Crime on My Hands (21 page)

Sammy looked blank.

“I'll wear those two guns in this next scene. Since we're shooting it from the beginning, nobody will notice I've changed guns except the murderer. You can bet that he'll notice. As I have said before, he has an eye for detail. When he sees me with the gun, which he'll undoubtedly recognize, he'll be driven to action. I feel certain that he has worried about this gun. He planted it on me, and it disappeared. Nothing was said about it. He noted that I carried forty­fives yesterday. Now I show up with the murder weapon in my holster. Such procedure doesn't make sense. So he betrays himself, one way or another. I have told at least four persons to keep their eyes open during this scene. You must pay no attention to the action being filmed. Watch everyone behind the first camera. I think the murderer will make some covert move.”

“You can't fire this gun, George. It's really loaded.”

“Sammy,” I said patiently, “go get me some blank cartridges. We'll save these, naturally, as evidence. Run along. I'm almost ready. And by the way,” I added casually, “tell Paul I'd like to see him.”

I wai ted by the first camera, the guns carelessly displayed. Nobody gave them a glance. The electricians were setting up reflectors, Curtis was measuring distances, Riegleman was conferring with the new script girl, sound men were testing with the boom crew. Horses were being led into the wagon enclosure. Sammy and Paul returned, and I loaded the guns. Paul watched with disinterest.

“I want to apologize,” I said, “for the heroic measures I employed last night.”

“I'll never be able to wear a belt again,” he growled, “and I hate suspenders. How come your guns don't match?”

I looked at him steadily. “One of them has a sentimental value,” I said.

He blinked, shrugged, and turned away. As I had hoped, he lingered near the camera as I went off to my place.

Whistles called for quiet. Riegleman went into the sound truck and spoke over the P.A. system, his voice booming in precise syllables.

“This must be the last retake of this scene, ladies and gentlemen. It will be unnecessary to repeat my instructions. You know your parts. I am depending on you to play them well. Are we ready to begin?”

Sammy signaled, and action began.

I put the murders from my mind. Several pairs of eyes were examining all my list of suspects. I became Hilary Weston. I was careful, however, to display the murder weapon. I covered the butt of the museum piece with one hand, but turned the Smith & Wesson toward the camera as often as possible. Even if this did not bring any untoward act from Paul, it might when tomorrow's rushes showed it in close-up.

Half way through the scene, I reflected that he must still have the gun that killed Peggy. Would he take a shot when I faced the camera today? It was possible. He had noted the gun and commented. He was ruthless, and I was defenseless.

I must confess that cold sweat trickled down my back as I turned for the close-up of passion. This was the point where two persons had been killed. Was I next?

The beads of sweat on my forehead were real. The trembling of my hands was not pantomime. Only a few seconds remained in the scene, and I did what has been called one of my finest bits of acting, but I wish to record here that I was not acting. I was not even aware that I was in a picture. When I looked at the camera, it was desperation, not lust, that the camera recorded. Yes, it seemed lustful on the screen. It was obvious that even in the midst of battle I was savoring secret delights to come. And when I narrowed my eyes and pointed the gun at the group beside the camera, it was not thoughts of a sneaking redskin that inspired me.

For Paul was in that group, and one dark hand was in his jacket pocket. My aiming at him was a reflex action, and I wished with all my heart that my gun was loaded as I fired at him.

My expression and action brought a gasp to the preview audience several weeks later, as did the quick cut to a tomahawked figure that had sneaked within striking distance of Carla. But he was an afterthought, tossed in to explain my unscripted move. All I was trying to do was startle Paul, to shake his aim, to make him miss.

The result was rather spectacular. Everyone in the group flung himself to this side or that. Some fell flat on the ground, others jerked spasmodically to one side. Paul flung both hands, empty, over his face. My danger was passed, and the smile of relief which I gave the lens was properly construed at the preview, indicated by the audience's vast, soft sigh.

When whistles brought a halt, they crowded around me, flinging praise.

“George, you were swell!”

