Black Is the Fashion for Dying

by Jonathan Latimer

  “Five cuts, then,” Karl was saying. “And two retakes. One at the Boys’ Club, one in Forsythe’s study. The Club’s still standing so we won’t have to build that. One wall of the study will do. Half a day’s shooting. Four thousand dollars.”

  “We’ll have to pay Hunter to come back,” Saul Grafton said, peering near-sightedly at his cost sheet.

  “I’ve figured that.”

  The others seated around the desk, Al Johnson and his two production assistants, Chuck Eastman, concerned only with cutting, and Van Markel, who had designed Dark Circle’s sets, nodded. Lorrance wondered if they realized the miracle of automation that was taking place, one brain doing the work of six. And quite capable of doing the work of sixty, or six million.

  Al Johnson asked, “What about the Observatory sequence?”

  “Eliminate.”

  “But we’ve twenty thousand sunk in the set!”

  “That’s already been spent,” Karl explained, patiently for him. “What’s the cost to junk it?”

  “Well, nothing, I guess.”

  “And with it gone, most of the allegory’s gone, too.”

  Chuck Eastman, thumbing through his copy of the script, said, “Except for the ending on the waterfront.”

  “Yes, we’ll have to redo that. I have a solution that’ll answer everything. Even the tag ends of fantasy we can’t cut out.” Karl closed his eyes and the electronic banks took over. “The preacher comes down with Forsythe just as he does now, intending to exorcise the devil with bell, book and candle. Only, Forsythe kills Nick before he can do this, and in killing him proves Nick was only a man after all.”

  “Won’t that make a jerk out of the minister?” Chuck Eastman asked cautiously.

  “No. We dialogue it to show that without him Forsythe wouldn’t have had nerve enough to go after Nick, thus proving that without religion man is incapable of—”

  A buzzing sound came from under the desk. Karl’s puffy eyelids slid apart, exposed two balefully glowing eyes. “I said no phone calls, T. J.”

  “But I did—I told Miss Earnshaw,” Lorrance stuttered through the chaos of fearful inadequacy the eyes always produced. “I remember distinctly—” Why was it automatically his fault? “I went out—”

  But Karl was already raising the telephone to his mouth. “Well?” he growled.

  Someone spoke on the other end. Karl exclaimed, “What!” and then after a pause, rapidly, “God! I’ll be right there!”

  He dropped the receiver, not bothering even to aim it at the cradle, kicked back his chair, snatched his hat from the rack and ran heavily from the office. Lorrance stared at the open door, bewildered, then turned inquiringly to the others. Their faces were equally blank. Finally Chuck Eastman broke the silence.

  “Jesus!” he said. “Boulder Dam must have burst!”

  Lorrance ran out of the office, down the narrow corridor and the flight of stairs that led to the quadrangle, saw Karl, trotting now, passing the fishpool. He caught up with him a few yards short of the door to Stage 17. “What is it, Karl?” he burbled foolishly, knowing there would be no answer. “What’s wrong?”

  Karl plunged through the two doors, elbowed aside some men in his path and trotted along the canvas backdrop until he reached the first opening. There he cut towards the interior of the stage, slowing to an awkward shuffling walk. Lorrance continued to follow him, carefully keeping three paces behind. He saw they had come out onto the camp set, fully illuminated as though for a take, but with actors, extras and stage hands clustered about it in knots of various sizes. He saw the largest knot contained most of the principals, Lisa Carson, Ashton Graves, Trabert and Phil Alton, all in costume, grouped around an enormous dead tiger at the jungle’s edge; and an instant later saw Gordon, Blake and a studio policeman standing by the campfire in front of the tents. The low mutter of conversation filling the stage died as he followed Karl to the campfire.

  Rubbery face twisted from the exertion of running, Karl halted in front of Gordon, gasped ominously, “If this is a joke, Josh …”

  Gordon’s expression became stony. “No joke, Fatso.”

  “She’s really dead?”

  “Even deader than her last picture.”

  “Oh, God!” Karl’s mouth fell open, his jaws trembled, his skin grew blotchy as the blood drained away. “What will Benjy say?” His eyes, shadowed by the homburg’s brim, were glazed.

