Harris said, “I was just about to suggest it.”
“Are you going to be waiting here, Llona?”
She’d been looking out the window again. “What?”
“I said, are you going to wait here?”
“Oh yes. Of course.” She went back to the window.
I shook my head. If falling in love with someone was going to do that to her, maybe I should get out of her life right away.
I didn’t have time to think about it at the moment. I touched her shoulder, then left with Harris.
We had to produce everything short of baptismal certificates to satisfy the guard at the door of Studio J we were who we said we were. Then we had to wait until a commercial came on before we could go in.
Once inside the big gray doors, we split up. I went around the back of the set to the right, where the door to the control room stairs was, and where the carpenter’s bin had been. Harris went to the left.
About every twenty feet, I was stopped by guys in gray suits—either plainclothes cops or some of Colonel Coyle’s men in mufti, I didn’t bother to find out which.
There must have been a hundred people behind that set. There were IRATE’s and security men of one kind or another, to say nothing of crew and celebrities. It made for slow progress, especially since any noise above a whisper would be a disaster—there were live mikes all over the set, for ambience noise. The audio men do that to keep the studio from sounding like a cave.
The Roger Nelson Dancers finished what they were doing, and another commercial came on.
I found Lieutenant Martin watching a perfume commercial on one of the monitors. He wasn’t alone—one of the show’s three floor directors (they’re responsible for controlling traffic backstage) was watching it, too. The monitor was set up near the gap in the set where the Great Bomboni, his assistant, and his manager were to enter. A quick look at my watch showed me it was almost a quarter to twelve. “Sight, Sound, & Celebration” was practically over. I couldn’t think of many people in this building who would be sorry to see it go.
By the time I joined Mr. M. at the monitor, the actress was through nuzzling the perfume, and Studio J was on the air again. It was as if someone had switched on the ozone-scented air in there as well as the cameras. There is something about live TV that really gets the adrenalin flowing.
The monitor showed the Anchorman in conversation with a country-singer-turned-actor. I pulled the lieutenant aside to whisper to him what Shirley had told me, and what I thought it might mean.
He listened, then responded. Considering that we had to talk in whispers, I was impressed at the vehemence Mr. M. was able to get in his swear words.
He cut off in mid-stream when Ken Shelby, Lenny Green, and Melanie Marliss emerged from the dressing room area, costumed and ready for the Reluctant Magician sketch.
“I want to talk to you later,” the lieutenant hissed. Lenny Green gave him a nervous, crooked grin and said, “Jesus Christ, Lieutenant, we’re on in fifteen seconds.”
That, combined with a murderous look from the floor director, was enough to make Martin subside. We backed away from the monitor to give everyone plenty of room for entrances and exits.
Every performer has some last-minute nervous ritual. Lenny Green took deep breaths. Ken Shelby cracked his knuckles. Melanie made minute, unnecessary adjustments to her costume, reassuring herself that her seams were straight, and enough bosom was tucked in.
From offstage, the godlike voice of the announcer. “And now, the Great Bomboni!”
I gave in to a lifelong urge. “Break a leg,” I whispered. Melanie showed me that multimillion dollar smile. I love those old show-biz movies.
“The Great Bomboni!” the announcer repeated, and Ken Shelby strode out onto the set. Lenny Green watched the monitor for his cue, and gave the line about the undersized outhouse. It said something about their comedy that the same professional audience that had laughed at the dress rehearsal was laughing just as hard now.
In fact, they were even better than they had been Friday afternoon. Shelby, as the Great Bomboni’s manager, was even more determined to have the show go on. Green’s substitute Bomboni was even more dubious about what he’d let himself in for. It was the magic of live TV. The magic of the act—the stage magic—went along pretty much according to the script—Green had his pants ripped off, but kept going, running into Melanie on her way in with the turban. He decided to stay.
I noticed they left Green’s cape striptease in. He was incredible. I hoped the folks at home were enjoying this as much as I was. Lieutenant Martin was being staunch and professional, scanning the area for potential evil-doers, but even he couldn’t resist taking an occasional peek at the monitor. He was almost smiling.
