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

“Hello,” I said, “how’s the head?”

“Dandy,” she said. “How’s yours?”

“Ouch.”

“You drink too much,” she said solemnly.

“Or not enough of the right stuff. anyway. Listen, have you recalled anything further about the people who spoke to you yesterday?”

“Did I tell you that Stu Shaughnessy stopped by?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, he had. He was sore as hell about the way Cynthia constantly changes her mind about props. He said his budget wasn’t high enough to permit constant changes and substitutions.”

“How come all these people stop to weep on your shoulder?”

“I’m an attractive young lady,” Andy said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Someday I’ll show you.”

“When?”

“Someday.”

“Sure.” I paused and thought for a minute, and then said, “Does any of that drivel sound like talk preceding a murder?”

“You mean the conversations with everyone?”

“Yes.”

“No, it doesn’t. I’ve been wracking my brain all morning, trying to think of something that sounded incriminating, something that necessitated a warning. I can’t think of a blamed thing, Jon.”

“Maybe you invented the phone call,” I said. “Maybe you killed Cynthia Finch.”

“I’d have liked to, sometimes — but I didn’t.”

“I’m going over to the studio,” I said. “If you think of anything...”

“I’ll call you.”

“ ’Bye, doll.”

“Did I tell you I love you this morning?” Andy asked suddenly.

“No.”

“I’m slipping. I love you, you big boob.”

“Go write a limerick,” I told her, and then I hung up, smiling.

The studio was unusually quiet when I got there. There were a few cameramen on the floor, but no one else was in sight. I lighted a cigarette and went around back, opening the door to the control booth. Artie Schaefer was standing near one of the turntables, a cigarette end glowing in the dimness. He brought the cigarette to his mouth, took a preoccupied drag on it, and then stared out through the glass, out over the studio floor.

“Dead today,” I said.

Artie looked up suddenly. “Wh... oh, hello, Jon.”

“Hope I didn’t break in on a thought fest,” I said.

“No, I was just... come in, come in.” He walked to the table behind the wide glass front of the booth, hooked an ashtray with one finger and snuffed out his cigarette. Artie was a tall man with kinky black hair and a magnificent profile. He’d made a good living out of radio, and he was now making a better living out of television. Rocketeers was only one of his shows, and he was generally conceded to be the best engineer in the business.

“Nobody in yet?” I asked.

“I saw Dave a few minutes ago,” Artie said. “None of the cast are here yet, though.”

“What do you think of yesterday?” I asked.

“Only yesterday,” he said, seeming to be still lost in thought. “Seems like it happened a long, long time ago, doesn’t it?”

“Who are you picking?”

“I don’t know, Jon. I honestly can’t figure it. I mean, Cynthia... well, who’d want to kill Cynthia?”

“Lots of people have considered it,” I told him.

He seemed honestly surprised. “Really? A sweet kid like her? I can’t believe it.”

“Did you know her very well, Artie?”

“We dated a few times.” He looked up suddenly. “I’ve already told that to Sherlock Holmes. I don’t suppose it’s a secret, anyway.”

“Anything... serious?”

“No, just a few dates. I liked her company. She was levelheaded and intelligent, and I liked what she was trying to do with the show.”

I didn’t say anything because I’d been one of those who hadn’t liked what she was trying to do with the show. Artie sensed this and he added, “Hell, you can’t blame her for wanting to give it class.”

“I’m not blaming her,” I said.

“She gave you a rough time with your scripts, did she?”

“She did, but that doesn’t matter. Not now it doesn’t.”

“No, not now,” he agreed. He suddenly slapped the table top with his open palm. “Dammit, who’d want to kill her? You really think some stupid character would kill her because of the way she was running things? You really think that?”

“I don’t know, Artie.”

“You’ve got to be twisted to do something like that — really twisted, rotten inside.” He shook his head. “You can’t be normal and kill someone like Cynthia Finch.”

“I suppose not.”

Artie sighed wearily, passed a hand over his classic nose, and then gestured through the glass of the booth. “There’s Dave now,” he said.

“I’d better get down there,” I said.

“Sure. Ask him to let me know when he’s ready to test, will you?”

“Okay,” I said. I left the booth and went down to the floor. Dave was walking with his head bent, as if he were looking for clues in the concrete.

“Find anything?” I asked.

He looked up and shook his massive head. “I was looking for a blowtorch,” he said.

“The police didn’t turn one up, did they?”

“No. But they don’t know the studio as well as I do.”

“Did you find it?”

“No,” Dave said sadly. He looked at me solemnly for a moment, and said, “Come over here, will you?”

“Sure,” I said, surprised. I followed him over to the rocket ship interior set, and Dave pulled up an aluminum stool near the port blister. Outside the blister, a painted backdrop of black space and brilliant white stars showed above Dave’s head. “I... I want some advice.”

“Sure,” I said. “What is it?”

Dave reached for a pair of calipers hanging on a string from the ship’s plotting board. He held them in his beefy hands, opening and closing the pointed tips. “I’ve been wondering whether or not I should tell Hilton something. I figure he’ll find out anyway, but I sure as hell don’t want to get involved. Do you follow me?”

“So far. What is it you think he should know?”

Dave sucked in a heavy breath. “Cynthia and I were married,” he said.

“What?”

“Not now. I mean, not when she was killed. This was a long time ago, Jon. We were both kids, and it didn’t work out. I mean, well we went our separate ways. We were both in radio at the time, but Cynthia started fooling around with the theatre... well, I never guessed we’d both end up in television, and certainly not on the same damned show.” He looked at me mournfully.

“But you’re divorced,” I said.

“Yes. A long time ago. In fact, Cynthia had the marriage annulled. It was the best thing, Jon. We... we didn’t get along too well. I mean, we got along fine now, before she was killed, but it was different when we were married. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think I should tell Hilton?”

“I think so, yes.”

“You don’t think he’d misconstrue it? I mean, he won’t think I killed her because I was once married to her? You don’t think so?”

“He seems fairly intelligent,” I said, “if a bit obvious in his tactics.”

“That’s what I figured. But...” Dave shook his head again. “It’s a hard decision to make. I don’t want to get involved in this, you know. I mean, what the hell, she was the same to me as to anyone else. The marriage was a long time ago.”

“I understand, Dave.”

“Well, thanks,” he said heavily. “I guess I will tell him.”

“I think that’d be best.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” He still didn’t seem convinced. I left him to worry it out, telling him I was going down for a cup of coffee until the cast showed up. I was heading down the iron steps when I met Detective-Sergeant Hilton, minus his partner this time.