  “Why don’t you give him a jingle?”

  Karl ignored this, or else didn’t hear it. “What—how did it happen?” he asked, still shaking. His voice came out a frog’s croak.

  He was genuinely upset for once, Lorrance saw. Really shaken. Apparently the electronic banks had no circuits designed to cope with death.

  Gordon said, “All I know is she’s got two slugs in her gut.”

  “Oh, God!” Karl exclaimed again. His eyes rolled inwards, showing discolored whites. “The picture! Two million dollars!”

  “Say! That’s not bad.” Gordon swung to Blake, smiling wolfishly. “For her tombstone, Dick. ‘Here lies two million dollars.’”

  Blake, his ordinarily sardonic face white and drawn, could only shake his head. He looked as though he was going to be sick. A few feet away the studio policeman watched blankly.

  With an almost visible effort, Karl got himself under control. He stared at Gordon. “I don’t understand your attitude, Josh.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Gordon said angrily. “Like you wouldn’t maybe think it was tough on Caresse.”

  “I do, I—I’m terribly shocked—for Caresse.” Karl hesitated. “It was—an accident?”

  “Go see for yourself.”

  “No!”

  “Have you read your contract, Fatso?”

  “I? Contract?”

  “You’re in charge of the studio, aren’t you?” Gordon smiled thinly. “Nothing’s been touched.”

  “But this isn’t—” Karl broke off, then nodded twice as though answering some inner question. “The police?” he asked. “Has anybody—?”

  “Not yet.”

  “T. J.” Karl spoke without turning his head, his voice normal now. “Get the police. Tell them there’s been an accident.”

  “Or a murder,” Gordon said.

  “Murder!” Lorrance heard himself bleat, his voice high-pitched and shaky. “But how … for murder? I never—”

  “I’ll do it,” Gordon said contemptuously. “I got a drag with the police.” He started to walk away. “My cook’s brother-in-law works in the dog pound.”

  Blake followed him, still looking sick. Lorrance heard him say, “Lisa. Do you think we should—” and then Karl spoke.

  “Get hold of yourself, T. J.”

  “I’m trying, Karl. But this is—awful.”

  Nodding, Karl said, “Maybe we can salvage something out of it.” The banks were operating again. “Make an announcement.” He scowled thoughtfully. “There’s been an accident. Miss Garnet is dead. The police have been called. The set is to be cleared, but no one is to leave the stage.” He swung around to the studio policeman. “Make sure there’s a man at every door.”

  Saying, “Yes, Mr. Fabro,” the policeman hurried off.

  Lorrance got Herbie to make the announcement, not trusting his own voice. He watched the people move away from the set, talking in hushed tones. Jenkins switched off the TV monitors, all three showing Karl standing by the campfire, head bowed, deep in thought. Two of the soundmen, passing the platform, stared at him curiously and T. J. suddenly realized they’d heard every word of the conversation with Gordon. He’d have to tell Karl. The overhead lights went off and an eerie sort of dusk fell over the set.

  Herbie asked, “Anything else, Mr. Lorrance?”

  He shook his head and went back to the fire. Karl was staring at the tent where Caresse was, his face partially obscured by the brim of his homburg. “If it was an accident,” he said slowly, almost to himself, “the picture’s ruined.”

  Lorrance watched him silen
tly.

  “But murder—” Karl was whispering now. “We couldn’t advertise it, of course. But word of mouth—people would be curious.”

  “Karl!”

  “Shut up.” The eyes, suddenly boring into his, made Lorrance’s heart flutter. “We have to think what to tell Benjy. We have to have a plan.”

  “But to use Caresse’s death!”

  “Did you kill her?”

  “Why—why, you know—”

  “Neither did I. Neither did the corporation. But we’re involved. Two million dollars involved, T. J.”

  “You think it’s murder?”

  “I don’t know.” Karl turned, somberly regarded the tent. “Let’s take a look.”

  “Oh, no! I-I couldn’t!”

  “All right. You stay here.” Hesitating, Karl uncharacteristically took off the homburg, laid it on the ground by the campfire, and started for the tent.

