I killed him for money and for a woman. I didn't get the money. And I didn't get the woman.
– Double Indemnity, 1944
AN EXPLOSION OF laughter followed by a burst of applause greeted our ears the moment we entered the lobby of the Movie Town Theater. The noise came from inside the auditorium, where Pierce Armstrong was speaking to a boisterous crowd of loyal fans.
Brainert's grin stretched from one ear to the other. "Sounds like a packed house," he crowed.
"Sounds like Pierce Armstrong is on stage right now," Seymour cried, racing ahead of us.
Maggie Kline laughed. "That guy is really into the Fisherman Detective thing."
" Seymour is a particularly odd individual," Brainert muttered.
Maggie smiled. "In Hollywood, he'd fit right in."
"Mr. Parker! Mr. Parker, sir…" A tall young man was waving Brainert over to the concession stand. He wore a white cap and white shirt with MOVIE TOWN THEATER emblazoned across the pocket in bold red letters.
Brainert frowned. "Excuse me. Our head of concessions is calling me. I'm afraid I have some important managerial business to attend to."
"Thank goodness you're here, Professor Parker," the young man called, "we're almost out of Raisinets again!"
Brainert glanced unhappily at me. "I'll join you shortly."
As he headed to the stand, Maggie and I followed Seymour into the crowded auditorium. On the way I glanced at the gold-framed bulletin board, where the day's schedule of events was posted.
Hedda Geist had appeared on stage earlier in the day for a Q &A with Barry Yello. She was due to speak again in less than fifteen minutes, providing a short personal introduction to Tight Spot, another of her Gotham Features films.
Another ripple of laughter from the auditorium told me that Pierce Armstrong was still going strong. He would most likely be on stage when Hedda arrived, so it appeared the two former lovers were indeed about to meet face-to-face for the first time in sixty years.
"Hurry," Seymour called. "I can't wait to see this."
Me either, I thought.
We entered the theater during a lengthy question from a middle-aged man, who'd stood up from the second row to deliver it. On stage, the elderly Pierce Armstrong sat behind a table spread with a white cloth. His features were hidden behind oversized copper-framed glasses and his hair was white and rather long, ending in ringlets that rested on the shoulders of his red patterned shirt. The shirts collar was buttoned up and encircled by a bolo-style Western tie.
The fan's rambling question finally ended-something about location shooting. Pierce leaned forward toward the microphone, adjusted his large copper glasses, and raised a pale hand.
"We almost never went out on the ocean," he began in a strong voice. "The first time we did was for O'Bannon Against the Bund, where we worked off the coast of Fire Island. On the first take of my fight with Ramon Lassiter, I fell off the boat and actually had to be rescued! Can you believe it? After that…"
Gales of laughter drowned out the rest of his story.
"Hey, I was a cowboy, not a sailor!" Armstrong cried with agrin.
We finally found seats in the rear of the theater, but not together. Seymour sat in one row. Maggie and I behind him, right on the center aisle.
I noticed Dr. Wendell Pepper sitting beside the old man on stage. The sixty-something dean was looking relaxed and attractive, his thick salt-and-pepper hair was casually finger-combed to the side, his white dress shirt was open at the collar, and his casual, chestnut brown sports jacket hung loosely off his broad-shouldered form.
"All of the Fisherman Detective screenplays centered around crime on the docks, and we mostly used locations near our studio's offices in Long Island City, Queens," Pierce Armstrong continued. "We filmed at night, not to set any kind of mood. It was because those docks were damn busy in the daytime. We were only allowed access to one pier, so that's why you keep seeing the same scenery over and over again in every movie. We needed an animal wrangler, too. Not because we used any animals. He was there to keep the stray dogs at bay!"
The audience burst out laughing again.
"Of course, we had a mock-up of the Sea Witch. We used that on the sound stage at Astoria Studios, which Paramount rented out to us. The crew would rock the prop boat and toss buckets of water into the scene. Those guys really got a kick out of dousing me!"
