“Winning team gets $24,000. There’s three of you, so that’s $8,000 each. The losers get one of Peter’s vouchers. Two hundred dollars discount off any mega-travel plan of your choice.”
“Getting back to present affairs, Mr. Kent, you wrote down the Ellin name for Mr. Cornbeck when you visited him at the hospital?”
“Sure I did. Sedge has a thing about names. Thought he get a kick out of Don Ellin.”
Inspector Borne sighed, “Better add Mr. Cornbeck to our list.”
“You’re dead right!” I rashly agreed. “He could easily have killed Kathie either before or after the show. Yet he seemed so convincingly upfront. An amazingly convincing performance. He fooled me.”
“He fooled all of us,” growled Boss Kent. “But Sedge is an actor – damn it!”
“Remember how he denied seeing Spookie again after the show?” Monty squealed. “He said she never came to his dressing room.”
“There he was telling the truth,” I said. “He met her in the corridor.”
31
No live audience. Even that was fouled up. The great Kent was unaware that tickets had already been distributed. As a result, I had to detail my four security guards at the gates just to turn people away. None of them went very willingly either. A few ghouls even managed to get past the cordon and were knocking on the door to the sound stage. Fortunately, I’d persuaded the great Kent to hire an extra man, but that left none for the set. True, the place was full of policemen but they were under Inspector Borne’s control. If anything went wrong, I was ultimately responsible. No excuses.
At least the security side of my job kept me busy. One of the unnerving things about TV acting is that once you step in front of that camera – no matter how crowded the set – you’re basically alone. The whole show depends on you. But what’s worse, when it comes to help, you depend on yourself. The director and the producer sit way up in a control booth, right out of your sight line, issuing orders by loudspeaker during rehearsal, but dead silent once the show’s on air. The floor manager’s no help either. His waving hands tell you when to speak and when to shut up, but not what to speak, and how! For “what”, you rely on the autocue, a mechanical monster disguised as a camera, its lens replaced by an illuminated screen on which every word of your patter speeds by with merciless momentum. No tool for the novice, it takes time and practice to master the autocue. I looked at it but didn’t try to read it. Instead, I armed myself with a sheaf of important-looking notes on which I had everything written down. And for the questions, of course, I had Sedge’s cards.
It was a queer feeling. I was reading Sedge’s cards, handling them, making use of them, like being privy to a part of Sedge’s innermost mind and the secrets he’d guarded so zealously – and all the while, I knew a secret even more devastating: He had killed Kathie. Possibly Dune-Harrigan too. Why? What was the connection? The police would find out. Even now they were closing in…
Sedge was arrested on Tuesday afternoon, just in time for the evening news bulletins. Every station used the arrest as their lead-off item – even ABC News which had relegated Kathie’s murder to bottom of the bill, close to Tomorrow’s Weather.
On Wednesday night, just about every TV set in America was tuned to 80 Questions. The opposition wasn’t just wiped off the air, it was utterly demolished.
Alas, the show itself was even more tedious than usual. The contestants were not just the usual dull bunch, this lot were positively moribund. Maybe Sedge could have whipped them into a mild frenzy, but I doubt it. They were frozen in formaldehyde. The winner was a 47-year-od waitress from Kentucky. Her claim to fame was that her mum once worked for Colonel Sanders. Her specialty: Pop music of the sixties. Despite her win she managed to make Elvis Presley and his contemporaries as lively a topic as dried dodo feathers.
On the other hand, I suppose our regular viewers didn’t notice any difference. As for the acres of new adherents, they were able not only to satisfy their curiosity, but feed their deep hunger to be part of the events their neighbors and friends were all talking about.
Did I come out of the show as handsomely as on the previous week? No! But maybe I was being overly super-critical. Our regular broadcasters received only thirty-eight complaints – three down on the previous week’s: “Who is this imposter? What’s happened to our lovely Mr. Cornbeck?” There are some dear old souls out there who watch everything on the box but the news.
32
“Your honor?”
“Yes, Mr. Frost?”
