Merryll Manning Is Dead Lucky

by Johm Howard Reid

  The look on poor old Borne’s face was a classic. He was obviously right out of his depth. Despite my anger, I couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for the poor bastard. I’d try to help him out, but I’d throw in a few jabs to mitigate my anger while I was about it.

  “Who benefits from the professor’s demise? The ratings – number one! Thanks to headlines in all the papers and prime coverage on all the TV and radio channels, the ratings tonight will go right through the roof. 80 Questions with Sedge Cornbeck will knock every other show off the air.”

  Borne resumed his pacing. “Speaking collectively,” he mused, “you can’t lay the blame on a television network.”

  “Who benefits most? That’s what you asked. In order: Arthur ‘Boss’ Kent, owner and senior executive producer. Also Monty Fairmont and his partner, Ace Jellis, whose production company is producing the show. Monty won’t be sorry he missed out on Dune-Harrigan’s money. The bank will be begging him to quintuple his overdraft. Also Peter Tunning, whose Total Service Travel Plan will soon be a household word. Also Sedge Cornbeck and all the technicians who work on the show. Monty will sign them all up for long-term contracts. And that’s just a partial list of who benefits.”

  Borne stopped his pacing right in front of me. “Your answer surprises me,” he said. “I thought we’d now excluded your Monty Fairmont. Can’t you see there’s one person who benefits even more than Fairmont and all these others? One person, living literally from hand to mouth on a small pension plus a meager income from four or five popular but low-priced books. Suddenly that person has money in the bank, thanks to a well-paid, secure job with plenty of prestige and all that goes with it.”

  I didn’t lose my temper. I was wise to all the build-up. I felt like screaming that for God’s sake we’d already dealt with me and excluded me. “You haven’t heard the latest,” I smiled. “Sedge isn’t going on next week. Still in shock. Guess who Monty Fairmont asked to take his place?”

  Borne looked down at me. “I’m glad you’re being frank.”

  “That’s the way I was trained.”

  “In Miami?”

  “No, I started off in the military police.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  “I was invalided out.”

  “My information is you threw yourself on a live grenade. You’re a hero.”

  Asking a question for which he already knew the answer was a typical police track, but I didn’t let it worry me. “Just a quick-acting fool,” I replied. “That’s the way I was trained: Act first, think later. Besides I’m not fat enough to smother any sort of a blast. I whipped the mattress off a bed, sheets, blankets and all, threw that lot on the grenade and then upended the bed itself while I dived down a laundry chute. I was pretty lucky at that. I don’t need to listen to any weather forecasts. They’re wrong half the time anyway.”

  Borne permitted himself a wan smile. He resumed his pacing. “Another two aspects of this murder puzzle me, Merryll. We’ve been checking the names of the previous contestants you gave us. Three of the addresses are false.”

  Now it was my turn to stare at him in surprise. “That isn’t possible. If you’re a chosen contestant, you’ll have received at least five letters. They don’t ring you up. And you don’t ring them except to confirm that you received the letters and are acting on their instructions. And while you can use your own car to get to the studio, the TV people prefer you use their taxi service, so that they know exactly where you are. So that’s five letters gone to each of three false addresses? Impossible!”

  “All the contestants turn up? No last-minute substitutions?”

  “That I wouldn’t know. You could check with Peter Tunning and Total Service. They give out travel vouchers to the unlucky contestants.”

  “We checked that. As you say, Tunning doesn’t give cash to non-winners, just discount vouchers. And way more than half of them have not been collected.”

  “I can understand that. A discount voucher is actually a request for money – admittedly less money that you might otherwise pay – but it’s no free ticket. In fact, just the opposite.”

  “How are you getting on with the missing tapes for these shows?”