“…finest piece of…”

“Didn't know pantomime was one of your…”

“Worth ten thousand words of dialogue!”

Riegleman hurried from the sound truck, from which he had watched and listened to the scene, and put an arm across my shoulders. “George, old boy, you'll get an award for that scene. I'll give it to you myself if the Academy doesn't.”

Hands grasped at mine, hands slapped my shoulders. I was a trifle bewildered. I hadn't done anything but protect my life.

“But what I want to know,” Riegleman went on, “is why you fired that shot. It wasn't in the script, as I remember, and you played the scene day before yesterday with your guns at your sides.”

That was when I dreamed up the sneaking tomahawker. Riegleman glowed. “A wonderful touch. Let's shoot it.” He beckoned to one of the Indians and Curtis. They went off to make it.

The crowd dissolved from around me. Sammy took my arm. “I thought sure as hell I was a goner,” he said. “You should have seen your face. I just
knew
that gun was loaded.”

“Did you observe anything?” I asked.

“Let's go talk it over,” Sammy said. “Maybe you can make something of what I saw. Want me to put those guns away?”

I reached for them. My left hand closed on an empty holster. Somebody had taken the Smith & Wesson from me. 

“Go to your office!” I said. “I'll see you there in a few minutes!”

“What's the matter with you? You look like a label on a carbolic acid bottle.”

‘I'm tired of being pushed around,” I said, and plunged off through the sand.

Paul was alone in his office. He narrowed his eyes at my expression. His hands tensed on his desk.

“Where is it?” I asked. 

“Where is what?”

“The gun you took out of my holster. I'm going to take this office, and you, apart if you don't give it to me.”

He leaned back, his mouth dropped open. “Come again?”

“I don't want to argue,” I told him. “Just give me the gun, and you may remain intact. You
may
. It isn't definite.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, George. I know you're serious. But you're talking acrostics.”

I took the slack of his shirt in one hand and pulled him to his feet. “I don't really want to hurt you, Paul, but I'll make you an unpleasant memory if you don't hurry.”

He didn't struggle. His black eyes weren't defiant, they were bewildered. “I can't stop you, I guess, George. You're almost twice my size, and I'm in lousy shape. But, honest to God, I don't know what you're talking about.”

He seemed to be telling the truth. A little doubt raised its head inside mine. My grip relaxed for an instant, and he jerked away. I leaped after him, crowded him into a corner.

“You confessed to the killing,” I said. “But you deliberately tried to make me believe that you lied. I did, and dismissed you from consideration. But here's what you did. You shot Flynne. You switched guns on me. You planted that prop gun in Carla's wagon. You pleaded ignorance of Flynne's identity. You came to my trailer that night to find out if the film showed anything damaging to you. Then you shot Peggy with your other gun, because you knew she had seen you. Then you made a confession, with false data, to throw me off. But I see through it now. So where are the guns?”

His black eyes began to water. He made no effort to defend himself. “I didn't... kill anybody!” he gasped. “I thought... Carla would be accused. I don't know... anything about a gun. But listen, I've... got an idea.”

I dropped my hands, but kept him in the corner.

“It just occurred to me,” he said. “Herman Smith was leading a double life, sort of. I got a notion that fits into this picture.”

“What does ‘sort of' mean?”

“Listen, George,” he said earnestly. “It's hard to say exactly what I mean. I can see how you'd jum p to the conclusion you reached, but you're wrong. You can go ahead and search this place if you want to. If I took a gun from you, I haven't had time to do anything with it. It has to be here. It isn't. I'll help you search.”

He meant it, which in turn meant that the gun wasn't here. He interpreted my half smile correctly.

“I insist,” he said. “I've got to clear myself on that score. I didn't kill anybody, and this will help prove it.”

We went over every inch of the office – including the wastebasket, this time. There wasn't any gun.

“You could have tossed it into one of the trucks,” I said.

“So could anybody else. If it turns up in one of them, it doesn't necessarily mean that I did it. You've got no proof, George, that I'm involved in any way. So you've got to string along with me. I've got an idea.”

