Framed in Guilt, page 8
"It's your funeral, Tonto," the intern grinned. "But maybe you'll do okay at that."
Stanton, the big Indian and Patton walked slowly down the trail to the road−end trailing a tail of whispers. "That's Robert Stanton, the writer...That's the fellow who was supposed to have been in the cabin...Sure you've heard of him. He's the man the police picked up the other night accused of murdering English girl."
It was almost nine when they reached the ranch. Stanton phoned Manson's office immediately, told him the script was completed and asked him to send a studio messenger out to the ranch for it. Manson said he would be pleased to. The producer evidently hadn't heard of the fire and Station didn't bother to tell him the story. He was too much in need of sleep.
Patton took his departure shortly. "I have some scouting around to do but I'll be here when you wake up. I'd like to lay out a plan of action. I traded a tip on that bottle you told me about for the information that when Kelly and Swen went to pick up Hale yesterday someone had tipped him they were coming and he took a powder. However, using some of my own wires, I have found out that on occasion he works as a stick−man for Rodney Childs. It may just be Childs can tell us something about him if we drive out there tonight. Does that sound all right to you?"
Stanton said it did, refused to eat the eggs Marta insisted on preparing for him, drank the orange juice on the tray, then, after bathing his bruised body, stretched out on his bed. His eyes almost closed in sleep, he thought of his promise to Joy and dialed her number. Beulah said she was still asleep but offered to awaken her.
"That won't be necessary, Beulah," Stanton said. "Just tell her our date is still on for tonight and I said for her to wear something particularly sinful as we may drop out to Rodney Childs' place and give the wheels a whirl."
"I'll do that, Mr. Stanton," Beulah chuckled. "I'll tell her the very first thing when she wakes up. She going to be pleased you called."
Stanton's own sleep was heavy but troubled and peopled by faintly familiar faces peering at him through flaming veils. But every time he was about to recognize a face it faded back into the fire. With the cool of late afternoon the fires and the faces faded and when the tinkle of one of the phones on his bed table awakened him at five o'clock it interrupted an au naturel swim he and Joy were enjoying in a cool green bottomless pool.
"Robert Stanton speaking," he said into the mouthpiece.
It was Marty Manson on the wire. The producer raved for a full ten minutes about the script. It was, he said, the best thing that Stanton had ever done. He and J.V. had spent the day reading it and J.V. would probably phone him later. "I knew you would come through, Bob."
"That's more than I did," Stanton said. "Well, thanks for liking it. And thanks for calling, Marty."
He had barely hung up the one phone when the house phone tinkled. It was Hi Lo this time. "I put Marty through because I think you'd better get up, Bob," he said. "Inspector Treech is here and he's been here most of the afternoon."
"What's new with him?"
"The bottle Marta gave to the phony detective. He's trying to find out who he was and where the bottle fits in."
As he dressed Stanton was suddenly ravenously hungry and he realized the last meal he had eaten was a cold can of beans almost twenty−four hours before. Seeing the table was set in the patio, he walked out and sat down. Inspector Treech, examining the big Palomino stud in the box stall, saw him leave his room and walking back to the table he sat down across from Stanton.
"You live here now?" Stanton asked politely.
Treech shook his head. "No. I still live in the same place. I just dropped in to get a little information about a bottle. You wouldn't know anything about it, I suppose?"
"Not what happened to it. I remember seeing it on the floor and being horrified by the thought I must be turning into a secret drinker who took bottles to bed with him. And I mean that. Hi Lo said it was pinch bottle. But, as I recall it, it was dimpled bottle Scotch."
"The same brand that you drink?"
"Not me. I'm strictly a rum and rye man."
Marta brought a silver pot of coffee and a tray heavy with eggs, pork sausage, toast, and hash−fried potatoes. "Now eat, Mr. Stanton," she urged.
Stanton noted her eyes were red−rimmed as if she had been crying and looked angrily at Treech. "What have they been doing to you, Marta?"
She tried to smile. "Not a thing, Mr. Stanton. Just showing me some pictures." She pressed the heels of her palms to her forehead, then thrust them out in a short−armed gesture. "But I am such a dumkopf when it comes to faces. He was shorter as I am. He was polite. This is all I know."
Treech took a handful of pictures from his pocket and spread them on the table in front of Stanton. "These are the ones I showed her."
There was a picture of Ed Wilcox, one of Johnny Hass, Shad Hanson, Lou Saunders, Lyle Ferris, and a ferret−faced youth he didn't know. "Who's he?" Stanton asked.
"His name is Hale, Arthur Hale," Treech answered. "He is the lad who, according to London and the immigration authorities, Miss Turner thought she was going to marry."
"And Marta picked his picture?"
"No She either couldn't or wouldn't put the finger on any of them." Inspector Treech sorted Shad Hanson's picture from the others. "The nearest thing to an identification I could get from her was an admission that Shad looked 'something' like the man as she remembered him. Gieger has gone for him now. They should be here any minute."
"How nice," Stanton enthused. "I'll tell Marta to set two extra places for dinner."
