“Yes, even a half-smart young boy like me can always teach you old buzzards a few tricks.”
“And no doubt you told Borne of your suspicions in my direction?”
“Yes, I did try to put it into his mind. But you’ve got to be bloody careful with cops. I don’t trust ’em. Got too many tricks up their sleeves. And you never know what they’re really thinking. I try to have as little to do with them as possible. And that way, I never figure on their list of suspects. When I’m Trev Holden, I keep myself right in the background. When I’m Gino Paletti, I tend to be a bit more colorful. So when the coppers find you tomorrow or whenever, it’s Gino Paletti who may – just may be on their little lists – but never Trevor Holden.”
“That’s true,” I said. “Very true! You have the game all sewn up. Beautiful! And you got everyone all suspicious of one another with your little 2x3 cards. You’re a real pro, Trev. Your dad would be proud of you. A real pro. No doubt about it!”
Hoping now to catch the self-possessed Gino by surprise, I suddenly sprinted forward and ran towards the control booth’s ladder. Trevor/Gino was too far away to catch me. No doubt he had a pistol, a knife, or a weapon of some kind, but I just had to chance it! I was halfway up the ladder before I realized that Peter may have locked the control booth’s door, but there was no time to look for him, let alone search him for the key. I was vaguely aware that Gino could shoot me down with his pistol, so why didn’t he give it a try?
Thank God, the control booth’s door was open! I bolted into the room, slamming the door behind me. The light from the autocue below refracted dimly through the booth’s windows – enough to see the phone, the mike, Jellis’s cue sheets, spools of tape. I was just about ready to reach for the phone when the autocue light went out and the whole set was plunged into pitch darkness. I dived for the phone, my fingers scrabbling wildly across the bench.
The phone was working! I was entombed in utter darkness, but even a blind man can dial Emergency.
A bored voice: “What service do you require?”
“Police.”
“Wait on.”
The cops’ phone was ringing. It was ringing, ringing!
Answer it! Bloody hell!
A rattle at the door.
At last! “Police. Sergeant Oliver speaking.”
“I’m at Kenovarnie’s TV studio. Trapped in the control room. Tell Inspector Borne that Merryll Manning…” The control booth’s door crashed open! The phone went dead.
I knew someone was in the room, even though I could neither see nor hear him.
I guess it didn’t matter if it was Peter Tunning or Gino Paletti. Maybe both of them were now in the room? My only weapon was the phone in my hand. Gino had a pistol, Tunning had his supernatural sight in the dark and who knows what weapons? Why didn’t I check his pockets when I had the chance?
The room was pitch dark, but that wouldn’t stop Tunning for one second if his eyes were now back to abnormal.
I dropped the phone and fell to the floor. There was no place I could hide, but maybe I could find something to use as a weapon!
“I see you, Mr. Manning,” came his whisper. “You can’t hide from me.”
“Where’s bloody Gino?” I whispered back.
“Still trying to find his way in the dark, Mr. Manning. But we don’t have much time. As soon as he finds the ladder, he can sprint up here in the dark. Take hold of my hand.”
“I can’t even see your bloody hand.”
“On your shoulder. Feel it?”
“Yes.”
“Take hold of my hand: I’ll pull you up… Now I am standing in front of you. Don’t move! Gino has found the ladder. He is climbing up. I will let him know where we are. For the love of our Kathie, don’t move!”
Why should I trust him? Well, what other choice did I have?
“Gino! Gino! I have – what you say? – knocked out Manning! Come on up!”
“Turn on the bloody lights!”
“Nothing happens when I throw the switch. Manning must have done something to it.”
“Manning, Manning! I’ll be glad to see the last of that bloody pest!”
“No guns! We’ll throw him down the stairs! He got locked in, and missed his – what-you-say – his feet in the dark.”
“Bloody hell! I can’t see a damn thing. Where are you, Peter? Ahhhh! I’m stabbed in the back! Bloody Manning’s loose!”
“Not Manning, Gino! I, Peter – I am loose! This one is for Kathie!”