The question-and-answer session continued for another twenty minutes. Throughout most of his presentation, Armstrong was lively and animated. Near the end, however, he seemed to tire. Finally Dean Pepper rose and called a halt to the fun. Some folks rose out of their seats to rush the stage.
"No autographs, please," Dr. Pepper warned. "Mr. Armstrong will be signing tomorrow. Check the schedule of events on the bulletin board for the exact time."
After some groans of disappointment, then big applause, Pepper stepped behind Pierce Armstrong and took hold of the man's chair. That's when I realized the former action star and stunt man was partially confined to a wheelchair.
Beside me, Maggie sighed. "No sign of Hedda. I guess the big meeting isn't going to happen. Not yet, anyway. I'm sure they'll meet sometime this weekend. Excuse me, I've really got to use the ladies'. Do you need to?"
I shook my head. "I'll save your seat," I promised her.
Maggie got up and joined the crush. In the next row, Seymour stood up and stretched, then faced me. "Man, Pierce Armstrong was really funny. I couldn't believe that story about Howard Hawks…"
As Seymour continued to chatter away, the theater partially emptied. Like Maggie, people took advantage of the break to visit the restrooms or concession stand. I spied Bud Napp in the wings: the young Dixon Gallagher was with him, and the two appeared to be tinkering with the sound system. I noticed the new speakers sat on the floor on either side of the stage. Bud was obviously determined to avoid any more falling speaker "accidents."
Dean Pepper and a young usher started transferring Pierce Armstrong's wheelchair from the stage to the auditorium floor. On stage, Pierce waited for them to finish, his wrinkled hands clutching the black vinyl handles of an aluminum walker.
Finally, big Barry Yello appeared. The young Webmaster with the blond ponytail walked on stage from the wings. He and Dean Pepper each took the old man's arm and guided Pierce down the short staircase and back into his chair. Just as Dr. Pepper began to push the chair up the center aisle, Hedda Geist-Middleton entered the auditorium.
Attired for the upcoming festival party, Hedda wore a simple but elegant black cocktail dress, belted at the waist. A string of flawless pearls hung around her neck. Her silver-white hair was down, just brushing her shoulders, the ends curled into a 1940's-style pageboy.
I saw no sign of Hedda's granddaughter, Harmony, and the elderly actress seemed momentarily flustered. Her haughty airs were gone, and she began to fumble inside her black clutch bag.
As Dean Pepper continued to wheel Pierce up the aisle, I held my breath while those around me-apparently oblivious to the drama about to unfold-chatted and munched popcorn. I was sorry Maggie Kline was not here to see this. She, at least, was aware of the significance of the situation.
Hedda finally closed her bag and looked up, right into the eyes of Pierce Armstrong. The shock of recognition registered on her face, and she took a step backward, mouth moving soundlessly. Pierce clutched the arms of his wheelchair and slowly pushed himself to his feet. On unsteady legs he took a single step forward.
"Hello, Hedda," he said evenly.
Hedda's acute anxiety appeared to vanish, as if a curtain came down-or went up-and a performance began.
"Pierce," she said, her chin raised, her voice strong and confident, "so lovely to see you after all these years."
There were no hugs, no air kisses, not even a smile. Her greeting was civil, but cold and formal. The two former lovers stood face to face for a long moment. Then Hedda broke the deadlock. Her eyes drifted away from Armstrong and over to the man standing behind the elderly actor.
"Ah, Dr. Pepper. There you are!" she declared. "I sent my granddaughter off to find you and now she's vanished."
Pepper smiled. "I'm right here."
Hedda tilted her head and forced a smile of her own. "I believe you asked me to give a little introduction before the screening of Tight Spot. Am I on time?"
"You are," Dr. Pepper replied, "and I see my colleague Brainert Parker is here to escort you to the stage."
Brainert appeared at Hedda's side and offered the woman his arm. She took it and without another glance at Pierce, sauntered toward the stage. Pierce sat back down. As Dr. Pepper wheeled the man away, I noticed a smirk on the old actor's face, an unmistakable look of amused triumph.
