by Jerry eBooks
O’Grady saw Bennett step back from the parapet and heard him say dangerously, “You’re a screwball. You always were a screwball.”
“Was Binnie Bailey a screwball, too? She knew you were needling the show. She had dough sunk in it and she got sore. That’s why she scrapped with you last night.”
“What’s on your mind, Joey?” Bennett purred.
“You killed Binnie, Sam. Not because she scrapped with you, but because she was making a success of the show. You didn’t expect that when you put her in the lead—an old has-been like Binnie. And if she put the show in the big-money brackets, you were going to have one sweet time when all those guys came around for their twenty-five percentses of the profits. You know what I’m going to do to show you up, Sam? I’m going to put an ad in Variety. I’m going to say, ‘Special meeting of the backers of Early To Rise will be held in—’ ”
Bennett lunged with his arms thrust before him. Joey Coy’s legs flew up and he disappeared over the edge of the roof. Sam turned and stumbled toward the stairway. O’Grady stepped from beside the chimney and turned on his flash.
He snapped, “Hold it, Bennett!”
Sam gave him a glance of pure terror and threw up his hands as if to warp off the searching, accusing finger of light. Then, with a shriek, he turned and sprang headfirst over the parapet. O’Grady jogged across the roof and peered over the ledge, grinning.
One story down, Joey Coy and Bennett were floundering in the safety net O’Grady’d had the fire department string up for him. Sam clawed toward the edge of the net and, as O’Grady yelled, Joey raised his heavy cane and brought it down heavily on that shining, bald head. Then, reverting, he reached over and flicked an invisible speck of dust from it.
THE NIGHT BEFORE MURDER
Steve Fisher
When the inexorable march of years catches up with once-great actress Rhea Davis, she decides to add a killing to her repertoire!
IF MRS. RHEA DAVIS had not been sleepless and miserable it is entirely possible that the idea of committing a murder would never have occurred to her. She hated no one in particular; she possessed neither motive, nor even the least venal inclination toward mayhem. It was simply an inspiration born of a temporarily empty and angry mind.
For quite a long time she had considered her inability to sleep with a great deal of irritation, and she had placed the blame directly on the shoulders of the roaring midnight. It was what people called a silent night; but silence was a misinterpreted word whose only actual meaning was death.
It was through the impatience of toying with such canny deductions about silence that she found the word death, and death became the sperm for its more violent cousin murder. The thought amused her, as the thought of a pretty girl amuses a man when he wakes up alone in bed and finds that he cannot sleep. She felt an electric and breathless thrill of horror, while she had imagined she was too old to experience such a pulsating emotion.
Then, as thoughts will, this one slipped away from her, and left her empty again, and vaguely disturbed. She lay rigidly in the broad oak bed. For an instant she stopped thinking and suffered the full force of the noise around her.
Nearest and loudest was the boat horn that came up from the Sound. There was no fog, but the horn bleated and squeezed out miserable little gasps that was like tin grating along her spine. Beneath this she faintly heard laughter and talking, the water amplifying the voices and throwing them into her bedroom window. Morose business men taking leave for the summer to indulge in yacht mania. Their noises on the Sound were incessant; their insipid drunken parties, their megaphoned shouts from one boat to another, their launches chugging to and from the yachts. Unending activity. Mrs. Rhea Davis hated them. They robbed Mamaroneck of dignity and made a Coney out of Orienta Point.
She suddenly put a stopgap on her mind. She closed out even the bullfrogs and crickets and the shade which each whisper of wind cracked against her window. Gradually, though sleep fled farther from her, her thoughts followed along a routine and returned to that notion of murder which had begun to formulate.
It no longer seemed distant.
Why not?
IF SHE made a mystery of it the stupid blunders of police falling over themselves would fascinate her for weeks. She knew all of the old cliches about the perfect crime, and she knew, too, the answer. Murderers were caught almost solely on the logic of their motive. Therefore, if one had no motive, if one’s position and esteem put one above suspicion, the police would be in a muddle. The resulting publicity would entertain her.
The commission of the actual deed would be done in such a way that no clues would lead from it.
She threw back the sheet and sat up, putting her feet on the floor. She fumbled with her mules and put them on. She put on an elegant scarlet satin robe that gave her figure, though she had no figure.
On the stage she had the appearance of being tall, but that was the way she wore her hair, her clothes, and because she picked small people for her surrounding cast. Actually, she was five feet two inches, a trifle dumpy when she neglected wearing her girdle. For sixty she felt physically strong except after a performance or a tirade against one of her servants; age had left her health, at least, so that none of her friends were aware that she had lost anything. Only she knew that the dynamic fire and punch that had made her famous in her youth were now at low ebb.
She walked to the dresser and took a cigarette from the silver case, lit it. When she wandered into the hall she moved with an easy grace for which she was famous. She started down the long, carpeted stairway.
This would be her greatest drama. Life itself would write it, and because it would happen in her own house, and because it would be she who was the guilty one, she would be the star. The whole play would swirl around her, and depend on her. Her leading man would be a Mamaroneck detective. News reporters from the city would be figments representing the page boys and heralds. And her supporting cast? She would fill the house with guests. Struggling young actors, worn-out producers, perhaps an embittered playwright who had penned a minor drama for her a decade ago.
