergeant is sure making a production out of it, though.” Larry rubbed the back of his neck. “Hell, I never even knew the man. Smith and Sharon are the only ones in the gang who knew him.”
“And Alan,” Joe added. “I wonder if he’ll turn out to be the heir.”
“Naturally. That’s his kind of luck.” Larry finished his coffee and rose. “All right. Everyone who’s in the second act, let’s go.”
About half of them went up the steps to the stage. Then Leonard Smith came out from the kitchen and asked, “Is Norah here?”
Joe shook his head.
“Alan Dysart?”
“I haven’t seen him.”
“Well, I guess he wants you then, Joe. Put in a word for us.” Leonard smiled and went up the steps.
In the kitchen, Krivick was writing something in a notebook. He looked up and asked, “Any more of that coffee around?”
“I’ll bring you a cup.”
When Joe brought the coffee, Krivick was standing near the windows, looking out at the now dark patio. When Joe closed the door, Krivick turned and came over to the table. He pulled a cigarette package from his jacket pocket and saw that it was empty. He crumpled it.
Joe slid his pack along the table. “Well, Ernie?”
“Nothing. Not a stinking, logical lead. This thing could be political, Joe. Dysart got a lot of poison pen letters when he helped to clean up the Screen Writers’ Guild.”
Krivick lighted one of Joe’s cigarettes and inhaled deeply. He leaned back in his chair and rolled his head, loosening the neck muscles. In the bright kitchen light he looked gray and old.
Joe said, “Nobody loves a rich man. It could be anybody.”
Krivick said nothing, staring moodily out toward the dark patio.
“Something will break,” Joe consoled him. “There are probably two or three people who know something they haven’t told you. It will fester in them, and things will begin to add up.”
“Maybe. In a month, a year. The Department wants action on this one. I even looked into the possibility of that Dial Forest, that writer, having something to do with it.”
“You mean the one Bruce was trying to beat down, the man who wrote Week End Widow?”
“That’s the man. He couldn’t have had a better alibi. He was in the Beverly Hills clink on a drunken driving charge at the time.”
“You’ve still got Lonnie Goetz.”
“I’ve got the Lonnie Goetz rumor. Well, I’ll work on that tomorrow. I’ve got to get some sleep.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “Keep me informed, Joe, if you latch on to anything.”
“Of course. And don’t brood, kid. Easier cases have gone unsolved.”
“I know. But I was up for promotion. Be seeing you.” He went out t
hrough the door that led to the auditorium.
Eight hours a day was all the Department required, but Krivick was putting in a lot of his own time. One of those soft political jobs indignant taxpayers were always screaming about. And he’d wind up, as Sharon had phrased it, with big feet and a small pension.
And the memory of an adult lifetime spent looking at the ugliest side of man.
The door from the patio opened and Alan Dysart came in. He said, “I saw the flatfoot, so I waited until he left. I still can’t get to like the odor of cop.”
“Shut up,” Joe said.
Alan stared at him. “I—”
“Just keep your goddamned mouth shut. You’re a real bright kid, but you’ve got a lot of things to learn.” “I apologize. Is there any coffee?” “In the prop room.”
Alan went through the doorway, his thin face taut, his tall body stiffly resentful. In a moment, Joe heard him talking to someone and from the stage he heard Sharon’s warm voice.
Then Alan came back in, a cup of coffee in his hand, a tentative smile on his face. “I remember you warned me. My apology was sincere.”
“And accepted. You so-called ‘liberals’ give me a pain in the ass, at times. You bleed for the common man—until you meet one. And then you loathe him. Krivick’s bringing up three daughters on his crummy pay. Working overtime without getting paid for it and putting in any other conscious moments working for the Boy Scouts. He takes your adolescent scorn and still remains a registered Democrat. I’d call that balance, and it’s maybe something you could start learning.”
“I’m sorry, Joe. What else do you want me to say? You don’t have to make like McCarthy.”
“It’s lippy pseudo-liberals like you who make otherwise decent people support McCarthy.”
“That I won’t accept. And you don’t believe it, either. It’s fear and sick minds that make monsters like him possible.”
“And what makes monsters like Stalin possible?”
“The secret police. It’s a police state. Now tell me to shut my goddamned mouth again. That ‘word’ is out.”
Joe started to say something and stopped. Then he said, “I apologize for the nasty things I said, but not the gist of it.” He reached over for his package of cigarettes, still on the table where Krivick had left it. Casually he asked, “Why were you rooting through the incinerator this morning?”
Alan smiled. “I was playing detective. It would be a logical place to get rid of a gun, wouldn’t it?” “No. Any theories on the kill?”
“None I’d care to voice. It’s a rather far-fetched theory, and too silly to mention, probably. Have you any, Mr. Burke?”
Joe shook his head, and stood up. “I’ve had enough for one day. I’ll be seeing you.” “Good night, Joe.”
Joe went out through the auditorium and stopped for a moment to watch Sharon deliver a few lines. The opening was for Thursday night and they’d be ready. The play was flowing, making communication now. There were four players on the stage, but the eye was attracted to Sharon, no matter who was talking. The male eye, at any rate.
Outside, Joe paused a moment in front of the wide door, looking out at the lights on the hills and the few lights still visible in the quiet town. Behind him he could hear the voices of the players through the closed door.
Small sounds in the dark night. Small sounds on a bright stage while the citizens slept, storing strength for their dull tomorrows. In the desert of darkness an oasis of the dedicated preparing a week-end illusion for the nominal price of seventy-five cents. Magic, at six-bits a head.
