Ричард Деминг - Death Spins the Platter

“That’s good.” Layton said, “because I’ve brought you something to confer about.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tutter King is no more.”

“What?” Hathaway looked perfectly blank.

“I just found him in dressing room 1 with what I think is an ice pick in his heart.”

The two executives of KZZX got to their feet as one man. Hathaway half-turned to his right, then swung back to his left, as if he required reorientation for the route around his desk to the door. Stander was apparently a man of action as well as distinction; he was halfway across the outer office before Hathaway moved.

“And I wouldn’t touch anything,” Layton called after them. He turned to Mrs. Grant; she was back at her desk, staring after Hathaway and Stander.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Layton?”

“Get me the Bulletin,” he said, “and when I’m finished put me through to police headquarters.”

Her face went dead-white.

“I’ll use Hathaway’s phone.”

He could hear her breathing on the extension throughout his report to the city desk. Layton shrugged. She got him the police captain in charge of the Homicide day watch, and this time she hung up. She was standing behind her desk with her hand to her mouth when he ran across the outer office.

Layton had just reached the joint of the L when the door of Studio A opened and Mystery Woman came out He halted abruptly, and so did she.

“Pardon me.” She had a voice that matched the hair, the clothes, and the fear. It was a glossy, expensive-sounding voice, and it was all tightened up with tension.

“Yes?” Layton said.

“I saw you in the studio.” It was almost painful to listen to her. “Are you connected with the King show?”

“Why?”

“I thought you might know what’s wrong.”

“Is something wrong?” Layton said.

“It must be. Mr. King didn’t come back after the intermission. That redheaded girl is doing it all by herself in there. Was he taken ill or something?”

Layton said, “You sound as if you have a personal interest.”

To his surprise, her pale cheeks turned pink. He had forgotten that there were still women who blushed.

“Fan of his?”

“Well... sort of.” He was even more surprised to see her eyes light up, her face turn lively and, in the process, the fear vanish. “I don’t see any reason to keep it a secret any more,” she said defiantly. “I’m Mrs. King.”

“Mrs. King?” His echo of the name sounded stupid even to his ears. “You mean you’re Tutter King’s...?”

“Tutter King’s wife.”

All Layton could think of to say was, “I thought Tut was a bachelor.”

“We’ve been married ten years. Tutter felt it would hurt him with his fans, especially the girls, if they knew he had a wife. I’ve had to be awfully careful.” Recalling the mask of fear she had been carrying around, Layton nodded. Maybe in private life, he thought, the charming Tutter King hadn’t been so charming. “But it doesn’t have to be that way any more. Not after today.” With her face lighted up that way, she was almost beautiful. “Even Tutter said he’d have to go out of circulation till the talk died down. So now I can be Mrs. Tutter King right out loud.”

“Yes, Mrs. King,” Layton said. “Well...”

“But I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” King’s widow rattled on, “a perfect stranger!”

“It’s probably my kind face,” Layton muttered. And just then Hathaway and Stander came hurrying around the corner.

“Oh, Layton,” Hathaway said. His ruddy cheeks had acquired a greenish tint. “He’s dead, all right.”

“Who’s... dead?” the woman asked.

Quite mechanically Hathaway answered, “That damn fool King,” and then he saw her really for the first time. “Who in God’s name is this, Layton?”

“King’s widow,” Layton said; and he caught her just as her legs gave way.

Stander led the parade to the first door beyond the studio and unlocked it. Layton carried the woman in and Hathaway scuttled in behind him. The door said, Chairman of the Board. Stander closed it quickly.

The anteroom looked unused and smelled musty. There was no secretary. The tall gray man opened the inner door to a vast, awesome office with the same look and smell. The desk and board table were bare, the wastebasket empty. The room was dark; the Venetian blinds were closed.

“Better put her on the couch,” the tall gray man said. He shut the inner door, too. “I’ll get some water.” Layton deposited the unconscious woman on a palace-sized tapestried couch that was unpleasantly moist to the touch. Stander opened a lavatory door and went in and they heard water running.

“What is this, a tomb?” Layton grunted as he chafed the woman’s hands. “Open a window, will you?”

Hathaway went over to a window, raised the blind a little, and began struggling. “It’s only used four times a year,” he mumbled. “For the quarterly board meetings.” The window gave with a screech. “His widow,” he said. “I’ll be damned. How long were they married?”

“She said ten years.”

“Here, let me,” Hubert Stander said. He put his arm under her head and applied the edge of a water glass to her lips “Come on now, Mrs. King. Drink this.” He said savagely, “Drink it!”

It slopped all over her chin and dripped onto her dress. She choked and opened her eyes and turned her face violently away.

“What are you trying to do, drown her?” Layton shoved the chairman of the board aside. “She’ll be all right.”

“I’ll be all right,” Mrs. Tutter King said; and then, almost apologetically, she put her hands to her face and began to cry.

Like the kid who’s just been given the doll she’s always wanted, Layton thought, only to have it kicked out of her hands and shatter on the floor.

They waited helplessly, turned away.

“Rough, rough,” Hathaway said in a low voice, shaking his handsome head. “Who would ever have thought he’d take it this way?”

“Take what which way?” Layton said.

“Where have you been?” Chairman of the Board Stander said coldly. “The cancellation of the show, of course.”

“But Mr. Hathaway just said—”

“Do you mean,” the station manager said, staring at him, “you didn’t realize...” Hathaway glanced over at the weeping widow and lowered his voice, “that Tutter committed suicide?”

“Suicide,” Layton said. “Suicide?”

“Certainly!” Hubert Stander said.

“What else could it have been?” Hathaway said.

“Either you two are kidding,” Layton said, “or this is a pretty bad dream.”

Stander seemed to grow taller. “Hathaway tells me you’re a newspaperman. I warn you, Layton — be very careful what you print! King was finished and he knew it. What’s more, he knew he’d brought it all on his own head. He couldn’t face the disgrace or the ruin of his career—”

“So he took the easy way out,” Hathaway said excitedly.

Layton eyed them with total incredulity. “You mean like those old-time Spartans, or Romans, or whoever the hell they were — he drew his ice pick and fell on it?” The two executives reddened. “After announcing on the air that he’d make an important statement at the end of his show — but before he could make it?”

“The show,” Hathaway muttered. “My God, the show.” He seemed almost grateful for the opportunity Layton had given him to change the subject. “Lola — she’s got to be told Tutter’s not coming back — to finish the show herself—” He made for the door.

“Don’t tell her why, George,” Stander called after him. “We can’t have her going to pieces on the air!” He smacked his forehead suddenly. “The police. We forgot to notify the police—”