The door closed. Kleinsmidt said, “Well?”
Whitewell started to say something.
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted.
He looked at me with his eyebrows arched in the silent interrogation of one who is too well-bred to show annoyed surprise in any other way.
“You’ve already said it,” I told him. “You weren’t there. You can’t add to that, and—” and I paused significantly — “you can’t subtract from it.”
Kleinsmidt whirled to glare at me. “Lawyer?” he asked.
I didn’t say anything.
“Because if you’re not,” Kleinsmidt said ominously, “we don’t like to have people practicing law without a license — not in this state; and when you presume to give advice to a person charged—”
He broke off abruptly, and I asked, “Charged with crime?”
He didn’t say anything.
Kleinsmidt turned abruptly to Endicott. “Are you,” he asked, “Paul C. Endicott?”
Endicott nodded.
“You’re associated in business with Whitewell?”
“I work for him.”
“In what capacity?”
“I’m in charge of things while he’s gone.”
“What do you do when he’s there?”
“Keep them running smoothly.”
“Sort of a general manager?”
“I guess so, yes.”
“How long have you been with him?”
“Ten years.”
“Did you know a young woman named Carla Burke?”
“I have seen her, yes.”
“Talked with her?”
“Just briefly.”
“Where?”
“One night when she came to the office.”
“You knew she and Philip were going to get married?”
“Yes.”
“When did you come here?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“How?”
“With Philip.”
“In his car?”
“Yes.”
“How does it happen I didn’t hear about you before?”
Endicott looked at him calmly. There was nothing of antagonism in that glance, nothing of submission. It was merely a disinterested, partially humorous, perhaps partially contemptuous appraisal. “I’m sure I don’t know,” he said with just the right inflection in his voice.
He was just the type to really run a business. Not simply caring for the details, but doing the executive work, and making the decisions. He wasn’t a man who would get rattled. He wasn’t one who could be frightened. He made up his mind as to what he was going to do, and he carried through his plans. All of that showed in that instant when the two men stood facing each other.
Kleinsmidt sensed what he was up against. He dropped his bulldozing manner. “Under the circumstances, Endicott, I’m going to want to know what you did last night.”
“When?”
“Well, what were you doing around nine o’clock for instance?”
“I was in a picture show.”
“Where?”
“The Casa Grande Theater.”
“What time did you go into the show?”
“Oh, I don’t know, around quarter to nine — perhaps a little earlier. Yes, come to think of it, I guess it was right after eight-thirty.”
“How long did you stay?”
“Until I’d seen the entire show. I suppose around two hours.”
“When did you first know about the murder?”
“Whitewell told me this morning.”
“What did he say?”
“He thought there was some possibility he might be detained here, in which event he wanted me to take a plane to Los Angeles.”
“Why the hurry?”
“Because the business has to be kept running.”
“How do I know you went to the picture show last night between eight-thirty and quarter to nine?”
Endicott said, “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.’
“What was the picture?”
“Oh, a light comedy, something about a divorced husband who returned just as his wife was about to marry again. Some rather interesting situations in it.”
“Can’t you describe the plot any better than that?”
“No.”
Kleinsmidt said, “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you preserved your ticket stub?”
Endicott said, “I may have.” He started searching mechanically through his pockets. From a right vest pocket, he took out several stubs of tickets, looked at them, selected one, and said, “This is probably it.”
Kleinsmidt walked over to the telephone, picked it up, and called a number.
“The theater won’t be open this time in the morning,” Endicott said.
“I’m calling the manager’s house.”
A moment later, Kleinsmidt said into the telephone, “Frank, this is Bill Kleinsmidt. Sorry I got you up, but a glass of hot water with a little lemon juice, and a brisk walk will do your waistline a lot of good. Now, wait a minute. Don’t get sore— I want to ask you something about your tickets. I have the stub of a ticket that was sold last night. There’s a number on it. Is there any way of telling when that ticket was sold? Oh, there is— Just a moment. Hold the phone.”
Kleinsmidt raised the ticket stub, studied it, and said, “The number is six-nine-four-three— What’s that? Yes, there is. Two letters. BZ. Oh, you’re certain? Okay, thanks a lot.”
“I’m afraid,” he said to Endicott, “you’re going to have to revise your time schedule somewhat.”
Endicott tapped the end of a cigarette on a broad thumbnail, shaking the tobacco down. “Sorry,” he said, and then after a second added, “I can’t do it.”
“Those tickets are keyed,” Kleinsmidt told him. “They’ve had so much trouble with kickbacks on tickets, that they decided to tell exactly when the ticket was sold — at what part of the show in other words. So they worked out a time signal system. A is seven o’clock. B is eight o’clock. C nine o’clock, D ten o’clock. And X, Y, Z stands for fifteen-minute periods. For instance, B on a ticket means that it was sold between eight o’clock and eight-fifteen. BX means the ticket was sold between eight-fifteen and eight-thirty. BY means eight-thirty to eight-forty-five, and BZ means eight-forty-five to nine. They have an automatic stamp which is connected with the clock, and the letters are changed automatically.”
“Sorry,” Endicott said. “I still think I was in there before eight-forty-five.”
“All right then, if you were in there before eight-forty-five, you could have got up and walked out.”
A slow smile came over Endicott’s face. “Afraid, Lieutenant, that I can’t oblige you this time. I didn’t realize how lucky I was, but if you’ll check back on the show last night, you’ll find that the feature picture ended about eight-fifty-five, and there was a drawing which took place immediately afterwards. The number of a ticket was called out. I somehow read my number incorrectly and started up to the stage. I saw my mistake. The audience gave me the ha-ha. You can verify that.”
“Oh, yeah?” Lieutenant Kleinsmidt asked.
Endicott’s voice held just the right amount of amused half-contemptuous tolerance. “As you so aptly express it — yeah,” he said.
Kleinsmidt said, “That’s an angle I’ll investigate. I’ll want to talk with you again.”
“If you do, come to Los Angeles.”
“Don’t go to Los Angeles until I tell you to.”
Endicott laughed. “My dear sir, if you want to ask me any more questions, you’d better ask them now, because within two hours I’ll be headed for Los Angeles.”
“Being independent?” Kleinsmidt inquired.