Ричард Деминг - Death Spins the Platter

Layton walked down the arm of the L that went past the dressing rooms. At the door to number 2 he hesitated. King and the redhead were probably in there; the door was closed this time and he had no excuse for opening it. But where had the scared brunette holed up? He peered into every dressing room along the corridor whose door was open, but they were all unoccupied.

She was probably in a hurry to get to the women’s john, Layton thought with a grin, and what she’d been afraid of was that she wouldn’t make it.

He backtracked and strolled down the other corridor. As he was passing the station manager’s office a tall, trim, gray-haired man stepped out He favored the reporter with the sort of vague, half-smiling nod politicians bestow on passers-by who might conceivably have once been introduced to them. The tall gray man strode up the corridor and around the corner, from where Layton had just come.

The man had not closed Hathaway’s door, and Layton looked in. The outer office was unoccupied except for Hathaway’s secretary, a thin, harried-looking female whose gray hair had recently had a blue rinse.

“Mr. Hathaway isn’t here, Mr. Layton,” she said. “You’ll find him in. the Studio B and C control room. That’s over beyond the dressing rooms.”

“I’ve already had the pleasure remember?” Layton smiled. To his surprise, she smiled back. “I’m killing time till the King show goes back on. By the way, who was that man of distinction — the gent who just left?”

“Mr. Stander, Hubert Stander. He’s chairman of the board.”

“Looking for Hathaway?”

“Now, Mr. Layton,” the secretary said, still smiling. “Come in and sit down, why don’t you? In your job you probably walk your feet off.”

“Thanks.” Layton drifted in and dropped into a chair near her desk. “Cigarette?”

“That’s not my vice,” she said. Her voice was quite warm now. “But you go ahead and be as vicious as you want.” She pushed an ash tray toward him.

“If you don’t smoke, why do you have an ash tray on your desk?”

“So that people like you won’t get ashes all over the floor, Mr. Layton.”

Layton grinned. “Didn’t I hear Hathaway call you Hazel?”

She nodded. “Hazel Grant.”

“What do you think of Tutter King’s being fired, Miss Grant?”

“Mrs. Grant.”

“Sorry. Mrs. Grant.”

“You mean for publication?”

“Any way you want.”

“I would have to be off the record,” she said, leaning back. “Mr. Hathaway would have forty kinds of fits if his secretary talked to the papers. Especially about this. The station’s already given out its official statement.”

“I know,” Layton said. “Dripping With devotion to the public interest. But on account of I’m such a doll, Mrs. Grant — how do you feel about it?”

The woman stared at him quite steadily. “You promise not to mention my name?”

“I won’t mention your name.”

Hazel Grant glanced toward the open doorway. Then she said in a very low voice, “They’ve known for years about Tutter’s arrangement with the record companies.”

“Oh?” Layton said. “Who’s they?”

“The station brass.”

“Hathaway?”

She began to look nervous. “I don’t know why I said anything at all. I really shouldn’t have.”

“Don’t worry about it. Hathaway’s known all along, huh?”

“Yes,” she said with venom. “He’s actually made envious remarks to me about the piles of money Tutter’s been making under cover. He had to ignore what was going on because the program was so successful. Now that the story’s come out, they all act surprised and self-righteous. I can’t stand hypocrisy.”

“I know what you mean,” Layton said sympathetically. “By the way, was Tutter the only one in on it?”

“What?” Hazel Grant looked puzzled. “How do you mean?”

“Haven’t you heard the story going around?”

“What story?”

“Why, I heard it myself just this afternoon in the station. That Tutter King had to split the payola with some of the big shots around here.”

The woman’s harassed eyes turned wary. “I hadn’t heard anything like that.”

“Then it isn’t true?”

“I wouldn’t know, Mr. Layton.” She swung back to her typewriter, “I’m afraid I’ll have to get to work.”

Layton glanced at his watch. “And I’d better get to Studio A.” He stubbed his cigarette out in the ash tray. “Enjoyed our chat, Mrs. Grant. Seeing you.”

“Please.” She was quite pale. “You won’t quote me, will you? You promised.”

“I keep my promises,” Layton said. “Relax, Hazel.”

He met no one on his way back to the studio. The big room was still noisy; the newscast had little more than a minute to run. The frightened-looking woman was again in her chair by the door, and she was still looking frightened. So much for my john theory, Layton thought. She was now the sole surviving adult in the studio audience.

He turned at hearing his name called. Lola Arkwright was running toward him. “Seen Tutter anywhere?” she panted.

“No. Wasn’t he with you?”

“Would I be looking for him if he had been?” The girl was biting her lip. “I expected to find, him back in the studio.”

“Did you try his dressing room?”

“He wasn’t there when I stopped by—”

“He wasn’t?” Layton looked at her.

“Please, Mr. Layton! Will you do me a favor, quick?”

“Find him?”

“Yes! I’ll have to stay here and fill in for him if he doesn’t make air time.” She glanced at the big studio clock. It showed twenty-eight seconds to go. She hurried to the bandstand.

Layton ran out into the corridor. The hall lined with dressing rooms was deserted. In the other hall George Hathaway and Chairman of the Board Stander were just going into Hathaway’s office.

Layton strode over to the dressing room numbered 2 and yanked the door open.

The room was empty.

He darted across the corridor to the opposite dressing room, the room numbered 1, intending to work his way from room to room all the way down the hall.

It was not necessary. He found Tutter King in dressing room 1.

The disc jockey was on the floor, sprawled on his back, legs wide, mouth and eyes open. The handle of what appeared to be an ice pick protruded from the left side of chest.

Kneeling, Layton felt for a pulse.

King was dead.

The newspaperman in him took control over his shocked faculties. King was dead, King was dead... but what about the room?

There was nothing about the room. It was a room, a dressing room. I’d make one hell of a detective, Layton thought.

He found himself in the corridor pulling the door to. Then he shook himself like a dog and made for Studio A.

It was back on the air. He eased the studio door open for a narrow look. The bandstand was unoccupied. Camera 1 was focused on the turntable. The redhead, coolly smiling, was talking into a microphone, a record in her hands. Good old Lola minding the store.

Wait till she takes inventory, Layton thought.

He made for Hathaway’s office.

Hazel Grant looked up, startled, when he walked in. She half-rose from her typewriter.

“You can’t go in there, Mr. Layton,” she said quickly. “Mr. Hathaway is busy.”

Layton paid no attention to her. He opened the door marked Private and let it bang against the wall. Behind him the blue-haired secretary was tugging at his jacket.

“Mr. Layton, I told you—”

“All right, Hazel,” George Hathaway said in an annoyed voice. She retreated and Layton shut the door. The station manager was seated behind his desk and the man of distinction, Hubert Stander, was comfortably ensconced in the chair Layton had occupied during his interview. “What is it, Layton? I’m in conference.”