by Parnell Hall
Psycho was on channel eleven. That’s one of those movies you know you’ve seen a million times, but somehow are still worth watching.
While Alice and I ate snow peas with water chestnuts and chicken with orange flavor, Janet Leigh took the money she was supposed to deposit in the bank and drove off in her car. Poor woman. So upset with what she’d done, and what a fate lay in store for her.
It occurred to me, in all the times I’d seen Psycho, I still hadn’t remembered that part—about the bank and the money and her taking it. Watching it the first time, it all seemed so important. But if you were familiar with the movie you knew that—
Good god.
I sat there stunned, blinking at the screen.
55.
MACGUFFIN.”
MacAullif frowned and squinted up at me. “What?”
“MacGuffin. Do you know what a MacGuffin is?”
“Sounds like a McDonald’s breakfast.”
“That’s McMuffin. This is MacGuffin. You know what that is?”
“Obviously I don’t,” MacAullif said irritably. “You want to gloat over that, or do you actually have a point?”
“A pencil has a point. I have an inspiration.”
“Holy shit!” MacAullif said. His eyes widened. “Hey, who writes your fuckin’ dialogue? That was fantastic. You make that up on the spur of the moment, or you been savin’ it up for the right occasion?”
“Are you through clowning around?”
“Hey, like I started this. You come in babbling about McMuffins—”
“MacGuffins.”
“I heard you the first time. I assume you’re gonna tell me what the fuck that is or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Good thinking. Well, my wife was watching the movie Psycho last night—you know the movie Psycho?”
“This another trick question?”
“Aw, fuck, MacAullif.”
“Yeah, I know the movie. So what?”
““Well, at the beginning of the movie Janet Leigh’s got all this money she was supposed to deposit in the bank. Remember?”
MacAullif frowned. “No. What money?”
“Exactly,” I said. “If you know the movie, all you think about is the motel, the shower, Tony Perkins. But the beginning of the movie is all about the money she took—the money from the real-estate deal that her boss gave her to put in the bank. The reason you don’t remember is because the money isn’t really important in the movie. In the beginning it looks like the money is important, but it isn’t. It’s a MacGuffin.”
MacAullif exhaled, looked at me in exasperation. “You’ll pardon me if that doesn’t help me a lot.”
“It’s a movie term, associated largely with Alfred Hitchcock, used to describe something in a movie that appears to be important but actually isn’t. Like the money in Psycho. Or the uranium in the wine bottles in Notorious.”
“Uranium?”
“Another Hitchcock film. Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman. Notorious.”
“I’ve seen it.”
“You remember the uranium in the wine bottles?”
“No.”
“Another MacGuffin.”
“Gee, that’s interesting,” MacAullif said. “And what is a MacGuffin again?”
“It’s a plot device. It’s something a director puts in a movie to help the plot along. Something that appears to be important, but actually isn’t really.”
MacAullif frowned. “You mean a red herring?”
My face fell. “Son of a bitch.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Shit. Do I mean a red herring? I hope not. That’s so commonplace compared to a MacGuffin.”
“Hey. Schmuck.”
“Sorry. Okay, here’s the deal. I know this sounds like garbage, but it’s really the clue that cracked the case.”
“Cracked the case? Are you telling me you solved this thing?”
“More or less.”
“Don’t fuck with me.”
“I think I know who did it. I can’t prove a damn thing. But I figured out the key clue.”
“What’s that?”
“The blackmail photos. No one could get a line on ’em. You, me, Thurman, Baby-Face Frost were all getting nowhere. Yeah, so I found a woman and maybe she was in ’em, but it’s another dead end. Everything about ’em’s a dead end. And now I know why.”
“Why?”
“MacGuffin. The blackmail pictures are a MacGuffin. Like the money in Psycho or the uranium in Notorious.”
MacAullif waved his hands. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. Time out. Flag on the play. You just got through telling me what a MacGuffin was. Maybe I’m just a dumb cop, but didn’t you say it was something the director puts in the film to get the plot going, but it’s misleading ’cause it don’t really mean anything?”
“Absolutely. Very good definition. I think that’s even better than what I said.”
“Fuck you.”
“I was serious.”
“Who gives a shit? The point is, it’s something the director puts in the film, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, that’s real nice if you’re making a fuckin’ movie,” MacAullif said. “I hate to break it to you, but this is not a movie. This is real life.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So?” MacAullif said. “There’s no director.”
“Yes, there is.”
56.
“WE ARE GOING TO RECONSTRUCT the crime.”
I was standing on the stage of a rehearsal hall in SoHo, not ten blocks away from the loft where I had found Patricia Connely dead. I had not chosen It for that reason. I had chosen it for the fact that I was able to get it cheap. In fact, free. I’d called around, and Jill Jensen, the actress I’d run into at the audition, happened to be in a showcase and managed to talk the director into letting me use the theater on the night they were dark.
I looked out over the audience. Present were:
Bradley Connely.
Mark Cirrus.
Cliff McFadgen’s girlfriend, Martha Penrutti.
The wallflower, Bernice, along with Martha Penrutti’s other roommates.
