He was bent over the desk, examining the lower left-hand drawer. When he looked up at me his face was a fat mask of worry.
“I’m operating on my instinct for trouble,” he said. “But I’ve never guessed a guess this well, Hank. Somebody’s been in this room again—and this time a real goniff.”
“What’s missing? Somebody swipe some of P.D.Q.’s art work?”
Homer shook his head and rubbed his nose.
“Unless Quillan himself took it, somebody’s been through this drawer and swiped his gun!”
CHAPTER 10
A Sweatbox for Death
We found ourselves entering Shmendrick’s for a few quick ones before dining at The Grotto. A few sketch-book characters lounged at the bar behind which a pimply-faced juvenile dispensed the liquor. I ordered a Scotch. Homer had disappeared.
“Here I am,” he called from a booth.
There he was, but not alone. Ellen Tucker sat at the other end of the small checkered cloth, and she was dabbing at her eyes with a little yellow handkerchief. She must have been crying for quite a while. I felt sorry for her. I wanted to pat her hands. But Homer already held one hand. And he was giving her the salve.
“He’ll be along soon, Ellen. You wouldn’t want Mose to see you crying over him, would you? Get her a drink, Hank—that’s what she needs.”
Ellen held up her hand and smiled at me weakly. “No, please don’t. I’ve been carrying on like a little fool—I’ll stop without a highball.” She powdered her nose. “I don’t blame him, in a way. He was supposed to meet me here an hour ago, but he saw me talking to Mark Richmond over in the studio. It was just before quitting time—after I had promised—” She looked away.
“After you promised not to talk to Mark about Mose’s contract?”
Her eyes were suddenly wide open. “Mose didn’t tell you?”
“I know you were telling the truth this afternoon when you said you walked down that darkened hallway to meet Lloyd Griffin. You were trying to convince him he should talk to Mark about Mose’s contract, weren’t you?”
She nodded. “But how did you know?”
“Your desk. You had marked a memo on your daily calendar. You walked over there expecting to find Lloyd in his office, but he wasn’t there. You knew he was in the building somewhere, so you decided to walk down the hall. When you reached the darkened section you ran into Mose. You never expected to find him there, did you?”
There was a short silence. “No, I didn’t, Homer.” She turned her big wet eyes his way, anxiously. “But Mose explained his reason for being there—it was an accident that brought us together. He was in the sweatbox for quite a while, alone. He wanted to think, to figure things for himself. When he walked out of that room he was just as much surprised to see me as I was to meet him there. Later he explained why he invented that alibi. It would have looked awfully black if he hadn’t established a believable reason for being there. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Of course.” Homer smiled. “And then, after you both left us in P.D.Q.’s room, he made you admit why you had gone into the building? You told him you were there to plead his case with Lloyd?”
“That’s right,” she said. “And I promised never to worry about his affairs again—never to discuss them with either Mark or Lloyd.” Ellen’s face clouded. “And then, two hours later, he saw me with Mark. He thinks I broke my promise.”
“But you didn’t?”
“Of course not. I ran into Mark at the main entrance. He stood there for a while chatting with me.”
“Chatting?”
“He asked me to be sure and attend tonight’s meeting. You see, Mark is very fond of a story I submitted. He wants me to learn more about the mechanics of production. That’s why he spoke to me. I saw Mose approaching from the animation building. But he stopped as soon as he saw me standing there with Mark. He turned and walked away. I ran after him as soon as I could get away from Mark. He was gone, of course.”
“You haven’t seen him since?”
She shook her head sadly. “Oh, Homer, we must find him. He simply must be at that meeting tonight—it’s his one chance. Dick will be there. He’ll have a chance to shine, to fight his way back to the top. Mose is wonderful at meetings. He has marvelous ideas—Dick won’t want to lose a man like him to another studio. I’m only afraid—well, you know Mose. If he’s drunk—”
“He’s probably at The Grotto,” I said, nudging Homer. “If we get over there fast we may catch him before the rickeys set in.”