  Lorrance watched him go inside, a bulky shadow merging with other shadows, and then glanced at the homburg. As usual his mind cleared as soon as he was alone. A really complex man, Karl Fabro, he thought. Part savage, a ruthless ego, Nietzsche’s superman, trampling underfoot everything human or otherwise in his path with the unconcern of a rhinoceros moving through brush. Part machine, delicately adjusted electronic banks capable of producing the strangest sort of miracles. Not merely crystal equations of jumbled facts and figures, as in office conferences, but equations of emotions and words, too. As in Sky Without Stars and Fox in the Vineyard. He had wondered about the screenplays many times, knowing of course that a brain alone could produce them, coldly blueprinting human frailties and strengths, plots, motives and speeches on the basis of mastered formulae, as Bacon might have done had he written Shakespeare’s plays. But he had never quite believed this was so, and in the homburg, laid beside the fire in an unconscious gesture of respect for Caresse and death, he saw evidence that he was right. There was a third Karl Fabro lurking back of ego and brain, and it was this unknown Fabro who wrote the screenplays. He wondered if Irene knew about it.

  Complex, he was thinking again, when Karl returned and said heavily, “No way of telling what happened.”

  “She was shot?”

  “Twice.”

  “I hope you didn’t … touch anything.”

  Karl grunted. “I’m not that much of a fool.” He bent down, picked up the homburg. “Go get Gordon.”

  “Right.” He glanced at Karl solicitously, saw he was holding the homburg reverently against his chest with both hands. To this third Fabro he said warmly, “I’m sorry it had to happen, Karl.”

  “Who the hell isn’t,” Karl growled. “Get going.”

  Dubious again about the third Fabro, he had only gone a few feet when an uproar rose back of the tents: a clatter of running feet, men’s voices shouting, “You there! Stop!” and “Grab her, Chet!” and a thrashing sound of people struggling. Then a woman began to scream, a wild, insane, frenzied screaming, more animal than human.

  Frozen, Lorrance stared at the tents. The jungle behind them Was tossing violently, as though a herd of elephants had stampeded. A tree toppled and in toppling knocked over two other trees. There was a noise of splashing. The screaming mounted to a crescendo, was abruptly cut off. There was a sound of heavy breathing. The bushes at the edge of the clearing parted and two crew members emerged, dragging between them something that in the dim light looked like a bedraggled rag doll.

  As the men neared Karl, motionless by the fire, Lorrance saw the doll was a small elderly woman in a mud-splattered gray dress. She seemed to be in a catatonic state, head lolling on one shoulder, arms swinging limply, feet dragging behind her. Her skin was the color of bread dough.

  “Mr. Fabro—” one of the men began, and then broke off in surprise.

  Karl was backing away from the fire, making pushing motions with his hands. “Keep her away!” he said. “Away!” Still backing, he collided with Lorrance, recoiled. “Insane!” His face glistened with sweat.

  Gordon and Blake hurried up to the fire. “What the hell goes on?” Gordon demanded.

  “Caught her sneaking out of the supply tent,” one of the men said. “Me and Chet.”

  “Bit us both,” Chet said.

  Lorrance could hear Karl breathing beside him, short irregular gasps, like a man in an oxygen tent.

  Blake said, “Isn’t she the one Caresse had fired yesterday?”

  Gordon peered at the woman. “Mrs. Grumpert.”

  “Bit us,” Chet said.

  “What was she doing in the supply tent?” Gordon asked.

  “Been hiding there, I guess.”

  “What for?”

  The men looked at Mrs. Grumpert, still dangling limply between them. Her head rested on one shoulder, but her eyes were open, two staring black beads. She reminded Lorrance of a captured sparrow playing dead.

  “Why were you hiding, Mrs. Grumpert?” Gordon asked gently.

  Her lips, almost as pale as her skin, fluttered, but no sound came out. Karl moved closer, at once appalled and fascinated. Around the dimly lit set Lorrance felt hundreds of eyes watching.

  “Mrs. Grumpert,” Gordon prompted.