They departed from what they’d done at Friday’s rehearsal when they got to the part where the door of the magic cabinet was supposed to swing open. The way they handled the sticking door was to have Green, anxious to be locked in with Melanie, start trying to get inside while Shelby is still explaining the trick. There was a minute of hilarious pantomime while Green struggled with the stuck door. I remember thinking that a hundred-year-bath with a fire sprinkler couldn’t have gotten the door that stuck.
Shelby finishes talking about trunks and cabinets and bolts and chains, and turns to see what’s going on. There’s a great reaction take. Finally, all three people onstage, pulling together (with Green pulling mostly on Marliss) manage to get it open.
More ad libs. Lenny says, “I’m disappearing from here, right?”
“That’s right,” Shelby replies.
Green looks up at him. “Good, because if I had to come through that stupid door, I’d never get out.”
Melanie cracks up. Green says to her, “Okay, sweetheart, let’s get in the box!”
He steps inside. Shelby slams the door behind him and shoots the bolt.
At that moment, my head tilted involuntarily upward, and I began looking for trouble on the catwalks. Talking to people later, I found out I wasn’t the only one in Studio J who did that—practically everyone I spoke to did. Friday had made a big impression on us.
Sunday was about to make a bigger one.
I saw human forms up on the catwalks, but they all wore police uniforms and were armed to the teeth. Lieutenant Martin had that end sewn up very nicely.
Meanwhile, the show was going on, and I listened to it, even when my eyes were seeking reassurance above the lights. As soon as Ken Shelby had slammed the door of the magic cabinet, and even before he shot the bolt, Lenny had started with his yelling.
“Hey! Wha-what the hell!”
I wondered idly when they had found a chance to make a new tape—that wasn’t what he’d said on Friday. Maybe Lenny was just ad libbing a little before he started the tape and the machinery going and left through the trap door. Or maybe it was something leading up to that surprise ending he’d been talking about.
Whatever it was, I decided, it must have been Lenny’s work because the monitor showed a strange look on Ken Shelby’s handsome face. He was too much a pro to let it throw him, though. The cabinet started thumping as it should have, and Shelby delivered his line over his partner’s screaming.
“The Great Bomboni is calling on his friends in the spirit world to help him out of this worldly prison!”
The next line on tape was supposed to be “I’ll call on my friends in the Police Department...” but that’s not what we heard. With the greatest example of stark panic ever heard on television, Green’s voice yelled, “No, I’m not! Ken, let me out of here. Please!”
Shades of Henny Youngman. The audience went wild.
The laughter went on, grew stronger. Green’s voice said, “Let-me-out! I can’t breathe!” It seemed as if the cabinet was going to shake itself apart. Great rasping coughs came from inside, followed by one long, rude, retching sound.
“Green’s surprise ending,” I said to Lieutenant Martin. The laughter was so strong it was no longer necessary to worry
about talking aloud. “He made a new tape, and juiced up the shaking mechanism.”
Mr. M. nodded. “Right, and now he lets his partner deal with it.”
Ken Shelby seemed perfectly ready to deal with it. Drawing himself to his full height, and looking his most professorial and dignified, he raised his hand in a pacifying gesture and intoned, “Please! Ladies and gentlemen!”
The crowd quieted a little, though there was still laughter at what was now corning from the magic cabinet—it sounded like sobbing.
“Don’t encourage him,” Shelby said.
It brought down the house. The audio man testified later that his meters for every microphone hit maximum and that if it weren’t for the built-in limiters they have these days, that single laugh might have blown out the Network’s whole audio system.
The uproar continued. Ken took Melanie by the hand and began to stash her in the trunk. He paused when the laughter died.
There was no noise coming from the magic cabinet. Nothing.
The sixty-odd million people watching “Sight, Sound, & Celebration” joined those in the studio in the largest mass double take in history.
