Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense (33 page)

She set her glass down dead center on a coaster on the broad arm of the sofa. “Luke Pennington has delivered a thirty-page outline to Lee Cosford. They're very excited about it. They have an appointment with an agent in London for next Monday.”

Gary beamed and raised his glass. “Fabulous. Thanks for telling me.”

“You might well thank me. I don't think Lee was going to mention it.” When her husband went on eating, she said, “I saw the script. Your name isn't on it.”

“So?”

“So Lee Cosford is running away with your idea, Gary. He fobbed you off on Pennington to get rid of you, and now that Luke says the idea's solid gold, Lee has adopted it.”

“That's what I wanted.”

“I don't believe this. Lee told me he's going to write you a check once the financing is arranged.”

“All donations gratefully received.” Gary looked closely at his wife and for the first time saw the extent of her rage. “It's what I wanted,” he repeated. “A film about Mama Cass—something to really do her justice. The idea hit me in London when I was walking at night, as if she were still there, her spirit … I know that sounds stupid. But an idea is something from your soul, isn't it? That's all it is, and who knows what makes the idea spring into your mind?”

“Gary, come down to earth.”

“The film is all that matters. If it's going to be done, I'm delighted. No big deal if my name isn't connected with it.”

“But it's
your
concept, damn it! You've
got
to be credited! Call a lawyer tomorrow and explain what's happening. Have a stop put on Lee before he goes any further.” Her husband's satisfied face enraged her. “At least get mad! They're ripping you off, they're treating you like a retarded child.”

“I can't get mad. I'm too happy.”

Anitra picked up the wine bottle, but her hands were shaking so hard she could not pour. Her empty glass toppled over. She left it rolling on the carpet. Gary was staring at her now, one cheek full. “Then maybe you'll get mad at this,” she said. “While you were over in London falling in love with the ghost of Cass Elliott, I was back here in bed with Lee Cosford. Yes, that's right.” She got up and said over her shoulder as she left the room, “Now will you come back into
this
world, Gary?”

A
NITRA FOUND IT
easy to make her decision the next day. Her mind was influenced by the way the men around her seemed determined to conduct business as usual. Gary did his typical early-morning flit to work, leaving one of his screwy notes on the kitchen counter. Years ago he had played with the idea of being a cartoonist; now the talent had mostly evaporated, leaving a residue of doodled heads and neat printing. Today's note referred only obliquely to last night in a speech balloon that said, “Don't blame yourself. We'll talk.”

At the studio, Cosford scurried around in his characterization as Laughing Lee the benign executive. He had everybody around the place grinning, but the best Anitra could give him was a sour, knowing smile. His only direct communication with her was when he whipped into her office and said, “Do me a favor, will you, Anitra? Stephie is away sick or I'd ask her. Drive the car around to the garage and have them check the steering. Tell him about the shudder around ninety. And I'll need it by Sunday.”

“I'll call and see if they can do it now,” Anitra said curtly. She picked up the phone and dialed for an outside line. But when Lee left the office she set the phone down again without making the call. The suggestion in her mind was unthinkable, but she had to consider it. She did so and came to the conclusion that Cosford had something coming. Not that an accident would happen. But if it did, there would be justice in it.

Later, Cosford had to go to a luncheon meeting at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel, so he took a taxi. He telephoned from there to say that he was accepting a lift with his dairy client down to the farm in the Eastern Townships. He would be there for the weekend, returning Sunday at midday to get the car and the film scenario from his office and then to drive Luke Pennington to the airport. Would Anitra be able to come in for an hour on Sunday to discuss taking over the reins during his absence?

“Of course.” She pursued her curt manner, words at a premium. “They kept the car at the garage but promised the steering will be fixed by Saturday afternoon. I'll see that it's here.”

“You're a gem.” Lee was expansive after his lunch. “I'll bring you back something nice from Bond Street.”

O
N
S
UNDAY MORNING
as Anitra was leaving for the studio, Gary came out of the guest room, where he had been sleeping for a couple of nights. “Have you got a minute to talk?” he said.

“I'm in a hurry.”

“I've decided you're right. I'm going to see a lawyer next week. As long as the film is being made, I might as well get some credit.”

He was not looking directly at her, so she was able to observe the veiled look on his face. “You still aren't mad, Gary. You're just saying what you think I want to hear.”

His voice became petulant. “Well, how the hell am I supposed to please you?”

“Nobody's asking you for that. Just grow up. When somebody walks all over you, be a man—get mad.”

He followed her to the door. “Are you going to see Lee?”

“I'm going to the studio. There's work to be done before he leaves for London.”

When she was gone, Gary went into the living room and pressed the palms of his hands together. He looked around. Nothing like Sunday-morning light to show the dust on everything. Anitra liked to go about with a spray can and a cloth, making everything shine and smell of lemon. Lately there had been other things on her mind.

He took down the most-played cassette in his collection and slipped it into the tape deck. He turned on the amplifier, pressed START, heard a moment's silence and then the familiar harmony flowing from the speakers on the top shelf on either side of the fireplace—Mama Cass's huge, pure voice soaring over the others like a silver-belled horn.

At last he understood why Anitra was angry with him. It was a matter of expressing himself as unself-consciously as the beautiful, natural woman he was listening to. Gary knew how he felt; he had to tell Lee Cosford how he felt.