“Ahhhhh!”
“And this one is for me.”
“Ahhhhhh!”
“Help me throw him down to the set, Mr. Manning. But first, you take my knife and stab him in the back.”
“Must I? Aren’t you going to take the credit here?”
“You forget! The long memory of the Mafia. It is better I have nothing to do with this whatever.”
“But the police will find you when they unlock the door?”
“I have my key, Mr. Manning.”
Now he tells me!
“Take hold of my hand!”
I did so.
“We are square, Mr. Manning?”
“We are square, Mr. Tunning.”
“And my Kathie is revenged!”
“Our Kathie, Mr. Tunning.”
41
“Did you have an accident, Mr. Manning?” asked Boss Kent’s secretary on Monday morning.
“Some accident!” I replied. “I’m here to tell Mr. Kent all about it!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kent can’t see you now.”
No way to treat a bloody hero! But I didn’t let my temper get the best of me. “Mr. Kent wants to see me,” I said. “He told me to come to his office first thing, Monday morning.”
The secretary relayed this information via her intercom. “Tell him to go back to work,” growled Boss Kent’s voice. “I’ll send for him later today when I’m good and ready.”
I leaned over and flicked the switch. “What work am I supposed to do?” I asked. “80 Questions is all finished and security problems all solved.”
“Goddamn it! Why am I always bothered with these picayune details? Come in then. We’ll settle this here and now.”
“I don’t expect to get a medal,” I said, facing him. “But you did promise me a bonus, and I’d like to move out of Security…”
“A bonus? A medal? You son-of-a-bitch, I should kick you off the whole goddamn lot!”
“Is it my fault that you hired some goddamn killer?” I shot back.
“And do you know what you’ve done? A fine mess, I can tell you. I’ve been on the phone to the Assistant Commissioner all goddamn weekend.”
“What for?” I asked. “Assistant directors are a dime a dozen. Put an ad in Variety, and you’ll have three hundred and eleven knocking on your door!”
“I’m talking about contestants, you goddamned idiot. If you had your way, you’d knock one of our finalists into the goddamned pokey.”
“Wonderful publicity!”
“A contestant cheating? Someone who already knew the questions and all the bloody answers? Now that’s real bad publicity. We’d be laughed right off the goddamned tube. Fortunately, notwithstanding you and your idiot pal, Inspector Borne, I was able to pull a few strings, buy back a few favors, have most of the charges dropped and the joker released.”
“Darin released?” I couldn’t believe it.
“And most of the charges dropped! No thanks to Merryll Manning – you goddamned idiot!”
“A killer?”
“Darin didn’t kill anyone, you moron!”
“He belongs to the same gang. Who knows what he’s done?”
“That’s just what we’ve got to find out. I spent half bloody yesterday trying to line up a bloody lawyer for him.”
“I can help you out there. I know a lady – ”
“God help us!”
“But she’s expensive! But she’s the best!”
“My God!”
“Name�
�s Wallace. Felicity Wells Wallace.”
“My God – he’s still here!” Kent threw the switch on his intercom: “Jenny! Bring me in a pitch fork, a rifle, a stick of dynamite! Any goddamned thing you can lay your hands on!”
“I’ll give her a ring right now.”
“I dare you! I bet you don’t even know her number without looking it up in the book.”
“Just watch me! Or rather, listen to me… Felicity! I’ve got a big client for you. Name’s Kent. Arthur Kent. Big boss here in Hollywood at Kenovarnie’s TV studios. I’ll put him on for you.”
Saved by the bell – but saved for what?
“O.K. Let’s put this goddamned mess on the table. If Wallace is as good as you and her reputation say she is, we don’t have to worry about Darin any more. And not a word about cheating will be getting into the papers. But Peter still disturbs me. He was obviously feeding Darin the questions to save himself at least fifty or sixty thousand.”
“Give him the shaft,” I suggested. (That’s gratitude for you! Peter had saved my life – but only because of his love for Kathie). “It should be mighty, mighty easy to find a sponsor for next season. They’ll be lining up from here to ’Frisco. And Peter will be going out in a blaze of publicity anyway. He almost certainly won’t want to renew for next season – and particularly not at our new prices.”