Perhaps it was foolish to think things so wildly; but life stifled her. Her play last season had run only a month, which was a shock not only to herself but to her producers, who had lost money.
So out of fifty-two weeks she had worked four; and since her declaration concerning Hollywood had long ago become a legend in negative, she had spent the year in Mamaroneck. Stolidly . . . dully.
She had ridden horseback. There had been teas and receptions. But she could not escape the fact that she was disintegrating. The inexorable passing of the years bleakly walled her in. She could not afford to stagnate.
She was at the bottom of the stairs and she moved down a long servants’ hall and out onto a broad tilted porch. She could look from here, through the branches of trees, and see the Sound. The water was a moving reflection of the stars and the moon and, catching the moonlight, like a spot from the stage, she moved across the porch. But she drew up short. She thought she saw someone move swiftly past her, at a distance of not more than twenty feet. She stood rigidly, her eyes becoming more accustomed to the light. Then she saw a figure sitting on the broad cement banister. It was a tall male figure. Whoever had passed her had already gone into the house.
“Who’s there?”
“Me, Mrs. Davis. Roy.”
She could see him clearly now. The driver’s uniform. He was tall, and good-looking, and sleek. His cheekbones seemed almost Mongolian, they were so high in his face, and the skin over them was so polished. His eyes were dark—almost bitter, she thought. She had hired him only a few months ago when he had come to her and said he badly needed a job. She had been sorry for him then.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “You know employees are not allowed on the porch.”
“I thought it wouldn’t matter,” he said.
“Who was here with you?”
His eyes flickered. “No one.”
“
Don’t lie!”
“I’m not,” said Roy.
He got up and walked past her. She did not move. She listened to the echo of his footsteps. She was furious with Roy and it had been difficult to maintain her poise.
SHE walked to the banister and leaned on it, looking out over the Sound. The laughter from the yacht reached her with more clarity. She felt a hot flush creep into her cheeks. Tomorrow she would open the house. She would hire more servants. She would fill every room with guests. She would fill the house with music and laughter that might torture her, but in the end one of them would die.
Finally she returned to bed, but slept fitfully, waking at half-hour intervals, tingling in mind and body, as though she had suddenly caught a delirious and wonderful fever. She had some of the old spirit in her for the first time in two years.
When morning came at last she viewed the sunshine and the singing birds with almost glowing appreciation. She tramped about the room, impatient for the world to be up and moving, and at last she donned her bed jacket and rang for the maid.
Frances came in, bringing the orange juice. The girl was wearing her green morning uniform, but little else. Frances was twenty-one and pretty. Her shape was good, but like all maids who have genuine beauty, she had her faults—too many boy friends, and an inane desire to go into either a song or dance whenever she heard music.
“Good morning, Mrs. Davis,” she said. “Frances,” said Mrs. Davis, “don’t you dress any more?”
“Well, I—”
“Were you out last night?”
Frances grinned. “Yes. And was I ever sick this morning! Honestly—”
“You can dress, then get my breakfast,” said Mrs. Davis.
“Okey doke.”
“What?”
“I mean, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ ” Frances said, and departed.
Mrs. Davis could hear her whistling in the hall.
Betty came in, as usual, when Rhea Davis was finishing her coffee. She looked as though she had been up for hours when Mrs. Davis knew, as a matter of fact, that it had been only minutes. Betty wore white tennis shoes, a soft crepe skirt, also white, and a sports sweater. Her blonde hair was done up in a knot on the back, her cheeks were tan, and her lips were red enough; she looked jaunty and fresh, and not at all stupid.
“ ‘Morning, Mother.”
“Good morning,” said Mrs. Davis, then raising her voice so that Betty would hear: “I say good morning.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” said Betty, in her vague way. “I was thinking of some tennis.”
“With your dumbbell husband, I suppose?”
Betty had obviously caught only the “husband” and she said: “Yes. Grant is going to play too.”
There had been a time when looking at Betty had made Mrs. Davis want to commit suicide. Betty’s father had died of acute alcoholism a good many years ago and Mrs. Davis had raised her daughter for the stage. She had perhaps been a trifle possessive and dictatorial, but it was, after all, for the girl’s own good. With her influence she found her a play and a producer. Because Betty was hard of hearing she missed half of the cues, and the half she did catch made little difference. The show closed in two nights, and the word flashed around the world that there would be no one in Mrs. Davis’ family to carry on any traditions of the theater.
Betty was hopeless. Her mind was shallow, and she was pampered and spoiled. She never read. She had to be constantly entertained.
“And this afternoon,” Betty continued, standing at the window, “I’m going to a tea.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Davis. “I say, I beg your pardon, but I have other plans.”
“Other plans, Mother?”
“We’re going to have guests,” Mrs. Davis went on. “A house full of guests for the summer. I want you to go out this afternoon and hire several new servants. Grant must stay here and see that our present staff gets the house in shape.”
