Million Dollar Tramp

by William Campbell Gault

  He nodded toward Pete Richards. “Send the amateur out. Let him wait in the car.”

  “Just a minute — ” Richards protested.

  “Go ahead,” I told him. “You’re not going to be cheated. Wait in the car.”

  Richards went out, grumbling. A fine piece of acting.

  Lou looked at Willis Morley like a cat looking at a goldfish. “A fingerprint, eh? Before, it was just my word against yours, but now there’s a fingerprint.” He smiled at me. “Joe, there’ll be plenty for all, won’t there? We’ll all get rich off little Willis Morley. We’ve got an annuity, haven’t we?”

  I stared between them and settled on Lou. “You mean he killed Tampett?”

  “Who else? I saw him leave there, a couple hours before I went back. When I went back, Tampett was dead. That was when you found me there.”

  Willis Morley said nothing, his eyes moving craftily between us.

  “But of course,” I explained to Lou, “Morley here probably also knows that you killed Brian Delsy.”

  Lou shook his head. “Nothing of the kind. We know who killed Delsy. He’s sitting out in the car. You weren’t conning me with his story about his memory returning.

  That boy was so drunk he didn’t know his own name.”

  “You ought to know,” I said. “You were with him, weren’t you? You drove him.”

  “If I did, do you think I’d admit it? Joe, I’m clean and you’re clean and who’s got anything on Richards? Nobody but you. So that gives us Willis to pluck, and when Richards gets back into the big time, we’ve got him.” He paused, studying me. “And maybe Fidelia?”

  “Three rich people, more or less,” I said thoughtfully.

  “Right,” he said. “And a couple sharpies like us. Hell, in a couple years, we could retire on that kind of money.”

  “Sure,” I said, and smiled at smiling Lou. “Sure,” I repeated, “but who needs you?”

  The smile left Lou’s face. Behind his low desk, Willis stirred and looked at me hopefully. His hand moved slowly toward a desk drawer.

  “Willis has got the money,” I explained. “And the reputation. Who’s going to believe a pusher? You haven’t got a chance, Lou. Richards will nail you for the Delsy kill and Willis knows you killed Tampett.”

  Lou’s voice was tight. “You’re kidding. What kind of gag is this?”

  “Face reality,” I told him scornfully. “Am I going to buck the money? Don’t I always ride with the money?”

  He nodded, his face vacant and slack, looking between us, studying us. And then suddenly there was a gun in his hand. He nodded toward Morley. “Get over next to him, Joe, and let’s start talking sense.”

  I moved slowly, putting my bulk between Morley and Serano, giving Morley time to open that drawer. By the time I was standing next to him, his right hand was in his lap and the gun in it was facing Lou Serano through the wide knee-hole of the desk.

  From where he stood, Lou couldn’t see the gun. “And now,” he said, “who needs Puma?”

  “Morley needs me,” I said. “He can’t trust you. Nobody can trust you, Lou. You won’t stay bought. Who can trust a pusher?”

  “That’s right,” Morley said. “A pusher and a killer. A man would be a damned fool to ride with you, Lou Serano.”

  The gun in Lou’s hand swung from a point between us to center on Willis Morley. He wasn’t going to shoot, I felt sure; but his face was malevolent and Willis was nervous.

  Willis was an amateur at this, almost, with only one killing on his record, and he had reason to thoroughly mistrust Lou Serano, a man whose loyalty remained constant only to himself.

  The little.32 in Willis Morley’s hand went splat,splat,splat and Lou went stumbling backwards,blood seeping out from his stomach.I ducked for the shelter of the desk.

  From the open window behind Willis, Mel Braun shouted sharply, “Drop the gun, Morley. You’re covered all around.”

  Loepke sat behind the battered desk, wearily getting the reports from Braun and from the hospital, where Locker was with Serano.

  The room was small and full of cigarette smoke. The light over Sergeant Loepke had a green shade and it gave his taut face a green pallor.

