by Jerry eBooks
Callahan nodded. “I know. I found that out when I questioned them. Who was running the camera?”
Lou Mathis stepped forward, staring hard at the .38. His face was pale and his slight but wiry frame seemed taut.
“I was,” he said. “But if you think I bumped that dirty wolf simply because he insulted—”
Jane sprang up from her seat on the scenery. She ran to her brother’s side and grabbed his arm.
“Lou! Be quiet! That was all settled.” She stood as if to shield him from the detective.
Callahan’s cold eyes lighted with interest. He rose from his chair and walked to the cameraman.
“Nothing’s settled yet, except that a man has been murdered. I want to know just why you called the corpse a wolf, and just what has been settled.” He divided his stare between brother and sister.
Jane’s words tumbled on top of each other.
“Edwards merely made a pass at me a few days ago. He’s done it to every girl on every set he ever worked on. Lou heard about it and threatened to push his face in.
Edwards apologized. That’s all there is to it, isn’t it, Lou?” Her eyes sought her brother’s for confirmation.
Mathis patted her arm. “Not quite, honey. Just before we set up for this scene, Friml came over and said Edwards had complained about me. Said I had insulted him.”
“And did you apologize?”
The cameraman shook his head. “I suggested he tell Ronny to go fry in his ham grease.”
Callahan’s face almost cracked in a grin. He hid it behind a flaring match which lighted his cigarette.
“Tell me, Mr. Friml,” he said, “just why Ronald Edwards was given the front page of all of Panamint’s publicity? It might not be as unrelated to the case as you may think. Personally, I’ve always been of the opinion that his acting belonged with third-rate legit houses instead of Hollywood’s billion-dollar industry.”
FRIML flushed. His beady eyes squinted and his sharp, gnomelike chin thrust out.
“Listen, Mr. Inspector. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Art Mabry has discovered more stars for me than you’ll find in the flag, and I have confidence in him. We were trying to build up Ronny. I’ll admit now that we made a mistake, in putting him in a starring role right away, but he was still good material. Ronny’s contract ended next month, and I had just told him that I’d put him in stock at a hundred a week to groom him for future pictures.”
“And I suppose he loved that?” said Callahan; sarcastically. “Panamint publicity says Edwards was paid three grand a week.”
Friml made a deprecating gesture. “Publicity only. We actually paid him eight hundred.”
“Okay,” Callahan said. “Eight hundred. That’s still quite a comedown. What was Edwards’ reaction?”
Friml thumped his crutch and shook his massive head.
“What’s this to do with Ronny’s murder? I only told Ronny about the stock job a few minutes before he went on for the scene. He said he wanted to talk it over with Mabry. Mabry’s been his friend and adviser since he came to Hollywood.”
The medical examiner climbed out of the ditch and came over to Callahan. He held a flat disc in his hand.
“Here’s your bullet, Lieutenant. It was embedded in Edwards’ arm after coming through his head. Apparently he was resting his head on his arm when he was shot. It knocked a hole as big as a saucer through his right temple. It’s soft lead, and I don’t believe there’s any chance of Ballistics finding markings.”
Callahan took the flattened bullet. It was a jagged piece of lead, the size of a fifty-cent piece. He snicked open the .38 and examined the unfired cartridges. I saw him push a fingernail into the lead.
“There’s one bullet fired from this gun,” Callahan said. “The remaining ones are soft lead.” He got up from his chair and spoke to the M. E. “Take the body down to the morgue. We’ll carry on this questioning from Friml’s office.” He flipped a finger at the plainclothesman. “Lock this stage and stand by the door until you hear from me. Nobody is to go in.”
Except for that cop and the M. E., the group of us, including Callahan and a couple of uniformed men with him, headed across the lot to the directors’ building. It had grown dark. After we were settled in the chrome and black-leathered room which complemented Friml as the great producer he supposedly was, I started fidgeting. I was through with the case. A guy had been killed and the police were investigating. I wasn’t being paid to sit around. More business might be crying at my office.