  The lips fluttered again. “Forgive … forgive me, Al.”

  “Insane!” Karl said again.

  Gordon held out a warning hand, bent closer to the woman. “Forgive you for what, Mrs. Grumpert?”

  The dry whispering was barely audible. “Forgive … forgive, Al.”

  “Ask her if she killed Caresse,” Karl said.

  Gordon turned, scowling. “Ask her yourself, Fatso.”

  Karl’s face darkened. He side-armed Blake out of the way, planted himself directly in front of the woman. “Mrs. Grumpert.” He stared directly at the two bright beads that were her eyes. “Did you kill Miss Garnet?”

  “Kill.” The head came off the shoulder. The eyes began to glow, as though a bulb had been turned on behind them. The pale lips smiled gleefully. “Kill, kill, kill!”

  “Mrs. Grumpert!”

  “Oh, thank you,” she said.

  She struggled to reach Karl, but the men held her. “Thank you for what?” Gordon asked. But she was smiling at Karl, her face ecstatic.

  “You killed her for me!” she cried. “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you.”

  Richard Blake

  He was hovering around the portable dressing room, hoping for a chance to see Lisa again, when the policeman found him. “You Blake?” he demanded and when he admitted he was, said, “This way.”

  “I already told my story.”

  “So you tell it again.”

  Blake shrugged. The odds were against his seeing Lisa alone anyway, with two dozen or so assorted cops breathing down people’s necks. He followed the blue uniform towards the camp set, thinking of their brief, unsatisfactory meeting. He’d found her staring into her dressing-table mirror just after Mrs. Grumpert had been taken away. Her eyes were haunted. It should have been a love scene, but it wasn’t.

  “Dick. Did I kill her?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I did!”

  “Well, if you did it was an accident. Nobody knows yet where the bullets came from.”

  “I wanted her dead.”

  “So did a lot of other people.”

  “Then you don’t believe—”

  “My God, Lisa! I love you. I know you didn’t.”

  She began to cry and he was just reaching for her when the detective came, shoved him out of the dressing room. If he’d only had a few minutes—

  The blue uniform came to a halt. Blake saw they were in front of the tent where Caresse had died. The policeman thumbed him inside. He glanced apprehensively at the cot, saw that Caresse’s body was gone, and turned to the three men seated on camp chairs at the rear. One was Josh Gordon, another was the precise, school-teacherish detective who had questioned him, Sergeant Grimsby; and the third was a square-jawed man with bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows and crew-cut gray hair.

  “Captai
n Walsh,” Gordon said, “of Homicide.”

  Walsh had an open copy of the script on his lap. “You wrote this, Blake?” he asked accusingly. He looked like a labor leader protesting a union contract.

  “Well, yes …” Blake said guardedly. “The last part.”

  “Then sit down.” Walsh gestured with his head towards an empty chair beside Gordon. “And don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”

  Blake sat down.

  “I got you two here to check some things,” Walsh said. “But that don’t mean you’re clean.” He examined them through the bushy eyebrows. “One of you had a fight with her today. A wingding, if I heard right. And the other’s had trouble in the past.”

  “Not really trouble,” Blake protested.

  “Shut up!” For a second it looked as though jaw and eyebrows were going to meet. “We don’t need any yakking to screw us up. We’re doing fine as it is. Two hours and we still don’t know what happened.”

  Sergeant Grimsby, bent over a leather-bound notebook, nodded in confirmation.

  “The dame’s dead,” Walsh said. “We do know that. Two gunshot wounds below the left breast. Body still warm on arrival of coroner’s physician. No autopsy report yet, but time of death tentatively established. Ten twenty. Pistol found by campfire. Prints smeared, but we still pulled a couple.”

  “Ashton Graves,” Sergeant Grimsby read from the notebook. “And Lisa Carson.”

  “But proving nothing.” Walsh peered down at the script. “Since they both handled the pistol, it says here.”

  “They did,” Gordon affirmed.

  “They both had motives, too,” Sergeant Grimsby volunteered.

  “Who didn’t?” Walsh snorted. “We got motives coming out of our ears.”

  “One direct accusation,” Gordon said.