I flung the door wide, turned my back on it, and walked into the living room. Andy and I had done our best to drink up all the scotch in the City of New York the night before, and whereas Andy’s recuperative powers were amazing, mine were a little less spectacular. I lighted a cigarette to take the taste of the motorman’s glove out of my mouth. The cigarette did not help. I looked down at it sourly, and then remembered the detectives.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“Few questions,” Hilton said. “Routine.”
“All right.”
“First, is it true you saw Cynthia Finch in her office along about eleven-thirty yesterday morning?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Is it also true you quit your job at that time?”
“Yes.”
“Is it true you and Miss Finch had what might be termed an argument?”
“No,” I said.
Hilton reached into his jacket pocket and came out with a glossy photograph which he extended to me dangling from his thumb and forefinger. “Know her?” he asked.
I took the photograph from his fingers, studied it, and passed it back. “Yes. She’s Cynthia’s secretary.”
“Did you kill Miss Finch?” Hilton asked conversationally.
“Sure. I kill all women with black hair. My stepmother had black hair.”
Hilton sighed and put the photograph back into his pocket. “She says she heard you arguing with Miss Finch yesterday.”
“She’s a bird-brain. She wouldn’t know an argument if it hit her in the face with a brick.”
“She says you raised your voice. She heard it all the way from her desk outside.”
“She was probably listening at the keyhole. Cynthia and I were not arguing. We were discussing a script of mine. We discussed it like ladies and gents. No threats of murder, no nothing. Then I quit.”
“How much does Bradley and Brooks pay you for the Rocketeers show, Mr. Crane?” Hilton’s partner asked suspiciously.
“Why?”
“Routine.”
“Seven-fifty for a week’s sequence. Fifteen hundred for a two-week’s sequence. What’s that go to do with the price of fish?”
“I got some ideas about you,” Hilton’s partner said.
“Let me hear them,” I told him.
“Maybe she fired you.”
“I quit.”
“Maybe she fired you, and you didn’t like the idea of losing all that easy money.”
“Sure. Maybe I started the San Francisco fire, too.”
“Don’t get smart, Crane,” Hilton’s partner said ominously.
“I can’t help it. I’m that way naturally. We did not argue, and I was not fired. We had a normal discussion, and I quit. I can get a job in ten seconds over at Captain Jet. So your idea about me is a stinkeroo.”
“That’s what you say,” Hilton’s partner said. “Anyway, don’t you leave town, Crane.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.”
“What’s the matter?” Hilton asked.
“Haven’t you got a detective who doesn’t read Ellery Queen?”
“I don’t read Ellery Queen,” Hilton’s partner said belligerently.
“Reading is an acquired skill,” I told him. “Stick with it, give it time.”
“Wise guy,” he mumbled.
“I have to get down to the studio soon,” I told him. “I suppose I’ll see you both there.”
“We still haven’t found the blowtorch, you know.”
“Assuming it was one.”
“How do you mean?”
“Maybe the death-ray gun did it.”
“Wise guy,” Hilton’s partner mumbled again.
They went to the door, and I watched them go. I lighted another cigarette, and then remembered I’d forgotten to tell them Andy’s story. I opened the door and looked over to the elevator banks, but the two sleuths were already gone. I shrugged and made a mental note to tell Hilton about it at the studio. Then I showered, shaved, ate, dressed, and left the apartment.
I stopped over to see Binx Bailey at ABC, and he told me he’d be happy to give me a trial run, and why didn’t I come over and watch the show to get the slant some afternoon. I told him I would, and then I caught a cab crosstown to Tom Goldin’s office, remembering after I got there that he had a luncheon appointment, and Tom eats lunch early. So I stopped for a cup of coffee in a drugstore, spotted the phone booths, and gave Andy a call.
“Hello,” I said, “how’s the head?”
“Dandy,” she said. “How’s yours?”
“Ouch.”
“You drink too much,” she said solemnly.
“Or not enough of the right stuff. anyway. Listen, have you recalled anything further about the people who spoke to you yesterday?”
“Did I tell you that Stu Shaughnessy stopped by?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Well, he had. He was sore as hell about the way Cynthia constantly changes her mind about props. He said his budget wasn’t high enough to permit constant changes and substitutions.”
“How come all these people stop to weep on your shoulder?”
“I’m an attractive young lady,” Andy said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Someday I’ll show you.”
“When?”
“Someday.”
“Sure.” I paused and thought for a minute, and then said, “Does any of that drivel sound like talk preceding a murder?”
“You mean the conversations with everyone?”
“Yes.”
“No, it doesn’t. I’ve been wracking my brain all morning, trying to think of something that sounded incriminating, something that necessitated a warning. I can’t think of a blamed thing, Jon.”
“Maybe you invented the phone call,” I said. “Maybe you killed Cynthia Finch.”
“I’d have liked to, sometimes — but I didn’t.”
“I’m going over to the studio,” I said. “If you think of anything...”
“I’ll call you.”
“ ’Bye, doll.”
“Did I tell you I love you this morning?” Andy asked suddenly.
“No.”
“I’m slipping. I love you, you big boob.”
“Go write a limerick,” I told her, and then I hung up, smiling.
6.
The studio was unusually quiet when I got there. There were a few cameramen on the floor, but no one else was in sight. I lighted a cigarette and went around back, opening the door to the control booth. Artie Schaefer was standing near one of the turntables, a cigarette end glowing in the dimness. He brought the cigarette to his mouth, took a preoccupied drag on it, and then stared out through the glass, out over the studio floor.
“Dead today,” I said.
Artie looked up suddenly. “Wh... oh, hello, Jon.”
“Hope I didn’t break in on a thought fest,” I said.
“No, I was just... come in, come in.” He walked to the table behind the wide glass front of the booth, hooked an ashtray with one finger and snuffed out his cigarette. Artie was a tall man with kinky black hair and a magnificent profile. He’d made a good living out of radio, and he was now making a better living out of television. Rocketeers was only one of his shows, and he was generally conceded to be the best engineer in the business.
“Nobody in yet?” I asked.
“I saw Dave a few minutes ago,” Artie said. “None of the cast are here yet, though.”
“What do you think of yesterday?” I asked.
“Only yesterday,” he said, seeming to be still lost in thought. “Seems like it happened a long, long time ago, doesn’t it?”
“Who are you picking?”
“I don’t know, Jon. I honestly can’t figure it. I mean, Cynthia... well, who’d want to kill Cynthia?”