Say Yes to Murder, Todhunter Ballard [affordable ebook reader .TXT] 📗
- Author: Todhunter Ballard
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Lennox gripped the bony hand indifferently. He was not interested in Mr. Boren. He wished the man would look at the leaky faucet and go. But Mr. Boren seemed a friendly soul. He evidently was a little flattered to find that Lennox was a guest in the house, and he meant to make the most of the situation.
Boren fumbled in his breast pocket, found a heavy leather glasses case, and placed the rimless spectacles across the bridge of his nose.
Something in the gesture stirred Lennox’ memory. Perhaps he had seen the man somewhere a long time ago: He sat there studying the contours of the face which showed above the neatly trimmed beard. The resemblance was fleeting. The card index of his mind fumbled over the name. If he had ever seen the apartment man before it must have been very casually. He was certain that he had never known another Boren.
The man was rambling on. After a minute he said: “There’s been a murder in Hollywood.” He almost smacked his lips when he said it.
Lennox looked up sharply. “Murder!”
The man nodded, his bright eyes on Lennox’ face. “It came over the radio a few minutes ago. Leon Heyworth was found stabbed in his garden. He’s under contract at your studio, I understand.”
Lennox managed to simulate surprise. “Heyworth murdered?”
Boren appeared suddenly to recollect why he was there. “A faucet,” he said, looking at the girl. “A faucet that leaks?”
She nodded and led him into the bedroom. Lennox sat where he was. If the news of Heyworth’s death was on the air, Spurck would have been notified and would be looking for him. Well, to hell with it. Let them look. Heyworth was dead and there was nothing to be done about it. They’d have to swallow the publicity, change the title of the picture, cast someone else in the dead man’s role and remake it. No one was indispensable, not even Leon Heyworth.
Sudden sound diverted his attention from contemplation of the future, and he thought the girl or Boren was knocking on the bedroom door. Then he realized that the knock was coming from the direction of the door to the hall. He didn’t know exactly whether to answer it or call Jean Jeffries. Finally he shrugged, crossed the living room, and opened the door.
Spellman was outside with his ever-present shadow, Stobert, at his elbow. “You here.” He was as amazed as Lennox, but not so good at disguising it.
Lennox said: “Why shouldn’t I be?” He was trying to think under cover of the words.
Stobert’s nasal drawl had a nasty sound. “Maybe he lives here.”
Spellman just snorted. He took a half-step forward and Lennox stood aside. Jean Jeffries and Boren came from the bedroom, and the manager was saying:
“The faucet needs a washer. I’ll have it fixed first thing in the morning. The plumber will be here by nine, if that isn’t too…”
The girl had seen Spellman. “Why, Captain!”
She sounded breathless to Lennox, and he covered the awkward pause by telling her: “I knew it was a mistake to give them a drink this ‘-afternoon. I think they’ve come back for more.”
Boren was an interested spectator. Lennox knew they had to get rid of him now. It was as if the girl sensed the same thing. She said hurriedly: “Thank you very much. I’ll expect the plumber at nine then,” and moved him toward the front door.
Obviously he did not want to go, and he took as long as possible, but she finally swept him out of the entry hall and came back, her fatigue showing in the lines of her face, accentuating the cheekbones.
Spellman asked: “Who was that?”
She sank down in a French chair. “The apartment house manager checking on a leaky faucet. You should have warned us that you were coming, Captain. We still haven’t any soda.”
Lennox managed a laugh. “Maybe they’re still looking for that body.”
Spellman told him: “When better gags are pulled you won’t pull them. That’s just what we are doing—or rather, we’ve found the body. We want to know why.”
Lennox looked blank. “Listen, Floyd. I’ve lived out here for five years. But frankly, I still don’t understand double talk.”
Spellman’s voice was deceptively soft. “Perhaps you haven’t heard that Leon Heyworth’s body was found in his garden tonight. Someone knifed him. Doctor said he’d been dead several hours.”
“The apartment manager just told us,” Lennox said steadily. “He heard it on the radio.”
“Well?” said Spellman.
Lennox shook his head. “I still don’t get it.”
Spellman grunted. “I’ve talked to Kitty Foster. She swears Miss Jeffries was the last person to see Heyworth alive.”
Lennox said: “Oh! Kitty Foster.”
Spellman looked at him sharply. “Just what do you mean by that?”
Lennox’ shrug was expressive. “The age of chivalry is not dead,” he said. “I can’t talk about a lady.”
Spellman’s face reddened. “Now listen. You people all act as if you’re playing a game. I’m here to warn you now that murder is no game.”
William Lennox smiled. “Are you, by any chance, trying to accuse me of Leon Heyworth’s murder?”
The homicide captain fumbled. “You don’t sound as if his death was causing you any great grief.”
“Frankly, it isn’t. There are a number of people in this town I don’t like, and I certainly couldn’t play the part of chief mourner to them if anything happened. But I have a fair control of my temper. Up till now I’ve managed to curb my homicidal instincts. Last night I spent in a friendly bridge game at the Fairview Country Club. I was there until almost four.
