“I don’t know.” I studied Hilton for a moment, and then asked, “Why are you telling me all this, Sergeant?”
Hilton smiled, assuming the cop pose for just an instant. Then the pose vanished, and he was plain, honest Hilton again. “You smoke Pall Malls, Crane?”
“Yes,” I said, puzzled.
“You told me yesterday that you were out in the hallway having a smoke when Miss Finch was killed. I rooted around out there and found a couple of dead butts on the floor. The place is probably a hangout for anyone who wants a breath of air from that window, and it probably gets swept up every day. Two of the butts were old ones, the lab boys said, probably missed by the sweeper. He makes his rounds about eleven, by the way. I asked him. Those two were off in the corner, so it’s easy to see how they could be lying there for a long time. The third butt was right under the window, and it was a Pall Mall. The lab boys told me the tobacco was reasonably fresh, and that the cigarette could have been recently smoked. They also got a lot of smeared prints from it, and one good thumb print. The thumb print matched yours.”
“Mine? Where’d you get my thumb print?”
Hilton smiled. “The picture I showed you this morning. You left a nice one on the glossy surface.”
I smiled with him, wagging my head. “I’ll be damned.”
“So I figured maybe you, out of all the jokers around, were telling the truth. I know a cigarette butt is flimsy enough evidence, and it sure as hell wouldn’t whitewash a man in court.”
“Then why whitewash me, Hilton?” I asked.
“We’re not in court, Crane. Nor do I figure you for a crazy guy who’d set a woman on fire. I may not be able to pull a killer out of a hat, but I’ve seen enough of them to know when a man isn’t one.”
“Well, thanks.”
“Besides, I need someone who knows all these people. The minute I step in, they clam up, even if they’re not guilty. Homicide has a way of making everyone feel like he did it. I need someone who can sniff around when they’re all off guard.”
“Me?”
“If you’ll help.”
“You’re pretty sure I didn’t kill her, huh?”
“Reasonably so. What do you say, Crane?”
“Sure, if you think I really can help. Where do I start?”
“Just listen around,” he said, “and let me know what you hear.”
I told him then about Dave’s confession, and he listened with interest, making no comment. Then I told him about the phone call Andy had received, and he listened to this with more interest, and then said, “That can mean something. If she remembers. Trouble is, the remark was probably significant only to the killer. It probably doesn’t mean a damn to Miss Mann.”
“At least we know the killer was a man.”
“There were no women in the studio anyway,” Hilton said.
“No, there weren’t.”
“Or at least none that we know of.” Hilton finished his coffee, and then said, “I’m going to have a talk with Miss Mann. Maybe I can dig something out of her. You’ll get what you can here, okay, Crane?”
“I’ll do my best,” I assured him.
7.
I was kept pretty busy during the rehearsal, and I didn’t get much opportunity to ask many questions. When Dave finally called a break, I walked out into the darkness and took a seat near the monitor, lighting a cigarette before someone called me for another script change. I was seated for about six minutes when Martha Findlay came over to me. Martha was young Cadet Holmes’ mother, a woman who’d been deserted when the Cadet was six years old. Her husband had been an alcoholic with an itchy foot, and he’d just picked up and wandered off one morning, heading for South America way. Martha was an attractive, large brunette. She’d started the Cadet off on dancing lessons, and then dumped him into that private hell of the child entertainer, exhibiting his soft-shoe and tap routines at American Legion dances and one-night stands wherever the opportunity presented itself. With Martha Findlay at the helm, the opportunities presented themselves with blinding rapidity. She was shrewd enough to realize that tap dancers were a dime a dozen, though, and so she’d started the young Cadet on dramatics lessons. He’d done a few scattered television spots before landing the Cadet Holmes plum, and I had to admit the kid was pretty good — but I still wondered whether or not Martha hadn’t done a little entertainment of her own to get him the most coveted juvenile spot on the air. Alec Norris, the producer who’d originated the show, and the man who’d preceded old Felix Nechler, had a notorious reputation with the women, and Martha Findlay — if nothing else — was a good deal of woman.
She brought all her womanhood over to me, and plunked it down in the chair next to me. Martha affected dresses which would have warranted a raid on Fifty-Second street, and she wore them with the casual aloofness of a woman who is above thinking about her body, When Martha Findlay was within viewing distance, however, there was hardly a man from six to sixty-six who was not aware of her body. She leaned over purposefully, crossing her legs, and cupping her chin in her hand. I did not look down to her but the temptation was a very strong one, and the nearness of her perfume didn’t help the situation any.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Jon,” she said, her voice soft. It always surprised me to hear that soft voice coming from Martha’s overabundant body. But the voice was just a small part of the femininity that was as calculated as an IBM card.
“Really? What about, Martha?”
“About Richie.”
Richie, of course, was Richard Findlay, and Richard Findlay was young Cadet Holmes. “What about him?”
“Well, now that Cynthia is gone...” Martha paused, moving her hand away from her chin for a moment, allowing me a better look at what the front of her dress had artfully uncovered. She brought the hand back like the President of the Censorship Committee, and then said, “I know it’s terrible and all, but I never could talk to her about Richie, and perhaps you can help.”
“How, Martha?”
“Fatter parts,” she said bluntly.
“This is Marauder’s show,” I said, just as bluntly. “Cadet Holmes is just a supporting character.”
“I know. I was thinking, though...” She hesitated, and then smiled, lowering her lashes at the same time. And even though I saw completely through Martha Findlay, there was one portion of my mind that remained acutely aware of her as a very desirable woman — if you like big women. “I had an idea, Jon. Suppose Fred — suppose Marauder were captured or something. You could easily handle that, I know. Or perhaps wound him, something like that. Then Richie would have to carry the ball, don’t you see? He’d have to hunt for his old friend, thwart the villains, all that. It would give him a nice opportunity to show what he can really do. He’s quite good, you know.”
“What does Marauder do when I write him out of the script? Fred Folsom makes his living from this show.”
“Oh, I know,” Martha said innocently, “and I wouldn’t think of cutting Fred out of his salary. We could have a few shots of him in prison or something like that, just to point up the drama. He’d still be in the show that way, and drawing his usual salary. And it would only take two weeks or so. Just enough time to show everyone what Richie can really do.”
“Richie’s doing fine,” I said.
“It’s much easier to talk to you than it was to Cynthia, Jon,” she said. Her voice lowered intimately. “Think about it. Maybe we can discuss it further over a few drinks.”