We left Shmendrick’s in a hurry. Four and a half minutes later, we were walking through the blue doors of The Grotto. The place was almost empty, but two familiar faces grinned at us from a corner table. Cianchini and Boomer. We sat down, ordered and asked about Mose.
Cianchini said. “He lit out of here over a half-hour ago. Said he was going to get a few drinks.”
“Where?” Ellen asked.
“He didn’t say,” said Jimmy Boomer. “But he always drinks at Shmendrick’s.”
The food came. Ellen rose. “I’ve got to find him. Maybe he went back to the studio. I’ll see you all there.”
Homer didn’t try to stop her.
Jimmy Boomer waited until she had walked out through the blue doors. “I didn’t want to tell her, poor kid, but Mose had a light supper of a pint of rye. He was in an awful state. Nerves.”
Cianchini sipped his demi-tasse. “It won’t look right if he’s stewed at that meeting. I hope she finds him and sobers him up.”
“You think he’s through?” Homer asked.
“Who can tell?” shrugged Cianchini. “Mose is a demon at a story meeting. But it won’t go well if he’s too drunk. Piper hates the stuff.”
Homer paused between bites. “What about Katie Hinds? She’s a drinker. How does it happen Dick tolerates her drunken orgies?”
“Does he?” asked Boomer. “I always thought Katie carried on only at home or behind her bolted office door. Maybe Dick doesn’t know about her sprees.”
“Who can tell?” Cianchini said again. “What do you know? You’re gonna laugh like hell at this one, but a little bird once told me Dick and Katie get along very well on that divan in his office.”
“Did your little bird tell you whether Katie and Mark ever tried to make up after the big blow-off, Louie?” Homer asked.
“You kidding, Homer? That dame would dig Mark’s heart out with an icepick if she had the chance. She hates him to pieces.”
“Small bloody pieces,” said Boomer.
“Amazing,” said Homer. “I can’t quite understand the setup in your studio. How can a man like Mark, hated so thoroughly through the outfit, turn out so many good pictures each year?”
Boomer smiled. “Who told you Mark turned out those pictures?”
“He’s director of production, isn’t he?”
Louie laughed. “So what? You mean to tell me you don’t read the fan magazines? You mean to tell me you don’t know the big genius in the place?”
“Let’s stop playing potsy,” said Homer. “I know what you want me to say. You want me to tell you that Dick Piper is the guiding light in the place—but I won’t. I’ve covered a lot of ground in Piperland today. I know that Dick is only a figurehead—the white-haired boy of the publicity department. But I’m still curious. If it isn’t Mark who makes the wheels turn, who is it?”
“Neither,” said Boomer. “It’s Benny.”
“Benny and five hundred helpers,” said Cianchini. “That studio could run itself, easily, without benefit of production heels, super-duper geniuses, and without even a personnel department. Mark Richmond is only a checker-upper. But you got to give the guy credit, at that. He works hard at his checking. He tries to organize the story groups so the guys will turn out better products.”
“Tush!” said Boomer.
�
�Aw, be fair, Jimmy. You got to give credit where credit is due, even if you hate the guy’s guts. Mark works hard at his job.”
“Malarkey!” said Boomer.
“You’re prejudiced, you dope,” said Louie. “Least you could do is give the boob credit for knocking himself out with work—real hard work. Even if it doesn’t do any good, he works, don’t he?” He turned to Homer. “Take a meeting like tonight. Mark Richmond will be previewing that picture before we get there. He does it every time. Everybody knows about it. Nobody disturbs him. He’ll be sitting in that sweatbox at least a half-hour before the meeting is scheduled. He’ll run all the films off and make notes and criticisms and suggestions. Then, when we get there later, Mark’ll be primed for really helping the boys set up the picture the right way.”
“In the pig’s fanny!” snapped Jimmy. “He’ll be primed for something altogether different. He’ll be primed for sticking his dirty nose into our business, raising hell with the unit, knocking the humor out of the gags, making the animation directors squirm in their chairs. You call that being a help, Louie?”