  “I’ve got ads running now. Would you believe, although I made it quite clear that I was only interested in 80 Questions, I’ve received offers for just about every TV quiz show but 80 Questions. True, until now, I understand that 80 Questions hasn’t been what you’d call a popular show. Everyone at the station is mighty close-lipped about it, but I’d be surprised if it attracted more than one per cent of the total viewers. And I know for a fact that until now, it’s been a mighty hard sell even to give free tickets away for our taping sessions.”

  “You won’t have any trouble now.”

  “But now we’re not taping it before a live audience! You just can’t win in the TV game. It’s just impossible.”

  “And how much is the quiz worth?” he asked.

  I blinked. He knew as well as I did. “Eighty thousand dollars.”

  “You know how much the average small-time crim makes in a year? Your average professional housebreaker?”

  “After paying fences, protection and lawyers, I’d say not more than two hundred a week.”

  “And you’ve got $80,000 up for grabs. Another thing that worries me is that both you and Mr. Tunning told me that Miss Williams had a current, steady boyfriend.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, where is he? Why hasn’t he come forward? Have you ever seen him?”

  “Only from a distance and wearing a cycle helmet, but his name is Gino and I’m sure you can get a full description from the guy who runs the markets in the same building that Tunning occupies.”

  “Where is this young blade now? That’s what I want to know. Where is he, and why hasn’t he come forward?”

  “That’s easy. He has a record. So, if I were you I’d go straight down to the markets and interview the manager – so long as you’re not afraid of heights.”

  “Maybe he’s just frightened?”

  “Or maybe he’s dead?” I suggested..

  24

  “My friend and I would like to rent a stall,” I pretended to the nothing-over-two-dollars man. “Who do we see?”

  “No more spaces,” he grumbled.

  “Who’s asking you? Who’s the boss?”

  “Bill Avati.”

  “That’s good. Now where do we find him?”

  Pointing: “Up them stairs. It’s a long climb. And mind yer heads!” he chuckled.

  Two-dollars was right. The stairs finally led to a remarkably low-ceilinged walkway along which both Borne and I had to crouch like emus before finally ending up at a closed wooden door. Taking no notice of the red-chalked “Private”, we gave the door a peremptory rap, pushed it open and stomped into the room beyond.

  It was a room with the same low ceiling as its passageway, but no walls. No walls at all. Spread out way, way below were the crowded markets – rows upon rows of claustrophobic stalls, surrounded, besieged and intersected by hordes of scurrying, foraging bargain hunters.

  A swarthy Italian in a bright red shirt sat behind a rickety old card table. There was no room for a desk and how could you get it up the almost endless stairs anyway?

  Upon closer inspection, the Italian was playing solitaire with a stained, greasy, impossibly dog-eared deck of cards, his three-legged stool narrowly teetering on the brink of the bustling panorama way, way below.

  He didn’t bother glancing up from his cards. “Whatever you sell, I’m not buying.”

  I kneeled down on the flimsy wooden floor. “I’m a private detective.” I fished out my wallet to show him my nice, now-up-to-date license, but he wasn’t interested. He still didn’t look up. So I took out a $20 dollar bill and placed it on top of a greasy pile of kings. Quick as a flash, his hand conjured the note into his shirt pocket. Still, he didn’t look up.

  “Looking for a young man named Gino. Rides a Yamaha motorcycle.
Black leather jacket. Says he works here.”

  “You, her dad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gino get your girl into trouble?”

  “Yes.”

  Red shirt laughed so much, I thought he would fall off his stool. His teeth were incredibly ugly and misshapen. No wonder he didn’t want to show his face.

  “Where’s Gino?” I asked angrily.

  “You tell me,” he spluttered, “I want to know too.”

  “He works here?” I persisted.

  This innocent question set off another bout of shaking laughter, even more teeteringly dangerous than the first. “Gino works here is right,” he finally gasped. “Gino is a thief.”

  “A shoplifter?”

  Red shirt’s deep eyes opened wide in surprise.

  “He steals merchandise from the stalls?” I explained.

  “No,” he laughed.

  “A pickpocket?”

  More laughter. But this time accompanied by an emphatic shaking of the head (as well as the rest of his body).