  “The print matches,” he told me. “Morley was there, all right, and he admits it. But now he’s talking self-defense. He says Tampett tried to blackmail him because of his tie-up with Serano. He laughed at him, started to leave, and Tampett pulled a gun. They struggled, and the gun went off. Self-defense.”

  I smiled. “He probably watches those old movies on TV. But what have you got? Two witnesses and one of them dead. And Morley has the money to hire the best attorneys.”

  “I’ve got Serano,” he said. “Dying at the hospital. I guess he must have been religious, once. He’s making a full confession.”

  “Is he really dying, Sergeant,” I asked, “or is he just being led to believe he’s dying?”

  He glared at me and said nothing.

  “And Richards?” I asked.

  “We’re holding him for a while.” He stood up and stretched, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, Joe, I didn’t want to go along with it, did I? I apologize — and thanks.”

  “You’re an honest man, Sergeant,” I said. “You don’t owe anybody in the world an apology for that. Good night and good luck.”

  Fidelia was standing in the corridor near the front door and I said, “I could use a drink or two. How about you?”

  She shook her head, her eyes distant. “I’m waiting for Pete. He’ll need me tonight.”

  I went down to my dusty car. The night was clear and the stars bright. I didn’t want to go home. I started the engine and pointed my weary steed toward the flavorful coffee and lower middle-class home of Mrs. Arnold Foy. We would be lonely together.

  THE END

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  Death Out of Focus

  ONE

  He took the new script out to the sundeck and read it there. He had been in New York for six weeks of frustration; he needed the sun. He tried to blank from his mind all preconceptions, the connotations that a Harry Bergdahl script implied, and read this new one objectively, as a director should.

  It was rough going. The script was cliché-ridden, pretentious, pseudo-arty. And yet, when he had finished, some vitality, some sense of truth born of the writer’s intensity, stayed with him. A revision by a competent screenwriter could make a worth-while story out of this.

  He would probably have to fight Harry on that. It would be logical to guess Bergdahl would want to strengthen the wrong elements and delete the worth-while ones in this tale of a young rebel.

  There was a current and comparatively profitable twin tide running in the industry, science fiction stories and stories of adolescent revolt. Harry Bergdahl was a man who had maintained his solvency by never running against the tides. There was a rumor lately that his credit wasn’t as sound as it had been, and Steve meant to investigate that rumor. If it weren’t true, this call from the producer might well be the luckiest break for Steve in the past year.

  It had been a bad year. He was thinking back on it when his housekeeper came out to tell him Mr. Bergdahl was calling. He didn’t want to talk with Harry yet. But he took a deep breath and went into the house.

  Before Bergdahl could ask, he said quickly, “I haven’t had time to do any more than glance through the script, Harry. I’ve been tied up with New York all morning.”

  A momentary silence, and “Oh …? You want to ring me when you’ve read it? I’ll be here most of the day.”

  “I’ll do that.” A pause. “Who is the writer? He’s new to me.”

  “My nephew,” Bergdahl said. “A very talented boy. He’s got three credits.”

  “Story or screenplay?”

  “Two story, one screenplay. Why, Steve?”

  “I wondered. Just browsing through it, there seems to be a buried strength that doesn’t quite come through. A little doctoring would bring it out, I’
m sure.”

  “We can talk about that. And I’ve got the lead all lined up.” A theatrical pause. “Hart Jameson.”

  Steve had never heard of Hart Jameson. But he said admiringly, “You have been busy, haven’t you?”

  Bergdahl chuckled. “You get to that script right away and then phone me, Steve. We’re going to have a picture.”

  “I’ll do that. Good-bye, Harry.”

  He went back to the sundeck and picked up the script again. He read: “Story by David Louis Sidney.” Was it Cabell who had said writers with three names are dead — or ought to be? What kind of a man was David Louis Sidney? Coöperative? He would need to be, or they would have a real lemon of a picture. And Steve couldn’t afford any lemons this year.

  He decided to have a talk with John Abbot before phoning Bergdahl again. He hadn’t visited him for months, and today would be a good time. He was going out to his car, when the green Pontiac pulled into his driveway.

  Steve stood in front of the garage door as the man behind the wheel got out and walked toward him. He was tall and slim, with black hair in a crew cut.

