The Talkie Murder

by Albert Albert Ullman

  The head of the Homicide Squad puffed thoughtfully at his pipe.

  "Of course there must be a motive for murder," he continued. "But there are motives— and motives! For admission, we have the admission of the director, Boone, that he was in love with his leading lady, had thought her favorably inclined to his proposal of marriage, until she suddenly turned him down. And she did tell him there was another man! Moreover, there's the bolo. We'll learn about that later."

  "On the other hand we have Holmes—also in love with the leading lady—though he admits his case was hopeless from the beginning. He quarreled with her—threatened her that if he couldn't have her nobody else should. Likewise, he stood near the victim."

  "IT'S one of them!" put in Dawson. "It looks like it would have to be!"

  "There's still another," interjected the inspector softly, "if we're to believe Boone, the other man! Who was he? When did he come on the scene?"

  "But he's out!" exploded Dawson. "If she gave the others the gate for him, everything would be jake. Why should he want to bump her off? Think the guy was nutty?"

  Corot only smiled and shook his head.

  "You've only Boone's word for it that there was another man," objected the reporter eagerly. "And who wouldn't lie to save himself from the hot seat?"

  The buzzing of the phone interrupted them. Corot picked up the instrument near his hand. He listened for some minutes, snapped "Good-bye," and looked at the reporter. "Carroll just reported," he said. "Boone can't find his bolo—said he must have loaned it to some one or forgotten."

  "Why don't you arrest him, then, and—"

  "And depend on getting a confession to clinch the case, eh?" drily remarked the astute man-hunter. "No, Dawson," he went on between puffs on his pipe, "those methods won't do in this case. We are not dealing with an ordinary murder—or an ordinary murderer!"

  WALTER DAWSON had just reported to his office the next day when Inspector Corot called him on the phone.

  "Promised to keep you posted on the talkie murder, Dawson," he laughed. "Always try to keep my word. Can you meet me uptown?"

  A mad dash for the subway, and twenty minutes later the reporter was facing the police official over a table in a modest chop house in the West Forties.

  "The murder scene at the studio last night," smiled Corot grimly, "was not what is termed a smash hit so far as the police were concerned. A lot of nerves were shot to blazes, a couple fainted, but our eagle eyes failed to discover a guilty face. However," he went on, dropping this sardonic humor, "we did learn one thing, which was the main purpose, and that was the time element. The consensus of opinion, as we clocked the time, was that the lights were not out more than three minutes, though one or two estimated as much as five.

  "So, to all appearances, the lights could not have been switched off and on, with the murder sandwiched in between, by one and the same person. I say to all appearances, but this is a mystery within a mystery. Were we to solve the modus operandi of the murder, we would still be confronted with the problem of the slayer.

  "All that I have really got is one thing from the dead woman's maid. About a week ago, Helene Storme received a phone call that left her faint and sick. Her words, according to the maid were: 'No money can repay me for my sufferings. I will make you pay in my own way.'"

  "By Jove!" exclaimed Dawson. "That looks like she was out to get somebody—and somebody got her!"

  COROT nodded slowly and studied the ash on his cigar. "I'll tell you, Dawson," he said presently, "I am not at all satisfied with myself in this case. I feel I am overlooking something that may be right under my nose. I—" He stopped suddenly, his eyes burning. "By the Lord!" he shot out sharply. "I've got it! I believe this is a trick murder! And I'm going to find out!"

  He was out of his chair, rushing into the street and leaping into his car as Dawson catapulted himself into the rear seat. But not another word was spoken by Corot on the way to the Ajax Studios, and Dawson was reporter enough to know when to remain silent.

  Inside the gate they encountered Detective Carroll.

  "Inspector," he said in a husky whisper, "we're checking up on everybody who was in the studio, but we couldn't find a trace of that knife, though three of us searched all night."

  "You would not, if my conjectures are right," was his superior's mysterious comment. "How about visitors?"

  "That's our one break—it just happened that none were about the studio at the time of the crime."

  "So at least, we have our murderer within four walls," the inspector's nod said, as if to himself. "Perhaps, after all, we may not make such a muddle."

  He hurried on towards the main building, but suddenly saw the Great Dane again, and stopped to admire it.

  "A fine animal," he remarked to a near-by property man.

  "Yeah!" was the rejoinder. "Only if I had my way it would be kept off the set when it wasn't needed."

  "How is that?" "It's always in the way for somebody to fall over. Why, if Ned Lane so much as goes off for a drink of water, that big mutt runs around like a rodeo."

  "Upsetting people, eh?" "You said it. The lummox spilled me on my bean only yesterday. Say, I thought I was being murdered myself!"

  "Didn't you tell me you knew the press agent here?" Corot asked Dawson as they hurried on towards the executive offices.

