Black Is the Fashion for Dying (12 page)

“Big place, a sound stage.”

“Can you think of anything else?”

Gordon apparently couldn't. He looked back at the cancan girls once more, then turned from the asphalt onto the cement walk crossing the grass quadrangle. Blake followed him, thinking about the blanks. Alf had loaded them into the pistol; he'd seen him do it. And there was no possibility of a couple of live shells being put in by accident. Alf would have noticed the difference in weight and shape. So somewhere along the line, just as Captain Walsh had said, two blanks had been removed and two real bullets put in their place. How it was done was a mystery, but so was what had happened to the blanks. They'd be a good clue, if found, and he was glad the police were looking for them. It meant they weren't quite certain of Lisa yet.

Also, he suddenly realized, there were the two actual bullets. Another good clue. They had to come—

Gordon's hand caught his arm, swung him through the doorway to the Executives' Building, pulled him along the dim corridor.

Another good clue, hell! Blake felt a growing excitement. The big clue. People didn't just happen to have live bullets in their pockets, to exchange for blanks when needed. Especially bullets from a type of pistol even Walsh had never seen before. A Webley-something, it was called. He'd have to check with Alf. Could be the bullets came from the same place as the pistol.

Swung again by Gordon's hand, he found himself being propelled into Fabro's outer office. Miss Earnshaw, unusually pale, exclaimed, “Mr. Fabro's waiting!” Blake shook off Gordon's hand, said, “Not for me.”

“For both of you,” Miss Earnshaw said.

Gordon, turning to Blake, demanded, “Why not you?”

“I'm going shopping.”

“What in God's name for?”

“Bullets!”

Miss Earnshaw gasped. Cordon stared, his face completely blank. Blake went through the door. Outside, in the corridor, he heard Miss Earnshaw's imploring voice:

“
But Mr. Fabro's waiting …!
”

Josh Gordon

Fabro was waiting, all right. Deep in his gloomy walnut shrine, hunkered down back of the travertine desk that was big enough to sacrifice goats on, he looked to Gordon as though he had been waiting for centuries. He looked like a tallow Buddha. Or the god, Baal, dredged up from the ancient Mediterranean depths. He sat motionless, not speaking, apparently not even breathing, while Gordon trudged across the Sahara waste of beige carpet, came to a weary halt in front of the desk.

“Well, Fatso?”

Puffy lips, shaping words out of something between a growl and a belch, mumbled, “Shut the door.”

“Shut it yourself.”

For an instant baleful eyes flared back of the tallow. The lips writhed again. “Don't like me, do you, Josh.”

“Even if I did I wouldn't close your God-damn door.”

Abruptly shoving back his chair, Fabro came around the desk. He moved with a curious shuffling motion, like one of the greater apes. As he crossed the carpet Gordon's nostrils clogged with a musty, rancid, sour-sweet stink of dried sweat, Havana filler, whiskey, face lotion and God knew what else. It was a strange stink, more animal than human, and he felt hair stir on the back of his neck.

At the door Fabro spoke. “Blake?”

“He had other business.”

“I heard him mention bullets.”

“So did I.”

“What about them?” Fabro's eyes, back of the tallow, were suspicious. “Something to do with Caresse?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe better.”

“You'd like to think I killed her, wouldn't you?”

“I would if I could figure out how.”

A flicker of something like amusement lit the feral eyes. Fabro elbowed the door shut, shuffled back to his desk. “How long have you known me, Josh?”

“Too long.”

Turning behind the desk, Fabro smiled. Not exactly a pleasant smile, but still a smile. “And in that too long have you ever known me to jeopardize a dollar?”

“Not even a dime.”

“Twenty million dimes,” Fabro said slowly. “That's what Caresse's death has jeopardized.”

“Jeopardized, hell. They're gone.”

“Not yet.” The smile faded, but enough remained to keep the face alive. “I think, between us, we can save the picture.”

Despite himself, Gordon felt a flicker of interest. It was impossible. The picture was cooked. But the ugly bastard had done the impossible before. Had done it dozens of times. In climbing to executive head of Major. In pulling the company from near bankruptcy to a top position in the industry. In turning potential flops into box office winners. And there were those three fantastic pictures he had written and produced, that had made it all possible. An Oscar for the first, perched there on the shelf behind his head, and an almost certain Oscar for the third. Evidence of some kind of genius, much as he hated to admit it.

