He said quietly, “Alan Dysart’s dead.”
She sat there, staring at him, the comb still poised in one upraised hand. “Joe—no— How, Joe? How did he die?”
“He was shot. Murdered.”
“Oh, God—” She set the comb on the bench. “Alan. And now, now that he could finally do what he wanted. Oh, it can’t be, Joe.”
“It is.” He pulled out a package of cigarettes and offered her one.
Her hand shook as he held a light for her. She said weakly, “What kind of a monster is this? Is there any reason, any sane reason why—” She stopped and looked fixedly at the floor of the balcony. “I’m getting sick.”
Joe rose and went to her little kitchenette. When he came back with a glass of water, her face was paper-white. He held the glass while she sipped.
She drank about half the water and smiled weakly at him. “After—last night’s revelation and then this. God, Joe, what kind of world do we live in?”
“You could ask any cop. Or mission worker. Or Hollywood agent. I’m naïve, remember?”
She put a hand on his. “You’re my rock. Why don’t we get married and take a trip, a trip to some place where there aren’t any people?”
He turned her hand over and held it in both of his. “This is our world. We’re people.”
“Not that kind. I haven’t your hardness, Joe. I’m too much of a sissy. Maybe I should have gone to Cedar Rapids that time.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. Well, there are some people I have to see.” He rose. “They’re expecting you at the office.”
“To hell with them; I’m marrying money.” She looked up at him gravely. “Do you think it’s your money I’m marrying?”
“I don’t think so. It doesn’t matter much; you’re enough of a lady to make it a complete marriage anyway. And I’m enough of a Republican to be glad I’m rich. So we’ll be happy.”
He flicked her nose with a forefinger and went down the steps to the court.
She was leaning over the railing now. “Hey, when am I going to see you again?”
“I’ll be at the play. I’m going to work on this last kill, Norah. I’ll be busy most of the day.”
She waved. “Good hunting, darling. Be careful.”
He blew her a kiss.
The can truck hadn’t arrived here yet. And the collection box was out of the range of Norah’s vision. Joe went over to check through one of the larger ones, conscious of the absurdity of it but following a dim and impelling hunch.
It was a large box and he was halfway through it when a voice above him said, “If you’re that hungry, I’ll lend you a buck.”
From the top of the truck a huge Negro grinned down at him.
“I was looking for a diamond ring,” Joe said. “My wife left it in one of the coffee cans.” He shrugged. “Oh, well, it was only five carats.”
The Negro nodded. “And no peas? Are you through, mister?”
From the cab the driver said, “Let’s go, Dean; we’re behind now.”
Joe could hear them laughing as he walked to his car.
It was a sunny day again, a return to the ridiculous weather. Joe took Sunset to Bundy and Bundy to Santa Monica Boulevard. At Doheny, he cut up the hill, back to Sunset.
The office building on Selma and Ivar was a three-story stucco place, full of winding halls and small offices. On the first floor, a reading-fee literary racketeer had taken over everything but the broom closet.
On the second floor, Nels Nystrom was dozing behind the desk in his dusty office. He opened his eyes and nodded at Joe.
“Business can’t be that bad,” Joe said. He sat in the worn, tapestry-covered pull-up chair on the customer’s side of the desk.
Nels yawned and picked a half-smoked cigar from the rim of an ash tray on his desk. He examined it. “Krivick’s been here. Is it the same kill that brings you here, Joe?”
“I left the Department months ago.”
“I know.” Nystrom’s broad face was sadly patient. “Once a cop, always a cop.”
“You were a cop, too, Nels.”
Nystrom was lighting the cigar with a wooden match. “Is it about Bruce Dysart, Joe? Or Alan?”
“It was Bruce I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve money, now, Nels.”
Nystrom rubbed sleepily at the back of his fat neck. “Did you plan to hire me with some of it?”
“I’ll pay for what I can get. You worked for Bruce Dysart, didn’t you, back in the days when you worked?”