  "YES—Don Clark. An old friend. Can he be of any assistance?"

  "He might help with some information I greatly need. First, I would like to know the pictures every actor in the studio has appeared in for, say, the past few years. Second, how soon can those pictures be assembled for me to view them?"

  "You want to see all the pictures in which all these players have appeared?" Dawson's voice held astonishment.

  "Exactly," Corot answered, grinning at the young man's expression. "I shouldn't think there would be so many, would you?"

  "Gosh knows!" Dawson slowly breathed. "But if you're serious, of course I'll ask Clark, or anyone else, for that matter."

  "I was never more serious in my life," soberly assured Corot.

  "But, look here, Inspector," the reporter demanded eagerly, "what is all this about a deluge of old pictures? Do you think a picture has something to do with this murder?"

  "Not directly," he said slowly, "It's just a notion of mine. You know," he went on confidentially, "you and I know actors. They seldom live outside their calling—continually talk shop and all that—and the sense of the dramatic is always with them. Yes; the drama of make-believe is life itself to most of them, especially those in motion pictures, and that's where my notion comes in. I stick to it! This is a trick murder, and a premeditated one, and I rather suspect it was suggested by something remembered, probably some incident from a play in the past. So there, my boy, you have what makes my head tick."

  "But the entire cast of the company was on the stage," protested Dawson, "and yet someone crawled across the stage—bumped into Miriam Foye. Wouldn't that suggest—"

  "Ah! That body!" breathed Corot. "Your subconscious mind is telling you something, my boy, and you're turning a deaf ear."

  DAWSON was still worrying about what it was his subconscious mind was trying to tell him when he hurried back from his office that evening and took a seat beside the inspector in the projection room. But he was loath to ask for further enlightenment.

  By ten o'clock, as reel after reel was run off, the reporter's eyes were watering and he was willing to call it a day, but not so Corot. He stuck it out till midnight, and only quit when the film ran out.

  On and off, it was the same next day, and because Dawson was no hog for punishment, he threw up his hands and started to consort with Detective-Sergeant Moody. Under the latter's direction, the network of New York's vast police system was in motion to link up the dead Helene Storme with her buried past.

  However, neither this far-reaching enquiry, nor the panorama of past pictures flashing before Inspector Corot, were productive of anything startling that day or the next.

&
nbsp; It was on the evening of the third day that the slight figure of the head of the Homicide Squad shot out of the projection room and flashed by so fast that the newspaperman's frantic dash to the lower street level enabled him only to see the retreating tail-light of the police car. On the silent screen in the dark room something had pointed a finger of guilt at the murderer!

  He was incommunicado at Headquarters, and it was not until the next morning that the insistent Dawson was finally admitted to his private office. Moody and Carroll entered shortly after him. From a bag he carried, the former carefully removed an object and placed it on the desk of his superior. It was a dagger-like knife, something like the short-sword of the early Roman. Beside the sinister weapon he laid a glass tumbler.

  "The glass from the hotel room and the big bowie both have the same fingerprints," he said laconically.

  THOUGH the man-hunter's eyes danced with a strange light, the only evidence of emotion was his rapid puffing on his pipe.

  "Find the other knives?" he asked abruptly. "Sure," answered the detective-sergeant, with a casualness that did not deceive. "Twenty of 'em, with a lot of junk from an old circus act. The circus people raised hell about us breaking open the trunk. Got 'em downstairs, if you want 'em."

  "Yes; bring one out to the car," his chief told him, "and see that it is properly wrapped. Carroll, file those exhibits, and don't mess the fingerprints."

  Then he looked at the newspaperman and smiled slowly, "Got our man!" he said, like one who relieved suffering. "All but the collar."

  "Who—what—how—?" Dawson spluttered. "You—you—"

  But already Corot was on his feet and donning topcoat and hat. In the police car, Moody and Carroll were waiting. "Studio!" clipped Corot.

  As they drew up in front of the Ajax Studios a long extension ladder was being carried to a fire department truck at the corner.

  "Fire?" inquired Dawson of Carroll, at his side.

  "Naw! That was my night's exercise," the detective husked in a tired voice. "That bloody knife was sticking in a rafter—you had to be an eagle to find the damned thing!"

  A plainclothesman spoke to Corot. "All surrounded, Inspector."

  Quickly they passed through the long hallway of the administration building into the darkened interior of the studio.

  "You and Carroll know your stuff," the head of detectives said, as they neared the door to the big lot. "So be on your toes." He passed through the door, and paused to watch the activities of the Western pictures company on outside location.

  ADIRECTOR on a platform was megaphoning directions to a group of bandit- like figures on horseback. Cameras and a sound- truck were being moved in the foreground. Far to one side stood Ned Lane, beside the beautiful white steed that was as much a part of his pictures as himself.