Shoe clerks and housewives, embryonic artists and defeated vaudeville troupers, hams and hacks and the hopeless, working together toward a salable illusion. And out here, in the Celluloid center, the chance that it might not be in vain. Scouts did come to these performances; professionals from the studios did work in them. On a clear day, you can see MGM.
The Chrysler’s hundred and eighty horses came to life and Joe steered the big car past the dark houses along the dimly lighted streets. He felt slightly ashamed of his outburst against Alan Dysart. The kid was in rebellion against the established order, a standard enough attitude for the young and intelligent and sensitive. Dysart would settle down. He might not ever be able to compromise but he’d learn to adjust to the inevitable.
It had been a bad day. It hadn’t been too bad a day until Norah had walked into Sharon’s kitchen this morning and found him there. Well, nothing had happened. If Norah wanted to believe something had happened, that was her privilege. Nothing had.
A small voice at the back of his mind said, Not because you didn’t want it to, sexy.
“Nothing happened,” Joe said aloud. “A fact’s a fact.”
The small voice said nothing.
“I’m a single man,” Joe continued. “Single, single, single. I’m not even engaged. Nobody’s got any strings on me, understand?”
The small voice chuckled.
“To hell with all women,” Joe told it. “Trouble, that’s all they are. Except Aunt Selena, and she’s dead.”
And I’m rich, he thought, and why shouldn’t I be happy? What the hell am I growling about?
He put the car in the garage, went into his dark house, and turned the TV to the eleven o’clock news.
There was little news that day and the commentator’s labored effort to make something out of nothing was irksome. The only other program of even passing interest was a movie of comparatively recent vintage, starring Milton Sills. He snapped the set off and went out into the kitchen, to rummage the refrigerator.
It contained two dried-out radishes and half a quart of milk. He made cocoa and found some bread to toast and there was an unopened jar of peanut butter.
Outside, the mellow tones of a hot-rod’s double tail pipes went by on Via. Inside, the refrigerator hummed and the furnace fan squeaked lazily and the leaky faucet went drip, drip, drip in the kitchen sink.
He thought of Norah and Sharon, Alan, Larry, Leonard, Walter, Pete Delahunt, and Lonnie Goetz. He thought of Dick Metzger, which brought him back to Norah. There wasn’t any reason she should attend the rehearsal tonight, but he wondered if she’d stayed away because of this morning’s discovery.
He thought of phoning her, but she might be asleep now, and tomorrow would do as well.
Lonnie Goetz…. There was a name that made sense in the murder. There was a man trained to kill without motive beyond the pay. Joe wondered who’d given Krivick the word on Lonnie Goetz.
Joe had a few pigeons of his own, one of whom traveled in the circles formerly traveled by Lonnie. He glanced at the clock over the sink; it was 11:20. Maybe?
He found the number in his old notebook and called it. A woman answered.
“Vera?” Joe asked.
“Speaking.”
“This is Joe Burke. Your boy around?” “He’s due any minute, Joe. What’s this I hear about you?”
“You tell me.”
“I hear you hit the jackpot and retired. You’re loaded, I heard.”
“That’s about it. How’s your boy treating you?”
“All right. Why? Are you making conversation, Joe, or are you really interested? Because I’m always open to an offer. Arty doesn’t ring the bells in me he used to.”
“I’m kind of tied up, right now,” Joe told her. “But I’ll remember you’re available. Where is Arty?”
“Business, he said, but that could mean anything with him. I got a feeling I don’t make music in him any more, either. You’re not married, Joe?”
“No. Was it marriage you had in mind, Vera?”
“If you’re really loaded. Oh, here’s the big man now.”
Some low dialogue between them and then Arty’s voice: “Making time with my girl, Joe?” “Not enough. Arty, I heard a rumor.”
“So?”
“That Lonnie Goetz was alive and in town.” “I didn’t hear it. You’re not with the Department any more, are you, Joe? You set up as a shamus?”
A silence, and then: “I think I could find out. I’m kind of chummy with some of his old buddies. I’ll phone you, Joe. Same number?”
“No.” Joe gave him the new one. And asked, “Still making book?”
“Here and there. Don’t tell me you’re playing the ponies?”
“I will be. Very boring life, being a rich man. Phone me when you get the word.”
Joe went back to the kitchen and washed the knife and spoon and cup and the cocoa pan. He wasn’t sleepy; he went into the study and picked up one of the books on little theater he’d brought from the library.
But he continued to think of Lonnie. If he was alive and implicated in the murder, that would implicate Sharon. Sharon had the motive, Lonnie the gun. He put the book down and went into the bathroom to run some hot water into the tub.
He soaked in the water until it started to cool and then went to bed. And to sleep.
The climate had changed by morning, back to the gray chill that was expected that time of the year. He drove to the center and ate his breakfast at the drugstore.
Smith came in while he was waiting for his eggs and took the stool next to Joe. “I see our good weather has gone.”
Joe nodded.
Smith sat down and unfolded a copy of the Times. “That Sergeant Krivick isn’t getting anywhere with this case, is he?” He indicated the first-page story under a subhead. “Even the paper hasn’t any new rumors this morning.”
“A case can crack any time,” Joe told him. His eggs arrived and he started to eat.
“You’re not very friendly this morning,” Smith said.
“Is it because I’m one of the suspects?”
“No, Leonard. I’ve been gloomy since yesterday. That murder has me down, I guess. There’s a hole in this thing as big as my head and I can’t find it.”
“How do you know there’s a hole in it, then?”
“Hunch. I don’t know. Something bothers me about it.”
Smith yawned and turned a page of the paper. “Well, you’re not being paid to work on it, are you?”
“No. But I’m not doing anything else of importance.”
Blood on the Boards Page 10