B
Y ONE O'CLOCK,
Anitra had made two big drinks each for Cosford and Pennington. She had poured on the whisky for her boss and stinted the ginger. He was rolling with self-importance. She was glad when he looked at his watch.

“Time to hit the road,” he said. “Where's the car, Anitra?”

“Around back.” She had moved it there herself on Saturday. “The guy from the garage couldn't find anyplace else to park.”

“Then we're off. Come on, young Lucas—Daddy is going to show you the world. So long, Mrs. Prime.”

When the door closed behind them, Anitra poured herself a small drink and took it to Lee's desk, where she sat down and rummaged till she found a copy of the Mama Cass scenario. Then she began to sip and read. As she turned the pages, the realization dawned on her that this
would
make a great film. Gary was dead right. If things worked out, she and he would take it to another producer and have a go themselves.

L
EE
C
OSFORD
drove aggressively to the corner and stamped on the brake pedal, throwing Pennington forward so that he had to catch himself against the padded dashboard.

“Ride 'em, cowboy,” Lucas said.

“Haven't lost a passenger in years.” Cosford craned his neck. “Isn't that Gary Prime?”

“It sure looks like him.”

“Roll your window down. Call him over.”

“Are you sure? We don't need him at the moment.”

“It's Sunday—I'm feeling Christian. Call him.”

Gary saw the face at the car window, wandered over, and bent himself to look inside. “Hello, Lucas. Hello, Lee. I was coming to see you.”

“I'm glad. I've been meaning to talk to you about your film. We're just off to the airport. Can you drive out with us and have a drink in the lounge? Don't hesitate, my boy—it's to your benefit. Get in.”

As Gary went to open the back door, Lee whispered quickly to Pennington, “Let's give the guy a small credit and one or two percent. It's little enough and may save us litigation later on.”

B
Y TWO THIRTY,
Anitra had read the script twice and finished a second drink. When the telephone rang, she jumped. It was a police officer. There had been a crash on the highway near Dorval Airport. A car left the road and ran at top speed into a concrete abutment. The license number had been put through the computer, which printed out Lee Cosford Productions as owner of the car.

“That was my boss,” Anitra said, sounding disturbed. “He was on his way to catch a plane. Is there any—”

“I'm sorry. He must have been going ninety. We haven't been able to get into the car yet, but there can't be anybody alive.”

Anitra telephoned home, but Gary was either out or not answering. She drove from downtown in twenty minutes, thinking about the accident she had programmed. If it wasn't murder, it was certainly manslaughter. Not that Lee or Pennington were any great loss to the world, but she had better not let on to Gary that she had sent her boss out with two doubles on an empty stomach and faulty steering. Gary lacked the imagination to do anything but call the police.

The apartment was empty. Anitra checked the TV guide and saw that the Expos were on channel six in a doubleheader against the Phillies. That meant Gary would be down at the Mount Royal in the television lounge, drinking beer and eating peanuts. No supper required tonight. But perhaps they could have that talk he'd suggested this morning. No need for lawyers now—no bitterness, but a fresh start with an exciting project they could share.

The reaction set in as Anitra made tea. She was trembling so much as she carried it into the living room that she arrived with a brimming saucer. She set it down with both hands, went to turn on the radio, and noticed a cassette inside the deck. She pressed the proper switches and out came the voice Gary had been raving about for the past few weeks, the cause of all the excitement and the maneuvering and of her deadly intervention.

Now, as never before, she could understand what turned her husband on when this woman sang. Mama Cass was solo on this track, so vibrant and alive she might have been here in the room.

Anitra listened to the entire cassette—both sides—before she realized she was feeling impatient for Gary's return. She began willing him to abandon his precious baseball telecast and get in touch with her. And so when the telephone rang she ran to answer it eagerly.

Mr. and Mrs. Takamoku
were a quiet, hardworking couple. Although they had lived in Chicago since the 1940s, when they were relocated from an Arizona detention camp, they spoke only halting English. Occasionally I ran into Mrs. Takamoku in the foyer of the old three-flat we both lived in on Belmont, or at the corner grocery store. We would exchange a few stilted sentences. She knew I lived alone in my third-floor apartment, and she worried about it, although her manners were too perfect for her to come right out and tell me to get myself a husband.

As time passed, I learned about her son, Akira, and her daughter, Yoshio, both professionals living on the West Coast. I always inquired after them, which pleased her.

With great difficulty I got her to understand that I was a private detective. This troubled her; she often wanted to know if I were doing something dangerous and would shake her head and frown as she asked. I didn't see Mr. Takamoku often. He worked for a printer and usually left long before me in the morning.

Unlike the De Paul students who form an ever-changing collage on the second floor, the Takamokus did little entertaining, or at least little noisy entertaining. Every Sunday afternoon a procession of Orientals came to their apartment, spent a quiet afternoon, and left. One or more Occidentals would join them, incongruous by their height and color. After a while, I recognized the regulars, a tall, bearded white man and six or seven Japanese and Koreans.

One Sunday evening in late November I was eating sushi and drinking sake in a storefront restaurant on Halsted. The Takamokus came in as I was finishing my first little pot of sake. I smiled and waved at them and watched with idle amusement as they conferred earnestly, darting glances at me. While they argued, a waitress brought them bowls of noodles and a plate of sushi; they were clearly regular customers with regular tastes.