Merryll Manning Is Dead Lucky (20 page)

    “I have some news.” Borne’s voice didn’t make it sound cheery.

    “Been trying to get hold of you, inspector! Our Tunning’s on the warpath here. Phoned up some legal Giuseppe to prize Avati out of your grip.”

    “We released him a half-hour ago,” Borne sighed. “He didn’t tell us much we didn’t already know.”

    “He didn’t tell me anything – known or unknown! So what did you shake out of the bastard, Inspector?”

    “He confirmed our theory. The murdered girl was passing in fake contestants.”

    “How would he know that? And it’s just not true. Miss Williams was one of the most trusted members of our staff.”

    “Just shows you how even an old campaigner like Merryll Manning can be dazzled by a pretty face and an amply-filled bra!”

    “So who were these fake contestants? We’ll need to delete them from our line-up.”

    “Gino Paletti. He was all three of the contestants – those with the false addresses.”

    “Didn’t do him any good. He failed – all three times!”

    “Paletti’s dead. Murdered! And that’s why we think he was killed. He had three chances and he botched all three of them. So Miss Williams had to be disposed of as well. It’s a top-level conspiracy – originated and controlled by the Mafia!”

    “I don’t go along with you at all!” Kent interrupted. “You’re making Spookie’s death far too complicated. There’s no Mr. Big behind all this. A simple psychopath is what we’re after!”

    Borne was evidently not pleased to discover that Kent had been listening in. Without so much as a “goodbye”, he disconnected his phone.

    “God damn it!” came Kent’s angry voice. “What did he do that for?”

    “The police are very touchy about sharing information,” I told him. “Please don’t interfere again or you’ll force me to resign.”

    “Go ahead and resign! Goddamn announcers are a dime a dozen. Provided he isn’t cross-eyed and doesn’t stutter, the only requirement for a TV announcer is that he announce!”

27

“Everything set, Trev?”

    Trevor Holden laughed. “You look a proper sight, Merry!”

    “I’m not supposed to look funny tonight,” I replied. “Just different!” I had urged Make-up to overrule Mr. Kent. In my new and handsome toupee, I could stand in for any fairy prince.

    “Even your old woman wouldn’t recognize you. You have an old woman, Merry?”

    “I wish I did. I was trying to get into Spookie’s bed.”

    “You and all the rest of us! Besides Ace and Monty, of course.”

    “Who’s doing the warm-up?”

    “You remember! They decided not to bother. We don’t really need a live audience any more. The place is packed to the doors anyway. Monty’s making an announcement over the speakers. If we like, we can dub in applause and anything and everything else later.”

    “I’m glad you didn’t say laughs. I don’t want any laughs tonight.”

    “You’re right. Not with Sedge in hospital and all. It wouldn’t be right.”

    Not to mention an innocent, lovely girl murdered.

    “Where do I wait?” I asked.

    “There’s a buzzer in the dressing room.”

    “I wouldn’t want to wait there.” I wasn’t frightened of ghosts. Just plain nervous – but I didn’t want Trev to know it. “I’d worry less if I had somewhere to focus my eyes – besides a tatty dressing-room mirror.”

    “Wait in the wings,” Trev suggested. “Keep in my eye line. I’ll give you a wave when we’re ready.”

    “I’ll hear the announcement anyway.”

    “The echo’s bad out there. Keep watching me. I’ll wave you in.”

    My big chance! I’d always wanted to be a TV star. But not this way. Not this way.

    Trev began his final countdown. The cameramen scurried to their posts; the sound man swung his mike over the podium; the autocue operator stood ready at his switch; a make-up girl was trying to make last-minute adjustments to one of the contestants, but he kept waving her away. I felt my pocket for the tenth time to make sure I had Sedge’s cards with all the questions and answers. I didn’t trust them to the autocue. Of course, Monty and Ace knew what they were and I’d lay odds that Tunning had stolen a quick glance when he opened Sedge’s desk. Otherwise, they were all supposedly a dead secret – for the next few minutes anyway!