“Yes, we’ll still knock the ratings for dead, come Wednesday night – but no thanks to you! You’d have scuttled the whole goddamn ship.”
“What about my voice?” I asked.
“A neat gimmick, I’ll admit that! We’ll get the viewers’ reaction, come Wednesday night. In the meantime, draw up a list of spaces for the executive parking lot. I’m pecking-order sure there’s a whole lot of vehicles out there that don’t belong – yours for instance! And get cracking on our orphans of missing tapes. We’ll need them for the Christmas replays.”
42
So here I am with a small but steady income, living in a big, ugly, “modern” house with million-dollar water views, but no companionship – preferably female.
Although the final episode of 80 Questions knocked the competition for dead, everyone has now forgotten all about it – and that was only six weeks ago.
Would you believe, the university pulled a fast one and refused to return Dune-Harrigan’s “paperweights”? I was forced to consult my lawyer. But Willingham wouldn’t touch my grievance with a ten-foot pole: “Those items weren’t declared for probate, therefore they don’t legally exist. Even if you were now to declare them and pay the taxes and the fines, they are stolen goods. You would invite the attention not only of Customs and Border Protection, but you would also be served with a writ from the Egyptian authorities for the recovery of their property. Customs and Border Protection could even lay charges. You could wind up in jail. I’d forget all about it if I were you. I’ve already forgotten this entire conversation. Please pay $200 cash to the cashier on your way out.”
As for my TV career, you remember I stood in as guest compere on TV’s highest rating quiz show? You’ve already forgotten! That’s the TV racket for you. The cozy viewers clamor for autographs today, throw them in the garbage tomorrow.
I had one hope. I believed in Dune-Harrigan. Somewhere, somehow, that old pirate had stashed away an Egyptian collection of such value and variety that the fabulous contents of Tut’s tomb would look like the winner’s prize in a shooting gallery.
Prying for secret panels and hidden closets, I searched the house from top to bottom. I lay awake nights, mentally listing the contents of every room. In summer, I made up a bed in the sunroom. Each morning, I stared across the bay to the wooded island in the inlet close by; but I tried to keep my eyes from glancing down to the rocks straight below. I’m not afraid of ghosts, but it’s foolish to tempt Fate.
So I continued to ransack the house from top to bottom, but the only room of interest was always the basement hobby room where the good professor had fired an incredibly amateurish collection of well over a hundred lopsided pots and vases – none of which were large enough to hide anything much in the way of Ancient Egyptian relics. Mind you, they did hide an amazing collection of British sovereigns. There were hundreds of them! But they weren’t going to do me much good. Flooding the market with sovereigns would not only deflate their worth but would undoubtedly attract unwelcome attention from government agencies, as well as stop-at-nothing collectors and criminals.
One Saturday afternoon, I had just about reached the end of all my hopes and dreams. If you’re living in a ritzy house in a million dollar suburb, everyone assumes you have money to burn. California state taxes are among the highest in America. On the other hand, my electricity bill was supposed to be less than the national average – but that wasn’t the case at all. I even took this up with Boss Kent when he was in one if his rare, friendly moods. “God, Manning, your bill is almost three times as high as mine. There must be a leakage somewhere in your house. I’d have it checked out by an expert.” But who can afford an expert?
One of Kennovarnie’s low-cost programs was a round-up of “exciting” happenings around L.A. Good old Doctor Ainslee Norman, professor of Archaeology at the university, was one of the thrills in store for lucky viewers. Well, I was curious enough to tune in, anyway. Sure enough, there was Doctor Norman confronting viewers with “three priceless figurines that your university was recently bequeathed. Unfortunately, beautiful and beyond rubies and pearls as they are, these priceless gifts to the people of L.A. will deteriorate unless properly housed. The pieces must be kept at a high temperature, and perfectly dry. Your university needs to construct a special room which is not only heated and air-conditioned but totally free from moisture. So, I’m appealing…”
It didn’t take me ten seconds to realize that I was right all along. Dune-Harrigan’s treasure was no figment of his feverish imagination, no unrealized legend, no El Dorado dream. It existed right here in his house! My house!
