Crime on My Hands (19 page)

“I told him. But he hung up.”

“You've got to be gentle with editors.”

‘I'll be gentle!” he raged. ‘I'll buy him a new suit. A double-breasted libel, and that's my final word.”

“One of these days, Wally, your vocal cords are going to leap out and flagellate you. I'll call him, so relax.”

“Smith” gave me a mental hot-foot. “I killed the story the first time,” he said, “because Wanda isn't very good copy. Mother Hubbards don't give any pulse a dirty beat, but boyohboy! We got a picture of the lady this morning in little more than a grin and gams. What gams!”

“Sucker,” I said, rallying as best I could.

“Oh, yeah? Take a look at 'em sometime. Even if they were artificial I could get a glandular upset.”

“Oh, she has legs,” I admitted. “But are you falling for that old gag?”

“Somehow,” he lyricized, “legs are ageless for me. They never grow old. Always there's freshness in the curve of a calf, the knife-edge of an ankle, the cornucopian flare of a thigh. I love 'em!”

“But as a newspaper man, you don't give columns of space to publicity hounds. This is just a gag to get her in the public eye. You ‘ll be a laughing stock – to Wanda.”

“If she'll laugh at me in person – How do you know?”

“I helped her work it out,” I improvised. “We were talking one night, and I advanced the theory that any actor could get publicity by departing from the role usually associated with him. If I should dress in missionary robes, God forbid, the fact in itself would get me in the rotogravure as long as I had some kind of a story to go with it. I didn't think she'd try to get mixed up in a murder just to test my theory. But I tell you this, chum. She had nothing to do with these murders. I give you my word of honor on that.”

“Can I quote you?”

“Certainly. Will you call the other papers, like a pal?”

“If you'll give me the break on the solution. Hell, it isn't customary for one editor to call his competitor and warn the oaf against sticking his neck out.”

“I'll give you the break,” I promised. “When and if.”

The explanation I had given sounded pretty good to me. I hung up and thought about it. Then I called “Smith” back.

“Where'd you get these stories?”

“We have a correspondent up there,” he said. “He telephoned them in.”

“Who is he? How can I find him?”

“I don't know much about him. He's sent in a few local items before. His name's Lazarus Fortescue.”

“You're kidding. There isn't any such name.”

“That's the way his checks go out, when we print anything of his.”

“What does he sound like on the phone?”

“Like a cow-county correspondent. What else?”

“Thanks.” I hung up and went to the desk, with Wallingford padding along spewing “Well?'s” at me. I brushed him off. The old desk clerk was plugged in on the switchboard. “Where will I find Lazarus Fortescue?” I asked.

He put down his headset. “Yup? What can I do for ya now?”

“Didn't you hear my question?”

“Heard my name. Answered, didn't I?”

“You're Lazarus Fortescue?”

“Ain't no impostor.”

I dammed the tide of Wallingford's interrogation. “It's all right,” I said. “It's fixed.”

“George,” he said, “you can be a son to me any day. I want to buy you a present for the end of the picture. Name it. Even if it costs a lot.”

I paused and grinned at him. I knew Wally. If I asked for a private yacht, or a pet alligator, or a souvenir from Buckingham Palace, he'd see that I got it, now that he'd committed himself. It was a temptation I couldn't resist.

“Name it, George,” he said again.

“All right,” I said very casually. “I want a transit. A twenty-two inch achromatic.”

He took out a notebook and started to scribble. “A
which?
”

I repeated it. Wally blinked, but he wrote it down.

“I'll see that you get it, George. Anything to make you happy.”

“Now,” I said, “will you go up to Riegleman's room and tell him I'm on my way? I want to get some information first.”

He padded away. “Let's have it,” I said to Lazarus Fortescue. “What about these stories on Wanda Waite?”

“Ain't stories,” he said. “They're true.”

“All right. Where did you get 'em?”

“Got 'em from her. She wouldn't lie about that. Might lie about other things. Most women do. Had a redhead once – Lies, you never heard nothin' like–”

“Did she ask you to telephone the papers?”