“What do we do?” he asked cautiously. “Resurrect Caresse?”

“No.” Suddenly the massive face became embalmed, became a mask through which a ferret peered. “We go back to the old ending, with minor changes. Where the native girl, Linda something …?”

“Lisa Carson.”

“Where Lisa kills Caresse in the tent, and then is sent to jail.” Fabro's hand rose as Gordon started to object. “I know, Josh. Censorship. Never let us show an actual murder. So we cut away after she takes the pistol and starts for the tent.”

“Cut away to what?”

“To the hunters, of course. Coming in from the jungle. A retake there, with reactions to off-scene shots. Then we cut back to the camp, with the girl and Ashton Graves wrestling for the gun by the fire. Girl suddenly sees the hunters, reacts to fact that Caresse's husband—”

A muted tinkle from one of the phones on the desk slowly swiveled Fabro's head. He stared as the phone rang a second time, then reluctantly reached for it, lips pulled back in a grimace of distaste. Lifting the hand piece, he growled, “Yes, Benjy …”

From the receiver rose a hysterical quacking. At intervals Fabro murmured, “Yes, Benjy.” Finally the quacking died away and Fabro said, “Terrible. A terrible thing. A shock to all of us.” He listened, exclaimed, “But, my God! Fifty thousand for a funeral?”

The quacking resumed.

“All right, Benjy,” Fabro broke in soothingly. “I'll put Publicity on it. We can get the flowers wholesale. And we can charge off—” He stopped, his face darkening. “But you
never fly!
”

One quack.

“And you want us to delay the funeral?”

One quack.

“All right. I'll manage it.” Fabro paused, then said, “One thing, while we're talking. What about the film?” His jaw dropped incredulously. “Junk it! With two million dollars invested?”

There was a long spell of low-pitched quacking.

Finally Fabro said, “Maybe you're right.” His voice was heavy. “I disagree, but it's your decision. I'll give the orders.”

The line went dead. Fabro slowly replaced the hand piece, flicked a switch on the communication box. “Get Brand in Publicity.” He left the switch open, turned to Gordon. “Where was I?”

“You were just buying some hay for a dead horse.”

Fabro grunted. “Not as dead as you think. Or as Benjy thinks.” He closed his eyes, miraculously plucked from his memory the exact words. “Girl suddenly sees the hunters, reacts to fact that Caresse's husband has not been killed. White hunter asks, ‘What's all this about?' and Craves says, ‘Murder, I'm afraid.' And we dissolve.”

“If it's going to be junked—” Gordon began.

“‘Murder, I'm afraid.'” Fabro's raspy voice seemed to be coming from a loudspeaker in his stomach. “A good tag line. Better than good. And from there we go to the jail.”

“What jail?”

“We build it. A ramshackle, filthy place in the jungle. Where the girl is sent.” Heavy eyelids swung up, red-flecked eyes fastened on Gordon. “I liked Blake's speech for Caresse. ‘Black's the fashion for dying …'”

Miss Earnshaw's voice floated from the communication box. “I have Mr. Brand.” Fabro thumbed another lever, said, “Harry?”

“Yes, Karl …”

“Caresse Garnet.”

“Yes?”

“You're to handle the funeral.”

“Right.”

“Eleven, Thursday.”

“Thursday! Karl, by Thursday she'll be high as a—”

“Benjy's coming.”

“Oh! A big production …?”

“Fifty thousand big.”

“Kay-rist!” A sound of breathing came from the box. “They didn't spend that much on Stalin.”

“Press, radio, TV coverage. Heads of studios as honorary pallbearers. White flowers at the church. White doves at the cemetery. Industry and public turnout.”

The box was silent.

“Harry …?”

“I'm here. Dazed but still here.”

“I'll have T. J. call the studio heads. You do the rest.”

“What if the public won't turn?”

“Call Central Casting. A thousand extras. In black.”

“Central Casting. White doves. Thursday. Say, Karl, what was she? Creed, I mean.”

“I don't know.”

“I was thinking of Bishop Sheen.”

Fabro turned from the box. “Josh?”