MRS. DAVIS had naturally put in strenuous objections to her daughter’s marriage since the first eight suitors were either out and out fortune hunters or young actors who believed such a match could benefit them. Grant Smyth, of London, was someone different, however. His father had been knighted by the king and possessed a fortune greater than Mrs. Davis’.
Grant, after attending Harvard, had liked America so much that he took out citizenship papers. His romance with Betty had been the most natural thing in the world. For Grant Smyth was perhaps the only person alive more stupid than Betty herself. Having the same faults they enjoyed doing the same things for entertainment. Their love-making was so sweet it was sickening. But through the four years of marriage they had been happy together.
Betty said: “Guests? Mother, have you lost your mind?”
Rhea Davis folded her hands in her lap. “For one of your mental status,” she said, “to make idle commentary on the minds of others—”
Grant came in then, walking in his long, easy stride, his jaw slightly agape, which was a more or less natural position. He was tall and very thin, in white flannels and a polo shirt. His hair was the color of straw, and his eyes were a watery blue. He was carrying a bundle wrapped up in newsprint.
“I say, old girl, would this belong to you?”
“I’m not an old girl,” said Rhea Davis harshly.
“Righto, Ducky. But open the package. I found it in my closet this morning and I’m curious about it.”
Betty said: “Mother’s having guests.” Rhea Davis opened the package and found a pair of low-heeled walking shoes which she had sent out for a minor repair three days ago.
Grant was rubbing his hands briskly. “Good. I like company. Ah, they were yours, then—the shoes, Mater?”
Mrs. Davis nodded. “Frances must have put them in your closet by mistake.” Grant was by this time at the window, kissing Betty. “All right,” Mrs. Davis said shrilly, “quit being so stupid and listen to me. We’re going to have company for the entire summer. We’re going to have a house full of music and noise and chatter until—until—the leaves turn brown on the trees.”
“Oh, yes, old girl—fine,” Grant said . . .
Hours later Roy drove Rhea through the baking hot streets of New York. She had eaten in one of the Fifth Avenue hotels and autographed the napkin for the waiter, then she had started out again in her quest for guests, but she discovered suddenly that she was tired. She ached in every muscle and joint, and the sultry air stifled her.
She sat back in the seat, wanting terribly to go home and lie down. Burning fever consumed her. She was sick. She felt once as though a poison was filling her veins like lead. But she dismissed this thought because it frightened her. She was not going to die; not until she was eighty.
She opened her purse and took out a letter. It was one of the many she had received last winter during the run of her play. She had never answered, but also she had never forgotten it. It was crisper and more sincere than anything similar she had ever seen.
. . . we put on shows down here for the local baggage; we have our own plays and playwrights, and we’re never too tired from tramping around all day for a job to put on our best performance. The take isn’t big. of course, but the whole cast dines on spaghetti now and then; and naturally the experience, and the element of keeping in shape for a break when one comes is invaluable. We’d appreciate it awfully if you could take a peek in at one of the plays. We aren’t afraid of criticism. If we’re rotten we’d like to be told we’re rotten so we can improve. I know you’re an important and busy woman, but just an hour of your time . . .?
Hopefully,
Dorothy Noel.
IN THE letter Dorothy Noel had stated that the playhouse in which they experimented had been a Chinese laundry, and they had tom out all the fixtures so that they were able to seat about seventy people (though they never had that many at one performance) and they had built their own stage. It was on East Seventeenth Street, just outside of Greenwich Village, where they all lived.
The rent, which was twen
ty dollars a month, had naturally been an item, but they had so completely demolished the place for a prospective Chinese laundry-man that the landlord had been lenient when they were several months behind. Their star playwright, Clifton Dell, was a house afire, and a genius.
Mrs. Rhea Davis put the letter in her purse. Roy was pulling the car up to the curb in front of the “Seventeenth Street Playhouse.” The chauffeur climbed out and opened the door for her. She alighted and stopped to read the program tacked upon the door.
The Seventeenth Street Players
Present
“SATURDAY”
A Drama in Three Acts by
Clifton Dell
Featuring: Clifton Dell, Dorothy Noel,
Sherry Moore, Robert Weston and
Mary O’Connor
Staged and Directed by
Clifton Dell
She opened the door and went inside. The odor was musty and close. A pale-faced boy held out a Salvation Army basket. The play was already on.
“How much?” said Mrs. Davis.
“Anything you can,” the boy whispered.
She put in a dollar bill and took a seat in the back row. The people on the stage engrossed her, and she was avid with interest, forgetting at once the crude details of the theater. There were three characters on the boards, two men and a girl, but the girl was carrying the role in what seemed to be a heavy scene. Her voice fairly cracked with stinging bitterness. She was pretty and well-built, wearing a plain black dress which had the startling effect of toning up her figure rather than smothering it. Her hair was a rich mahogany that barely touched her shoulders.
Although Rhea Davis knew nothing about the story that had preceded this sequence the girl’s poise, execution, and instinctive sense of drama swept her at once into the play’s mood. She could sense in the girl’s manner, the way she spoke her lines, the personality that came out through the play, that she was the Dorothy Noel who had written the letter. She would definitely be one of Mrs. Davis’ summer guests. Definitely.