“Yup. ‘N she got me to take her pitcher.” He gave a low whistle. “I'm ready to go any time now, whenever the Boss upstairs calls me. Now I seen everything.”

“Is she in her room now?”

He glanced at the key rack. “Yup. Goin' to see her?” 

“That is my intention.” I walked toward the stairs. 

“'F I could lose twenty years,” he said, “I'd fight ya for her.”

Wanda was not seductive now, except in the way that a lovely woman is normally seductive. She was in her quilted robe again, with her hair down. Her eyes narrowed a trifle at my expression as she invited me in. She waved me to a chair, curled up on the bed, and waited for me to speak.

I began slowly. “I've always had the greatest admiration,” I said, “for detectives, amateur or otherwise, who could hide behind a closet door and see everything that was going on in a room. Aside from the danger that someone may open the door at any moment, it's incredibly difficult to see much through a half-inch crack. Try it yourself sometime, and find out. Therefore, I must ask you–“

Deliberately I paused, lighted a cigarette, and stared at her with the expression The Falcon invariably assumed while questioning a lovely woman.

“Just what,” I demanded, “did you take from Severance Flynne's room?”

She looked at me coldly. “Nothing.”

“You didn't take anything from Peggy Whittier's room, either.”

She shook her head.

“But you left something there,” I said. “On purpose, too. Fingerprints. All over the place. You did everything but write your name on the wall. And a very clumsy job of planting clues, if you ask me.”

That brought her bolt upright. Her eyes widened. She said “
George–!
”

“I advanced an evasion this morning,” I said, “to an editor. I gave him a fanciful tale. After I had finished, I had a hunch it might be true. I have discovered that it was. Tell me the truth, Wanda. You're messing around in a dangerous situation. I want to know why. Then I won't waste time wondering. Why did you send out those phony stories?”

“They were true,” she said quietly.

“The implications were false. Why? And why this siren act, each time observers were present?”

She was quiet for a long time, her wide blue eyes full of thought and – bitterness? Baffling expressions. Then she got to her feet, and took off her robe. She had on a white halter and shorts. She stood and looked at me.

I looked at her clinically, for that was the atmosphere. She was as casual as if she were showing me a ring. Appraisal was what she wanted, and I gave it. We said nothing.

She was stacked, as the boys say. She was assembled with an eye to lush detail. Her shoulders were firm, tanned, and straight. She was tanned all over, even, I suspected, under the wisps she wore. Her arms were long and tapered, her breasts full and joyous, her waist small, her stomach flat and hard, and her legs seemed never to come to an end. “Smith” was right. And Lazarus Fortescue had every right to dream his way into the grave after seeing this.

“Very pretty,” I said.

She donned her robe. “Nothing wrong with it,” she said. It wasn't a question. “I can stack this pile of bones up against any. And so what happens? The geniuses of Hollywood drape me in Mother Hubbards. I'm a missionary. I'm a minister's wife. When I'm supposed to turn on the heat, it's a charcoal stove. I'm sick and tired of being a good woman. I want to be bad!”

I waited. No sense in interrupting yet.

“You'll admit I can make blood bubble,” she went on. “But I made the mistake once of trying out for a woman of good works, and they gave me the works. So I thought I'd change. If I could get into a jam, and not far enough to blackball me, maybe those limp-brained producers would consider me in another light. I'm a good actress. I can even do high comedy, and that's what I want to do. But you can't do drawing room dalliance in a shroud.”

“You remind me of me, baby,” I said. “It got so that every time I'd hear a car backfire, I'd automatically reach for a magnifying glass. I was typed, too. I broke away, but not by my own efforts.” I paused. “You took that reel of film out of my trailer. Why?”

“It had proof of my innocence. It was my hole card. You see, George, I'm an amateur at being bad. So I thought that if I went too far, and was arrested in earnest, I could produce proof that it was just a gag.”