“I represent the defendant, Edward ‘Sedge’ Cornbeck, your honor.”
“Does the defendant wish to enter a plea, Mr. Frost?”
“Most definitely, your honor. My client pleads ‘Not Guilty’ to all charges, your honor, and pleads his complete innocence of, and non-involvement with any of these crimes as listed in the charge sheet.”
“So entered. Any further comment, Mr. Frost?”
“Not at this stage, your honor.”
“Mr. Spinks! I take it you are appearing for the District Attorney?”
“I guess I am, your honor.”
“I’m surprised the D.A. himself is not with us this morning. Not only is the press box filled to capacity, but half the courtroom itself seems to be full of reporters.”
“Regrettably, the D.A. has lost his voice, your honor. He can’t even talk in a whisper. He sends his regrets to your honor and hopes to be with us ASAP.”
“Please convey the court’s regrets to the D.A. Are you then ready to proceed, Mr. Spinks?”
“I wish to make these proceedings as brief as possible, your honor. Briefly, we rely on strong, if circumstantial, evidence in regard to the murder of Kathleen Irene Williams. We have evidence that links the defendant directly with this crime. We will prove that the defendant had a romantic liaison with the deceased, that he wished to break off this attachment, and that he had both the opportunity and motive for the murder. Furthermore, he constructed an elaborate plot, both to divert suspicion from himself and yet make it easy and possible for him to affect this brutal crime. But like all of his kind, your honor, he finally over-reached himself. He had perpetrated almost the perfect crime, but I guess he tried just once too often to divert suspicion from himself. He was caught in the act. Would you call Nurse Gwendolyn Withers to the stand, please?”
“Your name is Gwendolyn Withers and you are a nurse at the Highkeep Private Hospital?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Last Thursday afternoon, did the defendant give you some letters to post?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Cornbeck gave me a small bundle of letters.”
“How many?”
“I don’t remember.”
“A small bundle? Twenty?”
“Oh, no, sir. I would have remembered twenty.”
“Ten?”
“That would be about right.”
“Do you remember any names?”
“No, sir.”
“Addresses?”
“They seemed to be all addressed to people at some studio in Hollywood.”
“What time was this?”
“Just after lunch. About two o’clock, sir.”
“You remember the time, but you don’t remember any of the names on the envelopes?”
“No, sir. I looked because I wanted to see if there was someone I knew – from the movies or the TV, I mean. But there was no-one I knew at all.”
“What did you do with the letters, nurse?”
“I took them downstairs and put them in the postbox.”
“And put them in the postbox! Thank you, Nurse Withers!”
“Any questions for the defense, Mr. Frost?”
“Yes, indeed! Nurse Withers, you’ve just testified that you examined these ten letters the defendant handed you to post for him?”
“No, sir.”
“I think you misunderstood me, nurse. You’ve already testified that you looked at the envelopes. At the names and addresses?”
“Yes, si
r. But I don’t remember them, other than what I told the other gentleman. I post so many letters.”
“You’re sure – positive – there were ten envelopes?”
“Yes, sir. There were ten letters. Ten, I’m sure. I counted them. He gave me just the right money for the stamps. Just exactly the right money. Not a cent more and not a cent less. Just exactly the right money. And he probably earns more money in a minute than I earn in a week!”
“Exactly. And you purchased the stamps yourself and pasted them on?”
“Yes, sir. I waited in line – and this was my lunch break, mind! – and I purchased the stamps and I stuck them on!”
“So when you were sticking the stamps on the envelopes, I guess you had ample opportunity to determine whether the addresses were written – handwritten – or whether they were typed?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Were the addresses written by hand or were they typed?”
“Written by hand? Typed? Did he have a typewriter, sir?”
Mr. Frost made a whistling sigh. “That’s what I’m asking you, Nurse Withers. Handwritten or typed?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure I don’t remember. I post letters all the time.”
“And most of them are typed?”
“Oh, no, sir! Most of them are written.”
“Most of them, nurse, or nearly all of them?”
