RED, HOT, & HUNTED

I

Murder Role

My back was pushing against the door, but the doorway was shallow and the yellow glow of the street light across the way caught me full in the face.

Adrian Carr saw me; he stopped theatrically. Everything Adrian Carr does he does theatrically. Adrian has never spoken a line on stage, but he has more ham in him than any odd dozen of the actors he hires. And more money than the hundred most successful actors in the business, if there are that many successful actors on the legitimate stage.

His eyebrows went up half an inch and he stood there, arms akimbo under his opera cape. He said, "Trying to avoid me, Wayne?"

I laughed a little, trying to make it sound convincingly unconvincing. I said, "Not you, Adrian. The police."

"Oh," he said, "the police. That I can believe. But an actor trying to avoid a producer . . ." He shook his massive head. "Maybe it's just as well, Wayne. I haven't a part you'd fit."

"You're still type-casting, then," I said.

"If you were casting I suppose you'd hire Henry Morgan to play Othello."

"Want to bet," I asked him, "that he wouldn't do a beautiful job of it?" I looked over his shoulder and there was no one else in sight so I stepped out to the sidewalk beside him.

He smiled, "Touché. I believe Henry would, at that. I chose the wrong example. Ah--what was that line about avoiding the police? They don't jail one for debts nowadays, my boy. Or have you done something more serious?"

I said, "I have just killed my wife."

His eyes lighted. "Excellent, my boy, excellent. I've often thought that you should, but it would have been indelicate to suggest it, would it not? Ah--let's see--I haven't seen Lola for weeks. Did you commit the deed recently?"

"An hour ago," I told him.

"Better late than never, if I may coin a phrase. I presume that you strangled her?"

"No," I said. "I used a gun."

I took it out of my pocket and showed it to him. It was a nickel-plated .32 revolver.

From somewhere, blocks away in the night, came the sound of a siren. I don't know whether it was that sound or the sight of the gun, but I saw a startled look cross Adrian Carr's face. I don't know how my own face looked, but I ducked back into the doorway. The sound got louder.

He laughed heartily as he peered in the direction from which the sound came, and then turned back to me. He said, "It's all right; it just crossed this street two blocks up. Not coming this way."

I stepped back down to the sidewalk. I said, "That was foolish of me; I shouldn't call attention to myself by ducking that way, I know. Probably they aren't after me yet. It's too soon."

He leaned forward and whispered, "Haven't they found the body?"

"I don't think they have."

"Where did you shoot her?"

"In Central Park," I told him.

He clapped me on the shoulder with a heavy hand. "Perfect, my boy, perfect. I can't think of a more fatal spot. Ah--you did a good job? You're sure she's dead?"

"Very sure. The bullet went into her right breast, but at an angle. It must have gone through her heart. She died instantaneously."

"Capital. Shall we have a drink to celebrate? I was going home, but--"

"I could use one," I admitted. "But at some quiet place where I'm not known."

"Around the corner at Mike's?"

"I don't know it--so they don't know me. That'll be fine."

Mike's turned out to be a place whose neon sign proclaimed it to be The Hotspot, but despite that boast, it was quiet. There was a juke box in the rear, silent at the moment.

We sat at the bar and ordered martinis. Adrian Carr said, "You live near here, Wayne. Why not call up Lola, if she's home, to come around and have a drink with us?"

"Why?" I asked. "You don't like her."

"I admit that. But she's good company. And she's beautiful. Just maybe, Wayne, she's the most beautiful woman in New York."

I said, "I don't think I'll call her, Adrian."

"Why not?"

"She's dead. I killed her tonight." I glanced at my wrist watch. "An hour and a quarter ago. In Central Park. With a gun. Remember?"

He nodded. "Of course, Wayne. It had slipped my mind. As one grows older--How old are you, Wayne?"

"As an actor, twenty-eight. Thirty-seven, off the record."

