Anthony Boucher - Ed McBain’s Mystery Book, No. 1, 1960

“I know. Two appendectomies, a tonsillitis—”

“Tonsillectomy, you ignorant—”

“—removal of spleen and gizzard, go.”

He went. With one last leer at Robbie.

As the door closed behind him she said: “He’s nice, isn’t he?”

“Is he? I hadn’t noticed—”

“But he’s so witty, and knows so much about the world and all—”

“Nuts, he makes half of it up. Sheer fabrication. It just sounds good in that oily voice of his. Hah, witty, knows so much—”

“Why, Shell, you actually sound jealous.”

“Jealous? Me? Why, I never heard such a—”

She laughed. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, now that he’s gone, I’m all right. What do you mean, witty? He didn’t say anything even intelligent—”

“Shell, lean over here and rest a little.”

She indicated, with a gentle pat of her hand, where I was to lean. I stopped arguing. I leaned. Resting dandily, I said: “Robbie, I have a splendid idea. You must stay here while I recuperate. It may take days, of course, but—”

“The doctor’s right down the hall. What could I do?”

“Well, you could... What good is a doctor? You can be my nurse, dear. And nurse me back to health.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“Why, you could undress my wounds — dress them, I mean, and cool my fevered brow, fever my—”

“You be quiet. Now I’m sure you’re all right. And I have to go.”

“Go?” I said. “Go?”

“Yes. I can’t stay here.”

“Who says?”

“I says. Really. Oh, Shell, sit down. Don’t stand out there waving your arms. You’ll spring open and bleed to death.”

“It wouldn’t happen. Even if it did, I have blood to spare, red blood, wild blood, it sings in my veins and yodels in my arteries, savage blood — listen to the drums! Don’t you hear it? Can’t you feel it? I—”

“Shell, stop waving your arms around. And sit down here and rest.” She patted again. “Or don’t you want to rest?”

“It isn’t exactly what I had in mind. Listen, you don’t know all there is to know about my blood yet—”

“I know more than I realized was possible. And if you want the truth, I believe you. But I really do have to go.”

“Go?” I said. “Go?”

“Yes. In about... five minutes. But I’ll go right now if you don’t sit down and behave yourself.”

“Well, okay. I’ll sit down.”

She meant what she’d said. After five minutes of resting she got up and said, “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Yep. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow—”

“I’ll call a cab.”

“The devil you say. I’ll drive you home.”

“No, I wouldn’t think of it.”

“I will drive you home.”

I won that argument, too. The first one since she’d fainted.

Later, alone and relaxing in bed before going to sleep, I thought about what had happened today. The police didn’t yet know who the dead man was, much less the identity of his killer; the killer, therefore, might be roaming around free for days or even weeks. He, on the other hand, obviously knew who I was, realized I’d made a movie of him which could be his ticket to the gas chamber, and probably believed I knew what he looked like. Clearly he did not know his last shot at me had ruined the films.

So he would be roaming around trying to get those films — and kill me.

Maybe I ought to take a full-page ad in the local papers, I thought, addressed to the killer: “You shot a hole in my camera before you shot a hole in me. The films are kaput. Stop worrying!” And sign it Shell Scott. But he probably wouldn’t believe me. The.fool would probably just go on trying to murder me.

Then another link formed in my chain of thought. Maybe I should take that ad, after all, and phrase it differently. Something like: “Sensational films of murderer! Shell Scott shoots killer, killer shoots Shell Scott! Stupendous film sequence, blazing guns, murderer fleeing! Have You Seen This Man? See colossal preview this afternoon at the Colossal Theater...”

I grinned in the darkness. It might work. Still thinking about it, I fell asleep.

It was 10:00 A.M. Tuesday morning. I was driving down Hollywood Boulevard toward the Chasen Theater, off Hollywood on Van Ness Avenue. The thing was set. I knew Jim Chasen, owner of the theater, which was why I’d chosen his movie house. With his cooperation I had run my advertisements in several newspapers yesterday and today. As long as the killer believed his chops were really going to be on the big screen, he would almost certainly try to grab the films. Since we had no way of recognizing the man among the other customers, and therefore couldn’t keep him from getting inside with the crowd, we’d have to wait until he made his move. Jim figured, and so did I, that the action would take place in the projection room, where the killer would naturally expect the films to be.

The Chasen wouldn’t open for business until 1:30 P.M., the bill to start at two, but I wanted to be staked out inside well before then. The “Fleeing Murderer... Guns Blazing!” added attraction was scheduled for 3:45 P.M., at the break between two halves of a double feature. We figured our man would make his move sometime during the first half of the twin bill. It all seemed logical.

Robbie, however, had not been logical. I hadn’t told her of my plan, but she’d seen the ad and called me, raising hell. If I was going to the theater, she wanted to go along; I’d do something crazy and get killed if she didn’t keep an eye on me; a lot of other people would be there, one more wouldn’t hurt. I told her no. We argued. I told her no. Firmly. And that settled that.

I parked a block from the Chasen, walked to the alley entrance behind it. Jim Chasen let me in.

“All quiet?” I said.

“Yeah. Glad you’re here, though. I’ll be in the projection booth, you know.”

“So will I. He’ll have to shoot me before he can shoot you, Jim.” I grinned. “He may not even show up. If he does, there probably won’t be any trouble.”

He laughed sourly. “You make it sound like fun. Want some coffee?”

“Sounds good.”

We walked through the empty theater. Soft music was playing; as we went into the projection booth I commented on it and Jim said: “I always pipe the records in while I’m setting up. Sort of creepy otherwise. Good for the customers, too, when they come in. Gets them in a pleasant mood while they wait for the show.”

He poured hot black coffee. I raised the steaming brew toward my mouth, then froze, cup halfway to my lips. “Jim,” I said, “I’m an idiot.”

“Huh? What’s the matter?”

“We’ve been figuring the guy would walk in unobserved with the other customers. We’d have to let him come in, because we don’t know what he looks like. But he doesn’t know that He undoubtedly thinks we’ve got him made, even have a moving picture of him — that’s the whole idea of this setup. We’ve been looking at this from our point of view, instead of his.”

“Sure, I... Oh.”

“Yeah. If he thinks we know his face, he’s not likely to show it on the way in.” I swore. “More likely he’d try to sneak in here before the rest of the customers. Maybe... about now.”

Jim tried not to show that he was worried. He just spilled his coffee. “You don’t think—”

“Did you look the place over yet? Johns, closets, backstage?”

“No.” He swallowed. “I thought... you said...”

“Yeah. I know what I said.” I stood up. “Maybe it’ll work out that way, too. But I’ll take a look around, anyway.” I paused. “Just in case... maybe you’d better wait out front until I give you the all-clear. If he should be here—”