“That would be my business, I figure.”
“Are you by any chance taking her to lunch?”
“Are you by any chance bothered about it?”
“No, Parker, not that I know of, though I freely admit that when she sashays up the street every morning I generally peep out the window of my office and keep on peeping. It’s only that your office said you were here, and so it’s my duty to inform you that there’s been a shooting out at the Galloping Domino, and that it’s out past the city limits in the county, and that as a matter of fact a couple of your men have already left for there, and that it’s plainly your duty to go.”
“And that makes you happy?”
“Well, somebody’s got to take this girl to lunch—”
“And it might as well be you, hey?”
“As a matter of the courtesy of the police department, I just thought I’d wait here, and inform her of the unfortunate circumstances that have led to the disappearance of her luncheon pardner, and then, as the least that any gentleman could do, to—”
“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?”