The monitor showed a close-up of Ken Shelby’s face. We saw him gasp, then run right out of the picture. Up in the control room, Porter Reigels had him picked up in a long shot from the boom camera, camera twelve. It zoomed in to Shelby’s hands struggling frantically with the bolt. Melanie came to help him. She looked as if she were about to cry.
When they finally yanked the bolt open, Shelby had to fight the water-swollen door. Meanwhile, camera twelve was zooming in closer and closer.
The door cracked loudly as it flew open, and camera twelve had a beautiful shot of the action as Lenny Green, in opera cape and green-and-yellow striped underpants, tumbled from the cabinet, and lay still on the floor of the set.
CHAPTER 24
“Rampart, we have a victim; male; approximately fifty years of age; approximately one hundred forty pounds. He appears to have inhaled some poisonous fumes...”
—RANDOLPH MANTOOTH, “EMERGENCY,” NBC
I MADE MY NETWORK television debut one eighth of a second after Lieutenant Martin made his. As soon as Lenny Green thudded to the carpet, Mr. M. dashed in from the wings. I followed him. Everyone in the audience was still screaming and/or gasping.
The cameras left us almost instantaneously. Reigels switched to the Anchorman, who ad libbed some reassuring words, and The Show Went On.
Meanwhile, back at the catastrophe, I stiff-armed a hysterical Melanie Marliss out of the way, and pulled Ken Shelby away from his partner. I knelt beside Lenny, and undid the ribbon around his neck that held his cape. The bottom of the cape was wet with something that smelled bad.
Shelby kept saying, “I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it! Is he all right, Matt? Did he have another heart attack?” Melanie Marliss was babbling. By some kind of professional reflex, they had their hysterics in whispers—after all, there were live mikes in the studio.
I had something I wanted to ask the lieutenant—he was poking around inside the cabinet—but I was afraid to open my mouth for fear a scream would come out of it.
Harris Brophy and Detective Rivetz had worked their way around the back of the set and joined us. I said one word to Harris: “Ambulance.” I was glad to find I didn’t scream. The lieutenant said one word to Rivetz: “Headquarters.” Our assistants left us again.
Lenny Green had no pulse; at least none that I could find. His skin was very cold. I found that the fumes of whatever liquid had soaked into his cape and socks and shoes were now making it hard for me to breathe.
“Mr. M.,” I croaked, “what is this stuff?”
He was holding his handkerchief over his mouth and nose. He reached into the cabinet (which was practically awash with the liquid), and brought out a now-burst plastic bag. The tie band was still tight around its neck. The lieutenant took a little sniff at it. “Smells like chloroform,” he said.
“We better get him some air, then,” I said.
“Right, let’s go. Where to?”
“Elevator. We have to take him out to the plaza.”
“Can’t we get him to a window?”
In the background, the orchestra started playing something soft, while the Anchorman did a talk-over.
“No windows are built to open in this building.”
“Goddammit!” he spat. “I’m afraid for him, Matty.”
“Then let’s get going.” I picked Lenny up with a fireman’s carry. The orchestra got louder. I carried Lenny off the set as the Anchorman signed off.
“...and we hope the Network can continue to be a part of your life, bringing you all of life’s trials and triumphs, its fun, thrills, and excitement, for another fifty years of...Sight, Sound, & Celebration! Good night!”
Because of the gauntlet of curious stares we had to run, it seemed to take a lot longer to get to the ground floor than it actually did. By the time we made it, I practically sprinted for the bronze and glass door. I needed air myself.
It was cold outside, a clear, brittle, October cold, and the air felt good all the way down into my lungs. Anyone passing by on Sixth Avenue would have thought we were three drunks dragging ourselves from the Network Lounge.
I felt drunk. I was dizzy, I had a headache, and I was very glad dinner had been a long time ago.
I put Lenny Green down on the flagstones near the fountain. He looked bad. I started artificial respiration.
Lieutenant Martin was sitting on the low black-marble wall that ran around the perimeter of the plaza. He kept smacking his hand against the stone. “Dammit, Matty, right under my nose! Right under my goddam nose! That poor bastard is in there choking for air, and I stood around laughing at him. Ha, ha, very funny. I don’t believe it! I ought to turn in my shield.”