  His voice was as soft as his brown eyes. “Mr. Leander, Steven Leander?”

  “That’s right.”

  “My name is Tomkevic.” He handed Steve a card. “Do you have a minute or two right now?”

  Steve glanced at the card, saw the words “Veritable Insurance Company” and said, “I’m afraid I don’t. My insurance needs are well taken care of, Mr. Tomkevic.”

  The tall man smiled. “You didn’t read all of the card, Mr. Leander. I’m not a salesman. I’m an investigator.”

  “Oh …? Checking one of the neighbors?”

  Tomkevic shook his head. “Checking on a Mr. Harry Bergdahl.”

  Steve frowned, and stared at the man. “I don’t understand.”

  “He’s applied for insurance, the regular studio coverage, on a man named Hart Jameson. We handle a lot of this kind of insurance, you understand, Mr. Leander, but not usually to the tune of a quarter of a million on an unknown actor.”

  “Unknown?” Steve smiled. “Are you a movie fan, too, Mr. Tomkevic?”

  “I am. I have to be, with the company I work for specializing in this kind of policy. Jameson’s had some good reviews on the bits he’s done, but he’s still an unknown as far as the money people are concerned.”

  “I see. I thought it was Bergdahl you were investigating, not Jameson.”

  “It is Mr. Bergdahl. I’m going to be frank, Mr. Leander. He’s never covered any of his other actors. Doesn’t that seem strange, when you consider the money he’s made on his pictures? And now, with rocky times in the industry, he comes up with this policy.”

  “I have a feeling,” Steve said slowly, “that you’re not being quite as frank as you promised. What’s on your mind, Mr. Tomkevic?”

  “First, he told us he had hired you as director. This morning I learned that wasn’t true.”

  “It’s true every way but technically,” Steve said. “We had a rather firm oral agreement. Does my connection with the picture change the policy risk in any way?”

  Tomkevic nodded. “My employers seem to think so. Your integrity is rather well known in the industry, Mr. Leander.” His smile was thin. “You’ve — never worked with Mr. Bergdahl before, have you?”

  “Never. Are you implying that Mr. Bergdahl’s reputation isn’t all it should be?”

  “Do I need to?”

  There was a long silence. Finally Steve said, “That was frank enough. But what can I tell you? As you’ve just said, I’ve never worked with Harry before. So what can I know about him?”

  Tomkevic shrugged. “Not much, I suppose. This much you can tell me — are you going to direct the picture?”

  “I think I am. Of course, terms would need to be worked out through my agent that will be acceptable to both of us, but the way it looks now, I’m going to do the picture.”

  Tomkevic nodded. “Well, I guess we can stall him until everything is signed. That’s what I’ll suggest to my firm, at any rate.” He waved. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Leander.” He went back to his car.

  So Harry was insuring his young rebel. As a promotion gimmick undoubtedly. Harry didn’t have enough regard for actors to consider any of them worth more than the trouble of replacing them. But why should that bother an insurance company that specialized in this unique kind of term coverage? Certainly, all of the policies of this kind were at least partially drawn for promotional reasons.

  He got into his car and headed it for John Abbot’s. Abbot lived in the hills above Hollywood and had lived there for forty years. He was distantly related to Steve’s wife, Marcia, and had been influential in Steve’s early success.

  He had been a writer, director and producer but was now retired. He was, however, often consulted by those still active in the industry. He was in the front yard of his home, supervising the work of a Japanese gardener, when Steve drove up.

  He came down to the car and said smilingly, “Trouble, I’ll bet. I never see you otherwise. How’s my Marcia?”

  “She’s fine,” Steve said. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around lately, John. I’ve been — scrambling.”

  Abbot nodded. “Everybody in the industry is. Stay for lunch and talk with an old man.”

  Steve got out of the car and came around it to walk toward the house with his host. “I had some New York work that looked as if it might lead somewhere. But it didn’t. It’s a rough time, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe we need some tough times,” Abbot said. “Maybe some good pictures will result.”