I rushed down to the basement. The sun had almost set and the entry porch was dark and cold. I unlocked the door – and a welcome blast of hot air rushed out at me. As I stepped into the heat of the room, I heard the satisfying click and hum of the air-conditioning unit in the back wall.
A waist-high, timbered bench ran along all but the entry side of the wall. This bench was supported by panels to the floor. I gave all these panels a good kick with my feet. They seemed solid. But why use expensive paneling to support the bench when a better result could be obtained just with legs of timber?
It was now almost too dark to see. Oddly, the room seemed to have no artificial means of lighting. I was working in the last of the twilight coming through the door. I would have to act quickly or wait until tomorrow. Seizing a crowbar from an assortment of tools on a table near the door, I attacked the top panel of a bench where the fading light was at its strongest. At first, the wood refused to give, but I kept at it until I heard the welcome sound of wood starting to split and I finally had a hole large enough to insert my arm. My fingers encountered something sharp. But I was now forced to wait until sunrise.
After a restless night, I was on the job bright and early next morning. This time, I worked my fingers carefully down the hole I’d made in the bench until I reached the sharp splinter. It moved!
Three hours later, I held in my hand a small but exquisitely carved wooden model of a ship or barque. In perfect condition, the little barque looked as fresh and shiny as when it was first placed in some scribe’s or general’s tomb four thousand years ago. The small figure of the man standing at the prow was itself a masterpiece of miniature artistry. What I had mistaken for a splinter was actually the upright paddle or rudder (more than twice the height of the man) with which the ship was steered.
Any museum or art gallery in the world would give a Mona Lisa in exchange for such a piece. And I had three whole bench-fulls of such treasures! God knows what other wonders good old Dune-Harrigan had squirreled away. He was a connoisseur, a prince of refine
ment, a gourmet infinitely acquainted with all four corners of perfection.
Running, shouting through every room in the house, I danced and sang. To hell with parking lots, quiz shows and TV updates, I was through with them all!
It took me nearly three hours to come to my senses. Suddenly, I felt cold. I was possibly sitting on treasures that would make Midas a pauper, but what good would it do me? How could I sell it? There was a black market, sure. But I had no contacts. Even if I did find a buyer, I’d be lucky to make half a cent in the dollar. It was just like the color-blind house itself, and Dune-Harrigan’s horde of sovereigns. I was sleeping on a fortune, but I couldn’t eat it, drink it, sell it or negotiate it – let alone wave goodbye to Boss Kent and Kenovarnie’s.
So Monday, I was back at work. And Tuesday. And Wednesday.
Wednesday night, I was just about to turn off the lights in the living room and make my way to bed, when I was startled by a loud knocking on the front door. I glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. Who on earth would be calling at this unearthly hour? The knocking persisted. Hell, they knew I was home!
I taped my service pistol to the underside of my desk, put a revolver in my pocket, splashed my face and then opened the door.
“Buona notte, Signor Dune-Harrigan.” A dapper, sharp-faced man, dressed in nifty dark blue overalls, waved a gloved hand towards his cap in friendly salute.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m not Dune-Harrigan,” I started to explain. But then I caught sight of Joe Darin grinning up at me in the background. As fast as I tried to swing the door closed, Darin darted forward and held a knife at my throat.
“Mi scusi.” The sharp-faced man edged past us. A henchman, startlingly similar in build and coloring to myself, followed. He was even bald in the same patch.
Darin closed the door.
Sharp-face was doing all the talking: “Credo che loro si conoscano gia, non e vero?” (I believe you already know each other?).
Still holding the point of his knife to my throat, Darin struck me across the ear, causing my head to jerk sideways and the knife to cut into my skin. “I saved his life once,” Darin remarked in Italian, but I was not about to argue that he did nothing of the sort.
Merryll Manning Is Dead Lucky Page 21