“Did I say he’d be a big help? Did I? I only said that you got to give the sap credit for at least working hard. After all, does the slob have to go to a sweatbox meeting a half-hour before time? Does he have to make a double-feature affair out of it?”
Homer looked at his watch. “It’s almost eight. I suppose Mark is already sitting in the sweatbox. Where do we wait for the meeting to begin—out in the hall?”
“You’d better,” said Boomer. “Either in the hall or over in the old conference room, opposite Lloyd Griffin’s office. We usually use the conference room until eight-thirty sharp. And don’t make the mistake of poking your dome inside that sweatbox a minute before, Homer. A fellow named Sugarfoot once pulled that trick. That was shortly before he found himself in the personnel department.”
“We usually play cards until the meeting starts,” said Louie. “You want to take a hand at pinochle?”
“I don’t play,” Homer said. “But Hank is the champion of the entire East side of Flatbush.”
“And the West!” I added. Pinochle is one of my weaknesses. “You coming, Homer?”
“I’ll see you later. I’ve got to see a man.”
In the conference room, Eph De Cluny was waiting for us, flicking a deck of cards nimbly in his small hands. The room was big enough to hold a longish conference table, many chairs and ashtrays and an added bridge table in the corner. Sugarfoot sat alone at this small table.
It was a dull game, this Western brand of pinochle, fraught with many bait hands and much argument between De Cluny and Boomer. Neither knew much about the game. I won easily, but lost interest.
I wondered where Homer had gone, why he hadn’t returned to the studio when we did. I watched Sugarfoot leave the table, idle over us for a brief moment and quit the room. Ellen Tucker came in and sat gloomily in the corner.
A pimply-faced projection boy wandered in and sat for a while nervously toying with his watch.
Boomer observed his fidgets. “The kid will go into that booth with wet pants, Hank. Mark is a very fussy guy. He wants his films shown at just the right minute.”
At eight o’clock Threadgill and Dick Piper walked in and sat beside Ellen. The production boy left, rubbing his beak. The game buzzed along. I won a hand. De Cluny lost a four hundred spade hand and paid off an extra premium because he went bait with a hundred aces. He was very much embarrassed.
Daisy came in with her stenotype machine. She also chatted with Threadgill for a while, then walked out with him and Dick. The room was now filled with smoke. My eyes burned. I dealt and stayed out of the next one.
The door opened a crack, and I saw Mose Kent’s head for an instant. His eyes glimmered into the room, frowned and disappeared. His eyes were a giveaway. Mose was lit again.
Homer finally arrived and stood behind me in the attitude of a professional kibitzer. Then I felt his thumb nudge my back, which meant I should cash in my chips and join him as soon as possible.
He sauntered out.
I collected my winnings and left the room. Outside, I saw his fat frame bent over a bush. Or was it a bush?
“You would!” I said. “Ten more minutes with those mugs was worth a fin to me. What’s up?”
He led me behind the bush. There was a figure on the ground.
“Mose Kent,” said Homer. “I spotted him leaving the building when I approached. He’s drunk as a lord.”
“No chance for coffee?” I asked.
“Forget it. He doesn’t want to attend that meeting.” Homer prodded his midriff. “Do you, Mose?”
“Blurg!” said Mose.
“Just as well,” said Homer. “He’ll be out of mischief here.”
They were all about to leave the conference room when we returned. It was exactly twenty-eight minutes past eight. De Cluny had the lead on the way to the sweatbox, chattering to us with gestures. Halfway down the hall we met the pimply-faced projection youth. He greeted Eph with an adolescent gurgle of laughter.
“You guys are in for it tonight,” he said. “Mark Richmond was so crazy about your picture he fell asleep.” He slapped his thighs. “Honest to God, he’s fast asleep in his chair!”
“You are making the joke?”
The youth didn’t answer with words. He laughed louder and pointed to the sweatbox door ahead of us. He ran back to the projection booth door, waving his arms and gurgling madly.
Cianchini and Boomer came up from behind. De Cluny looked at his watch, looked at the door. It was still twenty-eight and one-half minutes past eight. Boomer slapped Eph’s hand off the knob.