"A callow youth. At forty-nine one begins to mellow. At any rate, I'm beginning. And how old is Lola now? Wait, let me figure it out. She was--ah--twenty-two when she was with Billy Rose and that was ten years ago. I knew her pretty well, then."

"I know that," I said, "but let's not go into it. That's past, long past."

"And let the dead past bury its dead. How wise of you, Wayne. But--" he held up an impressive forefinger--"the present. Do you mind when I talk to you like a Dutch uncle?"

"Yes," I said.

"I know you do. But don't you see that that woman has ruined your career as an actor? You might have gone places, boy. You still might. I can't give you the role I know you want, but--"

"Why not? In words of one syllable, Adrian, why not?"

"Damn it, Wayne. I know your arguments about type-casting, and maybe you're right. But then, too, maybe I am, and I'm the one of us who does the picking. I'm the one who loses my shirt if that play isn't cast right."

"I haven't read the play. Heard only a bit about it. Just what does the role take?"

"You've heard enough about it, my fine friend. You're acting the lead role to the hilt, or trying to. Try to tell me you don't even know it's a Bluebeard theme, a man who kills his wife."

"I knew that," I admitted. "But still I ask, what does the role take?"

"A nice touch. A touch you haven't quite got, Wayne. I'm sorry." He made wet circles on the bar with his martini glass. "Remember Arsenic and Old Lace and how howlingly funny it made murder seem? Well, this--although it's a different theme--starts out with the same light approach, but we're experimenting. The whole thing is a gradual change of pace--starts like a comedy drama and ends in sheer horror, with a gradual build-up in between."

"Do you think that will carry?"

"I don't know. It's a hell of a gamble, to be honest with you.

But I like it. I'm going to give it every break, including the best casting I can do--and friendship ends there, Wayne. I'm sorry."

"I understand that," I told him. "I don't want it unless you think I can handle it. But it happens I can. I lied to you before. I have read the play. Lola's a friend of Taggert; he lent her a carbon of it and I read it. I think it needs a stronger third act, but I like the first two. The first is definitely good: this mild-mannered guy, a little off the beam, trying to convince people he's killed his wife and not being believed--I can handle that. You still don't believe I killed Lola tonight, do you, Adrian?"

"Let's drop the gag, boy. You've milked it, but it's wearing thin. What I don't think you can do, and do right, is the second part of it--from the point in the middle of the second act where the other characters--and the audience--begin to wonder."

I said, "This has just been the first act--of tonight. I can make you begin to wonder."

"Look, boy, I'd like to give you the part."

I put my martini glass down on the bar, and turned a little on the stool to look at him squarely. I waited until I caught his eye.

I said, "Adrian, I am pulling your leg--about the part in your play. I won't be able to take it."

"I'm glad you feel that way about it, Wayne. Because--well, I did hate to turn you down. Got another engagement?"

"I may have," I said. "With a chair, Adrian. You see--I wasn't kidding about the other thing. I killed Lola tonight."

He stared at me for what must have been ten seconds before his face changed and he started to laugh, that hearty booming laughter that one always associates with Adrian Carr.

He clapped me on the shoulder again and I almost lost my precarious balance on the bar stool.

He called out "Mike!" and the bartender shambled toward us behind the bar. Adrian said, "Two more martinis, Mike, and use that special vermouth you've got. You didn't on those last two ones, did you?"

"Sorry, Mr. Carr, I forgot. Coming up."

"And have one with us, Mike, while you're mixing them. Mike, I want you to meet a pretty good actor who's trying to pretend he's a pretty bad actor. Wayne Dixon, Mike. He just killed his wife."

I reached across the bar to shake hands with Mike. I said, "Glad to know you, Mike."

"Likewise, Mr. Dixon."

He put ice in the mixer glass and three jiggers of gin. He said, "Always wanted to kill mine, Mr. Dixon. How'd you do it?"

"With a gun," I said. "You've got a nice place here, Mike. I live only five or six blocks away. How come I never discovered it?"

