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

“Hello, Sergeant,” I said.

“Ah, Crane,” he answered, nodding. “Where you bound?”

“Cup of coffee,” I said.

“Mind if I come along?”

“Well...” I hesitated. “No, not at all.”

“Thanks,” he said. He turned, and we walked down the steps together, and out into the street. We didn’t say anything on the walk to the luncheonette, and the silence persisted until we’d both been served our coffee. Hilton stirred his, took a sip at it, and then put the cup back in the saucer.

“Got a few interesting items from the coroner and the lab boys,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“Oh?” I bit into my toasted English, sipped at my coffee, which was too hot, and looked at him interestedly.

“Yeah,” he said. His face was not as inscrutable now, nor did he affect the preoccupied, business-man cop attitude any longer. He could have been a close friend of mine discussing the plot for a new story. “Coroner says the burns didn’t kill her.”

This surprised me. I didn’t say anything, but I continued to look at Hilton. He nodded and said, “Back of her skull was cracked open. Coroner figures it happened when she hit the concrete floor.”

“But the burns...”

“Not really bad ones, and not enough to kill her instantly. Most burns won’t. We had a cop caught in a gas explosion once, and he came running out of the building like a goddamned torch. The pain was terrific, but he was conscious all the way to the hospital, and he didn’t go out until the doctors gave him morphine. And he didn’t die until four hours later. First degree burns, too. So even if a blow torch was used on Miss Finch, it’s doubtful she’d have been killed instantly.”

“What do you figure then?”

“Well, I’m not sure. I can’t picture someone deliberately setting fire to her, and yet it all points to that. She probably went up in flames, reared back, fell, and bashed in her skull.”

“Accidentally, you mean?”

“It’s still murder. I mean, if I show you a snake and you back away from it over the edge of a roof, that’s homicide. No two ways of looking at it.”

“Then a blowtorch was used on her?”

“No. Leastways, the lab boys don’t think so. They found traces of turpentine on her dress and in her hair.”

“Turpentine?”

“Yeah, highly inflammable, you know.” He looked at me like a man with a knotty storyline problem. “Does it sound screwy to you, too?”

“It does, yes.”

“I’m puzzled, so help me. Can you picture a guy throwing turps at her, and then lighting a match? What’s to gain? Was he trying to ruin her good looks? If so, he must have known the turps wouldn’t kill her. It’s screwy as hell.”

“Maybe the fire was an accident. Maybe she tripped over the turpentine or something. There’s always a lot of turps back there, guys painting sets, you know.”

“If she tripped over a can of the stuff, we’d have found traces on her stockings and shoes. She wasn’t burned below the waist, you know. It figures somebody threw a bucket of it at her. But why?”

“I don’t know.” I studied Hilton for a moment, and then asked, “Why are you telling me all this, Sergeant?”

Hilton smiled, assuming the cop pose for just an instant. Then the pose vanished, and he was plain, honest Hilton again. “You smoke Pall Malls, Crane?”

“Yes,” I said, puzzled.

“You told me yesterday that you were out in the hallway having a smoke when Miss Finch was killed. I rooted around out there and found a couple of dead butts on the floor. The place is probably a hangout for anyone who wants a breath of air from that window, and it probably gets swept up every day. Two of the butts were old ones, the lab boys said, probably missed by the sweeper. He makes his rounds about eleven, by the way. I asked him. Those two were off in the corner, so it’s easy to see how they could be lying there for a long time. The third butt was right under the window, and it was a Pall Mall. The lab boys told me the tobacco was reasonably fresh, and that the cigarette could have been recently smoked. They also got a lot of smeared prints from it, and one good thumb print. The thumb print matched yours.”

“Mine? Where’d you get my thumb print?”

Hilton smiled. “The picture I showed you this morning. You left a nice one on the glossy surface.”

I smiled with him, wagging my head. “I’ll be damned.”

“So I figured maybe you, out of all the jokers around, were telling the truth. I know a cigarette butt is flimsy enough evidence, and it sure as hell wouldn’t whitewash a man in court.”

“Then why whitewash me, Hilton?” I asked.

“We’re not in court, Crane. Nor do I figure you for a crazy guy who’d set a woman on fire. I may not be able to pull a killer out of a hat, but I’ve seen enough of them to know when a man isn’t one.”

“Well, thanks.”

“Besides, I need someone who knows all these people. The minute I step in, they clam up, even if they’re not guilty. Homicide has a way of making everyone feel like he did it. I need someone who can sniff around when they’re all off guard.”

“Me?”

“If you’ll help.”

“You’re pretty sure I didn’t kill her, huh?”

“Reasonably so. What do you say, Crane?”

“Sure, if you think I really can help. Where do I start?”

“Just listen around,” he said, “and let me know what you hear.”

I told him then about Dave’s confession, and he listened with interest, making no comment. Then I told him about the phone call Andy had received, and he listened to this with more interest, and then said, “That can mean something. If she remembers. Trouble is, the remark was probably significant only to the killer. It probably doesn’t mean a damn to Miss Mann.”

“At least we know the killer was a man.”

“There were no women in the studio anyway,” Hilton said.

“No, there weren’t.”

“Or at least none that we know of.” Hilton finished his coffee, and then said, “I’m going to have a talk with Miss Mann. Maybe I can dig something out of her. You’ll get what you can here, okay, Crane?”

“I’ll do my best,” I assured him.

I was kept pretty busy during the rehearsal, and I didn’t get much opportunity to ask many questions. When Dave finally called a break, I walked out into the darkness and took a seat near the monitor, lighting a cigarette before someone called me for another script change. I was seated for about six minutes when Martha Findlay came over to me. Martha was young Cadet Holmes’ mother, a woman who’d been deserted when the Cadet was six years old. Her husband had been an alcoholic with an itchy foot, and he’d just picked up and wandered off one morning, heading for South America way. Martha was an attractive, large brunette. She’d started the Cadet off on dancing lessons, and then dumped him into that private hell of the child entertainer, exhibiting his soft-shoe and tap routines at American Legion dances and one-night stands wherever the opportunity presented itself. With Martha Findlay at the helm, the opportunities presented themselves with blinding rapidity. She was shrewd enough to realize that tap dancers were a dime a dozen, though, and so she’d started the young Cadet on dramatics lessons. He’d done a few scattered television spots before landing the Cadet Holmes plum, and I had to admit the kid was pretty good — but I still wondered whether or not Martha hadn’t done a little entertainment of her own to get him the most coveted juvenile spot on the air. Alec Norris, the producer who’d originated the show, and the man who’d preceded old Felix Nechler, had a notorious reputation with the women, and Martha Findlay — if nothing else — was a good deal of woman.