“Nearly all of them, sir.”
“So it’s highly unusual for you to post letters with typed addresses?”
“Oh, no, sir. Doctor Gilmore and some of the other doctors give me typed envelopes to post all the time!”
“What about patients, Nurse Withers? Do you ever receive typewritten letters from patients?”
“That’s what I asked you before, sir, before you shut me up!”
“Well, I guess you can answer the question now please, Nurse Withers. Do you ever receive typewritten letters from patients?”
“No, sir! Where on earth could they get a typewriter from? And how would they balance it in bed? I’m sure the doctors wouldn’t allow it. A few of our patients have secretaries and they type letters, but they – ”
“Another thing, nurse: These letters Mr. Cornbeck asked you to post, what size were they?”
“Size? I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Were they ordinary size, or much larger than ordinary size?”
“They must have been just ordinary size. If they were larger, I’m sure I would have noticed. So they were just ordinary size! Just your typical-sized letters that patients always ask me to post.”
“That will be all, thank you, nurse.”
“Do you wish to re-examine this witness, Mr. Spinks?”
“No, your honor. But I must confess some of the witnesses’ testimony has caught me by surprise. I need a minute to think.”
“The defense requests that Mr. Cornbeck be released on bail, your honor.”
“Does the D.A.’s office have any objection, Mr. Spinks?”
“Objection? Objection to what, your honor?”
“Bail, Mr. Spinks!”
“If the bail bond was set at a punitive amount, we would have no objection, your honor.”
“Is $50,000 high enough for the D.A., Mr. Spinks?”
“We would have no objection to $50,000, your honor. No objection at all!”
“But the defense highly objects to a $50,000 bail bond, your honor.”
“What amount do you have in mind, Mr. Frost?”
“One dollar, your honor.”
“One dollar? That’s absurd!”
“You’re quite right, your honor. The defense therefore requests that Mr. Sedge Cornbeck be released on his own recognizance.”
“That’s even more absurd! I’m sure the D.A. would never agree, would he, Mr. Spinks?”
“On reflection, I don’t think the D.A. would have any objection, your honor.”
“What the hell’s going on here between you two? Have I missed something?”
“The D.A.’s case against the defendant has just collapsed, your honor. The threatening letters – if you can call them letters – received by the Kenovarnie personnel were all typed. Furthermore, they were all rather small in size. In fact, they were typed on little 2x3 cards with envelopes to match.”
“Is this so, Mr. Spinks?”
“I guess that is the case, your honor.”
“Then it seems to me that you leave me with no alternative than to dismiss the charges you have brought against this defendant?”
“I guess that is so, your honor.”
“Case dismissed!”
“Your honor, my client, Mr. Cornbeck, seeks the protection of the court, against undue harassment by the police.”
“In what way, Mr. Frost?”
“I would much appreciate it, your honor, if you would order that Mr. Cornbeck is not to be detained, interviewed or harassed in any way except on a warrant signed by yourself, your honor.”
“So ordered!”
33
Boss Kent had to use a few threats and menaces himself to get Sedge back on stage, and although they were careful to remain in the background, the police backed Kent to the hilt. Sedge was forced into line, but he baulked at using his old dressing-room. In fact, he was deadly afraid of that room and there was no way he would enter it, not even to retrieve his personal belongings. So Kent was forced to make over his own executive washroom for Sedge’s use.
And for all Sedge’s agitation, the twelfth round passed without incident.
Of course, all the other TV networks had now really thrown in the collective towel. The dogs scheduled against 80 Questions had to be seen to be believed. Or rather they were not seen. Every cosy viewer in the country had his or her eyes glued to 80 Questions.
This time, the winner was a mad poet from Cincinnati who made a nuisance of himself along the Chisholm Trail and other historic landmarks in the Old West, reciting his dodgy verse to people who didn’t know any better.
Well, would you believe Boss Kent now made a deal with CBS for re-runs and Sedge quickly became a household name in every hamlet the length and breadth of the U.S.A. But this notoriety did not improve his disposition. On the contrary, he quickly became extremely difficult to work with. In less than a week, he managed to antagonize the whole crew from Monty to me and would only talk to young Trevor Holden.