I walked over to a window that overlooked the street. Dimly I could see the silhouette of huge floodlights that were off for the duration, due to the California coast dimout. Before the war, they used to go on when the first street light flashed up and broke the circuit of a photo-electric cell.
Now the street lights were hooded, and the electric eye was in the discard. A wire dangled in the breeze just outside the window where the “eye” had been. Probably salvaged for the war effort. They were salvaging everything nowadays.
Salvage! An idea struck me. Friml was taking retake after retake, yet the WPB had limited the use of raw film to about seventy-five per cent of previous consumption. And using the precious stuff on a picture that no amount of reshooting could help. I swung around to put in a question, then realized I was out of the case. I shrugged.
“LOOK, Callahan,” I said, “I’m scramming. You know where you can reach me.”
I smacked on my hat. Emil Friml jumped to his feet. “Jimmy Lee!” he yelled. “I hired you, and you’re going to stay until this business is over! You’ve got ten times more brains than this clothes-horse, and I want you to find out who killed Ronny!”
Callahan’s granite face bordered on a sneer. He had been in the middle of questioning Jane’s brother.
“Okay,” he said. “If the great producer wants you to work along with us. But keep from under foot.”
He gave me a dirty look, then pulled the handkerchief-wrapped .38 from his pocket. From another pocket he pulled a fingerprint kit. He dusted the gun, then examined it closely. I saw him ball up the handkerchief and throw it into a wastepaper basket. Obviously, the gun carried no prints.
“Mr. Friml,” Callahan said, “this clothes-horse would like to know if the studio had insured Ronald Edwards before the picture was started? I understand that’s the custom.”
Friml, his chin resting his huge head on the crutch, darted his birdlike eyes at the detective.
“Of course. For half a million. That’s what the picture budget, plus the profits, was figured at.”
“So,” Callahan continued, “the studio is in half a million, plus whatever the film grosses?”
The producer jerked his chin from the crutch.
“Plus losing our best star!” he shouted.
“Who had just been banished to stock at a hundred a week.”
Lou Mathis laughed. “It’ll be the first time a Ronald Edwards picture made money.”
Art Mabry got to his feet. His eyes were blazing.
“Ronald Edwards was the greatest potential star Panamint ever contracted!” he yelled.
Mathis swung toward him. “Ronald Edwards was a dirty, woman-chasing ham that had Panamint hypnotized! Friml does anything you say just because you discovered Gale Prentiss. Edwards was your pal. What’d he do—give you a cut of the salary you got for him?”
Mabry’s bouncing turned into a tremble. He swung a haymaker that connected with the cameraman’s chin. Mathis took the big man’s swing but came right back with an upper-cut that lifted the director six inches from the floor. He spun dizzily, crashed into Callahan, and folded like an accordion in the detective’s arms.
Callahan helped Mabry to a chair while the two cops calmed the rest down, then the detective-lieutenant walked up to Mathis.
“Listen,” he said. “You were back of the camera when the shot was fired. The gun’s wiped clean of prints. The dead guy insulted your sister—” He weighed the gun in front of the cameraman’s face. “If I
could trace this to you—”
Friml, who had been watching the action, thumped noisily on his crutch.
“That gun,” he said, twisting his huge head around to the detective’s side, “looks like—”
Mathis leaped to his feet. With one sweep he whipped the gun from the hand of .the detective.
“Yes, curse you! It’s my gun! Someone took it from my desk!” He backed away slowly, covering us all with the .38. “But you’re not taking me down to put me through a third degree!” His hand reached behind him and he opened the door. “I think I know who killed Edwards, and I’m taking out time to confirm it.”
Jane screamed, but it was too late. A police positive arced through the air, and its butt thudded on the cameraman’s head. Mathis dropped like a Zero fighter with its wings shot off.
THE plainclothes cop who had taken the workmen out of the stage, stepped over the unconscious man, pocketing his gun. He looked at Callahan questioningly. “I did right in conking him?”