  “Maybe,” Steve said. “But scared people don’t usually make good pictures.”

  The house was dim and cool, as one came in from the glare of the day outside. From the living-room windows, the entire city was visible in three directions.

  “Martini?” Abbot asked.

  Steve nodded. “John, Harry Bergdahl wants me to direct a picture for him.”

  From the liquor cabinet Abbot chuckled. “No wonder you’re all wound up. I hope you realize he needs you more than you need him.”

  Steve turned to stare at the older man. “Bergdahl …? He’s certainly solid enough. He never lost money on a picture, I’ve heard.”

  “Until his last two,” Abbot said quietly. “Times have changed, and I don’t think Harry has. He’s a hangover from the days when the public would look at anything that moved.”

  “Lousy pictures are still being made, and some of them are making money,” Steve argued.

  Abbot brought him his drink. “Horror pictures, science fiction pictures, adolescent revolt pictures. How long will the public’s stomach stand for those?”

  Steve sipped his drink and said wryly, “I hope the public’s stomach is stronger than you think, because the picture Harry plans is an adolescent revolt epic.”

  “But he’s smart enough to know it needs the Leander touch. And I’m sure he’ll promote the prestige value of that credit reading ‘Directed by Steven Leander.’ “ Abbot sat down with his drink. “Steve, be careful.”

  “Of Harry?”

  “That’s right. He is going to survive. If you need him now, in order to continue functioning, work for him. These aren’t times when a man can be choosy. But be very damned careful.”

  “I’m not an innocent, John. I’m sure I can protect myself against any manipulations of Harry Bergdahl.”

  “Maybe. Where is he getting his money?”

  Steve finished his drink. “It’s Texas money, oil money.” He looked at his empty glass.

  “Mix your own,” Abbot said. “Is the money actually committed?”

  “I’m not sure.” He went over to mix a drink.

  “I asked,” Abbot said quietly, “because I heard a silly rumor about Harry insuring Hart Jameson for some picture he’d planned.”

  Steve turned. “He’s trying to insure Jameson. Do you know anything about him?”

  Abbot nodded. “He was in Sunburst Alley. He has a
ll of Mr. Brando’s mannerisms and none of his talent. I can’t believe an actor of his caliber is worth too much insuring.”

  He paused and continued. “You know, Steve, the sole purpose of a studio policy is to insure the picture against anything that might prevent its star from appearing. Injuries, loss of memory, death — whatever might affect shooting or cause expensive delays — are covered. The star happens to be the property involved, and his assessed value determines the need, even the amount of the policy.”

  “But times being what they are, just suppose — just suppose, you understand — that Bergdahl needing the money — an accident should happen to Jameson.”

  “You don’t mean — ” said Steve, “that Harry would…?”

  “I don’t say so. I only raise the question.”

  “Oh no, you’re wrong. It’s only a promotional gimmick. It’s not the first time that’s been pulled, is it?”

  “Of course not,” Abbot said mildly. “It’s just the first time it’s been pulled by Harry Bergdahl.”

  Steve said irritatedly, “For heaven’s sake, you make Harry sound like a — monster. He’s not our first citizen, I’ll grant you, but he’s certainly not a — a murderer.”

  “Not unless he needs to be to survive,” Abbot said blandly. “Let’s eat and talk about something else.”

  It was a fine lunch and they didn’t talk any more about Harry Bergdahl. Abbot dwelt, as was his habit lately, on his early days in the industry. Today, Steve listened absently, his mind on the picture.

  Finally Abbot said, “All right, you may go now. You’ve been itching to, for half an hour.”

  “That’s not true,” Steve protested. “I enjoy your company and you know it.”

  “Not when you’re ready to start a picture. You have Marcia phone me. Good luck, Steve. Keep in touch, won’t you?”

  “I certainly will,” Steve said warmly and was conscious of half lying. He was at an age where the reminiscences of the old were discomforting. He was thirty-seven.

  As he drove home, he reflected that a man of thirty-seven should be solidly established in his trade. At least he should know where his next dollar is coming from. He should be able to turn down offers from hacks like Harry Bergdahl.