“Naughty, naughty!” he said. “Mustn’t open until eight-thirty or Uncle Mark will fan your itsy bitsy tail.”
De Cluny opened the door, looked inside, then stepped back a half step and said: “Nom de Dieu!”
Homer edged past him, with Boomer and me at his heels.
“Don’t touch anything!” snapped Homer. “Don’t go near that chair!”
Nobody with half a stomach would have dared approach Mark Richmond’s chair. Mark was dead. He had been shot through the heart, at close range. He was slumped forward, almost bent forward, and blood was all over him. I heard a twin crescendo of shrieks from Ellen and Daisy. And on the floor, just below Mark’s hand, lay P.D.Q.’s little pearl-handled automatic!
CHAPTER 11
Buttikoffer Butts In
Sitting in the sweatbox, looking at the group scattered willy-nilly around the corpse of Mark Richmond, gave me a queer feeling.
There were several faces I didn’t expect to see in that room. Katie Hinds, for instance. My last memory of Katie still burned brightly—the long weird cackle, her lusty laughter, as she left the studio in somebody’s car. Did Mark Richmond take her away and then return with her to the studio?
And Barton Noyes—why was he here? He was no longer story man. He couldn’t have come back for the meeting. Had he come back to look for his old friend? Had he found P.D.Q.?
Hugh Pentecost, too, was in the room. He sat under the projection booth, pale and twitchy. Ellen was close by. They whispered together. What had brought Hugh back to the studio? Was it part of his publicity job to attend story meetings?
The sweatbox door opened and a crowd of Los Angeles hussars shuffled in. A small man with a big gut had command. The coroner, a gray-faced gent with horn-rimmed glasses, went at once to the corpse.
The small man surveyed the room. The cut of his suit was pure English droop, and I could see the words Los Angeles Homicide Squad written in neon letters all over him. He shook hands with Dick Piper and Threadgill, making sure the corners of his mouth didn’t curve into a smile. Dick murmured for a time about “the horrible accident,” as if by repeating this simple word he would convince the inspector and himself that Mark had shot himself while examining the
gun.
The small man with the stomach listened sympathetically, with his mouth half open and his eyes half shut. “If it’s a suicide, we’ll know soon enough, Mr. Piper,” he said. “But I got a notion you’re wrong. This is one hell of a place for a guy to bump himself off. Why should he do it in the studio? Was the guy worrying?”
“I can’t say,” said Dick, and turned to Threadgill. “It doesn’t seem possible, does it, Clark?”
“Hardly likely, Dick. Though it’s not for us to say. Mark was a queer one for keeping his thoughts to himself. No one knew him well. His only concern was the studio. He was a loyal worker, inspector—not the type of man who would take his own life.”
“You never can tell,” said the inspector. “Now this Richmond guy—maybe he was in love.”
I thought I saw Threadgill stifle a grin. Then a sudden noise from out in the corridor saved his face. Two cops barged in, pulling the struggling figure of Mose Kent. Mose was still high as a P-40 and just as full of battle. He flailed out at his captors with both arms. They shoved him roughly into a seat.
The big cop with high blood pressure cheeks said, “He was outside, hidin’ in them bushes near the entrance. He tried to conk Sam. I guess maybe he’s drunk.”
“Dirty lying Cossack!” drooled Mose.
“That ain’t nice language,” said the big cop. “You want I should slam him one, Inspector?”
Buttikoffer waved him away imperiously and sidled over to Mose. He stood over Kent, arms akimbo. He stared. He frowned. “How long were you out there, stew? You walk out there after plugging this guy? Speak up before I slap the liquor out of your head!”
Mose rolled his head upward and gave vent to a maniacal laugh. It embarrassed the inspector.
“All right—everybody out!” he bellowed. “You, Sam, take all these people down the hall to that little room off the main entrance—and keep ’em there! I want to talk to them, one at a time, but later. You people march out with Sam, folks. And remember, nobody walks out of that room down there, understand? You got me, Sam?”
He Died Laughing Page 8