Hi Lo came out on the patio carrying a portable phone. He set it at Stanton's elbow, plugged it into its socket, then salaamed to the phone three times. "Pharaoh is calling, my lord. But he refuses to state whether Birnam Wood has come to Dunsinane or whether the plasterers working on the pyramids are asking for time−and−a−half for overtime and double−time on Sundays."
J.V. was far more modest in his praise than Manson but he said he had glanced through the script and the dialogue seemed to be up to par. What he chiefly wanted to know was whether it was historically correct? Was there ever an authenticated instance where a wealthy French nobleman of that period, sailing under a Letter of Marque, whatever the hell that was, had fallen in love with a penniless indentured bond−maiden.
"Dozens of instances, Mr. Mercer," Stanton lied glibly. "Naturally, I did a lot of research."
"Naturally," J.V. agreed. "Well, I guess we'll shoot it. Costume pictures are hot right now." He still sounded a trifle dubious as he hung up.
Hi Lo unplugged the phone and asked Stanton if he wanted to see Lou Saunders. "He says he wants a statement from you on the fire."
Stanton poured a fresh cup of coffee. "Why not? The more the merrier. But whatever you do, don't forget to remind me I have a date with Joy tonight. If I stand her up just once more I'll lose out with her completely."
Hi Lo said he wouldn't forget and returned to the living room.
Inspector Treech was almost sympathetic. "This sort of thing, I mean phone calls and interruptions while you are eating, goes on all the time?"
"A good share of it," Stanton said. "That's why I have—" He corrected himself. "That's why I had a, hide−out."
Saunders rounded the corner of the house. "What's the idea of locking the front gate? You afraid someone is going to steal you?"
Stanton said he hadn't known it was locked.
"Well, it is. And Hi Lo has Eddie doing guard duty with a shotgun. You have to state your name and business. Then he goes into the living room and confers with Hi Lo before he'll open up."
"I'm glad to hear it," Stanton said. "Someone tried to scrag me this morning."
Inspector Treech looked thoughtfully at the end of his cigar. Saunders said, "That's what I want to talk to you about."
Stanton told him the story in detail. When he had finished, the reporter looked at Treech. "What do you think of that yarn, Inspector?"
"Not much," Treech admitted.
"I lean the same way," Saunders said. "To put it mildly, in one of my famous coast−to−coast relished gems of understatement, it sounds highly improbable. Why should anyone want to knock you off?"
"Why should anyone want to frame me for murder?"
Before Stanton could say more, Sergeant Gieger rounded the corner of the house with Hanson. The lawyer was smiling and seemingly unperturbed. He nodded cordially to Stanton. "A nice place you have here, Mr. Stanton. I've heard a lot about it but what I heard didn't do it justice."
Treech took the cigar from his mouth. "You've never been here before, I suppose?"
"No. I have never had that honor."
"Get the housekeeper," Treech ordered Gieger. "I want her to take a look at this guy."
"I seem to have come at the right time," Saunders said. "Don't be coy. Put out. What gives here, Inspector?"
"Just checking a theory of mine."
Gieger returned with Marta. Her hands were floured to the wrists. She wiped them with a towel as she looked from Inspector Treech to her employer. "la. You want Marta?"
Indicating Gieger, Inspector Treech asked her, "Is this the man who posed as a detective, Marta? Is this the man to whom you gave the bottle?"
"No," she said scornfully. "He is real detective. He show me his badge in kitchen and is different from other man's. His was like star with little round balls on the end."
"Probably a sheriff's posse star," Gieger said. "Those riding−club guys are always losing their buzzers. Besides, you can buy one almost anywhere."
Treech pointed at Hanson. "How about this man, Marta? Is he the man you gave the bottle to?"
Indecision patent in her eyes, Marta studied Hanson's face.
Inspector Treech jabbed Hanson's thigh with his thumb. "Say something."
"Hi, baby," Hanson said.
Marta shook her head. "No. Other man is polite. He is not call me baby. Besides I think is fatter in the cheeks and wear not such nice clothes, also a derby hat." She seemed on the verge of tears.
Stanton got to his feet, furious. "Damn it, Treech," he shouted, "leave her alone. You either stop badgering Marta or Inspector or no Inspector I'll punch your teeth down your throat."
"Okay. That's all, Marta," Inspector Treech admitted defeat. "And that's all for you, Hanson. For now."
Marta fled to her kitchen. Hanson stood his ground. Then, looking at Saunders and Stanton he asked, "I wonder if one of you gentlemen would enlighten me. Just what is this about?"
"A bottle," Stanton said. "You know. Bottle bottle. Who has the bottle?"
Saunders put down his cup. "Well, who has?" he asked cheerfully. "Did I say no to a drink? I much prefer whiskey to coffee."
Looking at Hanson, Treech jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Scram." He added to Gieger, "Take it back wherever you picked it up."
Smirking, Hanson left with Gieger. Stanton got a bottle of whiskey and set it at Saunders' elbow. "From me to you. Go ahead. Drink yourself into a stupor, Lou. I read the papers while I was dressing and you're the only newsman in L.A. who is giving me a break."
"I don't see how you could have killed the girl."