  I had a few more suggestions, like skipped out on his rent and cheating at cards, but I’d grown weary of this game. “Tell me!”

  “He sells things he does not have. His time. His love. To the young ladies. They lend him money. He does not repay. Gino never pays. Gino take, but Gino never pays. He does not work here. We run him off. Ten time. Twenty time. Always he come back. This last time, we show him we mean what we say.” A knife suddenly flashed in his hand. He made a quick sideways stab and the knife vanished as miraculously as it had appeared. “We hope he is dead.”

  25

  Friday, another conference in Mr. Kent’s office. Again, I was late. As I entered, Kent was in the middle of laying down the law to our sponsor, Peter Tunning. “Damn it all, Peter! When you and Monty came to me with this poltroon quiz, did I ask if you’d signed Jim Carrey or Molly Ringwald or one of our nation’s top sports identities as quizmaster? Did I even ask what sort of animal-vegetable-mineral of a quiz you had in your mongrel little minds? No! I asked only one simple question. One simple question: What’s the prize? That’s all I asked.”

  “That’s true,” Monty Fairmont agreed.

  “That’s very true,” piped up Ace Jellis.

  “It is bad for Total Service,” argued Peter Tunning.

  “There’s only one damn thing that’s bad for Total Service, Peter: No wrinkle-proof ratings. And that equals no service!”

  “All publicity is good publicity,” agreed Monty.

  “All publicity!” emphasized Ace Jellis.

  “I had a nice long talk with the Assistant Commissioner just this morning,” Kent bragged. “He believes as I do, namely the only way to serve Justice is to continue with our show.”

  “That’s dead right!” agreed Monty.

  “Dead right indeed!” supplied Ace Jellis,

  “Someone out there wants us to stop,” Kent continued, “but whoever he or she is, we’ll soldier on regardless – and maybe that will even drive him or her into the open.”

  “You want further killings?” gasped Peter.

  “Next time, we’ll be ready for him, won’t we, Merryll?”

  “We sure will, Mr. Kent!” It was nice to be drawn into the conversation, even if somewhat belatedly.

  “How can Merryll help?” argued Peter. “If he is on camera, he is on camera!”

  “Best place for him!” Kent declared.

  “And he is also a future contestant!”

  “In name only!”

  “He is a face in a semi-final in a few weeks. How can he ask himself questions?”

  “Sedge is sure to be back by then! That will make you all happy.”

  “Doesn’t worry me one iota,” said Monty.

  “Makes no special difference to me one way or the other,” supplied Ace Jellis.

  “For once, I totally agree with Ace and Monty. Here I am breaking my neck trying to tell you, Peter, if you don’t have Jim Carrey or Jack Nicholson or Steve Martin, it matters not a spoonful of sand in the whole Sahara if you throw the viewers Merryll Manning or Malcolm S. Bloggs.”

  “Thanks very much!” I cried out.

  “Provided he isn’t cross-eyed or hare-lipped, the only requirement for a goddamned TV announcer is that he announce.”

  “Thanks again!”

  But Mr. Kent totally ignored my interruptions: “Only three things influence ratings, Peter – and ratings are all that interest us – you as a sponsor selling a product, Monty as a producer selling a show, and me as a studio manager selling facilities and time. Three things, Peter: One, does the show have popular appeal? Is there something about it to interest every age group, or in particular the age group to which you target your specific product? Two, what bankable emotion does it inspire in the viewers? Answer: Greed! Money – the poor need it to survive, the middle classes use it to big-note themselves, and of course the already rich thrive on it. Three, the ratings themselves! If nurtured correctly, good ratings will grow into better ratings. So what are our competitors throwing against us to seduce our viewers into switching to their own super-trashy, penne ante programs? Fourth and final and most important of all: Publicity! Is everyone talking about us?”

  “It is not fair to use murder – the murder of a lovely, innocent woman – in this way. Not fair at all!”

