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

She brought all her womanhood over to me, and plunked it down in the chair next to me. Martha affected dresses which would have warranted a raid on Fifty-Second street, and she wore them with the casual aloofness of a woman who is above thinking about her body, When Martha Findlay was within viewing distance, however, there was hardly a man from six to sixty-six who was not aware of her body. She leaned over purposefully, crossing her legs, and cupping her chin in her hand. I did not look down to her but the temptation was a very strong one, and the nearness of her perfume didn’t help the situation any.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Jon,” she said, her voice soft. It always surprised me to hear that soft voice coming from Martha’s overabundant body. But the voice was just a small part of the femininity that was as calculated as an IBM card.

“Really? What about, Martha?”

“About Richie.”

Richie, of course, was Richard Findlay, and Richard Findlay was young Cadet Holmes. “What about him?”

“Well, now that Cynthia is gone...” Martha paused, moving her hand away from her chin for a moment, allowing me a better look at what the front of her dress had artfully uncovered. She brought the hand back like the President of the Censorship Committee, and then said, “I know it’s terrible and all, but I never could talk to her about Richie, and perhaps you can help.”

“How, Martha?”

“Fatter parts,” she said bluntly.

“This is Marauder’s show,” I said, just as bluntly. “Cadet Holmes is just a supporting character.”

“I know. I was thinking, though...” She hesitated, and then smiled, lowering her lashes at the same time. And even though I saw completely through Martha Findlay, there was one portion of my mind that remained acutely aware of her as a very desirable woman — if you like big women. “I had an idea, Jon. Suppose Fred — suppose Marauder were captured or something. You could easily handle that, I know. Or perhaps wound him, something like that. Then Richie would have to carry the ball, don’t you see? He’d have to hunt for his old friend, thwart the villains, all that. It would give him a nice opportunity to show what he can really do. He’s quite good, you know.”

“What does Marauder do when I write him out of the script? Fred Folsom makes his living from this show.”

“Oh, I know,” Martha said innocently, “and I wouldn’t think of cutting Fred out of his salary. We could have a few shots of him in prison or something like that, just to point up the drama. He’d still be in the show that way, and drawing his usual salary. And it would only take two weeks or so. Just enough time to show everyone what Richie can really do.”

“Richie’s doing fine,” I said.

“It’s much easier to talk to you than it was to Cynthia, Jon,” she said. Her voice lowered intimately. “Think about it. Maybe we can discuss it further over a few drinks.”

“You’re the biggest phony in the world, Martha,” I said.

“Jon!” She squeezed her eyes shut in mock, amused shock. “Really now!”

“Luckily, you’ve got the equipment.” I paused. “You really want to have a few drinks with me, Martha?”

“I’d love to,” she said earnestly, eagerly.

“Even when I tell you I’ve quit Rocketeers and won’t be doing the scripts anymore?”

Martha’s eyelashes batted in honest amazement. “You... you quit?”

“Yes, dearest.”

“I... see.” It took Martha only a moment to regain her composure, and then the shrewdly calculating mind beneath the softly shrewd exterior shoved through again. “Do you have any idea who’ll be taking over, Jon?”

I patted Martha on her well-shaped knee. “No, darling. I don’t. But about those drinks...”

“I think Dave is calling Richie now,” she said, standing and smiling and sucking in a deep dress-filling breath all at the same time. “You will excuse me, won’t you, Jon?”

She swiveled off before I could answer, and I chuckled secretly, wandering just who would fill in the script-writing gap I’d be leaving. And then I started wondering just why I was leaving. Now that Cynthia was dead, there would be no arguments over the quality level of the scripts. I could go right on writing adventurous space opera, providing the next producer of Rocketeers wasn’t as equally eager-beaverish as Cynthia had been.

This was a point worth considering. If I was relieved — and I must admit I felt no guilt about the feeling of relief — imagine how the murderer felt! Assuming, of course, that the murderer had also been harassed by Cynthia, plagued as it were into finally killing her. But assuming this, it simply remained a job of finding whom Cynthia had been riding hardest.

Dave Halliday? True, as director of the show he’d had to take an unwarranted amount of lip garbage from his ex-wife, a fact he’d skillfully concealed until just today. But considering the fact that she was his ex-wife... Or had Dave planted that bit of information purposely? Had he mentioned it to throw suspicion off himself? The possibility was worth a second thought.

Stu Shaughnessy? Again, he’d taken his share of abuse from Cynthia Finch. No part of a show she produced was immune to her probing, correcting eye. Stu was the kind of workman who took pride in everything he did, and if Cynthia possessed any one outstanding quality, it was the ability to demolish a man’s pride.

Felix Nechler? The old man had come back to ask Cynthia for a job, or so he said. Perhaps he’d come back to do her out of a job, leaving the old producing spot open again. Who’d he better qualified for the vacant position than a man who’d produced the show before? And it was certainly not news that Felix Nechler was not exactly in love with Cynthia.

Marauder? Somehow, I couldn’t picture Fred Folsom as a murderer. Besides, if Andy’s phone-call story were to be taken into account, both Folsom and young Cadet were out of the picture. Neither of the two had seen her or spoken to her on the day of Cynthia’s death.

That left Artie Schaefer, who’d dated Cynthia and who seemed extremely fond of her. It also left anyone else who’d been lurking around the studio unseen.

It left a lot.

Just before show time that afternoon, Dave dumped a fat prop problem in Stu Shaughnessy’s lap, and Stu was busy right up to ON THE AIR, trying to rig a weird looking Martian animal that would run across the stage apparently on its own power. It kept him hopping, but he came up with a papier-mâché horror propelled by wheels and wires, and Dave was beaming happily just before Rocketeers hit the screen. I didn’t stay for the show. I never did. Rehearsals always knocked hell out of me, and I’m not the type who gets any particular enjoyment out of watching my own work — especially when it’s been changed so much by viewing time that it hardly resembles the original.

I stopped at Hutton’s for a few martinis and a couple of broiled pork chops, and then drifted up toward Fifth Avenue, watching the pretty ladies in their pretty mink stoles. I walked on Fifth for a while, dismayed when I realized I’d never find a phone booth among the jewelry shops and clothing stores. I turned up 47th Street and then walked up to Sixth, stopping in the first cigar store I found.

I dialed Andy’s number and let the phone ring eight times. When she didn’t answer, I figured she was in the shower, and I debated whether or not I should hop a cab over and surprise her. I decided against it. I hung up, walked to Broadway, and stopped in one of the penny arcades, trying my luck with the skill-testing machines. I scored three runs at baseball, shot down 39 enemy bombers and got a fortune teller’s card reading You are good with your hands and should concentrate your activities on manual skills. I chuckled a little and then watched the guy behind the phony newspaper concession. I finally had him print a headline which read ANDREA MANN ASSAULT VICTIM, paid him, and took the newspaper outside, matching it to a same-sized tabloid I found at the nearest newsstand. I slipped the first page onto the tabloid, and then found another phone and dialed Andy’s number again.