He went on and on, and as I listened to him, suddenly, I became Lenny Green, trapped inside the cabinet, breathing fumes instead of air, trying to get somebody, one person, out of the tens of millions who hear me, to help me. And getting laughs instead.
“...Laughing, for Christ’s sake,” the lieutenant went on.
“Can it, Mr. M., all right?” I snapped. Lieutenant Martin stood up, wobbled, steadied himself, and looked up and down the street.
“And where the hell is that goddam ambulance?” he asked.
We never did see that ambulance. Since police cars cruise, the cops started arriving before an ambulance could. I don’t know what Rivetz told them, but it brought them out in force. After a few seconds, the lieutenant got tired of waiting, and commandeered a blue-and-white to take us to the emergency room. Mr. M. and I both felt like we could stand a visit.
Lenny Green was dead by the time we got there. For all intents, he had been dead before the door of that cabinet was opened. The folks at the hospital (the same one Jerry de Loon had died in) ran a few tests, and found that he had died of carbon tetrachloride poisoning.
“Smelled like chloroform to me,” the lieutenant said.
That was when we learned that carbon tetrachloride (CCI4) does smell like chloroform. So now I knew what chloroform smelled like.
I had already known carbon tetrachloride was potent stuff. It dissolves grease, fat, certain rubbers, waxes, and resins, so they sell it for cleaning fluid. You may have some around the house. If you do, take a look at the label. You’ll find you’re not even supposed to open the bottle unless you’ve opened all the windows in your house first. And you’re supposed to wear rubber gloves when you touch the stuff.
The lieutenant and I had both breathed and touched carbon tetrachloride, and since the hospital couldn’t do anything further for Lenny, they concentrated on us. The first thing they did was condemn our clothes and wash us in soap and warm water. Then they gave us some mild stimulant and had us breathe oxygen from a tank.
The intern in charge of us was a studious-looking young man who had doubtless gotten an A in toxicology. He kept lecturing the lieutenant and me about carbon tetrac
hloride.
“...the symptoms include,” he went on, “dizziness, headache, nausea, subnormal temperature, feeble pulse, coma, fever, uremia, and...uh”—he adjusted his glasses—“uh, death.”
I looked at him. He looked disturbingly like a teen-age kid dressed up like a doctor. “Death?” I said.
“Uh, yes.”
“Death,” I said. “Death. Listen, that strikes me as one hell of a symptom, Doctor.” I wondered what they did—take a look at a corpse and say, “Aha, he’s dead! Must be carbon tet!” He ignored me and went on with his lecture.
That was only fair. I was ignoring him, too. Instead, I was admiring the damnable cleverness of our killer. The Phantom of the Network. The bowling ball may have failed, but it got everyone involved expecting his next attempt to be an equally emphatic physical assault. As he knew we would.
So the bastard set a beautiful, yet simple booby trap instead. Sometime between the dress rehearsal and the show, he had gotten into Studio J (no great accomplishment), jammed the trap door under the magic cabinet somehow, and left that plastic bag of poison on the floor. With all the unfamiliar workmen running around, it would be easy—if anyone asked, he was working on the set, so what?
Now that I thought of it, I could narrow the time even more. Shelby and Green had checked out that cabinet Saturday afternoon, so the dirty work had to have been done after that.
Young Dr. Mouth had said at one point, “...when inhaled, a concentration of one thousand parts carbon tetrachloride vapor per million is sufficient to cause acute poisoning.”
A little mental arithmetic was enough to show me that if only half the carbon tetrachloride that had been in the two-quart bag the lieutenant had found had turned to vapor, that magic cabinet could have held a thousand quarts of God’s clean air, and Lenny still wouldn’t have had a chance.
And of course, there was nothing like a thousand quarts of air in that cabinet. There was, though, a pool of liquid CCI4, to slosh around, and splash on his shoes and socks, and on his bare legs as they hung from those ludicrous underpants, and poison him all the quicker.
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