Nystrom nodded. “When he was smoking out the Lenin-lovers. I even bought a beret and joined the Screen Writers’ Guild. I had to work on one of his pictures to be eligible, but that wasn’t hard; my daughter wrote the whole script for me. She was almost in high school then, and bright. How much is that worth, Joe?”
“I can get that out of the Times morgue.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I thought for money you might tell me more.”
“That’s all there is, Joe, except for the Radio Writers’ Guild. My daughter couldn’t help me with that; her stuff was too subtle. You see, she was in high school by then and—”
“If I want a comedian,” Joe interrupted, “I can tune in Jackie Gleason. Dysart liked your work, didn’t he?”
“He said he did.” The pudgy man sat a little straighter in his chair. “Why shouldn’t he?”
“There’s no reason he shouldn’t,” Joe said casually. “I thought that if he was satisfied with your work, he’d hire you for any other business he might have.”
Nystrom wasn’t sleepy now. “Have you a point to make or are you fishing, Joe?”
“I’m fishing. Did you do anything besides the Guild work for him?”
“Nothing you’d be interested in hearing about, nothing that would tie up with the murder. Or murders.”
Joe took a deep breath. “You haven’t anything to sell me; is that what you’re saying, Nels?”
“That’s it. Unless you’re looking for a 1947 Plymouth?”
Joe stood up. “I’m not. But I should think a man driving a car that old would be more interested in money than you are.” He lighted a cigarette. “Well, if you change your mind, phone me, Nels. Want my number?”
Nystrom shook his head.
Joe studied him. “Aren’t you scared?”
Nystrom frowned. “What do you mean?”
“If you know anything, you should be scared. Alan learned something and got a bullet in the face. I hope you’re being careful.”
Nystrom chuckled. “Any second now, I expect to see a man come through the door behind you wearing a tight trench coat and a sneer. Aren’t you being kind of theatrical, Joe?”
“I hope so. I hope you know what you’re doing, Nels. The Department doesn’t love you too much, anyway, you know. You should have some friends.”
Nystrom stared at him blandly. “Good-by, Joe. Drop in again next year.”
“If you’re still here. If you’re alive.” Joe went out.
Only two things could overrule the lure of money in Nystrom’s mind—fear of reprisal or more money. Though he was overlooking the obvious; perhaps Nystrom didn’t know anything.
But the way he’d come alive during the last few questions … And if Joe’s theory was sound, Nystrom would figure in it. He should have left a key behind, some important misinformation that Nystrom might pass on and thus give Joe the connection.
The traffic was heavy on Sunset; he cut off of it to Doheny again and turned west on Santa Monica Boulevard. He took the Boulevard all the way to Fourth Street in Santa Monica, and then turned right.
In front of a novelty store about two doors from Sam’s Shoe Salon, there was a space and Joe eased the big car into it. He put a nickel into the parking meter, which gave him an hour.
Larry Puma was standing near the doorway when Joe entered. Larry’s voice was quiet. “Krivick just left. Have you eaten?”
“I had an eleven-o’clock breakfast. I can eat.”
“Let’s go then, while this lull lasts. If any customers come in, Sam won’t let me go.”
They went out and past the novelty store to a small restaurant on Arizona.
There, while they waited for their order, Larry said, “Krivick gave me the impression I was a really hot suspect. Why?”
“I don’t know, Larry. What time did you leave the house this morning?”
“A little after eight. I had breakfast here and got to the store by nine. You set the alarm for eight.”
Joe said thoughtfully, “I know. And you were in bed until eight?”
No delay in Larry’s response and no reaction on his face. “That’s right, Joe. Does that clear me?”
“I don’t know. Even if Alan was killed before eight, you’ve no proof you were asleep until then.”
“It was your house. You were there.”
“Yes, but I didn’t hear you get up. I slept right through to eleven.”
Puma sipped his water. “So, isn’t a motive necessary in a murder charge? What motive would I have?”
Joe shrugged. “None. But Krivick doesn’t know that.”