  “Hell, Peter! I don’t make the rhadamanthine rules!”

  “I wish to cancel,” Peter insisted.

  “We’ve just been through all that! We all loved Spookie. We all loved her and we all miss her. She was a really swell girl, but we can’t bring the dead back to life. So we soldier on without her, even though every day we’re reminded of her presence. This station is co-operating with the police to the fullest and widest extent possible. We’ve given the police names of possible suspects, we’ve provided – ”

  “What names?” asked Peter.

  “Unsuccessful contestants from the first six shows.”

  “Waste of time!” Monty explained. “It’s not one of them!”

  “Yes, it is not one of them,” agreed Peter.

  “But the police are checking them out anyway. Gives them something to do.”

  “Why do they waste their time? It is not a contestant,” Peter persisted.

  “How can you be so sure?” asked Kent.

  “I know them. I know their hearts, their minds when they come to me at Total Service seeking their prize money or their vouchers.”

  “You see only half of them anyway! Aren’t you always complaining that more than half your vouchers are unclaimed?”

  “You forget that we know what all the contestants look like!” I couldn’t resist spiking Kent’s argument.

  “How in hell do you make that out?” he yelled.

  “They don’t know we have no tapes. Every single one of your contestants would assume we had them on permanent record. They wouldn’t dare kill a fly.”

  “Manning is right,” agreed Peter. “We are the people – the only people – who know the tapes are missing.”

  “But we’ll get hold of them anyway,” I forecast. “I’ve put ads in all the papers. That will flush them out. Not that it will do us any good, but it will keep the police busy and get them off our backs.”

  “Good! Very good!” A rare pat on the back from Mr. Kent.

  “The killer is in the files, not the tapes!” I continued. “And that’s why the killer took them. He sure knows his way around! If only we had a line on his motive. What was in the files that was so important, it would have led us straight to him?”

  “Maybe we still find them,” Peter suggested. “A lot of files like that, they are hard to get rid of.”

  “Easiest thing in the world, Peter. He just takes out his own file – when he finds it – and destroys it. Then he sends the lot back to us or leaves it at the city dump.”

  “Why didn’t he do just that in the office?” Kent asked. “Why take the needless risk of carting the whole lot away?”

&nbs
p; “Because he didn’t have time to look for it. Imagine his horror when he opens the cabinet and finds the files are no longer filed in alphabetical order. I was sorting them all out sexually and geographically. But our killer is a quick thinker and – lucky for him! – he’d allowed himself at least an hour. So relays the lot into the boot of his car.”

  Peter laughed. “It is useless!” he said.

  Now what did he mean by that? A little of Peter goes a long way in my book. I confess it. He still frightened me and I often wished he hadn’t told me his secret, so I quickly changed the subject. “What does Sedge remember?”

  “He didn’t see her,” Monty replied.

  “Claims he didn’t see her!” amended Ace Jellis. He shuddered dramatically. “Not until he found her dead!”

  All eyes except Peter’s looked to me. Peter kept nodding his head towards the floor.

  “At least Miss Williams had already lined up all the contestants,” Kent growled, as if making a grudging acknowledgment of a rare example of efficiency. “Now, what about the questions? I thought Sedge kept them close somewhere?”

  “An obvious deduction!” smirked Ace Jellis.

  “Peter managed to open Sedge’s desk – without doing any damage to the desk at all,” supplied Monty. “We knew Sedge must have written down the questions somewhere!”

  “An obvious deduction,” Kent agreed.

  “In a briefcase in his desk,” added Ace Jellis.

  “There was just one problem. But Peter fixed that.”

  “It was nothing!” Peter was determined to be modest. “Just nothing.”

  “And what exactly was this nothing problem?”

  “I don’t like to mention it,” said Monty.

  “God damn it, Monty, you brought it up! What was it?”

  “It reflects on Miss Williams, but we were all thrown off by everything that happened – the threats, the tension on the set, the…”

  “Excuses understood! Get on with it!”