Ed McBain: Puss in Boots

Period.

Another rehearsed speech.

Or was he really so bright that his mind, computerlike, fashioned pearly strings of words and spewed them instantaneously?

“Were you working with her on her current project?” Matthew asked. “The film she was editing on the night she was killed?”

“No. On occasion, Prue adopted an air of unbecoming secrecy about her work. My partner and I prefer discussing creativity, as did the American expatriates at Les Deux Magots in Paris all those years ago. You may consider it odd that I think of myself as an expatriate, when surely Calusa is within the territorial limits of the United States. But anyone here who is concerned with quality filmmaking is an expatriate, believe me. I often feel like Samson among the Philistines.”

Or Hercules in the Augean stable, Matthew thought. Incessantly shoveling horse manure.

“She once did an educational film on child abuse,” Andrews said, gathering steam. “A fine film, as it turned out. But you would have thought she was Woody Allen, the security surrounding that project! A closed set, just herself, the actors, a cameraman, a lighting man, a sound man, and a few grips — all of them sworn to secrecy. Edited the film here all by herself, at night, in a locked room. Never left a scrap of film around for anyone to see, God knows where she was hiding it, perhaps under her mattress. And then the unveiling! Ta-ra! Ran it right here in this room, this very projector, that very screen. A marvelous film, as I said, I believe it even won a small prize later on. But why such theatrics? I despise pretension in art.”

“But you liked Mrs. Markham.”

“Yes, very much.”

“What was her new film about, do you know?”

“I thought I made it clear—”

“I’m sorry, I must have—”

“—that she often worked in secrecy.”

“Yes, but—”

“By extension, I was alluding to her new project as well. I had no idea what it was. A documentary about the horseshoe crab? An advertising campaign for one of Calusa’s illustrious jewelry stores? She never said.”

“Did you ask?”

“I knew better than to ask Prue anything when she was in her auteur mode.”

“But she was using editing space here... ”

“Yes. Renting it at a thousand dollars a month. My partner and I are forced to rent some of our space, the price one must pay for attempting to make films of distinction in a backwater village. Peter and I came here from Pittsburgh, we’re both graduates of Carnegie Tech. We’d decided to forsake the Hollywood route, littered as it is with car chases and special effects. We decided instead to make quiet little films, establish our reputations here as quality filmmakers, and then move on when the establishment was ready to recognize the superiority of our work. But one must eat. Hence the rental of space. We have fine facilities here, and we’re not above allowing lesser mortals to use them.”

“Did you consider Mrs. Markham a lesser mortal?”

“I consider almost everyone a lesser mortal.” The smile again. “But not Prue, no. As I said, she was extremely talented.”

“Mr. Andrews, this editing room she was using—”

“Yes?”

“May I see it?”

“Why?”

“On the night she was murdered, the police found only her body and her automobile outside there in the parking lot.”

“A terrible tragedy.”

“The car was locked. Nothing in it. No handbag, no identification... certainly no film.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t seem to be following your drift.”

“Well, she was here editing film , wasn’t she?”

“I would assume so. I have no idea why she was here.”

“Her husband says she was here editing film.”

“Well, yes. But her husband is a murderer.”

“I don’t believe that, Mr. Andrews.”

“Which, of course, is why you’re here.”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here.”

“But I still don’t know why you want to see that editing room.”

“Because if she was here editing film, there has to be film. Do you have a key to that room?”

“Certainly. But I don’t like violating the privacy of anyone renting space here at Anvil.”

“Mrs. Markham’s privacy has already been violated,” Matthew said flatly. “In the worst possible way.”

“I suppose your point is well taken,” Andrews said. “Let me get the key.”

The editing room door opened onto a six-by-twelve-foot space with a fluorescent light centered on the ceiling. A machine Andrews identified as a Steenbeck occupied most of the room. A chair on wheels sat in front of the machine. Behind the chair was what appeared to be a canvas sack hanging from a metal frame. Andrews identified it as a film bin, and explained that film to be discarded was usually dropped into it. The bin was empty. So were the hangers over the bin, where Andrews said the editor usually hung film or sound tape he or she planned to use. There was nothing on the surface of the editing machine. Not a scrap of film, not a hint of tape.

“Any other keys to this room?” Matthew asked.

“Only the one Prue had. And the master I just used to unlock the door.”

“Then where’s the film? If she was editing film... ”

“She may not have been editing, you know,” Andrews said.

“Then why would she have rented—”

“She may have been looking at what she’d already shot, selecting the best takes, marking the film, deciding how she would cut it later on. Part of the editing process, certainly, but not editing per se.”

“Even so, she needed film.”

“Yes.”

“So where is it?”

“Did the police check out the automobile?”

“Thoroughly.”

“No film in the trunk?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s decidedly odd,” Andrews said.

“Is there anywhere in the studio she might have stored the film? Before she left?”

“We do have a storage room,” Andrews said, “but I was in there straightening up last night, and I didn’t see anything that might have been hers.”

“How do you know?”

“The reels are marked for identification,” Andrews said. “A tape around the can, with the working title of the film lettered onto it.”

“And all those titles were familiar to you?”

“All of them.”

“Were any of the cans untitled?”

“None of them.”

Matthew was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Do you have any idea how long she was here that night?”

“None.”

“You weren’t here when she arrived, were you?”

“No.”

“What time did you leave the studio?”

“At around six. As I mentioned earlier—”

“Yes, your friend from Sarasota. Was anyone here when you left?”

“I was the last one out.”

“Did you set the burglar alarm?”

“I did.”

“And locked the door?”

“Yes.”

“Did Mrs. Markham know the alarm combination?”

“Yes.”

“I assume she had a key—”

“Of course.”

“This film she was working on,” Matthew said. “Would you know who was working with her?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“Who does she normally use? As cameraman, as grip... what’s a grip?”

“A grip is a person who moves things around the set. Grips come and go, they’re relatively easy to find. But Prue used the same cameraman, lighting director, and sound man on most of her films.”

“I’d appreciate their names,” Matthew said.

Henry Gardella considered himself a man of exquisite taste.

“I want this to be tasteful,” he’d told her.

“It will be,” she’d said.