Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense (12 page)

Denton, sitting before the bulb-flanked mirror, removing his makeup, didn't bother to look away from his own reflection. “Come on in, Eddie,” he said softly. “Close the door.”

“Right,” said Eddie. He stepped inside, shut the door, and stood there awkwardly, a tow-headed, hook-nosed, wide-mouthed little comic with a long thin frame and enough nervous mannerisms for twenty people.

Denton made him wait while he removed the rest of his makeup. It was a little after six, and the show had just been taped. Denton wasn't happy with the way the show had gone, and the more he thought about it, the more irritated he got. He finally turned and studied Eddie with a discontented frown. Eddie was still in the Professor costume, still in makeup, his left hand fidgeting at his side. Once, years ago, he'd been in an automobile accident, and his right arm was now weak and nearly useless.

“You were lousy tonight, Eddie,” Denton said calmly. “I can't remember when you've been worse.”

Eddie flushed, and his face worked, trying to hide the quick anger. He didn't say a word.

Denton lit a cigarette, more slowly than necessary, and finally said, “You back on the sauce again, Eddie?”

“You know better than that, Don,” Eddie said indignantly.

“Maybe you just weren't thinking about the show tonight,” Denton suggested. “Maybe you were saving yourself for that Boston date.”

“I did my best, Don,” Eddie insisted. “I worked my tail off.”

“This show comes first, Eddie,” Denton told him. He studied the comic coldly. “You ought to know that,” he said. “Where would you be without this show, Eddie?”

Eddie didn't answer. He didn't have to; they both knew. Though Eddie was only a straight man,
The Don Denton Variety Show
had been his big break.

Still, Denton occasionally let him do a routine of his own, like the Professor bit tonight, and the television exposure had made it possible for Eddie to pick up a weekend nightclub job every once in a while, like the one he had in Boston that coming weekend.

“This show comes first, Eddie,” Denton repeated. “You don't do anything else anywhere until you're doing your job on this show.”

“Don, I—”

“Now, in your contract, you know, I've got to approve any outside booking you take on.”

“Don, you aren't going to—”

“I've been pretty lax about that,” Denton went on, smoothly overriding Eddie's protests. “But now I see what the result is. You start doing second-rate work here, saving yourself for your other jobs.”

“Don, listen—”

“I think,” Denton said, “that you'd better cut out all other jobs until you get up to form here.” He nodded. “Okay, Eddie, that's all. See you at rehearsal Friday morning.” He turned back to the mirror, started unbuttoning his shirt.

Behind him, Eddie fidgeted, ashen-faced. “Don,” he said. “Listen, Don, you don't mean it.”

Denton didn't bother answering.

“Don, look, you don't have to do this, all you have to do is tell me—”

“I just told you,” said Denton.

“Don—listen, listen, what about Boston?”

“What about Boston?”

“I've got a date there this weekend, I—”

“No, you haven't.”

“Don, for God's sake—”

“You'll be rehearsing all weekend. You won't have time to go to Boston.”

“Don, the booking's already been made!”

“So what?”

Eddie's left hand darted and fidgeted, playing the buttons of his shirt like a clarinet. His eyes were wide and hopeless. “Don't do this, Don,” he begged. “For God's sake, don't do this.”

“You've done it to yourself.”

“You dirty louse,
you're
the one who was way off tonight! Just because
you
can't get a laugh that doesn't come off tape—”

“Stop right there.” Denton had risen now and stood glaring at the furious ineffectual comic. “Don't you forget the contract, Eddie,” he said. “Don't you ever forget it. It's still got four and a half years to run. And I can always throw you off the show, cut off your pay, and still hold you to the contract. I can keep you from making a nickel, Eddie boy, and don't you forget it. Unless you'd like to wash dishes for your dough.”

Eddie retreated to the door, obviously not trusting himself to stay in the dressing room any longer. “Don't push it, Don,” he said, his voice trembling. “Don't push it too far.”

“X plus y,” said the heavily-accented voice on the television set, “iz somezing unprrro
noun
ceable!”