Thoughtfully, Gordon said, “Far as I know, the only thing Caresse practiced was polyandry.”

From the box came a snort.

“Damn it, Harry!” Fabro said. “This is
not
funny.”

“No, sir.”

“Progress report by six o'clock.”

The lever, flipped upward, cut off the reply, if there was one. Fabro eyed the box, spoke reflectively. “Close studio Thursday. Half day.” He fingered down another lever, said into the box, “T. J.?” He waited, then spoke again. “
T.J.!
” There was still no reply. Muttering, “… fix that pipsqueak!” he hurled back his chair, swung himself around the desk and plunged out of the office.

Richard Blake

5434 Hollywood Boulevard was a doorway and a smog-smudged display window on which was stenciled
E. W. ORTHMAN-GUNSMITH
&
ANTIQUE WEAPONS.
Behind the window was a helter-skelter array of broken flintlocks, dueling pistols, daggers, spears, Japanese swords, frontier Colts, belly-guns and other assorted weapons, all looking as though they had been rescued from a junk pile back of an 1880 arsenal. On a wall to the right was a faded poster offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for the capture of Jesse James, dead or alive.

Peering first at the poster and then at the objects in the window, Blake felt his spine begin to prickle. It was the place Alf Romero had told him about, all right. And if ever there was a hatchery for clues, this was it. Right in front of him were the means of committing dozens of crimes exotic enough to stun an Ellery Queen. And God only knew what was inside.

What was inside was mostly darkness. Pale light from the window made visible the front of a narrow room, revealed on the bare floor two brass cannons and a Gatling gun mounted on a wooden tripod, but, except for a desk lamp burning on a glass counter along a side wall, the rest of the store was without illumination. Moving cautiously forward, he had an impression there was no end to the room, that the odd-shaped wooden cabinets, the glass cases crammed with dimly seen weapons, the long shelves heaped with hand grenades and limpet bombs and Civil War muskets extended into some sort of a lethal infinity. He halted by a rack of tall blowguns and spoke experimentally.

“Mr. Orthman?”

There was no answer. He moved again, conscious of a strange odor that grew stronger with every step, of varnish and banana oil and gunpowder. Then, near the desk lamp on the glass counter, he saw a shadowy figure. Walking towards it, he said, “Mr. Orthman?” and found he was speaking to a suit of armor. In turn the darkness behind him spoke.

“Yes?”

Wheeling, Blake found himself facing a gnomelike man wearing sneakers, khaki pants and a faded gray sweatshirt three sizes too large for him. The man's eyes, too, were three sizes too large for his yellow face, and across a corner of his bald head ran a circling scar that might have been made by a scalping knife.

“My God!”

“Yes?”

“You're Mr. Orthman?”

“Yes.”

“You scared the bejesus out of me.”

“Yes?”

“I'd like to ask you a couple of questions.” For once Mr. Orthman failed to say yes, and Blake went on. “About the Webley-Fosbery you sold Major Studio.”

“Rented, not sold.” Mr. Orthman's large eyes, brown and not unfriendly, studied Blake's face. “You are from the police?”

Blake hesitated, then took the plunge. “Homicide.”

“What is it you would like to know?”

“Alf Romero, over at Major, said you had live ammunition for the Webley.”

“I do,” Mr. Orthman said. “But none responsible for anyone's death.”

“You heard about Caresse Garnet then?”

“Difficult not to have. Radio. Newspapers. Everyone talking.” Mr. Orthman's expression grew troubled. “Most tragic. But I assure you, Lieutenant—”

“Sergeant.”

“I assure you, Sergeant, I know nothing at all about her … unfortunate demise.”

“Your gun knocked her off.”

“So I read. My pistol, but not my bullets.” Mr. Orthman drifted noiselessly towards the counter with the desk lamp, and Blake, following, saw he was only inches taller than the glass top. “Let me explain.” Lashless yellow lids descended over Mr. Orthman's too-big eyes, giving his face a mummified look. “Five years ago I bought the Webley from a retired British officer, a Colonel Mortimer, and with it six boxes of ammunition. I bought the ammunition because I knew of no place, short of England, where I could find any for the pistol.” Mr. Orthman paused, then added, “In case it was needed.”