  Corot appeared aimless in his movements, but presently Dawson became aware that he had an objective. This became more evident as he saw that Moody and Carroll, too, were approaching in a similar manner from different directions. They were closing in on someone. Walter Dawson caught his breath in quick discovery. For the only person within the triangle formed by the man- hunters was Ned Lane!

  So intent was the new screen-hero on the action in the foreground that he was unaware of the approach of the detectives. A minute later, the two-gun actor wheeled around and faced an accosting officer.

  "Lane," Corot asked peremptorily, without any preamble, "where were you when that murder occurred on Stage A?"

  Though the player's face whitened, his voice was steady enough as he answered: "Snatching a bite beside the set."

  "Oh, no, you weren't," said the inspector softly. "Your dog never leaves your side—he was rushing around in the dark trying to smell you out."

  "I deny that," said Lane, and his smile was cool.

  Corot's voice became as hard as his eyes. "Perhaps you'll deny that the slain woman was your abandoned wife?" he rasped.

  A startling change came over the actor. His eyes dilated with fear, the hand that rested on the neck of the horse trembled and caused the animal to move unsteadily.

  "You married Helen Schneider all right," the inspector relentlessly continued, "and you murdered her—with this!"

  Like one paralyzed, the motion picture actor stared at the curious knife that was thrust under his eyes. He slumped back against the horse, his hand frantically clutching at its mane. As though his fear had communicated itself to the animal, it suddenly leaped forward, dragging its master at its side. But the next moment, Lane's other hand had obtained a hold and he vaulted into the saddle as the frantic animal headed up the runway to the imitation cliff some fifty feet above the heads of those breathlessly watching.

  A few more wild leaps and the horse gained the top and faced the open space that separated it from the cliff opposite. Then, as the detectives' guns barked, the horse was hurtling himself across the chasm that had been lightly dubbed "the leap of death."

  IN mid-air, horse and rider, unhit, appeared suspended for a long moment, silhouetted against the sky. Then the actor put spurs to his mount and deliberately pulled at the reins. The gallant steed quivered and jerked its head back. Strong men closed their eyes as it stopped in that graceful parabola, to drop like a plummet to the earth beneath. They knew it truly had been a leap of death!

  * * *

  Back in the small chop house, Walter Dawson was hurriedly scribbling as Inspector Corot talked.

  "You know," observed the veteran detective, "I can't forgive that fellow Lane for sacrificing such a noble animal. It was so needless; he could have jumped off himself." He paused to light a cigar. "I wonder what will become of the dog?"

  "Funny I didn't get that crack about my subconscious mind," chuckled Dawson. "It was the propertyman's talk that set you on the track."

  "Only in a way," confessed Corot. "The trick of the murder was responsible for its own solution. Guess I'd better give it to you in sequence, though, for your sensational yarn. Well, Ned Lane's name was really Nate Lavie, and under it he married Helen Schneider, a country girl, in Wisconsin. At the time he was working with a fly-by-night circus as a ballyhoo for the side-show, and a knife-thrower. The circus collapsed in Pennsylvania, where Lane abandoned his girl-wife, who was about to give birth to a child. Eventually he drifted to California and hung about the movie lots. It was his ability as a knife thrower when he was an extra playing a Mexican bandit that brought him to the attention of the director. That, and the acquisition of a performing horse from his old circus boss, and the fact that he had been a cowboy of sorts, put him over. That act that I saw in that two-year-old film was the clue that broke the mystery! It sent me to the old circus owner and along the long trail to the murder on Stage A.

  THE young woman, who was known to us as Helene Storme, was left adrift and penniless. Her infant was born under the most pitiful circumstances, and after a long illness, she made her way to New York. There Tad Boone found her, working as a cashier.

  "Then the Ajax Company brought Ned Lane on from Hollywood. Helene recognized him and resolved to expose him. From what her colored maid said, he must have offered her money, which she refused. She could ruin him with that pitiful story—and he knew it. So he contrived a trick murder, based on his old knife-throwing act. From the mezzanine gallery he watched his chance when no one was near, to switch out the lights, threw the knife with deadly accuracy, pulled it back by means of a strong Jap fishing line, and with another throw buried the murderous blade in the rafters above him. Almost simultaneously with that last act, he switched the lights on, the entire episode taking less time than it takes to tell it. Of course it was an easy matter for him to drop to the main floor—he was used to such stunts—in the midst of the excitement."

  Dawson looked up at Corot as he finished

  jotting down his notes. "It's a whale of a story, Inspector," he said. "While I never thought of Lane, my judgment told me Tad Boone could never have committed the crime, and Holmes was too putty-legged."

  The po
lice officer treated the reporter to one of his quizzical smiles.

  "You never can tell," he observed drily. "The instinct to murder finds itself into brains of all types—sometime or other."

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