Джеймс Кейн - Sinful Woman

“You just thought it all wrong.”

“I’m willing to bet—”

“This is how it’s going to be: I left my car down to my office, not expecting to need it, and now, unfortunately and alas, I got no way to get out to the Domino without I commandeer the first car I can get. So as I see your car sitting out front, I hereby deputize you to do the job. This man can inform the young lady.”

Driving out, the Sheriff learned more of the details. The call had come first to one of the hospitals, which had sent an ambulance, with interne and orderlies. When the doctor had found the victim was dead, he had called the city police, mistakenly supposing the Domino to be within their authority; they had rung the Sheriff’s office, relaying the facts and offering whatever help might be needed. The Chief Deputy, after asking the loan of police photographers, had dispatched his own motorcycle officers, called the Coroner and police magistrate who also served as marrying justice, and also an undertaker. In addition to their photographers, the city police had sent a brace of uniformed patrolmen, in a patrol car, to put themselves at the disposal of the Sheriff. So that when he and Mr. Britten turned in at the Domino, there was quite an array of official cars and motorcycles, to say nothing of an ambulance and an undertaker’s truck.

At the door, a state policeman met them, and after saluting the Sheriff said: “We closed him down, pending and until. Such a mob jammed in here as soon as the radio give it out, on account of this picture actress, that—”

“On account of who? ”

“Sylvia Shoreham. It’s her husband that got it, and from the way they’ve been piling in here you’d think—” He broke off, marched out to the gate, and held up his hand to a car full of boys that was turning in. “Just keep right on. Keep right on and don’t stop. This is not no cow-roping contest. I said beat it.”

The boys drove off, and the officer led the way inside. To the Sheriff, Mr. Britten said: “Lucky, wasn’t it, that I didn’t stick around to take the young lady to lunch?”

“Was, kind of.”

“Things generally turn out right.”

Inside, a white, tight-lipped Tony awaited them, and took them into the office where the police, Mr. Flynn and one other deputy, the Coroner, an undertaker, a doctor in white uniform, and two orderlies crowded back against the wall while two photographers took pictures. The late Baron Adlerkreutz was not lying as he had been a short time before, when he was an unseen presence behind the desk while Dmitri and Tony had their desperate argument. Now he lay in the middle of the floor, beside a few crimson drops on the linoleum carpet, the gun at his side, a tan silk handkerchief knotted in the trigger, and a white silk handkerchief knotted in the tan silk handkerchief, and fastened around his leg. Near him, and seeming to enclose him, were two ashtrays, two chairs, and the water cooler, on top of which was an electric fan. The Sheriff walked over, bent down, and peered. To Mr. Flynn, the Chief Deputy, who walked over close, he mumbled: “What’s the idea of the handkerchiefs?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out. They’d been having some kind of an argument about a picture scene.”

“Who was having the argument?”

“The picture men. He was a producer.”

“They here?”

“In the bar.”

“Bring them in.”

“If you’ll take a tip from me, you’ll talk to them where they are. Two of them are all right, but one of them, the one that seems to be boss, he didn’t do so good in presence of the body. He kind of cracked up. He—”

“O. K.”

Motioning Tony, Mr. Britten, the Coroner, the undertaker, the doctor, police and deputies to follow him, the Sheriff led the way into the bar, now deserted except for Mr. La Bouche, Benny, and Dmitri, who sat huddled at a table, and an officer who sat reading a paper. Mr. La Bouche jumped up and began arranging chairs, to be assisted at once by Benny; but Dmitri sat where he was, huddled in the posture of a man having a chill, and watching in some sort of oblique way, as though his nose were a side-vision mirror in which he could see what was going on. Tony made brief introductions, sat down, looked at his finger nails a moment, then said: “All right. Get going.”

Dmitri drew a long, trembling breath. He said: “Sharf, Excellenz, I hope you don’t take it personal I feel so upset.”

“Not at all, pardner. Now shoot.”

“Yes, quite so. We came here last night, me, my production manager, Mr. La Bouche, and my special writer, Mr. Benny Zitt.”

“These guys?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“We came to talk about a moving picture. You heard of me, yes? I’m Dmitri Spiro, president Phoenix Pictures, strictly class product, make only the best. We came to see our star, Miss Sylvia Shoreham, and talk about a picture. She was to get a divorce today, it meant a new start. Vicki was her husband, but all are good friends, fine friends — friendly friends.”

“Get to the shooting.”

“We talked about the picture, and there was one scene Miss Shoreham, she didn’t like. She is girl in prison, and had to shoot another girl, and didn’t like. She said, Dimmy, is impossible. She said, Dimmy, my public will not let me do this thing. Then she walked by the river to cool off.”

“Was it hot?”

“She was sore.”

“What then?”

“So then Benny, he had an idea. He said, Mr. Spiro, she shoots the other girl, but it’s accident! She finds the gun, she hides the gun, she puts the gun under the bed, but has no bad conscience gegen other girl. But the other girl sees the gun, gets the wrong idea. So they straggle! The straggle like in Destry Rides Again, only better. Then the gun goes off. It’s accident, but who’ll believe it? But, Vicki, the Baron Adlerkreutz, he said, ‘Yes, Dimmy, but out in the audience, how do we know it’s accident?’ Then Mr. La Bouche here, he said: ‘I show you, Vicki. It is so simple, you laugh. But wait a minute, I have to have a gun, or you won’t believe it.’ So we go to Tony, ask plizze may we borrow gun?”

The Sheriff looked at Tony, who licked his lips and said: “I keep seven guns out here, on account of our heavy stock of cash, four rifles and three pistols, all registered to me and all under permits I got on file. I didn’t want to lend them any gun. I don’t want to lend anybody a gun ever. But they were friends of Miss Shoreham’s, and she’d been such a good customer and all, and they acted like it was important, so I took out the clip and handed over the automatic I keep in the desk.”

“If you took out the clip—”

“I must have forgot the shell in the barrel.”

“Pretty careless you’re getting.”

“Sheriff, if Mr. Spiro feels upset, I feel it double, because I ought never to have lent the gun in the first place. I thought I threw the ejector and snapped the trigger, that’s all I can say; but a wholesaler’s man was waiting for me out back and—”

The Sheriff nodded at Dmitri, who went on: “And so, Bushy, he showed Vicki how we can do the scene, so Sylvia will love it. He say ‘Vicki, girls fight till dresses are torn to rags, and maybe Sylwia don’t look good in a scene where her dress is all torn off. So one piece of the dress, one piece of the other girl’s dress, catches in the gun — the trigger. We cut in, show the dress caught in the trigger, but the girls don’t see it. So, Sylvia almost has the gun. She twists the gun from the other girl’s hand, but oh! — oh! — oh! — oh! People see the piece of the torn dress pull tighter, tighter, tighter — and boom! The gun goes off, and there is the other girl dead on the floor. So we tie one henadkerchief to Vicki’s leg, one to the gun tryger, tie the henadkerchiefs together. Vicki takes the gun, I grab it, twist his hand. Bushy, he stands by the camera, which was an electric fan on the water cooler. Bushy, he say, ‘come around slow now, so it’s in close to the camera.’ So we come around slow, handkerchiefs tighten, Vicki say, ‘Ah yes, I see now, is very good, yes, yes — come up very slow’ — and boom! There was Vicki on the floor, and I can’t believe it. I say ‘Vicki, Vicki, speak to me.’ I say—”