“That's what I'm asking you,” Kay said softly, staring up at him. “Came to me that only three people knew about the publicity angle on Thomas—myself, B.H., and you.”
Steve was a cool one too. “And one more—that private eye you hired. The black eye, if you'll excuse the pun, or did I crack that once before? What has the publicity stunt to do with Thomas' death?”
“I don't know, but it hit me that maybe it has some connection. That's why I was thinking about Thomas— although the police think Touie did it, what possible motive could he have?”
Steve made his eyes big. “Dear, if you've cut into my work just to play detective... Who knows why Moore did it? Perhaps Thomas caught him snooping and put up a fight. In a moment of anger anything can happen.”
“What can happen in a moment of truth?”
“Darling, you're far too deep for me tonight. What's this all about?”
“That fight bit doesn't fit, Steve. That's been worrying me because I told Touie he didn't have to keep a tight tab on Thomas until after the program was aired, so...”
“Kay, have you heard from your Othello?”
“Of course not, but I suppose we're all detectives at heart, so I've been doing some thinking about it tonight. Certainly B.H. didn't have a reason to kill Thomas; he wasn't even in town. I know I didn't.”
The big eyes again, mocking her. “And then there was one little Indian left... me?”
She giggled. “It did seem odd he should be killed on the very day you were let in on the publicity secret.”
Steve laughed, real deep laughter. “Lord, why should I kill Tutt. He was the best break I've ever had.”
“Exactly, Steve. I remembered how you came up with a script on Thomas overnight. How did you do the research so quickly? The local newspaper morgues would be useless.”
“All women have lousy memories. Did you forget that I had a similar show in mind, that I'd already done a rough audition script on Tutt?” He flashed his big eyes at her again, as if proving something.
My right foot was so numb I shifted my weight slightly to the foot resting on the fire-escape railing. When I put weight back on the right foot the damn air-conditioning box groaned and my heart froze.
But Steve was too steamed to hear it. “I don't mind a gag. However I resent this ridiculous accusation, this scummy knife in the back. Now get out of here!”
“Stevie, don't make a speech. I did more than kick this around in my bird brain.... I made a few calls to Kentucky.”
I could feel the heavy silence of the room out on the fire escape; then he split it with a thin scream. “You bitch!” His long thin face flushed a deep pink, then went deadly white.
Kay didn't even jump; she was enjoying this. She made her tight smile, then said, “My, that cut through the veneer of coolness, didn't it? Now suppose you cut the dramatics and in basic English tell me about Cousin Thomas.”
He didn't say a word, stood there very straight, his face a mixture of pain and anger.
She put the knife in deeper, turned it. “Stevie, you don't understand the bit. I'm giving you a break. For the sake of the show I'm giving you a chance to talk to me—before I talk to the police.”
“How... how... did you find out?” His voice was in hoarse pieces now.
“It's too late for how. You're always so glib, do some fast talking now. Why did you kill him?”
He fell back against a table, seemed actually to shrink and wrinkle up. Then he pulled himself together, took a deep breath, and was under control again. Even made his big eyes as he walked over and sat on the edge of his desk, relit his cigarette. “Of course I'll talk—it's a story you can understand. I killed him. But wait till—”
There was another scream, a tiny muffled scream of joy and relief that stayed in my throat.
“—you hear it all. It wasn't murder. Thomas is a distant cousin of mine, the family black sheep, our skeleton in the closet. He was a lump, his mother a common slut. You see my situation; I wrote my novel and nothing happened. I had to make it as a writer or be stuck in a goddamn hick store the rest of my life, a drunken failure. I gassed around Hollywood for a time, couldn't get in. I returned to New York and tried TV. I worked like a dog. For two lousy years I wrote on spec, was in on a dozen package deals that ended in nothing. I was desperate—I'm thirty-six years old. I can't keep asking my sick Dad for eating money!”
“And then you heard about You—Detective!” Kay added, reaching over to the table for one of his cigarettes.
He lit it for her as he said, “I'd been stooging around Central for a long time. This was my in. While I'd only seen Porky a few—”
“Porky?”
“Bob Thomas' nickname. He had the manners of a pig, I suppose. As I was saying, I'd only seen him a few times when we were kids, but family gossip gave me a rundown of his crimes. Frankly, I'd forgotten all about him until I saw him in Times Square, going to work. I didn't let him see me. It would only have meant a touch. I was thinking of doing a fast paperback on him... when I heard about the show. It was a snap for me to bat out a script during the night. It worked, flung the doors wide open for me.... Suddenly I was a success boy. The world was bright and sunny. I figured there was little chance of Porky being caught as a result of the show. It would be forgotten with the next twist of the dial. Anyway, he was a nobody, didn't matter. Sooner or later he'd end up in jail again. It was perfect for me.”
Kay nodded, puffing on her cigarette slowly. She either was a fine actress or actually thought all this was the most normal thinking in the world.
Steve crushed his cigarette and lit another—all in one practised motion. “When you told me Porky had been picked for the publicity bit, I panicked. Offhand, the chances were a thousand to one that he'd even see the show, much less catch the titles—see my name. But once he was arrested, all the publicity and news stories, well, he'd have to know about me. He had nothing to lose. He'd be angry, and he'd most certainly tell of our family relationship. My TV career would have been kaput. I went down to see him that night, told him what the play was, offered him five hundred dollars to take a powder. He blew his lid, there was a fight.... Then I was holding a bloody pair of pliers in my hand and he was dead. If I hadn't killed him, he would have done me in.”
“Self-defense,” Kay said, almost sympathetically.
“Obviously. Of course now there would certainly be a scandal and... I don't have to repeat the old saw about the law of survival. I had to think damn fast. I went out and disguising my voice phoned your black dick, said I was you. A simple thing; I've done a little acting. Had a bad moment when he wasn't home, but whoever answered was positive he could contact Moore. The rest was a matter of timing, phoning the police the moment I saw Moore enter the house. I was watching from a corner store. For what it's worth, I didn't enjoy it, but he fitted so nicely into things, and I had little choice. What the devil, I had my life's work in the balance, he would get a few years for manslaughter. What's a few years out of a nigger's life? So, now you have my story, the final installment, all up to date, my sweet.”
“Aha.”
He stood up, made his comical big eyes. “I'm sorry it has to be this way, Kay, because you're a lot of mixed-up fun. I sincerely mean that. And of course, it means getting in deeper, but again, I have no choice. Every action has a reaction—I have to kill you.”
“I'm glad you said you did a little acting; you enjoy hammy dramatics, Stevie.”