Richard Rosenberg.
Alice.
Sergeant MacAullif.
And Baby-Face Frost.
Conspicuous by their absence were:
Bradley Connely s girlfriend.
Mrs. Gardner and her cop husband.
Sergeant Thurman.
And F-Stop Fitzgerald.
Just kidding.
I stood center stage, addressed the audience. “Why are we doing this? We’re doing this because all else failed. And when all else fails, you try something different. This is a popular notion in detective novels, reconstructing the crime, though I doubt if it actually happens much. Still, that is what we are about to do. We are not only going to reconstruct the crime, we are going to reenact the crime. To do that I will need help.”
I looked around the audience, as if picking them at random. “Mark Cirrus and you, Bernice. Would you come up here please?”
Everyone watched while Jack Fargo’s lover and Cliff McFadgen’s girlfriend’s shy roommate got up from their seats and made their way up onto the stage. When they stood flanking me I put my hands on their shoulders and said to the audience, “Please bear with me for a moment.” Then I turned my actors around, piloted them upstage into the far corner, and proceeded to converse with them in low tones.
I left them there, went back downstage, and addressed the audience. “We have here three separate crimes. The murder of Patricia Connely, the murder of Cliff McFadgen, and the murder of Jack Fargo. However, these crimes are related, as I intend to demonstrate through this acting exercise. For shorthand’s sake, please understand that when I’m talking about the crime, I’m talking about all three.”
I paused, looked out over the audience. “And when I’m talking about the killer, once again I am talking about all three. Because it is my contention that not only are the
crimes related, but the same person killed all three people.”
I put up my hands. “I realize this is somewhat complicated. Particularly since some of you didn’t even know there were three crimes to begin with, much less that they might be related. So in order for you to appreciate this exercise, let me briefly bring you up to speed.
“First off, let me introduce myself. My name is Stanley Hastings and I’m a private detective. Shortly before the murders began, I was approached by a woman who gave the name Marlena Smith. She told me she was being blackmailed by a man named Barry, and hired me to pay him off. Which I did. On the following night, I was hired to make another blackmail payment. On that night, the woman who hired me to make the payment and the blackmailer Barry were both murdered. That woman was Patricia Connely. The blackmailer Barry was actually Cliff McFadgen.”
I held up my hands again. “This much we know is true. What we don’t know is why. Why any of this happened. Which is what we hope to show through this acting exercise.” I turned, gestured to my actors. “Mark. Bernice. If you will?”
My two actors had been huddled together, whispering. When they looked up at me I gestured downstage, then gave way for them. I moved to the edge of the proscenium and stood there, watching.
Mark Cirrus took charge. He took Bernice by the arm and led her downstage.
“All right, look,” he said. “Here’s the picture. You’re being blackmailed by a guy named Barry. That’s me. I got some pictures and you wanna buy ’em. You have to buy ’em. Or else. So you’re hiring a private detective to make the blackmail payoff. You’re gonna give him the money, he’s gonna pick up the blackmail pictures and bring ’em back to you.”
“What if he asks me why?” Bernice said.
“That’s none of his damn business. He doesn’t need to know. If he won’t play on that basis, the hell with him, you get someone else.”
Mark Cirrus reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the fat envelope I’d given him. “You give him this.”
“What’s that?”
“Money for the payoff. He’s to take it and pay for the pictures. Only he’s not to open the envelope. Or the one he gets. The one with the pictures.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
“What if he asks?”
“Same answer. It’s none of his damn business. You’re hiring him to do a job. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“No, it’s not okay!” came an angry voice from the audience.
It was Bradley Connely. He stood up, pointed his finger at Bernice. “She’s playing the part of my wife, and my wife wouldn’t have done that.”
“Done what, Bradley?” I said, crossing to center stage.
He waved his hand. “Any of that. You’ve got her conspiring with this blackmailer. She wouldn’t have done that.”
“You think she was actually being blackmailed?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, it has to be one or the other.”
“Why?” Connely demanded.
“Because she told me she was.”
“Well, we’ve only got your word for that,” Connely said.
That caught me up short. That was a new thought. One I was sure glad Sergeant Thurman wasn’t in the room to hear.
“Right,” I said. “But this is my demonstration.” I smiled. “For the purposes of it, we are going to go on the supposition that I am telling the truth.”
Before Connely could say anything, I went on, “Anyway, I thank you for your input. And while you’re up, that’s good, because I could use another actor.” I turned to Bernice. “Thank you, Bernice, but that’s all for the time being. And could I have that, please?”
Bernice handed me the fat envelope and left the stage.
“Mark, stay up here, I need you some more.” I turned back to Connely. “Bradley, I need another actor. For the scene at the motel. To play the part of the investigator.”
“Oh, come on,” Connely said. “You’re the investigator. Why don’t you play the part?”
“I can’t,” I said. “I’m the director. Help me out. Please.”
“I don’t want to have anything to do with it.”
“Why not?”
“I told you. Because you’re not telling it right.”
“Then I should think you’d want to help straighten things out.”