The detective’s face wore a sadistic grin. “You conked the murderer of Ronald Edwards. You’ll probably get another stripe for doing it.”
The cop beamed. He swayed selfconsciously.
“To tell you the truth, it was an accident I came up. I’ve been holding those workmen downstairs and I wondered if you wanted me to take them to Headquarters?”
Jane had run to her brother’s side. She was bending over him, sobbing. Callahan pulled her away and felt Mathis’ pulse.
“This killer is just stunned. I’ll have a confession out of him half an hour after he’s at Headquarters.”
The cameraman was coming to. Callahan and the cop hooked arms around him and started through the door.
“This guy’s a hothead,” the detective said to Friml. “His rep is known in Hollywood. Plenty of scraps in night clubs. I’ll bet my badge he murdered Edwards because your ham insulted his sister, and—believe it or not because he was such a rotten actor for a cameraman to have his name tied up with. I’ve worked Hollywood for years. There’s no rhyme or reason to some of these boy geniuses.”
I held Jane as the door closed. Friml gazed around blankly, a finger worrying a thick lip. Mabry was massaging his jaw. Bradford, who had remained quietly in a chair in a corner during the rioting, slowly got up. He looked around and sighed.
“Well, I suppose that’s that.” He put on his hat. “I’m going home to bed.”
No one spoke as he went through the doorway. At last Friml hobbled out, telling Jane to lock his office when she left. Mabry followed him, the bounce gone from his big body. Jane had sunk into a chair and was crying. I went over to her.
“Listen,” I said. “Callahan’s off his beam. He’s stuck and wants to make a quick arrest to boost his stock. We’ll have Lou out of the jug by morning.”
The girl looked up eagerly, then her face clouded.
“But his reputation! He’s set on the Army and this might get him thrown out.”
I patted her arm. I didn’t have a leg to stand on, but I stuck my neck out. “I’ll clear him like the Marines cleared the Solomons. Let’s take a look at his office. Maybe there’s a lead there.”
Jane got to her feet and led me through Mabry’s office, which adjoined Friml’s, and on into a smaller one whose frosted glass door carried Lou’s name and title. She flipped on a light and settled in a chair.
I frisked the room and found nothing suspicious. I delved into a clothes closet and found an assortment of sports-coats hanging on hooks. On a shelf was a supply of miscellaneous photographic equipment—light meters, flash-bulbs, bottles of developer and fixative, and stacks of black-wrapped sensitized paper for making prints. On the floor was a large envelope which apparently had fallen from the shelf.
I picked it up and found it unsealed. Inside was a photograph of Carol Jergins. I did a double-take.
Carol Jergins had been a strip tease artist, a show girl, a night club beauty—then a headache for the New York Police Department. Two years ago she had either bumped herself off or been plugged by a boy friend who, so far, had not been identified by the best of the homicide men. A missing link in the chain of circumstantial evidence was a page torn from a New York hotel register which listed the name of a young man admirer. With that page the police would have had the murderer.
ON THE back of the photograph was hand-printed:
JUST TO REMIND YOU THAT THE NY. COPS STILL HAVE A COPY OF THIS FILED UNDER UNFINISHED BUSINESS.
I slipped it back into its envelope and returned it to its place on the floor. I went over to Jane.
“Look,” I said. “Did Lou know Carol Jergins?”
She stared at me, her face puzzled. “Yes. Over two years ago, when she was on the Coast. He was a kid then, only eighteen, but he had a crush on her. He did some professional pictures of her.”
“Do you now if he kept any copies?” Jane shook her head. “No, He destroyed those he had after she died. Her death hit him pretty hard. His interest, though, was nothing but infatuation.”
“Did anyone else know about this infatuation?” I asked.
“I suppose so,” Jane said. “He was working for Panamint then, and they were seen together. Why?”
“I dunno,” I said, and scratched my head.
A motive was shaping itself in my mind, but I couldn’t tie the strings together. I reviewed the killing. Edwards at the end of the bridge.