“Let's hear it.”

“No, because it's dopey. It'll just lead you off the track if it doesn't work out. I'll find out today, and come over to your trailer tonight.”

I felt sick. As he said, I could do nothing. My notions were based on deduction and application of psychology. I couldn't go to Sheriff Callahan with them. “Look, Sheriff, I have no proof at all, but he did it. I feel it here. I can't find any motive, and I can't prove that he had the opportunity. But I'm sure, so will you charge him with murder on my hunch?”

Callahan, even Callahan, would snort at me.

“Give me some idea of what you're going to do,” I said.

“It all depends,” he said, “on who Herman Smith really is. I heard a rumor once. I want to check it. If it's true, you can find a motive, all right.”

“What was the rumor?”

“I haven't even got that straight. I have to check with a couple guys in Hollywood. Then I'll tell you tonight.”

What could I do? I did it. “All right, but God help you if this another lie. Paul, you're in this up to your neck. I can have you held for questioning, if nothing else. Maybe you'd better tell me some more about Carla and Flynne before I go.”

“Not unless I have to,” he said. “There's no reason why it should come out except to free her from suspicion. She's got a great future. If it all came out, she'd be hurt commercially.”

“If you're going to marry her, you don't want her earning ability impaired. Is that it?”

He grinned frankly. “Something like that.” He looked at me in sudden alarm. “Stop getting purple, George! I really love the gal. I think she's wonderful.”

I had to shrug, finally. It wasn't the first time some girl was married for the money she was able to make. And that was none of my business.

“By the way,” he said conversationally. “It seems to me that you're on something of a spot. You say you had the murder weapon. You played this last scene with it. If you can't dig up proof that somebody planted it on you, it's going to look bad, eh?”

It wasn't an open threat, but his shrewd eyes carried all the implications. I said nothing. After a long stare, I went away.

Sammy had his head in his hands. He looked up as I came in. “Well, anyway, you've still got the museum piece, George. Now we got to get the other from that deputy.”

“I'll do that today.”

I sat down. We didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. All paths of investigation seemed to be closed to me. If I had hung on to the gun, or if I had seen who took it from me, the problem would have been solved. Certain routine matters could have rolled into operation. We could have checked the serial number, and sweated out the truth from the man who had the gun in his possession. After all, if I had seen who took it, I'd have seen the murderer.

I was out of my depth, and I knew it. It was a sad admission. I had felt confident all along. It would be only a matter of hours before I could point a melodramatic finger and say, “
Ecce homo!
” At one time, I had had all the factors fairly clear in my mind. One of a certain group was the murderer. The actions of a few of that group had attracted my attention, which grew to suspicion and dissipated into nothingness. I had wound up with no definite suspect, with nothing but the knowledge of unrelated acts, and without the gun.

I got to my feet and went out, saying nothing to Sammy. I don't believe that he noticed my going.

Lamar James was in his laboratory. He was tipped back in a chair, his feet on a table with two microscopes, his eyes on far space. He grinned mildly at me.

‘I'm trying to work out a mathematical equation, George. But I've been trying for two years. What's on your mind?”

“I need help.”

I sat down. He took a bottle of chemical analysis alcohol from a cupboard, put a teaspoonful in each of two glasses, filled them with water, and gave me one. It tasted something like good gin, and warmed a path down my gullet.

“When Flynne was killed,” I began, “I had a pair of valuable guns in my hands. They were Colt thirty­eights on forty-five frames, pearl handled.” His dark eyes sparked. He flicked a glance at another cupboard. “During the crush after the scene,” I went on, “somebody took one of those guns. He replaced it with what I believe to be the gun that killed Flynne. Sammy took both guns from me, and noticed the strange weapon. He decided to put them in his office, and ask me about it later. His girlfriend, who knew he was worried about them, threw both guns on the other side of a big sand dune when she heard somebody had been shot. We couldn't find them, and then you turned up one of the original pair in Carla's wagon.”