Puma’s eyes were thoughtful. And then he smiled. “Unless it’s because of last night, because you told me I’d have to find room for Alan in the new theater. But I wouldn’t call that much of a motive.”
“I wouldn’t either,” Joe agreed. “Larry, in every murder case that’s tricky, or in most of that kind, somebody knows something he doesn’t tell the police. Maybe it’s an old scandal he doesn’t want dug up. Maybe it’s something unusual he witnessed that he feels the police would interpret wrong. Is there anything like that you’re holding back?”
Larry shook his head. “You didn’t mean my friendship with Chloe Brennan, did you? I knew her before she was a Brennan.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that particularly. I was thinking of the gang at the Players. You know them all pretty well, don’t you?”
“Most of them. But I don’t know anything about them that the police should know.”
Their food came and they started to eat. Joe said, “That first was the kind of murder you should understand. It was staged. It was a theatrical presentation. I’d bet on that.”
“I don’t follow you, Joe.”
“I don’t want you to, right now. But if I’m right about it, it should practically eliminate you as a suspect.”
Larry grinned. “I’d like to follow you, then. What’s your theory, Joe?”
“I don’t want to word it until I’m sure. But one thing these tricky killers forget is that once the gimmick is revealed, all the other suspects are more or less cleared. If you ever plan a murder, Larry, don’t get cute with it.”
Larry nodded. “Thank you, officer. Did you see about that house yet, that place you planned to convert for us?”
Joe shook his head. “I’ll get Norah to see about it as soon as I get back to the center.”
Larry grinned. “Some girl, that Norah. She’ll make a great wife. She’s the cream of that crop.”
“I think so, too. This Metzger was pretty nasty, eh?”
Larry shrugged. “Depends on your moral standards. He had a lot of charm. Women would like him better than men would. I can stand almost anything but a phony.”
“That’s why you’re not mourning Alan?”
Larry frowned. “I regret his death. I was drunk last night when I compared him to Metzger. Alan had a lot Dick never had. Alan was damned bright, but his theatrical knowledge was still superficial. This much I’ll give him: Alan was on the right track. Dick wasn’t, at least when I knew him. Maybe, as a kid, Dick was another Alan.”
Joe suggested, “And maybe Bruce Dysart was, too.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. The man was in business. The purpose of any business is to show a profit. That includes the movie business. Within that limitation, and it is a limitation, you can have as much damned integrity as you can afford. You can get as arty as you want, and as subtle. But there’s one error you’re not permitted. You’re not permitted to lose money for the firm. That’s a thing, of course, the longhaired critics can’t understand. It’s too simple for them.” He stopped and sipped his coffee. “Don’t mind me; I could be wrong.”
Joe smiled. “Keep talking. It makes sense to me.”
“One example,” Larry said. “I used to read the New Yorker. Until one day I read a little piece by the resigning movie critic. It was Wolcott Gibbs, I think, and he was resigning, he explained, because he discovered he was trying to review for his friends an entertainment medium designed for their cooks. Now I don’t know who his friends are, but if they read the New Yorker, they’re a rather limited group. Any movie aimed exclusively at that group couldn’t possibly interest enough people to bring in a tenth of the revenue even a cheap picture needs.”
“It’s sort of a—oh, arty magazine, isn’t it?”
“No. They have some of the finest living writers writing for them. They also have some of the worst, so long as they follow the New Yorker pattern. But that’s beside the point. A critic who isn’t broad enough to judge any entertainment offering within the frame of its inevitable limitations is not qualified to be a critic in that field. And if he hasn’t any level of communication with cooks, I doubt if he’s broad enough to judge any medium that relies on communication for its effect. That includes all the arts. And it includes the movies.” Larry took a deep breath. “You asked for it.”
“I enjoyed it,” Joe said. “You make more sense to me than Alan did. But I’m at the cook level.”
Larry rose. “And I’m at the shoe-clerk level, and Sam will be screaming. Sam thinks any young man should be able to eat in twelve minutes.”