“Hey!” I said. “Think hard. Was there any change in the action of the retake when Edwards was shot?”
Jane sniffled, swiped her nose with a hanky.
“No, except that he lay down at the end of the bridge instead of the middle of it. Before, he had been in the center. Frequently slight changes in direction are made in retakes for various reasons. Clearer lighting, better shots.”
Better shots! I closed my eyes and visualized the scene. Edwards lying there, blood pumping from his temple. The hole in his head was aimed directly at the ceiling! The camera was at right angles!
I headed for the door.
“Keep your chin up, kid,” I said.
“Lou couldn’t possibly have shot Edwards. Somebody’s trying to pin a double killing on him and I’m going to prove it!”
I slammed out and high-tailed for the sound stage. If I could only reach there before the murderer removed the evidence!
The building housing Sound Stage Four was a blue-black hulk against the darker blue of the dimout. The cop on the door had been dismissed, apparently when Callahan decided Lou Mathis was the killer. I found the place unlocked.
I slipped inside the total darkness of the stage and leaned against the wall. I figured that the body had been moved so that the path of the bullet could not be traced. Also, a bullet of soft lead splatters when it hits and cannot be identified with a gun by ballistics experts. The rifling marks are destroyed.
The .38 under the camera could well have been planted, and the real murder gun fired from some other point. Hence, moving the body. On top of that, Edwards apparently had received a change of direction in his actions for the retake just before his last scene. Friml was the last man with him alone.
I felt along the wall in the direction of Sound Stage Four. I was about to flip on my flash when I heard a slight sound to my left. I froze against a flat of scenery. The noise was not repeated. Probably a rat scurrying about.
I crept forward until I figured I was over the spot where Edwards had been shot. I turned on my flash. A pool of coagulated blood reflected from the light, and I swung the beam upward. Somewhere from above the shot had been fired—and by remote control!
Stored scenery, trailing ropes, and cobwebs showed in the light as I raked the rafters. Then there was a grating sound and something as heavy as a tank hit my shoulders. My face was smeared against the floor and my flash went skittering. An arm encircled my neck and pulled tight. I felt the blood pounding in my head and all I could do was whip back with an elbow. It struck soft flesh and for a moment the weight on my back lifted.
&n
bsp; I MANAGED to roll over and lift my feet. I kicked out. There was a gratifying connection with my assailant’s stomach and he must have sailed several feet. On hands and knees I felt frantically for my flash.
And then all the stars in the heavens exploded in the Sound Stage building as something cracked against my skull. For the second time my face hit the floor and I was out. . . .
Slowly I came back to consciousness. My whole body felt numb. I tried to raise an arm that didn’t seem part of me, and a torturing stab of pain shot through my side. I moved a leg and felt the same pain. I was trussed up like a Christmas turkey.
Above me I saw a skittering of light. It was in the rafters. A hand was untying a gun from a beam. A wire was jerked and a tiny box came loose. The light was off for a moment .and a body thumped to the floor. Then the light came on again in my face. It stabbed my aching head like a knife.
“I don’t know just what to do with you,” a voice back of the light said.
The way I felt I didn’t give a hoot if he blasted my head off. However, I remember feeling some satisfaction at knowing my deduction was right. I must have been half crazy from the smack on the head, because I said:
“I know why you murdered Ronald Edwards.”
The light jerked as if he were startled. “You killed him,” I went on, “because he blackmailed you into getting him a contract at Panamint. He had the missing page from the hotel register in New York with your name on it. It would complete the evidence the cops need to pin the murder of Carol Jergins on you.
“His contract was up next month, and he demanded you get a renewal. You knew there was no justification for urging it, no chance of getting it. His pictures smelled to high heaven. So you got up nerve enough to kill him.”
“Go on,” the voice said, softly, coldly.
I felt icy sweat on my face, and I was sick at my stomach. My head seemed about to explode any moment, and my bound hands and feet were like molten steel. I went on talking, almost babbling. It helped ease the pain.