“How did you know it was proof?” I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. “I know where I was when Flynne was shot, and what I was doing. The same film that showed him falling dead would show that I didn't have a gun in my hands at that moment.” She smiled wryly. “It sounds a little ghoulish, using the death of somebody as a springboard to top billing. But he was dead. I couldn't harm him.”

“No, but you obscured the overall picture. Well, I'll see what I can do for you after this picture is in the can. I sympathize with your feelings, and I think you're a fine actress. You deserve a break. Meanwhile, will you drop this nonsense and give me the film?”

“Sure,” she said. “I'll be a good girl until the show is over. But then, by golly, I'm going to be horrid! It pays more, too!”

“It always has.”

She went to the wastebasket, and rummaged. She rummaged and rummaged. She turned, white-faced.

“Somebody,” she said quietly, “is trying to get me into
real
trouble. It's gone.”

On the night of Wanda's arrest, I had searched this room. I had looked into and under everything but the ceiling flyspecks.

I looked at her speculatively. I told her about my search. My eyebrows probably implied that she was lying.

“I put it in the wastebasket that night,” she said. “It just fit in the bottom. It looked like a false bottom. I shoved it down good and firm so it wouldn't fall out if the basket was emptied. Then I put back. what had been in the basket. Used Kleenex, empty cigarette packages, old newspapers, just stuff.”

I couldn't remember whether or not I had looked in the wastebasket. I was under the impression that I had not.

Super-sleuth Sanders!

‘I'm a dope at times,” I said. “All right, it's gone. It behooves us, I think, to walk softly. Be careful, and stop messing in this. Our killer is a dangerous person. Lock your door when I go, and keep it locked at night.”

“That's no good,” she said reasonably. “Whoever it is knows me. We're probably friends. I cannot keep friends out.”

She was correct. Either all persons were suspect, or none. She could hardly close her door against everybody.

I sighed. ‘I'm sorry that you got into this,” I said. “But, since you did, it gains little to moan. Be careful, anyway.”

I went to Riegleman's room, prepared to be lectured. When I was seated, and we had cigarettes going, he creased his high forehead with a frown and filled his blue eyes with unhappiness.

“I find myself in an unhappy position,” he began. “An important reel of film has disappeared. Ordinarily that would not present such serious difficulties save that the retake is a body blow to the budget.”

He paused. I felt slightly uncomfortable. That reel of film had been lost while I was responsible for it.

“However,” he went on, “the notebook of my script girl has disappeared. As you know, George, it contains every important detail of action, costume, movement. We cannot risk the discrepancies. I see nothing for it except to retake everything. We had a three-day shooting schedule here. We have used it, and we have nothing except a long shot of the caravan filing across the desert at sunrise. Perhaps we can use that. I want to apologize for being finicky this morning, George. Ordinarily I remember nothing about the scenes except the psychological verities. I happened, just happened, to remember your tie. I am afraid I lost my temper.”

“You had reason,” I said. “I stank.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “you did. Also with reason. Both murders occurred while you were facing the camera. You couldn't help but remember Peggy stiffening with discovery, then going limp in death. Poor child. Which brings up another reason for retaking our scenes from scratch.”

He paused, drilled me with eyes which lost their gloom. “Do you realize,” he asked, “that the murderer must have been behind the first camera? His presence must have registered on someone besides Peggy. Unconsciously, perhaps. Nonetheless, somebody knows who he was, and a recreation of the scene as near to the original as we can manage might recall it to the mind of the person who knows.”

“So now you're going to play detective?”

“As far as the death of that extra is concerned,” he said grimly, “I am unaffected. I didn't know him. But I knew Peggy. That brings me into this as a person. I want to see her avenged. From the murderer's point of view, her death was necessary, and possibly he killed her with reluctance. But it was murder.” He paused. “Somehow it only seems like
murder
when one knows the victim. That's why I have an idea that it might be pleasant to see that the murderer gets what he deserves.”

“I like your idea,” I said. “I have a few others of my own to supplement it. I agreed with you to stay out of this, but I gather that you won't hold me to that agreement, now that you are in it, too?”