However, I was too busy to worry about Sedge. I actually received a worth-investigating reply to my ad seeking tapes of the early 80 Questions and finally ended up paying $500 of Mr. Kent’s money for tapes of shows three and four. I returned in triumph with the tapes. In fact, I didn’t wait for Kent’s secretary to buzz me through but walked straight into his office and laid the tapes on his desk.
“These better be the genuine article,” he said.
“If they’re not up to scratch, all you have to do is stop payment on your check, Mr. Kent. That’s why I had you date it tomorrow.”
“I’ve a good mind to stop payment anyway.”
“If you do that, we’ll lose our chance to secure the rest of the missing tapes.”
“Do you think he has them?”
I shrugged. “Could be! If I was in his place, I’d sell the tapes piecemeal too.” As I said this, I reached over and touched the buzzer on Kent’s desk. “Come in, Shirley…”
“Mr. Kent wants you to take these tapes to Monty. Tell him to make copies and tell him we want them back quick smart. In fact, stay there breathing down his ear until he hands them back.”
The girl seemed confused. She stood there, staring at Mr. Kent as if she expected him to contradict my order. “You heard what Mr. Manning said. What are you waiting for?”
Ah! That’s what I like. I love to take charge, but sometimes you’ve got to force people like Kent to give you the authority.
“Five hundred is a long way from fifty,” Kent grumbled, as soon as Shirley was on her way.
“How many offers did we get for fifty? None! You’re lucky he didn’t charge
us a thousand.”
“He probably will if he has tapes one and two.”
“What do you care?”
“You’re right, God damn it! Those tapes are now worth a fortune.”
“You’re just lucky that most of our cozy viewers still haven’t tumbled to that little fact.”
“What’s next on the agenda?” Kent asked.
“When Shirley gets back, I take the original tapes into Borne – and hopefully I’ll get to see them.”
“I’ll come with you. I want to see those mothers myself.”
“Don’t!” I cautioned him. “It’s wise not to appear too interested. Policemen love to suspect everyone but themselves.”
34
Inspector Borne watched the tapes’ run-through with his usual thoroughness but lack of animation. “You’re sure it’s not Gino?” he asked for the second time.
“As I told you, I saw him from a distance – and with a helmet on. This contestant, Bill Ceretti, on the tape could be Gino, but it’s my impression that Gino was smaller. But when I saw Gino, he was sitting on his motorbike… How about the photo Kathie’s apartment partner gave you? How does it compare?”
Borne didn’t blink. Now he knew I knew he’d been holding out on me. “Indecisive,” he replied.
“Can I have the tape back now? We made a copy at Kenovarnie’s, but that’s a copy of a copy. We don’t know how it will broadcast. Our Mr. Kent is thinking of Christmas replays.”
Borne permitted himself a thin smile. “We’ll also make a copy for ourselves.”
“Why still so interested? Cornbeck’s guilty. He wouldn’t even enter his old dressing room – let alone use it again!”
“Your colleagues don’t seem to share your opinion. As far as I’m aware, they haven’t made a single complaint about working with him.”
“You don’t know show biz. And I’m just a neophyte myself, but, believe me, it’s a closed world – with its own de rigueur rules. I don’t know a quarter of them, but one I do know is that it operates on the principle of forgetfulness. A director may be the biggest bastard on earth, a star the greatest bitch of all time, personal relationships may be as replete with tension as Cain and Abel; they may steal, slander, seduce and even murder each other; the atmosphere on the set may be like sweating in hell – but all that doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is the show itself and the role that everyone plays when the cameras are actually turning. Are the technicians doing their job, the players theirs? I actually talked this over a few times with Trev Holden, the young floor manager. And he said to me, ‘What Sedge does off the set doesn’t matter to us so much as a straw in a bale of hay!’ And that’s true.”
Merryll Manning Is Dead Lucky Page 16