When he hesitated, I persisted. “Come on, Bradley. I know this is painful for you. But you want your wife’s killer caught, don’t you?”
What could he say? While he was trying to think of something, I took him by the arm, led him up onstage.
“Thank you.” I turned to the audience. “Now then, once again I need your indulgence.”
I piloted Bradley Connely and Mark Cirrus upstage.
In the huddle I said, “Okay, we’re going to do the scene in the motel. Mark, you’re still the blackmailer. Your name’s Barry. You got these pictures and the investigator wants to buy ’em. Oh yeah, just a minute.”
I darted offstage, picked up a manila envelope, came back and handed it to Mark. “Okay, here’s your prop. The blackmail photos.” I handed the fat envelope to Bradley. “And here’s your blackmail money. You stick it in your jacket, you pull it out at the proper time.”
Bradley Connely looked terribly hassled. “What proper time?” he said. “Just what am I doing here?”
I bit my lip to keep from smiling. For a moment I was sure he was going to say, “What’s my motivation?” Before he could, I said, “Play off Mark. He’s the blackmailer, so he’s the one in control. I know you think you don’t know what to do, but it should be easy because you’ll be responding instead of taking the initiative. Bradley, you have the blackmail money, you’ve been instructed to come and buy these photos from a guy named Barry, you’re here to buy them, and you want the guy to hand them over.”
I turned to Mark Cirrus. “Mark, you’re a blackmailer, you’ve got the photos, you intend to hand them over, but you’re getting off on being in charge, so you give the guy a bad time.”
I clapped my hands together. “Okay,” I said. “Just try it.”
I went back downstage, held up my hands, said to the audience, “Now, this may be a little rough, but just bear with me because we’re working these things out. This is the second scene, the private investigator goes to buy the blackmail photos. Mark. Bradley. If you will.”
Mark Cirrus took Bradley Connely by the shoulder and led him downstage.
Bradley Connely, looking terribly uncomfortable, glanced around, then looked over at me. “I really don’t know what to do,” he said.
“Think of it as an acting exercise,” I said. “Look. This is a motel room. Okay? So pretend the door is there. Walk up and pretend to knock on the door. He’ll answer it.”
“I really don’t see the point.”
“Of course not. Because we’re just getting started. Just try it, and I think you’ll begin to see how it all ties in.”
I indicated a spot on the stage. “Okay, say the door’s here, downstage left. Bradley, walk up and knock on the door.”
He gave me a long look, but shuffled over stage left and got into position.
I resumed my place offstage right.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s give it a try.”
Bradley Connely very reluctantly walked up and pantomimed knocking on the door, the standard acting pantomime where you pretend to bang with your fist at the same time you stamp your foot.
Mark Cirrus strode over, pantomimed opening a door.
“Yeah?” he said.
There was a pause while nothing happened.
“Ask him if he’s Barry,” I prompted.
Bradley Connely gave me a look, then turned and said, “Are you Barry?”
“If you say so, champ,” Mark Cirrus said. He gestured. “Come on in.
Reluctantly, Bradley Connely walked in center stage.
Mark Cirrus followed him. “Well,” he said. “You brin
g the money?”
Bradley Connely reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the envelope. “Right here,” he said.
His performance was so lifeless I’m sure no one was at all surprised when I walked onstage saying, “No, no, no, this won’t do.”
I think they were surprised when I proceeded to take Mark Cirrus to task, instead of Bradley Connely.
Because that’s exactly what I did. Ignoring Bradley Connely completely, I walked right by him, threw my arm around Mark Cirrus’s shoulder, and said, “Mark, baby. Come on. You’re a blackmailer. You gotta have fun with this. You gotta enjoy it. Now, come on, get into it and let’s torture this guy.”
I wheeled him around, demonstrated. “First off, pat him down for a weapon. Get him on the defensive.”
I held up my finger for emphasis. “And remember,” I said. “He’s been told not to open the envelope. So the minute he gives it to you, you rip it open and dump the money out on the bed. I got hundred-dollar bills on the outside, it will look like a huge wad of cash. Then there’s the photos. He’s been told not to look at ’em, so you rip it open and you show ’em to him. Each and every one. Rub his nose in it.”
I looked at Mark Cirrus, shook my head. “Come on, Mark. Put some life in it. Are you an actor or not? I mean, what am I paying you for?”
Mark Cirrus took the criticism well.
The man standing next to him didn’t.
During my harangue, Bradley Connely turned a whiter shade of pale.
“This is absurd,” he sputtered. “I can’t be a part of it. It’s too hard. It’s too cruel. It’s not right. It’s ...”
With that, Bradley Connely hopped down from the stage, ran up the aisle, out the back door.
And straight into the arms of Sergeant Thurman.
57.
CONFUSED?
You won’t be, after this week’s episode of Soap.
Remember that show? Funny show. And somewhat fitting that I should think of it now. After all, it was on a soap commercial that I recognized Cliff McFadgen as the blackmailer Barry. And after all, the whole grand and glorious blackmailing scheme was really just another soap opera.
But enough of that. Time for the explanation.
