“Everything’s been swell — up to now. I’m in a hurry — what’s on your mind?”
Hammer said: “Me and a friend of mine want to have a little talk with you.”
I said: “Not a chance — I’ve got to be out of here in ten minutes and I’m just getting into the tub. Give me a ring later.”
“Later won’t do. We want to talk to you now!” The tone of his voice had changed; all the amusement had gone out of it and it was almost plaintively serious.
Another voice rapped over the wire suddenly. It was sharp, staccato, with a slight Latin accent:
“Listen, you! Look out the window — the one on your right. Look at the window across the court!”
I twisted around in the chair and looked through my wide open window at the one the voice was shouting about. It was about twenty-five or thirty feet away, open, dark.
I started to say, “So what,” or something equally bright and then I stopped there was a thin blue rifle barrel sticking out a few inches over the lower sill and it was pointing, as nearly as I could measure the angle at that distance, at my right eye. I could see a man’s head and shoulder vaguely outlined against the darkness of the room.
The voice went on: “Now put the phone down on the table and put your hands up — high; then get up and unlock the door and go back and sit down. And don’t forget — you’re covered all the way to the door.”
I did exactly that. I wanted to see what the play was about. I unlocked the door and opened it a couple of inches and went back and sat down. I kept my hands up and watched the rifle barrel and waited.
In a couple of minutes Hammer and a thick set, swarthy guy with bright beady eyes and blue-black hair came in and closed the door.
I looked back at the window and the rifle barrel was gone. I said: “Do you gentleman mind if I put on my pants?”
Hammer was a thin, medium-sized Swede with a thick butter-yellow mustache. He grinned a little, piped: “Never mind your pants — we like you this way.” He waved his hand at blue-black hair. “This is Joe Ciretti — he wants to talk to you.”
I got up and grabbed a bathrobe off the bed, slid into it. “First,” I said, “you’d better let me in on what all this strong-arm stuff is about. I don’t like it and when I don’t like something I get in a bad mood, and when I’m in a bad mood I’m a bad talker — or listener.”
Ciretti’s eyes widened innocently on Hammer; he lifted his hands in front of him as if he was holding a watermelon, said: “Strong-arm stuff! I don’t know what Mister Nolan is talking about — do you, Gus?” His was the sharp, staccato voice of the telephone.
I went over to the door and opened it, said: “You boys have seen too many moving pictures. It’s a pleasure, Ciretti — sometime I’ll play Indian and cowboy with you but right now I’m in a hurry. Give me a call at the studio—”
Ciretti waltzed over and very suddenly, magically, a big blue heater appeared in his hand; he jabbed it into my belly, rasped: “You go back and sit down — quick!”
Something in his tone made me realize that he might be on the level. I felt like a sap who’d been caught trying to make a four-card straight stand up, sat down.
Ciretti went on: “I’ve called you five, six times at the studio today.”
“That’s dandy,” I said. “I didn’t go near my office all day.”
Ciretti sat down near me, leaned forward and let the big automatic dangle loosely between his legs. “Just one thing I want understood,” he ground out. “Then you can go about business and we’ll go about ours.”
“That’ll be swell.”
“You, nor this guy Dreier,” he went on, “nor Bachmann, nor anybody else is going to freeze Maya out of this picture.”
I opened my mouth like a black bass and gave him a stunned gasp.
“Who,” I asked gently, “ever gave you the screwy idea that anyone was trying to freeze her out of anything?”
“She told me.” His voice was like a couple of billiard balls rubbed together. “She says you’re all trying to railroad her out of pictures.”
I said: “You know her better than I do. You know she’s been stiff for weeks, and yet you fall for an insane angle like that. It doesn’t make sense.”
“She says she has to drink to keep going — with everyone against her.” Ciretti straightened up and eased the automatic back into its holster, slowly. He looked worried, as if he actually believed what he was saying and didn’t know what to say next. The poor chump was evidently in love with little Maya.
Hammer was staring at the ceiling, whistling soundlessly, making a very bad job of trying to look unconcerned.
“If that’s all you wanted to see me about,” I said, “and why you picked on me instead of Dreier or Bachmann or someone who really cuts ice at B.L.D. I can’t imagine — you can tell Maya that if she’ll pull herself together and lay off the jug everything’ll be simply elegant.”
I turned to Hammer. “I still don’t savvy all the brandishing of guns and—”
Ciretti interrupted, said swiftly: “I thought you were trying to duck me — and I wanted you to know how I felt about it. You’ve got to give her a break.”
My watch was on the table. I looked at it and it was sixteen minutes after six. I started to stand up and the phone rang; I sat down again and picked up the receiver.
The girl said: “Mistah Bachmann callin’, Mistuh Nolan.”
I told her to put Bachmann on and said: “Hello, Jack,” and listened. After about a minute I stuttered something like “Okay, I’ll be right over,” and hung up and looked at Ciretti.
I said: “Maya’s out of the picture.”
He stood up slowly. “What do you mean? They can’t—”
I took a deep breath, went on: “She’s been murdered. They just found her in her dressing room. Dreier’s been arrested.”
I thought Ciretti was going to explode or fall flat on his face or something. He looked like he couldn’t breathe and his white face got a little purple and he tried to speak and couldn’t. I felt sorry as hell for him.
He finally managed to gasp: “Where’s Dreir? Where have they taken him?”
I said: “I don’t know. Anyway, I’ll lay six, two, and even he didn’t do it. I don’t know anything about it yet, but Dreier’s not a murderer.” And I was remembering his face when he’d turned on Sarin on the set.
Ciretti went unsteadily to the door and went out without looking back. Hammer followed him and closed the door.
I took a two-minute shower and hustled into some clothes. Then I cantered to the door and opened it and started out and ran smack into the angel. Her creamy skin was about five shades lighter and her dark brown eyes were liked saucers. Beautiful saucers.
“The girl said your line was busy,” she stammered, “so I got the number of your room and came up. I–I had to see you right away...”
I was steering her towards the elevator. I said: “Sure. What about?”
The elevator door slid open and we got in; she glanced at the elevator boy and didn’t answer. We were in the car, roaring down Vine Street by the time she managed to say: “Maya Sarin’s been murdered!”
I looked at her sidewise and missed an oil truck by inches, grunted: “Uh-huh. How did you know?”
“I saw her — I went to her dressing room and found her lying there, dead.” I felt the angel shudder beside me and heard her take in breath swiftly, sharply.
“What did you go to her dressing room for?”
She said: “I guess I’d better begin at the beginning.”
I nodded, swung into Sunset Boulevard.
She began at the beginning and talked nearly all the way to the studio. In a large nutshell it went something like this: