Final Cut (2 page)

"Dad's home," Frank observed, "and it looks like he's brought company."

Their father, Fenton Hardy, had been a detective with the New York City police department for some years before becoming a private investigator. He now had an international reputation as a detective.

"Whoever the company is, I like the choice of wheels," Joe said with an admiring look at the visitor's car.

"You wouldn't want it," replied Frank. "I bet it's a real gas guzzler."

Joe turned and gave the low-slung performance car one last envious stare.

"I could live with that," he said.

They went in to the sound of their father's voice calling out, "Frank? Joe? Is that you?"

"It's us, Dad," Frank answered. "We would've been here earlier but we found - "

"Yes, I know what you found," Fenton cut him off. "Chief Collig called. Come on into my office. There's someone I'd like you to meet."

The brothers stopped in surprise just inside the door. Seated on a couch, across from Fenton, was Jim Addison! He was a big, barrel-chested man in his late forties, with a face that could frighten children. Now he only looked worried. Beside him sat a woman wearing an elegant silk dress, lots of makeup, and an angry expression. She was talking.

"And I think that it's simply outrageous that the police can even think of Jim as a murderer! Why, he wouldn't hurt - " She broke off, noticing the newcomers in the room. "Oh. Hello, boys."

Fenton stood up. "Andrea, Jim, I'd like you to meet my sons. The brown-haired one who looks as if he's seen a ghost is Frank. The blond with his mouth hanging open is Joe. Boys, this is - "

"Jim Addison!" they said in chorus.

Addison gave a faint smile. "I hope that means that you're fans," he said.

Fenton gestured to the woman, who was giving the two brothers a dazzling smile. "And this is Andrea Stuart, Mr. Addison's personal manager."

"Delighted, I'm sure," she purred. "My, you two are good-looking! You could break a lot of teenage hearts. Have you ever thought of careers in Hollywood?"

"Uh, no, not really," Frank said. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Stuart."

"Please!" She held up a hand tipped with long, scarlet fingernails. "Call me Andrea."

Fenton spoke. "Frank and Joe assist me in a lot of my work. Do you mind if I fill them in?"

"Go ahead," said Addison.

"We've been talking about my investigating the murder of Bennett Fairburn. At the moment the Bayport police seem to have only Mr. Addison - "

Addison interrupted. "It's Jim ."

Fenton went on. "The police think that Jim is their number one suspect."

"Which is ridiculous!" Andrea Stuart burst out. "It's just because everyone thinks that an actor who plays bad guys has to be a bad guy in real life!"

"Actually, there's a little more to their suspicions than that," Frank said. "Con Riley said that the police know of some rather loud arguments between Fairburn and Mr. - er, Jim, here."

"Oh, really?" asked his father. "That true, Jim?"

"Oh, it was nothing," said Andrea. "Just two men blowing off a little steam."

"Jim?" Fenton asked again.

"Well," said the actor, looking uncomfortable, "before I got involved with this pilot, I'd been looking for a chance to play a good guy for a change. I was getting tired of always being the heavy."

"There's a lot more work out there if he can play nice characters sometimes, too," added Andrea Stuart. "It would give his income a nice little boost."

"We agreed to sign onto this deal only because we were told that I'd play a good guy this time," Addison continued. "Also, I was told that if the pilot did make it as a series, I'd be a regular on the show. There was nothing written down about it, but - "

"We just figured we could trust them," finished the manager.

"Then we got the script, and there I was, playing a villain again! A criminal genius, the mastermind of a gang of crooks! And what's more, I was out of the regular cast of the series! When I complained, they said they'd work it so I escaped at the end of the pilot, and they could bring me back now and then, but - "

"But that means a lot less money," Andrea Stuart chipped in. "Not as many shows, and not as much money per show."

"Well, they had us," said the actor bitterly. "We had signed, and they hadn't done anything illegal. We could have sued them, but it would have cost a ton of money and kept me tied up in court all the time. So we were stuck. And when I found out that the idea to change the script came from Fairburn - well, I guess I got a little angry with him. We did have a few shouting matches - but murder! I wouldn't - "

"Oh, wouldn't you though?" Gertrude stood in the office doorway, glaring at Addison. "I saw you kill that sweet young girl in Death at the Drive-in! And the way you treated your own cousin in Hot Lead and Cold Blood was awful!"

"But - but those were just roles, just parts in movies, Miss - Mrs. - "

"This is my sister, Gertrude," said Fenton. "She, uh, sees a lot of movies and TV."

"Fenton, I'd be very careful if I were you," said Gertrude. "No one can act that mean without it rubbing off a little. I don't know - "

"Thanks for the advice, Gertrude," said Fenton, gently moving her out of the office. When she had gone, he turned to Addison and shrugged an apology.

"You see why I'm tired of playing bad guys?" Addison demanded. "This kind of thing always happens! People boo me when I walk into a restaurant, kids run away from me in the street, little old ladies kick me in the shins - "

"And being suspected of murder could cost us a fortune," Andrea added.

Fenton thought a few moments and said, "I think I'm willing to take your case, but first I need you to do something for me."

"Anything. Name it," Jim Addison said eagerly.

"I'd like Frank and Joe to be put to work on the project somehow. To nose around a little."

Jim Addison looked over to his manager, who gave another of her bright smiles.

"I don't think it'll be a problem. They can probably be production assistants - gofers."

Frank said, "As in 'go fer' this and 'go fer' that, right?"

"Right, sweetie," said Andrea. "You'd be little more than errand boys, doing a bit of everything - fetching and carrying, paging actors, whatever.

"Mel Clifford wants to hire as many local people as he can, so if we tell him that a couple of young local students want a job, he should be happy to agree. Especially if we get J. F. Graham to put in a good word for you."

"Would Mr. Graham do that?" asked Joe.

"J. F. will be glad to do me a little favor," Andrea assured him. "He's a pussycat."

Frank and Joe gave each other a quick grin. It was hard to imagine the dignified Graham as a "pussycat," and they doubted that Graham would care much for the label.

"So, Mr. Hardy - Fenton - will you?" Jim Addison leaned forward anxiously.

"You see to getting jobs for Frank and Joe," replied Mr. Hardy, "and I'll take the case. I'll start by getting some background on Fairburn. Frank and Joe, you sniff around and pick up any gossip about him that you can find. Any known enemies, that kind of thing."

"You got it, Dad," Frank assured him.

Jim Addison and Andrea Stuart got up to leave.

"I feel much better knowing that you're on the case," Jim Addison said, shaking Fenton's hand. "And I'll tell you one other thing," he added, looking grim. "Fairburn's friends could fit in a phone booth. You ask around, and you'll see. There are a lot of people who are glad to see him dead, and there are bound to be some who were willing to help him get that way."

At seven o'clock the next morning Frank and Joe were standing just inside the door of a dimly lit sound stage. They had gotten up before six a. m. and didn't feel completely awake yet.

The soundstage was enormous, like an airplane hangar. It was empty except for the far corner, where a small area was lit from powerful overhead lights. Forty feet above the boys was a network of narrow catwalks where people walked back and forth, adjusting and setting lights. Dozens of other people were milling around below, but it wasn't clear what they were doing.

"So what now?" Joe wondered.

"Look for someone in charge," Frank replied.

"It's seven a. m., and all these people look like they've been here for hours," Joe muttered, only half awake. "Don't they believe in sleep in this business?"

Before Frank could answer, a voice called out from somewhere in the vast, dim space. "Hey! You two! Are you Frank and Jim Harley?"

A bearded, balding man in jeans and a shabby sweater came jogging toward them. Static and voices were being emitted from a walkie-talkie on his belt.

"My name's Joe, not Jim, and that's Hardy, not Harley, but otherwise you got it right," Joe said grouchily.

"Hardy. Yeah, right," said the man, making a note on a clipboard. "Right. Okay. I'm Hector Ellerby, the first A.D. - "

"A.D.?" questioned Frank.

"As in assistant director. I'm the guy you work for. I tell you what to do, and where and when to do it. You have any questions, ask me. You got any problems, come to me. Understood?'"

"Well, actually, I do have a couple of questions," Frank began, but Hector waved him off.

"Not now, I don't have the time. I've got to get over to the office. Trish'll show you around. Trish? Trish? Trish! Come on, dear, hustle!"

A soft voice came out of the gloom. "Sorry, Hector, I was just getting - "

"Yeah, right. Look, I have to run. Fred and Jim Hardy, the new P.A.s, are out here waiting. Show them the ropes, will you? Gotta go, bye!"

"That's Frank and Joe," called Joe, but Hector was already out the door.

"Don't let Hector get to you," said the voice from behind them. "He's all right. A.D.s are always racing around. It's part of the job."

The Hardys turned and came face-to-face with a young woman who, even in the dim light, was obviously very pretty. Her black hair was cut in a short style that perfectly framed her large brown eyes. She wore jeans and a shiny black satin jacket, which said Bayport Studios in electric blue.

"Frank and Joe, right?" She shook their hands. "I'm Trish Cochran. I'm going to direct movies someday. Right now I'm what they call a directing trainee."

"Nice to meet you, Trish," said Frank.

"I'll say," Joe agreed eagerly.

"What's a trainee, exactly?" asked Frank.

"I'm learning all about how movies and TV shows get made. Meanwhile, everybody gets to order me around. Everybody but you, that is. You guys are the only people around here that I outrank. Well, let me show you around. Come on."

Trish led them over to the brightly lit area. There, the Hardys saw that furniture had been laid out, surrounded on three sides by "walls" - large canvas flats anchored by hinged legs and weighted down with sandbags. Through a "window" in one wall Frank and Joe could see a painted backdrop of a city street.

Workers positioned chairs, changed and focused the lens of a huge camera mounted on a wheeled dolly, and maneuvered microphones on the ends of long poles. Others placed props on the desk. Apparently the set was an office of some kind. Two men stood motionless while someone put pieces of tape on the floor at their feet. A crew member measured the distance from the camera lens to the nose of one of the men, who, Trish whispered, were standins.

"What are they standing in?" asked Joe.

"They're standing in for some actors," she explained. "See, they're close enough in size and looks to the actors they work for, so that they can replace them and stand in while the crew focuses the camera and sets up lights and sound. That way the actors don't get tired out just standing around."

Trish walked the brothers over to where a man sat in a canvas director's chair with the name Ivan stenciled on the back.

Trish said, "Ivan, meet our new P.A.s Frank and Joe Hardy. Guys, this is Ivan Kandinsky, the director."

Ivan Kandinsky wore a black jumpsuit. Around his neck hung a viewer, which he would occasionally peer through.

"Frank, Joe. Delighted. Hardy - hmm. Have you, by chance, a relative named Andrew?"

"Uh, no, not that I - " Frank started to say.

"No, no, didn't think so."

A woman ran up with a gun in each hand just then. "Which one should he carry, Ivan?"

"Let's use the forty-five automatic, my dear." Kandinsky turned to Joe, who was staring at him. "Forty-fives have more presence, don't you think?"

Joe nodded and Frank tried not to laugh.

They walked over to the camera. There they met Jerry Morrall, the director of photography, a white-haired man with a bushy mustache.

"Welcome to our happy family," said Morrall.

"Nice to be here," replied Joe.

"Sometimes it is," Morrall answered.

"Bizarre," Joe whispered to his brother.

"Over here, guys," called Trish. She stood next to a young man whose hair was almost to his shoulders. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and headphones. In front of him was a rack with a complicated-looking tape recorder and a lot of electronic gear. Frank was fascinated.

"Frank, Joe, this is Teddy Silva, the sound man. Everybody calls him Headcase because he always has those headphones on."

"How you doing?" asked Headcase.

"Say, what kind of a tape recorder is that?" Frank wanted to know. "Looks pretty special."

"It's a Nagra. You find them mostly in studios. Cost about eight thousand dollars."

"Eight thousand - " Frank was stunned.

"More or less. Are you into electronics?"

"Definitely," Frank replied.

"Well, hey, let me show you. Trish, think you could hustle me up a cup of coffee?"

"Sure thing. Be right back, guys."

"Mind if I come along with you?" Joe asked, hopefully. He was always more interested in a pretty girl than a tape recorder.

"Sure, come on. You'll need to know where the coffee is anyway. You'll be fetching your share of it. Oh, hi, Vic." A man had wandered up just then. Joe remembered him as one of the standins. He kept walking, looking very sour.

"Oops, Vic's in a bad mood," said Trish.

"He's always in a bad mood," noted Headcase.