That's what it looks like to me, too, baby.
"Well, Jack, I guess if anyone knew Hedda was acting, it would be her former leading man."
Suddenly, someone rushed up to me. "Whew, I almost missed it!" It was Maggie Kline, acting like a kid in an amusement park. Her face was flushed, as if she'd crossed the lobby in a dead run. "The bathroom was so crowded, and then I heard someone say Hedda had arrived, and I raced back!"
"So you got a good look?"
"From the theater doors," she said, and then shrugged. "I'm a little disappointed. I guess I was expecting more. Fireworks, explosions, something… "
Maggie's reference to explosions suddenly cast Pierce
Armstrong's smirk in a whole new light. Tensing in my seat, I flashed back on that giant audio speaker sparking and flashing above the stage and nearly crushing the elderly Hedda Geist, right in front of her adoring fans.
"Jack? Peirce is such an old man. You don't think he could be a threat, do you?"
The ghost grunted. Back in '46, a cop I used to work with went to arrest an eighty-two-year-old man for smacking his wife around. The guy didn't shine to a buttoned-up yancy telling him what he could or couldn't do with his little woman.
"What happened?"
Long story short, the cop was clocked twice with a ball bat before his partner iced the old fart. "Excuse me!" I told Maggie. "Change your mind about the ladies'?" "No, the man."
"What?"
I climbed out of my seat and hurried down the aisle to the far end of the stage, where I called to Bud in the wings. Smiling, he approached me.
"Hey, Pen. What's up?" he asked, crouching down on one knee.
I jerked my head toward Brainert and Hedda, who were locked in conversation at the bottom of the steps that led up to the stage. Harmony had arrived, too. She looked stunning tonight-a photo negative of her grandmother in a white summer dress, a choker made of shiny black gemstones, and her blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail.
"Listen," I said softly, "you remember what happened the last time Hedda was on stage. Have you checked this place out thoroughly?"
Bud frowned. "You don't think-"
"Oh, but I do."
To my relief, he didn't question me. While I watched, he checked the curtains, walked the length of center stage while peering up, into the catwalks. He checked the microphone wires, the chairs. Bud even glanced under the tablecloth, presumably for anything that looked like an explosive device. Then he stepped behind the chairs and walked toward the staircase, using small, cautious steps while following the path Hedda would take to her seat.
Suddenly, Bud froze. He took a step backward. His head jerked in my direction, and when Bud's eyes met mine, I knew he'd found something.
While I watched, Bud called an usher, whispered something to the teenager. The kid took off backstage, returned a moment later with an aluminum easel under his arm. He and Bud set the display up so that its tripod legs straddled the spot where Bud had paused. The usher ran off again, and returned with the sign advertising Hedda's appearance that had stood in the lobby. He placed it on the easel.
Bud approached me, his face pale. "The trapdoor was unlocked," he said. "I felt it give under my foot. Put more weight on it and the door would have opened right up. Anyone standing on it would have fallen through. It's a fifteen-foot drop to a concrete floor. At Hedda's age, a fall like that could be fatal."
"Could this be an accident?"
Bud shook his head. "Someone had to do it. A trapdoor doesn't unlock itself-"
"When?"
He shrugged. "I don't know, but it had to have happened recently. I've been back and forth across this stage for the past two hours. The door would have popped open before."
I frowned. That spot was exactly where Pierce Armstrong had been standing while he waited for Dr. Pepper to help him down the stairs.
"Bud, do you think Pierce Armstrong was the one who unlocked that trapdoor-"
A burst of applause drowned out my words. Barry Yello had walked onto the stage to a raucous greeting. As he began his introduction of Hedda, Bud gestured for me to go find a seat. He tapped his watch and mouthed, "Later." Then he moved to the wings.
TWO HOURS LATER, Bud Napp was shaking his head at me. "Sorry to shoot your theory down, Pen, but there's no way Pierce Armstrong could have set that trap for Hedda."
