The sergeant manning the phones said, “Your managing editor’s calling, Tim, are you here?”
“I just left,” Rourke said, starting for the door. “Mike’s going to take me along and see if there’s a part for me in that movie, aren’t you, Mike? And on the way, maybe you’ll tell me who you think has been murdered.”
But within a block from police headquarters, Rourke was asleep, listing toward the door but held in place by the shoulder and lap belts. He woke up when Shayne turned off the motor in front of the Warehouse marquee.
“Nothing like a good night’s sleep to give you a new slant on life,” he said sourly. “Chasing you around isn’t the most relaxing thing in the world, Mike. I’m going to have to find another specialty.”
“Are you coming in?”
“I’d like to, because I like naked girls. But will there be any shooting? I mean, of guns? If somebody dropped a plate right now I’d go out two different doors at the same time.”
“These are peace-loving people. They use cameras.”
“Last night they didn’t.”
Shayne took one of the Domestic Relations cans. A well-muscled young man wearing the bright orange armband stopped them almost at once. Lib had alerted him that somebody named Mike would be showing up to see Baruch, but this was a jumpy morning. He pressed a buzzer which brought a second guard, who then went upstairs to bring Lib down to authenticate Shayne.
“Mike, it’s you!” she said, pleased. “I thought you might change your mind and not come. And that would be too bad, because I came so close last night. I was only an eyelash away.”
She took a handful of his shirt and pulled him in against her.
“Away from what?” Rourke said.
“This is Tim Rourke,” Shayne said. “He’s from the News. He wants to talk to Armand about the shoot-out last night. He seems to be friendly.”
“I should say,” Rourke said warmly, clearly digging the way Lib looked. This morning she was without makeup, wearing a blue work shirt knotted beneath her breasts to show a slitlike navel and six inches of tanned flesh.
“I know Armand wants to see you, Mike,” she said, “but I don’t know about anybody else. He’s been flying all morning. He rushed in, and he rushed out again with a sixteen-millimeter Arri, and then he rushed in again. We’ve made one master shot so far, and that’s all.”
They passed through a second locked door and reached a narrow stairway.
“And that’s not like Armand,” she continued. “He went on shooting through the hurricane last summer, the one that blew off the roof.”
The reception room was empty. She took them on into the big dusty sound stage. Four sets had been dressed, one in each corner. The cameras and lighting equipment were clustered in the center, and the floor was alive with cables. One of the sets was a locker room — a large rubbing table, benches strewn with football equipment, a door to the showers.
“That’s where we play the big scenes,” she said. “But I haven’t signed for it yet. Were you there last night when he said we were going to get paid this morning? So far I haven’t seen any money.”
Shayne recognized the tiny cameraman. One of the bedroom sets was lit. Two young men — not big enough to be football players — were on the bed, resting.
“I don’t know where he went,” Lib said. “He’ll be back in a minute. How about some coffee and Danish? It’s the only thing around here that’s on the house.”
“I’ll look for him,” Shayne said. “I’m pushed for time.”
He walked away before she could object. A girl in a wrapper, no one he had seen before, passed him in the corridor and gave him a raking look. There was another high-ceilinged room jammed with lumber and random furniture, mainly beds.
He found Baruch in an editing room, bent over the editing table with his back to the door. He snapped around as Shayne entered.
“Who—”
The main change from the night before was that his movements, instead of being slow and flowing, were now abrupt and jerky. He was still wearing his monk’s robe, open at the throat and with the cowl hanging. His beard probably never got much attention; he could have hidden money in it. He made a quick slicing gesture.
“Wait outside. I’m working.”
Shayne held out the film can. “Is this yours?”
The title was toward Baruch. One glance told him that it was indeed his, and he snatched it from Shayne.
“Third reel — where’s the rest?”
“I have it,” Shayne told him. “Did you actually ever make a picture called Domestic Relations, or was that part of the con?”
Baruch was staring at him. “I knew I was getting vibrations off you last night. Who do you work for, Pussy?”
“Rizzo? He had three people with him. Let’s see. Angel — or was it Pepe? I broke his leg with a piece of scrap lumber. I put a.45 slug through Pepe’s shoulder and gave Pussy a small concussion. I’ve just heard that the boxman, Swenson, has been picked up in Palm Beach. Does that answer your question?”
Baruch went on staring for a moment. Then he laughed and relaxed, perching on one corner of the table. After a moment he reached behind him and snapped off the light.
“It’s been a queer one. Now what’s this about a con?”
“Look at the film and you’ll see why the word occurred to me.”
Baruch snapped off the top of the can. It took him only an instant. He looked up at Shayne, then unreeled more film and examined it carefully.
“This never went through a camera. It’s raw stock, exposed to daylight. Sure I made a picture called Domestic Relations, with a real script and live actors. But I thought that was my secret. If you’re a cop, the fair thing to do is to tell me whether you’re federal or local so I can decide whether to offer you girls. I’m sorry to say I can’t offer you money. I was robbed last night, and I don’t carry burglary insurance.”
“I’m a private detective. The real cops won’t be here for another half hour. What happened to all that money you were dreaming about last night?”
“That’s a sad story. What do the cops want with me? I hope you didn’t tell them about my home movie project. My fans would think it was beneath me.”
“A Mrs. Tucker has disappeared. There’s some thought that she’s been murdered.”
Baruch’s eyes changed, and he came off the table. “If you mean Mrs. Gretchen Tucker, I’d better stop talking until I can get some legal advice.”
“That would be the worst thing you could do, Armand. I’m working for her husband, and he wants to keep lawyers out of it. I’m beginning to think that may not be possible, but he wants me to try.”
“Disappeared is one thing. Anybody’s entitled to disappear. But murdered?”
“Somebody who looked like her was taken out of a motel this morning and pushed into a Cadillac by two men. One of them may have been your partner Frankie Capp. The second man had a beard. That isn’t too unusual these days, but wouldn’t Frankie want to claim it was you? He’ll need to work every angle there is. Murder’s hard to prove without a body, and an experienced man like Frankie doesn’t get caught with bodies in his car. So let’s consider blackmail. It’s pretty much gone out as a crime. It sounds worse than it really is. But you’re an outlaw, Armand, because of the movies you make. You’d get the maximum.”
“Naturally I’ve been thinking about just that.”
“Naturally. What are you working on here?”
“Some retakes. An exterior we didn’t get right. It’s therapy, to keep me from brooding.”
“About the robbery last night?”
Baruch gave an angry laugh. “A year’s work down the drain.”
“And on top of that, the cops. I guarantee that they’re going to be unpleasant. They have to guard the public from people like you.”