Ричард Деминг - Manhunt. Volume 3, Number 1, January, 1955

“How long did all that take?”

“About ten minutes.”

“Uh-huh. Were you two on the set all this time?” he asked Marauder and Cadet Holmes.

“No. We went down for a cup of coffee,” Marauder answered.

“Together?”

“No,” Cadet Holmes said, his face still white. “I left Fred just outside the building. When we came back, Dave was ready to roll.”

“You meet anyone at coffee, Mr. Folsom?” Hilton asked.

“No. No one,” Marauder answered.

“Where’d you go, Cadet?”

“His name’s Findlay,” Dave put in.

“Where’d you go?”

“Just took a walk around the block, that’s all.”

“Meet anyone?”

“On the way back, yes.”

“Who?”

“Artie Schaefer, our engineer.”

“Where had he been?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Findlay said, almost trembling now. “You’ll have to ask him, I guess.”

“I will.” Hilton wiped his hand over his face. “All right, Mr. Crane, where were you all this time?”

“Out in the hallway,” I said, “having a cigarette.”

“Anyone see you?”

“Why... no. I don’t think so.” Hilton sighed. “And you, Mr. Nechler?”

“I took a seat near the monitor when I came in, and I stayed there all the while.”

“I don’t suppose anyone saw you.”

“Not unless someone was in the control booth. I didn’t see anyone there.”

Hilton looked disgusted. “Nobody around when she got it,” he said, “and nobody saw anybody where he said he was. This is just great.”

“I was seen by the guy in the coffee shop,” Marauder said defensively.

“Think he could pinpoint the time? It only takes a minute to kill someone.”

“You don’t think...”

“I want to talk to Mr. Schaefer. He was probably out walking his French poodle, only no one saw him except on the way back.”

“He didn’t have a poodle with him,” Findlay said helpfully.

“A Great Dane?” Hilton asked, then waved Findlay’s answer aside before he spoke it. “You go about your business. I know you’ve got a daily show to put on. Don’t mind my boys.”

“Whoever did this will get the chair, won’t he, Sergeant?” Dave Halliday asked.

Detective-Sergeant Hilton assumed his best Dragnet manner. “Sure,” he said. “There’s just one thing.”

Dave, an avid Dragnet viewer himself, supplied the straight man’s like. “What’s that, Sergeant?”

“We got to get him first.”

When I stopped by for Andy that night at eight, she’d already heard the news. She did not pretend great sadness because Andy was an honest kid, and she’d never really liked Cynthia Finch. Andy wrote the commercials for the Rocketeers show, and Cynthia’s conception of a producer’s tasks included the censorship of the nonsensical drivel Andy wrote in praise of Poppsies and its sister breakfast cereal, Cracklies.

One of Andy’s choice commercials had consisted of the repeated line, “Eat Poppsies, they’re tops, see, they POP, see?” This done in a parrot’s falsetto. It was good.

Cynthia had stepped in and changed it to: Buy me Poppsies, Popsy! They’re tops, see, they POP, see, Popsy?

By the time anyone untangled that, he was ready for a straight-jacket. He was not ready to rush out and buy a box, as the copy suggested after the parrot had finished his speech.

She opened the door and led me into her living room, and then she asked, “Have the police been hard on you, Jon?”

“No harder than on anyone else,” I said. I chuckled a little and added, “This Sergeant Hilton has his hands full. Only Artie Schaefer and the Cadet have alibis, and even they aren’t too strong. Hell of a case.”

“Is it true about... about how she died?”

“Yes.”

“It must have been horrible,” Andy said, shuddering a little.

“I don’t imagine it was pleasant. Dave still thinks the goddamned ray gun did it.”

“Oh, not really.”

“You know Dave. I think he believes in BEM’s, too. He doesn’t know that bug-eyed monsters left the science-fiction scene a dozen years ago.”

“I was worried about you,” Andy said. She fluffed out her blonde hair, then walked to a cigarette canister on the end table, taking one and lighting it quickly. She blew out a wreath of smoke. “Really worried, Jon.”

“Oh? That’s awfully nice of you.”

“I could hardly get the new Cracklies limerick going.”

“That denotes real worry,” I said. “I’ve got it, though. Want to hear it?”

“Sure. Shoot.”

“Buy Cracklies, by crackie! Over and over again, repeated. Like?”

“I’m an eggs-for-breakfast man,” I said.

“I think it’s good. Considering the worrying I did.”

“You had no cause for worry.”

“ You seemed pretty damned worried,” Andy said, turning suddenly.

“Huh? I don’t follow.”

“When you called.”

“When I called?” I lifted my eyebrows. “Sorry,” I said, “wrong number.”

“Well, no one even asked me.”

“Asked you what? Make sense, Andy.”

“Asked me about what you’d told me.”

I let out a deep breath. “I’m sorry, ma’m, but I missed the first reel. Want to start from scratch?”

“When you called this afternoon,” Andy said, impatiently.

“Honey,” I told her. “I didn’t call this afternoon. And if I’d made any calls, they’d have all been to my lawyer.”

Andy stared at me curiously for a few moments? Then she smiled and said, “Jon, really, there’s no need for any cloak and dagger. I won’t tell anyone, if you’re worried about it, and you needn’t deny having called.”

“Won’t tell anyone what? Goddamnit, Andy, I didn’t call you. The last time I spoke to you was at the agency.”

Andy looked extremely puzzled. “Well now isn’t that strange,” she said.

“It certainly is,” I agreed. “Did someone call and say it was me?”

“Well, no. But the voice... well, I just assumed it was you.”

“What did this mysterious caller say?”

“He said, well he said, ‘Is this Andy?’ and I said, ‘Yes, it is.’ ”

“That’s all?”

“No, of course not. He said, ‘Listen and listen hard, Andy.’ That’s when I figured it was you calling.”

“What else did he say?”

“He said, ‘I want you to forget everything I told you this morning. Everything, understand? Especially when the police start asking questions.’ ” Andy shrugged. “Golly, I was sure it was you.”

“What did you answer?”

“I said, ‘Okay, Trigger, I’m a clam.’ Honestly, Jon, I thought it was you clowning around.”

“What happened then.”

“He just hung up. I thought that was strange, and then later, when the news about Cynthia reached the office I figured you wanted me to keep quiet about what you’d told me, about quitting the job. I thought... I thought maybe you were involved.”

“For Pete’s sake!”

“Well, how was I supposed to know? It sounded like you, and I thought immediately of you, and besides I was in the middle of that damned Cracklies limerick.”

She looked as if she were ready to start bawling, so I went to her and took her into my arms, and she snuggled her head against my chest.

“You’re a rotten louse, Jonathan Crane.”

“I know,” I said.

“And I knew you when your damned name was plain Johnny Kransen.”

“I know,” I said.

“And I was worried.”

“You’re a doll.”

“Sure.”

“You are. I mean it. You’re a doll on wheels.”