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

“Sure.”

“Do you still want dinner and a movie?”

“Yes,” timidly.

“Then go fix your face. Come on, doll.”

“Don’t call me ‘doll.’ I’m not one of the office dolls you flirt with every day.”

“I know you’re not.”

Andy tried to keep a stern face, but the smile broke through like filtered sunshine. “I’ll powder up, you rat,” she said.

“Hey!” I said, snapping my fingers. “Whoever called you was obviously someone who’d told you something this morning. Who’d you speak to this morning?”

Andy batted her eyelashes. “Lots of people,” she said.

“Who?”

“Cynthia. You.”

“Who else?”

“Dave Halliday, I guess. Yes, he came in to see Cynthia about oxygen on...” Andy paused. “Oxygen on Mars?”

“Yes. Did he say anything to you?”

“Sure, lots of things. But I don’t remember them all.”

“Anything important?”

“No. No, unless... well, I’ve heard a million people say that.”

“Say what?”

“Well, he said, well, he was complaining about the oxygen business. He said, ‘Someday I’m going to murder that meddling witch.’ ” Andy paused again. “Only he didn’t say witch.”

“Who else did you see?”

“Artie Schaefer. Stopped by for some film stuff, I think. He came into my office to say hello.”

“Anything from him?”

“I can’t remember. Just the usual pleasantries, I guess.”

“ Marauder? The Cadet?”

“No, neither of them. At least, if they were at the agency, I didn’t see them.”

“Felix Nechler?”

“Why, yes. Isn’t that curious? He told me he wanted to see Cynthia about a job. He’s a nice old duck, isn’t he?”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Well, Cynthia’s secretary spoke to him, and he was pretty angry afterwards. She told him Cynthia was very busy and would be leaving for the studio in a little while. Pretty shabby treatment.”

“He probably came down to catch her there then,” I said.

“Was he there when she...”

“Yes.”

“Jon...”

“Yes?”

“You... you didn’t kill her, did you? I mean...”

“Me? Hell, I haven’t killed anyone since last Wednesday.”

“Seriously, Jon. I... I’d like to know.”

“You are the craziest female I’ve ever met,” I told her. “No, I did not kill anyone.”

Andy smiled. “I’d have brought you cigarettes and a cake with a file in it.”

“You probably would.”

“So undying is my love. I’ll go powder up, and you’d better be here when I come back, you rat.”

“There’s a cute number down the hall,” I reminded her.

“How do you know?” she said suspiciously.

“There’s always a cute number down the hall.”

Andy considered this seriously. “I’ll be ten seconds,” she promised, and she wasn’t seven minutes over that.

When my doorbell chimed noisily at twenty minutes past ten the next morning, I was still in bed. I frowned at the alarm clock until I realized it was innocent, and then pulled on a robe over my pajamas and walked through the living room.

I opened the door a crack, and Detective-Sergeant Hilton’s inscrutable face peered back at me. Another inscrutable face was behind his.

“My partner,” he explained. “Ed Matthews.”

“Mrfff,” I said.

“May we come in? Hope we didn’t wake you?”

“No,” I said grumpily. “I had to get up to answer the door anyway.”

Hilton’s face remained inscrutable, and I decided I’d save my knife-edged wit for a worthier audience. “Come on in, boys.”

I flung the door wide, turned my back on it, and walked into the living room. Andy and I had done our best to drink up all the scotch in the City of New York the night before, and whereas Andy’s recuperative powers were amazing, mine were a little less spectacular. I lighted a cigarette to take the taste of the motorman’s glove out of my mouth. The cigarette did not help. I looked down at it sourly, and then remembered the detectives.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

“Few questions,” Hilton said. “Routine.”

“All right.”

“First, is it true you saw Cynthia Finch in her office along about eleven-thirty yesterday morning?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Is it also true you quit your job at that time?”

“Yes.”

“Is it true you and Miss Finch had what might be termed an argument?”

“No,” I said.

Hilton reached into his jacket pocket and came out with a glossy photograph which he extended to me dangling from his thumb and forefinger. “Know her?” he asked.

I took the photograph from his fingers, studied it, and passed it back. “Yes. She’s Cynthia’s secretary.”

“Did you kill Miss Finch?” Hilton asked conversationally.

“Sure. I kill all women with black hair. My stepmother had black hair.”

Hilton sighed and put the photograph back into his pocket. “She says she heard you arguing with Miss Finch yesterday.”

“She’s a bird-brain. She wouldn’t know an argument if it hit her in the face with a brick.”

“She says you raised your voice. She heard it all the way from her desk outside.”

“She was probably listening at the keyhole. Cynthia and I were not arguing. We were discussing a script of mine. We discussed it like ladies and gents. No threats of murder, no nothing. Then I quit.”

“How much does Bradley and Brooks pay you for the Rocketeers show, Mr. Crane?” Hilton’s partner asked suspiciously.

“Why?”

“Routine.”

“Seven-fifty for a week’s sequence. Fifteen hundred for a two-week’s sequence. What’s that go to do with the price of fish?”

“I got some ideas about you,” Hilton’s partner said.

“Let me hear them,” I told him.

“Maybe she fired you.”

“I quit.”

“Maybe she fired you, and you didn’t like the idea of losing all that easy money.”

“Sure. Maybe I started the San Francisco fire, too.”

“Don’t get smart, Crane,” Hilton’s partner said ominously.

“I can’t help it. I’m that way naturally. We did not argue, and I was not fired. We had a normal discussion, and I quit. I can get a job in ten seconds over at Captain Jet. So your idea about me is a stinkeroo.”

“That’s what you say,” Hilton’s partner said. “Anyway, don’t you leave town, Crane.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.”

“What’s the matter?” Hilton asked.

“Haven’t you got a detective who doesn’t read Ellery Queen?”

“I don’t read Ellery Queen,” Hilton’s partner said belligerently.

“Reading is an acquired skill,” I told him. “Stick with it, give it time.”

“Wise guy,” he mumbled.

“I have to get down to the studio soon,” I told him. “I suppose I’ll see you both there.”

“We still haven’t found the blowtorch, you know.”

“Assuming it was one.”

“How do you mean?”

“Maybe the death-ray gun did it.”

“Wise guy,” Hilton’s partner mumbled again.

They went to the door, and I watched them go. I lighted another cigarette, and then remembered I’d forgotten to tell them Andy’s story. I opened the door and looked over to the elevator banks, but the two sleuths were already gone. I shrugged and made a mental note to tell Hilton about it at the studio. Then I showered, shaved, ate, dressed, and left the apartment.

I stopped over to see Binx Bailey at ABC, and he told me he’d be happy to give me a trial run, and why didn’t I come over and watch the show to get the slant some afternoon. I told him I would, and then I caught a cab crosstown to Tom Goldin’s office, remembering after I got there that he had a luncheon appointment, and Tom eats lunch early. So I stopped for a cup of coffee in a drugstore, spotted the phone booths, and gave Andy a call.