Denton blinked, trying to keep his eyes in focus. His sight kept blurring. He stared at the grinning figure on the screen. Eddie Blake? Could it have been Eddie Blake?

He could see the way Eddie might figure it. With Denton out of the way, the contract between them was no longer a problem. And who would be the most likely immediate replacement for Denton on the show? Why, Eddie Blake, of course, who already knew the show. Denton's death, in Eddie's eyes, might be the stepping-stone to top banana.

But Eddie Blake? That weak, ineffectual, fidgety little nothing?

There were new voices coming from the TV now. He stared, trying to make out the picture, and finally saw it was the commercial. A husband and wife, a happy and devoted couple, and the secret of their successful marriage was—of course—their brand of toilet paper.

Successful marriage. He thought of Nancy. And of the writer, Herb Martin.

“I want a divorce, Don.”

He paused in his eating. “No.”

The three of them were at the table together in the Athens Room, Denton and Nancy and Herb. Nancy had said, this afternoon, that she wanted to talk to him about something important, and he had told her it would have to wait until after the show. He didn't want to be made upset by any domestic scenes just before airtime.

Herb now said, “I don't see what good it does you, Don. You obviously don't love Nancy, and she just as obviously doesn't love you. You aren't living together. So what's the sense of it?”

Denton glared sourly at Herb and pointed his fork at Nancy. “She's mine,” he said. “No matter what, she's mine. It'll take a better man than you, buddy, to take anything of mine away from me.”

“I can get a divorce without your consent,” Nancy said. She was a lovely girl, oval face framed by long blonde hair. “I can go to Nevada—”

“Let's put it this way, sweetheart,” Denton interrupted. “If there's any divorce—which there won't be—I'll be the plaintiff. And I won't even have to leave the state. Adultery will do very nicely. And the correspondent, just incidentally, used to be a Commie.”

“How long do you think you can use that threat?” Herb demanded angrily.

“For as long as there's a blacklist, baby,” Denton told him.

“Nineteen thirty-eight—”

“Baby, it doesn't matter
when
you were a Commie, you know that. Now, basically, I like you, Herb; I think you write some fine material. I'd hate to see you thrown out of the industry—”

“Why won't you let us
alone?
” wailed Nancy, and diners at nearby tables looked curiously around.

Denton patted his lips with the napkin and got to his feet. “You've asked your question,” he said, “and I've given you the answer. I don't see any point in discussing it any more than that, do you? Oh, and I know you won't mind paying for your own dinners.”

“Do me a favor,” said Herb. “On your way home, get run over by a cab.”

“Oh, don't joke with him, Herb,” said Nancy, her voice shrill. She was—as usual—on the verge of hysterical tears.

“Who's joking?” said Herb grimly.

“All joking aside, friends,” his voice said, “Dan and Ann are one of the finest dance teams in the country.”

Slumped in the chair, Denton stared desperately at himself on the screen. That little self there on the screen, he could talk, he could move around, he could laugh and clap his palms together. He was alive, and content, not hurt.

Who? Who? Who? Herb or Nancy, or both of them together? He tried to think back, tried to visualize that silhouetted figure again, tried to see in memory whether it had been a man or a woman. But he couldn't tell; it had been only a bulky shape inside an overcoat, only a black shape outlined against the hall light. Inside the overcoat, it could have been as thin as Eddie, as shapely as Nancy, as muscular as Herb, as fat as Morry Stoneman.

Morry Stoneman?

Dan and Ann, one of the poorest dance teams in the country, were stumbling through their act before the cameras. Backstage, fat Morry Stoneman was dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief and saying, “They looked good, Don, honest to God they did. They got all kinds of rave notices on the coast—”

“They're stumblebums,” Denton told him coldly. He glanced out at Dan and Ann. “And I do mean stumble.”

“You approved the act, Don. You gave it the okay.”

“On your say-so, Morry. Or is it
my
fault?”

Morry hesitated, dabbing his face with the handkerchief, looking everywhere but at Denton. “No, Don,” he said finally. “It isn't your fault.”