Outside, Larry said, “I don’t remember if I told you last night how grateful I am for what you plan to do, Joe. If I didn’t, let me say it now. I’ve never been more touched by anything in my life.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you tonight, Larry. And I’ll get Norah to work on that house right away.”
They were even with Joe’s car now. Larry waved and went on to Sam’s. Joe paused a moment, watching him, and then happened to glance toward the window of the novelty store.
The flash of bright yellow caught his eye from one of the dim corners in the dusty show window.
He walked over to the entryway to examine it more closely. On the yellow cardboard he saw the black script and realized the piece he’d found on the slope had held only half of the full name.
The name wasn’t Smith. It was Smithfield.
Joe opened the door and went in.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JOE CALLED NORAH FROM HOME and told her to get to work on that house.
“We have it listed,” she told him. “I’ll have them hold it until you make a payment. What—did you learn?”
“I don’t know exactly. You’ll be handling the lights tonight, won’t you?”
“Who else? They need help in the kitchen, Joe.”
“Okay. I’ll help.”
“They need somebody to get the coffee and the doughnuts. There’s a sale on coffee at the Mayfair. And you can get the doughnuts at Bundy and Santa Monica Boulevard. That’s where we usually buy them.”
“I see. Hole-in-the-Head Burke, the apprentice sucker.”
She chuckled. “Aren’t you sorry you ever stuck your nose in that prop room door? How long ago was that?”
“A lifetime ago, and I’m not sorry. About how many doughnuts do we usually buy?”
“Seven dozen, but they ran out early last night. If we have the same kind of crowd tonight, we’ll need fifteen dozen.”
“We should have a bigger crowd now. Since Alan died. Well, I’ll see you tonight. Take care of yourself.” He hung up.
He sat by the phone and then rose and went into the bedroom Larry Puma had occupied last night. The bed was made and made well. Nobody could make a bed that well in the dark. Unless Larry had turned on the light, he hadn’t left before dawn. Or could he have left for a while, and come back?
Joe went to check the spring-driven alarm clock.
He had wound the alarm tightly last night; it was half unwound now. With what he’d discovered this afternoon, Larry should be more or less cleared.
Except for the coincidence of proximity, the proximity of the novelty store and Sam’s Shoe Salon. But that had to be a coincidence.
Or maybe it wasn’t; a person visiting Larry at the shoe store might also be attracted by that bit of yellow in the dim window.
He drove over to the Mayfair and bought six cans of coffee, regular grind. He was at the checking stand when Walter and Jean Hamilton came up behind him.
Walter asked, “Why all the crowd in front of Dysart’s house this morning? Did the police discover something new?”
“Didn’t you hear? It should be in the afternoon papers.”
“I haven’t seen an afternoon paper. What is it, Joe?”
“Alan was killed. Sergeant Krivick went over there to question him, and found him dead.”
Jean asked, “When did it happen? Do they know when it happened?”
“I suppose, by now. I don’t exactly. Why, Jean?”
She said quietly, “I was thinking, if it was last night, we’re all clear. We were all at your party.”
“It could have happened after the party,” Joe told her. “It could have been any of us.”
Walter asked, “Any favorites, Joe?”
Joe lied with a shake of the head. “See you tonight, folks. I’ll bring the coffee and the doughnuts.”
As he drove out of the parking lot, he remembered the list Krivick had asked for, the times of departure from his party. Perhaps, by now, the time of departure wasn’t too important; the Department could have a more nearly accurate estimate of the time Alan had died.
At the doughnut place he had them package fifteen dozen orange, chocolate, powdered, caramel, and plain doughnuts, a dozen to a carton. He paid the girl eight dollars and twenty-five cents and made two trips, hauling them to the car.
Apprentice sucker, hauling doughnuts for an organization used as a showcase by the young and an escape from domesticity by the older. Why should he buy them a theater?
Maybe Larry Puma belonged in Sam’s Shoe Salon. Maybe Leonard Smith had reached his peak as an assistant dialogue director. Maybe all of them would be better off playing their losing game, cherishing their hopeless illusions.
Blood on the Boards Page 15