"Dunno. Been here three years. But then there are a lot of bars in a radius of five or six blocks in New York. Yeah, we run a nice place. Quiet tonight, though."

"Way I like it," I told him. "And if you start that juke box I'll shoot you."

He looked back at it and frowned. "Me? No. Got to have one for the customers who want it, but me, I never touch the thing. I like music. Say, there's one good record on there, though, if you get in the mood. An early Harry James, before he went commercial."

"Later, maybe. Which one?"

"That one he plays straight trumpet solo and blue as they come. Sleepy Time Gal."

Something twisted inside me; I hadn't been set for it. It had been Lola's favorite tune. I could still hear her humming it in that low throaty voice. Mike put the glasses in front of us and filled them from the mixer. He'd guessed short, but that didn't matter because he filled his own last and a bartender always drinks them short.

He said, "Here's to crime."

I wanted to down mine at a gulp, but I took only a sip. I had to stay sober. I thought, one or two more--that's my limit.

Adrian Carr said, "Mike, you've met Mrs. Dixon, Wayne's wife. Been here with me--ah--two or three months ago. Remember, I introduced her to you as the former Lola Harcourt, used to be with Billy Rose. Blonde and svelte--you can translate that as gracefully slender, Mike--and still fairly sober. . . ."

"Sure," Mike said. "Sure I remember her. She's the best looker ever was in here. No kidding, Mr. Dixon, is that really your wife?"

"She was," I said.

"Oh. Divorced?"

I said flatly, "Dead. I killed her tonight. Remember?"

He grinned. "Oh, sure."

Carr glanced at me. "Did Lola mention running into me that night, Wayne? First time I'd seen her in a year or so. I was sitting in my car waiting for a green light, to cross Fifth Avenue, and she saw me from the sidewalk and came over and got in beside me. I bought her a couple of drinks here and then dropped her off at your place. She said you weren't home so I didn't drop up."

I laughed a little. "That sounds like a lot of explanation for something so innocent, Adrian. But yes, as a matter of fact she did mention it. That's when I first heard about the Bluebeard play. It was later that she borrowed a copy of the script from Taggert. How's he doing, by the way?"

"Not too well, I'm afraid. He was so head over heels in the hole that the advance I gave him on this play didn't do him too much good. Of course if it goes over, he'll be all right. But you know how that is. One play out of ten really makes any money. And even if this one has a fairly good run, I have a hunch it won't ever hit the movies. The theme, you know. The movies don't like to be flippant about murder."

"Having read it," I said, "I think you're right, Adrian. It'll run a few months, though. And it'll mean a lot of prestige to the actors with the fat roles."

He nodded thoughtfully. He said, "Wayne, I've just been thinking, seriously. I want to talk to you. Let's go over and sit in a booth, eh?"

"About Lola or about the role?"

"Both."

"Okay," I said.

We crossed over and Adrian Carr hung his opera cape and top hat beside one of the booths and we sat down across from one another. Under the cape, Adrian was in impeccable full dress; his shirt front gleamed immaculately white, adorned by chastely small star sapphire studs.

He called out "Mike!" and I caught Mike's eyes as he looked toward us. "Just one, Mike," I said. "I'll skip this round."

Then I looked across at Adrian. I said, "Let me talk first, will you? Let me say for you what you were going to say about Lola. If I say it for you--well, that's going to be different than if you do. Can you understand what I mean, Adrian?"

"I can, Wayne. Maybe it's better that way."

"You were going to tell me I should leave Lola, divorce her. That she's no good for me. That her thoughtlessness and her extravagance and her drinking and running around have held me down, have spoiled my chances on the stage--or anywhere else."

He nodded slowly, not quite looking at me.

I said, "You were going to tell me she is both petty and vicious."

"And, Wayne, I don't know which is the worse of those two."

"I do," I said. "I know now. I used to wonder."