“How much of a kickback, Morry?”

Morry's face was a white round O of injured innocence. “Don, you don't think—”

“How much are they giving you, Morry?”

The white round O collapsed, mumbled, “Five.”

“Okay, Morry. We'll take that off your percentage.”

“They got rave notices on the coast, Don. I swear to God they did. I can show you the clips.”

Denton brushed that aside, said, “By the way, the five hundred doesn't come off the IOUs, you know that.”

“Don,” cried Morry, “what the hell
difference
does it make? This television business is lousy with money. What difference does it make if I try to promote a couple extra bills for myself?”

“You saw what happened to the quiz shows, you idiot. And to the guys who took money for plugs. And to the guys who took payola.”

“I'm not as dumb as those clowns, Don, I couldn't be.” Morry's left hand held the handkerchief, dab-dab-dabbing at his forehead. His right hand clutched Don Denton's sleeve. “All I'm trying to do,” he said urgently, “is promote some extra cash so I can start paying back those IOUs. You want that money back, don't you?”

“So you can thumb your nose and walk out on me? That'll be the day, Morry.”

“Listen, would I walk out on you? Don, I—”

“You aren't as bright as that chimpanzee, that monkey we had on last week,” Denton snapped. “Don't you think I know you've been trying to get next to that Carlyle dame?”

Injured innocence again. “Who told you a dumb thing like that, Don? I wouldn't—”

“You won't,” Denton interrupted him. “The minute you quit me, those IOUs become payable. So you can just forget Karen Carlyle.”

Canned applause. It was time to go back and give Dan and Ann a big round of applause. Denton jabbed a thumb at the bowing, smiling dancers onstage. “Get them out of here,” he said. “I don't want them around for the final bow.” Then he trotted onstage, ignoring Morry's glare behind him.

He found the right camera and beamed at it. “For our last act tonight.”

T
HE IMAGE ON
the screen told his dying likeness, “We have that wonderful new singer—she's going to have her own show starting in March, you know—Karen
Carlyle!
”

Denton watched his black-and-white self, teeth gleaming, hands beating together. “She wants Morry,” he whispered at that unhearing image. “And Morry wants her.”

Morry? Was it Morry who'd shot him?

Who was it?

The space between himself and the television set seemed to blur and mist, as though a dim fog were rising there. He blinked, blinked, blinked, afraid it was death.

And in the fog, he seemed to see the four who could have done this. Herb and Nancy, directly in front of him, arms around each other, studying him in somber triumph. Eddie Blake, off to the right, his left hand playing his shirt buttons with jittery fingers as he stared at Denton with tentative defiance. And Morry, behind the others and off to the left, stood stocky and unmoving, glaring with frustration and hate.

“Which one of you?” Denton whispered. Fighting back the pain in his chest, he strained forward at them, demanding, willing them to speak, having to know.

And they spoke. “When you are dead,” said Nancy, “I can marry Herb.”

“When you are dead,” said Eddie, “it will be
The Eddie Blake Variety Show
.”

“When you are dead,” said Herb, “so is that blacklist threat.”

“When you are dead,” said Morry, “so are those IOUs. I can make a mint with Karen Carlyle.”

“
Which one of you? Which one of you?
”

The fog shifted and swam; the figures faded. Straining, he could once more see that other figure, the black silhouette framed by the doorway, lit only from behind.

He stared at the silhouette, needing to know, demanding to know which one it had been.

He searched the bulky, shapeless outline, looking for something that would tell him. The remembered outline of the head, the ears, the neck, then the collar of the coat, the—

The ears. He squinted, trying to see, trying to remember, and yes, the ears were outlined plainly, and the four possibilities had just been reduced to three. For Nancy had long blonde hair, curling around her face, covering her ears. It hadn't been Nancy.

Three. It was one of three now, Herb or Eddie or Morry. But which one?

Height. That would help, if he could visualize the figure well enough, if he could see it in relation to the doorframe, the height—Eddie and Herb were both tall; Morry was short. Probably Eddie even seemed taller than he was because he was so thin. But really he was—