The movie had finished playing by now and the theater was clearing out. Practically everyone was heading off to the open-air block party on the Quindicott Commons-everyone but me and Bud. I was standing on the stage next to him, listening as he shot my meticulously reasoned theory all to hell.
"Are you certain Pierce couldn't work the lock?"
"Look here," he said, moving the aluminum easel. "On this side of the trapdoor, there are no bolts, no hinges, no screws. That stuff is underneath. Otherwise people on stage would be tripping over the hardware all the time."
I studied the trapdoor; it certainly did look like part of the floor. I sighed. "So how does one go about unlocking it?"
"You have to go under the stage," Bud explained. "Which means if Pierce Armstrong is guilty of trying to harm Hedda, he had to have an accomplice working underneath this floor."
I nodded. "Show me."
Bud led me to the rear of the backstage area, where a narrow staircase led to an empty basement of newly whitewashed concrete. At the bottom of the steps Bud flipped a switch and a few naked lightbulbs dully illuminated the vast space. On the wall to my right, I saw a steel fire door marked EXIT.
"Where does this lead?" I asked.
"To the alley that runs behind Cranberry Street."
Bud flipped another switch, placed his hands on the door's horizontal handle, and pushed it open. Warm air streamed into the cool, damp cellar, tainted with a whiff of garbage from the Dumpster just outside the door.
"It was unlocked," I noted.
"It's always unlocked because it's a fire door," Bud explained. "It's only locked on the outside. You'll notice I cut off the alarm before I pushed it open." He pointed to a small metal circuit box that looked like another light switch. "If I hadn't, an alarm would have rung upstairs, alerting management to a break-in."
I scratched my head. "And there's no way someone could have slipped in through that door and gotten under the stage without anyone in the main theater noticing?"
Bud shrugged. "Unless they had an accomplice inside who came down here and opened the door for them. That accomplice would have had to know about cutting off the alarm switch."
"How likely is that?"
"Unfortunately it's very likely. And there's something else you should see. Follow me." He led me to a spot in the middle of the empty cellar. "Look up."
I did. After gazing into the shadows for a moment, I finally made out the bottom of the trapdoor fifteen feet above me. It looked like a square in the ceiling with hinges on one side. Two dead bolts held the door in place and they'd both been opened. The ceiling was so high, the only way to reach it was the folding ladder set up right under the door.
"The wannabe killer must have set up this ladder," I said.
"The truth is, I set this ladder up myself, just yesterday, to change a burned-out lightbulb." Bud pointed to the ceiling. "But it's obvious to me that whoever unlocked the trapdoor did know their way around this theater."
I mulled Bud's words while he climbed the ladder and relocked the dead bolts.
"Any way to get more light around here?" I asked him from the floor.
"Try the work light," Bud replied. "It's right over the bench."
I found the fluorescent light and turned it on. Powerful beams penetrated the shadows, making this section of the large cellar twice as bright as before. That's when I noticed a small dark object on the whitewashed concrete. I dropped to all fours and picked it up.
Bud watched me from the top of the ladder. "What have you found?"
"An earring. Looks like black onyx in a silver setting. It looks new, too. There's no tarnish or dust on it. Want to see?"
Bud climbed down from the ladder and crossed to the bench. He studied the earring pinched in my fingers while he used a rag to wipe soot off his hands.
"That's not from my crew," he said. "My guys have been down here plenty, but there are no women on my work crew- and no pierced ears, noses, or lips either."
Suddenly a memory flashed into my mind-a young woman in a white dress, accented by a choker made of black gem-stones, stones that may well have been onyx. Harmony Middleton.
"Sorry, Pen, but it's getting late," said Bud, tapping his wristwatch. "And I promised Sadie I'd meet her at the block party."
"Oh, yeah, the block party." "Aren't you going, too?" Bud asked. "I wasn't planning on it."
Well, change your plans, Jack immediately growled in my head. That earring is missing off some broad's earlobe. And if you find it missing off Harmony's, then you'll know you've got your man.
"Or woman."
Figure of speech, baby. 'Cause trouble is my business, and in my business, dames are the most trouble of all.