Inspector Treech said, "I do. I thought from the first you were guilty, Stanton. Then, after Manson told his story, I didn't see how you could be. Now I think I know how it was done."
"You mean you think Marty lied for me?"
"No. Except for a small variation in time, Mr. Manson's story checks in every detail. But facts are facts. The dead girl seems to have been otherwise romantically inclined but it was you whom she phoned. It was you she asked to meet her at midnight or she would blow her top. But how do we know it was midnight when you met her? How do we know you didn't contact her that afternoon and set the time up an hour? We have only a known blackmailer's word it was midnight when she got into a car driven by a man. And between the time the dead girl's picture was printed in the papers and Hanson came forward to identify her he had plenty of time to contact you and for the two of you to get together on your stories."
Saunders said, "I still don't see how he could have killed the girl."
Treech told him. "He was supposed to meet the girl at mid−night. He met her at eleven instead and killed her shortly thereafter. The M.E. says there was little but alcohol in her stomach and he could easily be off an hour on his original estimate as to the time of death. After shooting her somewhere along the Strip where the shots would pass as backfires, he put her into the trunk of his car and drove on to Sherry's where he was reasonably certain there would be someone he knew. There was. Mr. and Mrs. Manson came in. Mr. Manson fell for his drunk act. He liked Stanton. He wanted the scenario for the new picture. He didn't want him to get into trouble. So like a good Samaritan, and just as Stanton had reasoned someone would, Manson brought him out here in his own car and dumped Stanton on his bed, giving him an almost foolproof alibi for the hour he was supposed to meet Miss Turner. All Stanton had to do after that was to wait until Manson had gone, sneak out of the house, take a cab back to where he had parked his car, drive home via the canyon road, stop to dump the girl's body over the summit, roar in here at four o'clock, go to bed, and then pretend he had been so drunk he didn't remember a thing that happened. But, unfortunately, for him, Shad Hanson saw the girl enter his car an hour earlier than she was supposed to."
"It sounds, Inspector," the reporter admitted. "You give me a motive and I'll buy it."
"I can't, yet," Treech said. "But I think I'll be able to after I talk to this lad Hale. If the Turner dame had something on Stanton, and it is obvious she did, she undoubtedly told her boyfriend all about it."
Stanton lighted a cigarette with fingers that shook slightly despite his effort to control them. "You're crazy, Treech. You're out of your mind. I suppose I slugged myself and set that fire this morning?"
"That is just what I do think," Inspector Treech said coldly.
"And the bottle?"
Inspector Treech was truthful. "I don't know where the bottle comes in. It could be a red herring. Or it could be a slip on your part. It could be it had the girl's fingerprints on it and after you were arrested you thought of it and had Hanson come out here or send someone to pick it up before we got our hands on it. Naturally Shad wouldn't want to lose his golden goose." Treech snuffed his cigar in a saucer and got to his feet, "Well, that's all for now, Mr. Stanton. I just wanted to see you and Hanson together. And Hanson was so scared his knees were shaking. I could arrest you but there wouldn't be much sense in that until I dig up the motive. Goetz would spring you on some technicality. And the next time I get you in back of bars I mean to keep you there. Good night. Pleasant dreams."
Stanton half expected Saunders to follow the detective. The reporter sat fondling the bottle instead. "A motive," he said finally. "That's all it needs, a motive. And what a story."
Stanton continued to try to eat but his food was cold and sawdust in his mouth. His mouth was dry. His hands and cheeks were feverish. He had never felt so futile or so helpless. Each new facet of the case merely added another stone to the wall against which he was beating his head. Even Lou thought he was guilty. He could tell by the way the other man refused to meet his eyes.
Chapter 6
THE MAN in the booking office was kind and very helpful. Everyone had been kind. Everyone had been simply splendid. Finished with the fitting in of forms and stamping and tearing of perforated papers, the man told Eve carefully, "And there, you are. Second−class cabin from Southampton on the Moravia. You sail the morning of the second."
Robin, standing stiffly beside his mother, almost breathless with the wonder of it, unbent to hug Winston Churchill with all the strength of his six years. "You hear that?" he whispered. "You and Mother and I are going to the States." He added, "On a big ship with real live sailors."
The dog, inured to such ardent affection, yawned. It was hot and stuffy in the office. He looked wistfully out the window at the street. Then, as his mistress moved back from the counter to put the papers in her purse, he gently disentangled his neck from Robin's arms and padding a step closer to Eve stood, protectively, against her skirt....
There was some fog in the canyon, a lot of fog on the coast road, but none in Beverly Hills. Talking to Hanson, attempting to bluff the truth out of him had been Patton's idea. But Hanson hadn't been in his suite at the Hollywood−Highland Hotel. The clerk thought he might be at his newly purchased Malibu Hills home but the lawyer hadn't been there either although a Japanese house boy said he was expecting him later.
"I wonder," Hi Lo asked, "just when he bought that classy joint?"
Patton said, "I'll check the real estate transfer in the morning but the clerk said Shad had been contemplating such a purchase for some time. He probably bought it completely furnished."
The weather, for the time of year, continued warm but it was cooler near the coast than it had been in the
