So now the characters and the setting had been established. A rich old movie producer, his rich young wife, a third-rate black composer, two studio functionaries and a reliable small-time director had gathered in a room to watch for the first time a film in which they were all interested. What they were seeing was a rough cut, still several minutes too long and with no musical score. In the course of this screening, one of the others had shot the director, for reasons yet to be established.
But before getting to motive, Bray was interested in one more physical aspect of the crime: the sound of it. Taking over from Staples, he said, “Mr. Wicker was killed with a .25 calibre revolver. Now, that wouldn’t make as much noise as a .45 automatic, but it wouldn’t exactly be quiet either. Just how loud is this movie you were watching?
It was Gideon Fergus, the black composer, who answered: “Not very loud at all. It’s much more of a mood piece than Jim’s other films, probably because it’s the first time he was doing his own original script. And there wasn’t any music yet, of course.”
Barry McGivern, the advertising man from United Films, said, “Well, there was that one shot in the movie. Remember? Just after they get off the train.”
Ruth Carr, the stout story editor with the loud voice, loudly said, “Do I remember? I’ll say I remember, it scared me half to death.”
Bray, the patient bulldog, said, “There was a gunshot in the movie?”
There was general agreement; yes, there had been one gunshot in the movie. Barry McGivern drove home the obvious point: “The killer could have fired his gun at the same precise moment.”
“Very tricky to get it that close,” Bray said. “But possible, I suppose. Did anybody hear Wicker make any kind of sound just after the shot?”
Ruth Carr said, “I’m afraid nobody heard anything just after the shot, because I gave out a yell.”
Barry McGivern told her indulgently, “I must say, Ruth, you startled me more than the gunshot did.”
Bray said, “You screamed?”
“I’m sorry,” Ruth Carr said, but her smile was more proud than sheepish. “I’ve always been that way, I’m a real sucker for movies. They catch me every time.”
“All right.” Bray’s disinterest in Ruth Carr’s little personality traits was so total that even she noticed it, and looked offended. He ignored that, too, saying to the group at large, “Were there any other loud noises in the course of the film? Anything else that might have covered the sound of a shot?”
Gideon Fergus said, “There were two or three door slams, but I don’t know that they were that loud.”
Ruth Carr said, “And the jet taking off. That one hurt my eardrums.”
A little discussion ensued among Gideon Fergus, Ruth Carr and Barry McGivern as to whether or not the wail of a jet taking off was the kind of sound that would cover the noise of a gun being fired. Hugo and Jennifer Lanisch, I noticed, took no part in this discussion, nor in any of the talk that had preceded it. They sat fairly close together, but not touching and not looking at one another, and though God knows they were far from twins — he with his gleaming round bald head and deeply-lined face, she with her oval face framed by heavy ash-blonde hair — their expressions were nearly identical. Both were defensive, blank, rigidly controlled, tightly held in check. Looking at them, the thought came to me: Was Jennifer playing around with young Jim Wicker?
This same thought had apparently occurred to both Bray and Staples, and once the sound-effects discussion ran itself out the two detectives began poking delicately into the general question of motive. How long had each of our suspects known Jim Wicker, what was the state of each relationship, how had the relationship been formed? The questions were general, and ostensibly aimed at all the suspects equally, but it was plain that the questions were focusing more and more frequently on Jennifer Lanisch.
Were Bray and Staples doing this out of perversity? Or was it possible they didn’t know who the murderer was? Finally it seemed to me the only thing to do was break my promise of silence, which I did by saying, “Well, of course Jack March is the killer, but that still leaves the question of why. I suppose once we find out his real name the motive will become more clear.”
Everybody stared at me, even the uniformed cop in the corner. Bray looked as though he might burst a blood vessel, but Staples was merely bewildered, and when he said, “What are you talking about?” I heard in his voice the forlorn prayer that I would actually know what I was talking about.
I did. “I suggest his real name isn’t Jack March,” I said, “because he’s so obviously in disguise. You’ll notice the tan on the lower half of his face is lighter than on the upper half, meaning he’s just recently shaved off a full beard. Also, his clothing is all brand spanking new, suggesting he’s been used to a different sort of garb. That short haircut also looks very recent, and those spectacles are fakes, with clear glass. I have a pair myself, they were a prop in a movie, and they reflect light differently.”
By now, everybody was staring at young March instead of at me, and March didn’t like it at all. “That’s silly,” he said. “Yes, I shaved off my beard when I got this job, but that doesn’t mean I killed anybody.”
“You were the only one behind Wicker while the film was being screened,” I pointed out.
Staples, looking at me with hope and terror and warning all mixed in his expression, said, “Any of the others could have crawled around behind Wicker, we already established that.”
“Taking a chance on being seen by the projectionist? Besides, I haven’t yet mentioned the real proof.”
“Then I wish you would,” Staples said, and I could see Bray silently agreeing.
“The gun was fired,” I said, “in conjunction with a loud sound in the film, probably a gunshot. But the gunshot in the film was so unexpected that Miss Carr screamed when it happened. Only someone who had seen the picture before would know about that gunshot and be able to anticipate it and use it. And only March, who carried the print here from Los Angeles, had seen the picture before. Only March knew the film.”
“I knew it, all right,” March said, and by the sudden harshness in his voice I knew we’d be hearing the truth now. “I knew it because I wrote it! And that son of a bitch stole it from me! I trusted him, I... I... This was my only chance to get even with him, while he’s watching it himself, sitting there watching the script he, he—” And March dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands.
I turned smiling to Staples. “Elementary, my dear Watson,” I said.
Four
The Problem of the Copywriter’s Island
Staples went whee-whee-whee all the way home. “Did you see Al Bray’s face?” he demanded, and answered his own question by laughing out loud and slapping his gloved palm against the steering wheel.
I had in fact seen Al Bray’s face, and he’d looked as though a movie marquee had fallen on him. He didn’t say anything to me, but he kept looking in my direction like a Flat Earther faced with an astronaut. I, on the other hand, had sense enough to remain modest and to fade into the background after I’d done my little turn. There was no point preening; any man who intends to rub a cop’s nose in it had better be on safer ground than I was.
Anyway, March’s breakdown and confession had essentially finished that job, so Staples soon took me away, leaving Bray to care for the details. Morgue and technical people were just arriving as we reached the sidewalk, and while Staples had a word or two with them I scanned the block for Edgarson. He was nowhere to be seen; had the presence of the police scared him off?