Stuart Kaminsky - Bullet for a Star

“Who’s sick at Warner’s?” he said, “Some star?”

“Who’s your favorite star?”

“Cagney,” he said. “Saw him last night at the Warner Theater downtown. You know how many times he’s played a cabbie?”

“No,” I said. The cab turned a corner and threw me against the door.

“Lots,” said the chubby cab driver. “Is he hurt?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve got to get there for an emergency operation.”

“Shit,” said the cabbie, and we jumped ahead. He was going to be part of saving Jimmy Cagney, friend to the cabbie.

“Pull right up to the gate,” I said, as we shot down the street. He did.

“I’m Doctor Gillespie,” I told the guard at the gate. “I just got a call. James Cagney has been injured.”

The guard was a lot sharper than the cabbie.

“Cagney went home hours ago,” he said.

“I don’t care,” I shouted. “He must have come back through the other gate. Now do you want to be responsible for serious injury to James Cagney?”

“I’ll have to call,” the guard said. “No one told me about this.” He looked at me and the fat cab driver suspiciously and moved for the phone.

“That man is endangering the life of James Cagney,” I said angrily to the cab driver. “I’ve got to get to my patient. Stop that guard if he tries to interfere.”

The cab driver was confused, but he got out of the cab. I got out on the other side and moved into the lot.

“Hey, wait,” shouted the guard, dropping the phone and taking a step toward me. He was an average-sized guy. The cabbie was a head shorter, about Cagney’s height and eighty pounds heavier than his favorite actor. The cabbie got a bear hug on the guard.

I turned a corner as soon as I could. Behind me I could hear the guard shouting at the cabbie:

“What the hell are you doing, you goddamn nut!”

My killer was on this lot, and I had about fifteen minutes to find him before he made his way to Flynn. On a good day, in top condition, I could have made the rounds of all the buildings in half an hour, running at top speed. I had come close to it a few times when I worked at the studio.

Knowing the studio was the only edge I had. I knew about where to find my killer, but I was weak and getting weaker. I had to lean against a building and think. Even if I found him I wasn’t sure what I could do in my condition, but a few ideas were coming.

The studio was dark except for the night lights. Some of the offices and editing rooms had lights on, but at a few minutes to midnight, it was nothing like it had been at noon.

My head cleared, and I tried to figure the route, to make it as easy on myself as I could. I tried five buildings and a few stages. I struck it rich-or poor-in ten minutes. There was a light on in the stage where I had talked to Edward G. Robinson and Peter Lorre. It was the same light I had followed when I met Lorre, and he gave me the suggestion that had proved to be right.

Slowly and quietly I moved over and through the equipment and darkness to the office of Spade and Archer. There was a light on in the set, a single small light, but enough for me to see Spade’s desk.

There was a man at the desk opening a drawer. As silently as I could, I moved to the sofa in Spade’s office and sat, just as I was about to collapse. The man at the desk was so busy that he didn’t hear me.

He was my killer and I greeted him. We were old friends.

“Hello, Hatch,” I said softly.

Hatch jumped about a foot.

“Toby, what are you doing here?” His voice was friendly, but he knew something was in the air.

“I used to run the midnight check,” I said. “I had a pretty good idea of what your route would be. I wanted to catch you before you went off duty.”

Hatch stood up, his bulk blocking out the light behind him. He was a dark mass in front of me. I thought about my friendly inkwell, but I fought it off.

“Why did you want to catch me?” he said. “Mr. Adelman told me about Mr. Flynn. I was going to head there as soon as I finished. He’d be …”

“Dead within ten minutes of your getting to him,” I said.

“Dead? Mr. Flynn? Me?”

He took a step toward me.

“Right. You want to go over the whole thing, Hatch, so we can decide what we’re going to tell the cops, or do you go on screwing things up.”

He stood over me. I still couldn’t see his face, but I could bet he was holding onto the friendly uncle grin.

“Toby, you look sick. Let me get you to a doctor.”

He reached a big arm down to me, and I could feel his fingers dig into my remaining good shoulder.

“Forget it, Hatch, it’s all over.” I twisted away from him. “Brenda tried to kill me tonight. She missed. She’s not as good a shot as you, but then you were shooting at men at close range, except for Flynn, and you missed him.”

“Toby …”

“Shit, Hatch, I knew as soon as I saw the photograph in Brenda’s room, the family photograph. You’re Harry Beaumont’s old man, and Lynn is your granddaughter.”

“Well, yes,” he stammered, “but …”

“But you killed your own son.” I had to keep him off balance. Maybe I could get him as weak emotionally as I was physically.

Hatch gave in. He moved back to the desk and sat. His big hand went to his face and pushed his guard’s cap back. The light was still behind him. His voice sounded as if he might be sobbing.

“He deserved it, Toby, believe me, he deserved it. He was going to use that negative, his own daughter …”

“Take it from the beginning, Hatch,” I said. “All I have is a rough cut. You give me the final edit.”

His body heaved like a great whale, and he talked softly, moving from anger to tears:

“Harry got me this job years ago when he started to move up, but he didn’t want anyone to know I was his father. He was right. Everything was fine. I’d visit the family. I love that girl, Toby. Lynn is a wonderful girl.”

“Well, when Harry saw that picture of Flynn and my granddaughter, he came to me and told me about it, told me about the exchange for the negative.”

“I was waiting for you when you got there. I walked in behind you. Cunningham recognized me. I had seen him plenty of times at the gate. I had to hit you, to get the negative and the picture. I didn’t want to kill you.”

I let that pass. There were a few things he was going to juggle, but they weren’t important. He sure as hell had tried to kill me when he shot his son.

“I hit you,” Hatch continued, “and then grabbed Cunningham and took the negative. He found your gun on the floor where it fell. I grabbed it from him and shot him. I wasn’t sorry.

“I brought the gun, the money, the negative and the print you had to Harry. He said I’d been stupid, and he took them; but I had a good look at the negative.”

“You believed it,” I helped him. “That’s why you took a shot at Flynn the next morning. Hatch, for all the good it will do you, Lynn was never with Errol Flynn or anyone else. The picture was a fake.”

The sob was clear and real.

“No need to lie to me, Toby. It’s too late.”

“No lie, Hatch. Why didn’t you just ask the girl?” She would have told you.”

He stood up angrily.

“How could I ask her a thing like that? I love that girl.”

“What about the boys who came to get the piece of picture from me?” I went on, trying to keep him talking.

“That was Brenda’s idea. I told her about Delamater. I didn’t like it, but …”

“And your son?”

“Harry,” he sighed. “Harry tried to blackmail both Brenda and the studio with the negative. After she left the house yesterday, she called me. When he came on the lot this morning, I tried to talk to him, to get the negative, but he wouldn’t give it.