“I ate at a drive-in stand at the corner of Wilshire and Robertson with two men whose names I hate to drag into this mix-up. We left at quarter to five—I remember seeing the clock. They dropped me at my apartment at ten minutes after. I was at the studio by nine. Unless you think I murdered Heyworth in the four-hour period, I’m afraid I’m out of luck as far as being a good suspect goes.”
“Then why did Kitty Foster…”
“Kitty Foster,” said Lens ox shamelessly, “at one time believed she loved me. It’s true that Heyworth brought Jean home, but remember, his body was found in the garden at his place—not here. By the way. Where was his car? From what Jean tells me I judge that he was driving himself last night.”
Spellman moved uneasily. “It was parked in the fire road just below his place.”
“So you think this little girl knifed him and then walked down from the hills? It must be all of four miles over mountain trail—and in the dark.”
“She might have had help…” Spellman was fast being backed into a corner, and he knew it. “Someone with another car. Besides, he wasn’t killed there.”
“Wasn’t he?”
“Dammit!” said Spellman. “You’re worse than the District Attorney. There wasn’t any blood around, and his body looked as if it had been forced into something: after rigor mortis set in, and there were splinters caught in the cloth of his coat. If you ask me, he was killed elsewhere and hauled there in a box of some kind. Also, no fingerprints showed on the steering wheel of his car. Does that make sense? There should be fingerprints on the wheel of any car—unless they’ve been wiped off.”
Lennox looked at the girl. “Maybe Heyworth wore gloves when he drove. Did he, Jean?”
She frowned in an effort to recall. “I really couldn’t tell you. I was in it such a short time—just from Kitty’s place to my apartment. Before that, Kitty rode beside him. I was in back.”
Spellman swore. “You both talk like you’d rehearsed for a part But I warn you, you’re not going to put anything over. Let’s go, Stobert.”
Lennox said: “Wait a minute. I’ll go with you. Spurck will be having a hemorrhage if he’s heard. I’ll have to be around to hold his head.” He bent down, very conscious of his audience. “Night sweet.”
“Good night,” Jean said softly, and her arms came up around his neck. There was nothing faked about her kiss. It left him a little dizzy. “Call me before you go to sleep,” she whispered.
The pianist interested William Lennox. He was a tall man with a long, sad face, and he had once been a professor in a Chicago parlor house. It was surprising the people you saw in Hollywood that you had known elsewhere. It wasn’t a great picture, or even a very good one. It was just the story of an old-time actor couple who return to the stage to save their children from making fools of themselves.
If Mary Morris had not been in the cast, it would have been just another program piece. She made the difference, she and the pianist, Strong.
Lennox watched the scene with real amusement. Strong was good. He’d never appeared in pictures before. Mary had gotten him the part.
There had been no use going home until he saw Spurck so he’d drifted to the Morris set, knowing that they were shooting. He looked around as they began to rearrange the cameras. Someone came up to his side and asked for a cigarette. He turned and saw the piano player.
“Hello, Ed. How’s it feel to be a picture star?”
The man grunted. His hands were encased in loose white cotton gloves. He always wore them, even at the piano. Lennox knew that his hands were badly scarred from an almost forgotten fire. “Not so good.”
Lennox was surprised. “What’s the matter?” he asked, as he handed the man a cigarette.
Ed Strong shrugged. “Nothing. It’s just a nutty business, that’s all, and this director is the biggest nut in the bunch.”
Lennox wasn’t paying much attention. He watched Mary Morris move toward her portable dressing room, saw the maid come to meet her and hand a white envelope to the old actress.
Mary Morris took the envelope, tore it open, and removed the single sheet that it contained. Lennox was too far away to see her expression, but he did see her sway. Even as he came to his feet she fell, crumpled, rather, going down in a little heap across the network of cables.
Lennox vaulted the director’s empty chair, crossed the set at a half run, and pushed through the crowd of dress extras who had closed between him and the actress. He was conscious that Ed Strong was at his heels, but did not stop.
The maid was down at her mistress’ side, cradling her head. An assistant director was shouting helpless orders, his thin face white beneath its Malibu tan.
“She fell at my feet…”
Lennox did not hear. The piece of white notepaper had fluttered to the floor. Ed Strong picked it up, held it for an instant, and passed it to Lennox, who stuffed it into his pocket.
Then he stooped, slipped his arms under the old actress, and picked her up. The crowd parted and he carried her into the portable dressing room, calling orders across his shoulder to the maid. Inside, he laid her on a couch and sent the assistant director scurrying in search of a doctor. Sol Spurck got there first, bustling into the room on his short legs.
A worried frown darkened the producer’s benign fat face. “Always trouble,” he moaned. “If it ain’t one thing, it’s the same. First—the story ain’t right and I get a new writer. For five thousand dollars I should take a chance. And now Morris collapses when we are only half done shooting.”
Lennox said tensely: “She’s really sick, Sol. The doctor isn’t
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