    As Trev had said, the sound in the wings was pretty distorted, but I had no trouble interpreting the lead-in. “Our guest quizmaster for the show tonight has come all the way from Alberta, Canada. Ladies and gentlemen, a big hand please, for Mr. Don Ellin.”

    I remember little of the show. I was on automatic pilot. It took me all my time and concentration just to read off the questions. The contestants themselves were the usual dull lot, only a professional young punter with an intimate knowledge of the gee-gees proving of more than ho-hum interest. The way he rattled off correct answers to the most obscure questions – like who won the Belmont Stakes in 1923 – was nothing short of amazing.

    The show sailed along perfectly, if you can call boredom perfect, until right near the end. The wily punter had tied with another contestant on fifteen. A sudden death play-off was called for. But where were the supplementary questions? I pressed the problem on Trev who relayed our dilemma to the control booth. Peter Tunning came dashing down. “Ask who wins the Kentucky Derby in 1900. And if he is right, ask who wins the Belmont Stakes in 1912, and then who wins the Preakness Stakes in 1892.”

    “How do I know if he gets these answers right?”

    “I stand just behind where you see me. I nod my head if he answers right.”

    “Okay, that solves the horses, but what about prominent people?”

    “Ask him about Francesco Foscari,” Peter advised.

    “Francesco Foscari,” I repeated. “What his claim to fame?”

    “I nod my head. I nod my head. Another name: Francesco Zuccarelli.”

    “Francesco Zuccarelli. Yes?”

    “Niccola Spinelli. Niccola Spinelli. I think that is enough. You need more, we stop the tape.”

    The punter got the 1900 Kentucky winner dead right. To my astonishment, Prominent People knew Francesco Foscari. To my further amazement the punter knew there was no winner for the 1912 Belmont Stakes. I was getting worried, but to my relief Prominent People guessed wrong about Niccola Spinelli. An Italian painter? Peter shook his head emphatically. The day was saved!

    The crowd cheered itself into the usual frenzy and I was leaning against the podium, thankful it was all over, when the big arc lamps started flashing on and off. Hell! This was a panic signal. Despite the heat on the set, the sweat literally froze on my face. I was starting to imagine all sorts of horrors, when Monty’s voice came floating over the loudspeakers: “Would you remain in your seats, please, ladies and gentlemen? Please remain in your seats. We may need to involve you in a minor re-take in a couple of minutes. Please remain in your seats.”

    I forced myself to walk across the set and climb the small ladder to the control booth. “What’s the problem?” I asked.

    “The camera is the problem,” said Peter Tunning. “There is a shot of me. So we do it again.”

    “How did that happen?”

    “An accident,” said Monty. “It runs exactly three seconds and you can’t recognize Peter anyway.”

    “I do not wish to appear on the television. I have enemies, many enemies who will try to kill me if they recognize me or know where I am.”

    “Hell, Peter, your name is a household word. Every enemy you have in the world already knows you.”

    “If they know my face, they not know my name. If they know my name, they not know my face!”

    “Are we talking about a long shot or a close-up?” I asked.

    “A close-up,” said Monty.

    “Where is it on the tape? Let me see it on the monitor,” I asked.

     They did. It took a bit of fiddling and it was a close-up all right, but so murky it would be impossible to recognize if it was a shot of Peter or the king of Siam.

    I marked the start of the close-up with a piece of chalk and did the same to the end. Before Monty could stop me, I then scissored the whole section out of the tape and handed it to Peter. “Happy?” I asked.

    Peter nodded.

    “You’d no bloody right to do that!” yelled Monty. “Now the tape will run short!”

    “So it will. And with a bit more trimming, it looks like you’ll now have room for an extra commercial,” I said. “Or maybe two!”

    Monty’s frown suddenly changed to a smile.

    “Now you can tell our patient audience to go home,” I suggested.

    “You tell them, Merry. You’re the M.C., not me!”

    But most of our diehard live audience had already left. There were hardly more than a score still in their seats. So much for the gripping power of live television!