George Axelrod: Blackmailer

“Walter,” I began.

“You’re just in time. We’re going to turn out all the lights. I’ve called downstairs and they are going to pull the master switch. That’s the only fair way.”

“Walter, listen. I want to talk to you.”

“Afterward, Richard. As a matter of fact, I want to talk to you. We’ll have brandy together upstairs. But the lights are going out any second!”

“Why are the lights going out? What are you talking about?”

“We’re going to play ring-a-leveo,” Walter said. “Someone said this house would be a wonderful place to play ring-a-leveo, so we’re going to play. To make it absolutely fair we’re going to turn out all the lights. Let me get you a partner.”

“Walter, my God, this is important.”

Walter reached out and caught the arm of a dark, exotic-looking girl who was starting past us out the door.

For the second time in a week my first thought when I saw her was, What a beautiful girl.

“Janis, dear,” Walter was saying. “This is Richard Sherman. He’s your partner and I want you to take good care of him. Richard has been dying to meet you all evening. He’s a fan of yours.”

“Hello, Dick,” Janis Whitney said.

“Her picture opens at the Music Hall this week,” Walter said. “It’s going to be ghastly, of course. But she’ll be divine.”

I tried to get hold of Walter’s arm but he was already moving away. “Ready! Everyone ready!” he was shouting. “The lights will be out for exactly twenty minutes!”

I turned to Janis. She was smiling. “Excuse me a minute,” I said. I turned angrily away and headed after Walter. From the corridor I could hear the wheezing sound of the elevator.

The elevator was coming down from one of the upper floors. It was moving slowly and through the open grillework I could see the single passenger.

“Jean! Jean Dahl!” I shouted.

She was wearing a dark skirt. My jacket was still around her shoulders.

She heard me and her mouth opened.

Then, the lights went out.

The entire house was pitch black.

The place was in pandemonium. Laughter, excited shrieks from the young ladies, and Walter’s silly, high-pitched giggle.

I started down the corridor toward the stairs on a dead run, and fell over a small table.

Janis Whitney had me by the arm and was pulling me to my feet.

“Wait a minute, Dick, Walter said we were supposed to be partners or something,” Janis Whitney said. Her appearance had suggested something mysterious, foreign. You might have guessed that she was from one of the Balkan countries and you would have expected her to speak with a trace of some interesting accent.

Her accent was interesting. It was pure southern Texas, only slightly modified by a studio diction teacher.

“That girl in the elevator-I’ve got to get to her,” I said.

“She’s not going anywhere,” Janis Whitney said. “The power is off. That elevator’s not moving. And Walter’s supposed to be guarding the stairs. The stairs are out of bounds. Come on now. We’re partners.”

“What are we supposed to do?” I asked desperately.

“Hunt for people-I think,” Janis Whitney said. “I was in the ladies’ room when they were explaining the rules. But I think the idea is you hunt for people. Or they hunt for you. I’m not very good at these games.”

“Oh, my God,” I said.

I shook myself loose from Janis Whitney and started down the corridor in the dark.

There was much noise and laughter and the sound of people scurrying around in the dark.

I reached in my pocket, found a match, and lit it.

“No fair! No fair!” a girl screamed, and slapped the match out of my hand.

It was pitch black.

I moved quickly down the corridor to the elevator. It was stopped and the gate was open.

In the distance I heard Walter’s voice.

“No one goes downstairs. Downstairs is off limits!”

Apparently someone was giving him trouble. Someone wanted to get down those stairs. I had a pretty good idea who it might be.

The stairs were wide and curving. They swooped down into the hall on the opposite side from the elevator.

A few yards away I heard the sound of a scuffle and Walter’s voice saying, “Now, really! Now, really!”

I followed her, taking the steps three at a time. I don’t know how I avoided breaking my neck.

“Jean,” I called. “Damn it, I’ve got to talk to you.”

As I figured, she was headed straight for the front door. But as I hadn’t figured, the door was locked. She hadn’t figured it either. I heard her swear and then I reached out and caught her wrist.

“All right,” I said. “Let’s talk.”

“You’re hurting my wrist, baby,” Jean Dahl said.

“Well, stop wriggling then,” I said. “You’re pretty lively for someone who was out cold an hour ago. Come on!”

I dragged her across the hall and through a door. I kept us moving, bumping into things as we went but still moving. We were both breathing hard.

“O.K.,” I said. “I guess this is all right.”

I was still holding her by the wrist. I dug into my pocket and found my lighter. I snapped it on. It threw a tiny beam of light. I held it up close to her face. She looked terrible.

Her blonde hair was disheveled and she was very pale.

“Somebody slugged me,” I said. “I want to know who it was.”

“Jay Jostyn. Mr. District Attorney. Don’t you ever give up?”

It was the cold, nasty, derisive voice. And this time it was right at my elbow.

I jumped and then my lighter went out.

The man with the voice had a light of his own.

A flashlight.

He poked the beam into my face and I blinked, completely blinded. I let go of Jean Dahl’s wrist. “What do you want?” I said.

The light was hitting me in the face and my mouth was dry.

From behind the blinding light the voice said, “Don’t get mixed up in this, I told you. Mind your own business, I said. Have you noticed, there’s some people you can’t tell them anything. Right away they know it all. Give me the gun.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“The gun,” he said. “In your pants pocket. It makes an unsightly bulge.”

I was a hero, all right. I’d forgotten I had the gun.

I tried to get the gun out of my pocket, but it stuck. It didn’t fit the pocket very well. I couldn’t get it out.

“Wild Bill Hickok,” he said. “Quick on the draw.”

Along with everything else, it was embarrassing. Standing there with the light in my face, trying to get the gun out of my pocket.

“Take my advice,” he said, “avoid the far West. Stay out of gun fights. You have no talent for it.”

My pocket tore and the gun came out. I had my finger on the trigger. It clicked.

“Roy Rogers,” he said. “It’s lucky you got a safety catch. A man could lose a toe. Innocent bystanders could be shot down.”

After that, everything happened very fast.

First came the sound of a crash.

Then the flashlight fell to the ground and went out.

I felt someone grab my hand. “Come on, baby,” I said. I shoved the gun back in my pocket and, holding hands, we moved rapidly through the dark rooms. “What did you hit him with?” I asked, panting. “A lamp?”

But she was too winded to answer.

We kept moving, putting distance between us and the man with the voice who was likely to recover from his lamp, or whatever it was, to the head at any minute.

When it seemed we had gone a safe distance, I stopped suddenly and twisted her arm around behind her. Not hurting her yet, but holding it up tight where I could hurt her very easily if I wanted to.

She gasped.

“Shut up,” I said. “Shut up and listen.”