Read Online Enough! (A Travesty and Ordo) by Donald E. Westlake - Free Book Online
Authors: Donald E. Westlake
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Bray told
her. “I’m sorry. Unless someone has another
theory?”
But no one did. The faces remained troubled,
and attentive.
Bray said, “All right. Then we might as
well begin.”
The interrogation that followed was informal
in style but very thorough, starting with the names and functions of everyone
present. The oldest man here, sixtyish, almost completely bald, stocky, with a
vaguely Mittel-European accent, was our host, Hugo Lanisch, co-producer of the
film they’d been watching. The slender blonde in the black slacks was his most
recent wife, Jennifer; in her early thirties, cool and beautiful and well-bred,
she looked as though she’d come with the town house, and probably she had.
There was one black among the white faces, a
bearded plump fortyish man named Gideon Fergus, who’d been hired to write the
music for the film. I remembered his work from several black exploitation
movies; mostly bongos and electric guitars.
Then there were two people from United Films,
the company that had financed the movie and would be its distributor. The stout
black-haired mid-forties woman with the serious hornrim glasses and the overly
loud way of speaking was Ruth Carr, the East Coast story editor and presumably
the one who had interested United Films in the project in the first place. And
the 35-year-old slender fag in the leather pullover and big yellow glasses and
long blond hair was Barry McGivern, the company’s assistant advertising
director.
Finally there was the projectionist, a neatly
dressed young man of about 25 named Jack March. An executive in embryo, March
had an earnest expression, short blond hair, metal-rim glasses and a modest California tan. He had apparently decided his role at
a murder was to look very alert, in case anybody should want coffee.
Having established names and pedigrees, Bray
turned the floor over to Staples, who cheerfully but insistently worked out
where everybody had been seated during the screening. With only six in the
audience, they had not clustered together but had been fairly widely
distributed through the room. Staples eventually had to produce paper and
pencil and do a sketch plan of everybody’s position, but when he was finished
the layout was clear. Wicker had been the farthest from the screen, so that any
of the others could have left his or her seat, traveled on hands and knees, and
approached him from behind without being seen by anyone else.
Except the projectionist.
Young March had been watching the film through a small window next to the
projector, but it turned out he’d seen the movie before—he was the messenger
who’d brought it here from the cutting room on the west coast—and he hadn’t
been completely attentive. He explained there were always things to be done in
the projection booth, but that was undoubtedly a polite falsehood; the second
time through, A Sound Of Distant Drums was probably more than a bit boring.
Besides, if the killer had stayed on his knees behind Wicker the projectionist
would have been unlikely to see him in any case.
So now the characters and the setting had been
established. A rich old movie producer, his rich young wife, a third-rate black
composer, two studio functionaries and a reliable small-time director had
gathered in a room to watch for the first time a film in which they were all
interested. What they were seeing was a rough cut, still several minutes too
long and with no musical score. In the course of this screening, one of the
others had shot the director, for reasons yet to be established.
But before getting to motive, Bray was
interested in one more physical aspect of the crime: the sound of it. Taking
over from Staples, he said, “Mr. Wicker was killed with a. 25 calibre
revolver. Now, that wouldn’t make as much noise as a. 45 automatic, but it
wouldn’t exactly be quiet either. Just how loud is this movie you were
watching?
It was Gideon Fergus, the black composer, who
answered: “Not very loud at all.
her. “I’m sorry. Unless someone has another
theory?”
But no one did. The faces remained troubled,
and attentive.
Bray said, “All right. Then we might as
well begin.”
The interrogation that followed was informal
in style but very thorough, starting with the names and functions of everyone
present. The oldest man here, sixtyish, almost completely bald, stocky, with a
vaguely Mittel-European accent, was our host, Hugo Lanisch, co-producer of the
film they’d been watching. The slender blonde in the black slacks was his most
recent wife, Jennifer; in her early thirties, cool and beautiful and well-bred,
she looked as though she’d come with the town house, and probably she had.
There was one black among the white faces, a
bearded plump fortyish man named Gideon Fergus, who’d been hired to write the
music for the film. I remembered his work from several black exploitation
movies; mostly bongos and electric guitars.
Then there were two people from United Films,
the company that had financed the movie and would be its distributor. The stout
black-haired mid-forties woman with the serious hornrim glasses and the overly
loud way of speaking was Ruth Carr, the East Coast story editor and presumably
the one who had interested United Films in the project in the first place. And
the 35-year-old slender fag in the leather pullover and big yellow glasses and
long blond hair was Barry McGivern, the company’s assistant advertising
director.
Finally there was the projectionist, a neatly
dressed young man of about 25 named Jack March. An executive in embryo, March
had an earnest expression, short blond hair, metal-rim glasses and a modest California tan. He had apparently decided his role at
a murder was to look very alert, in case anybody should want coffee.
Having established names and pedigrees, Bray
turned the floor over to Staples, who cheerfully but insistently worked out
where everybody had been seated during the screening. With only six in the
audience, they had not clustered together but had been fairly widely
distributed through the room. Staples eventually had to produce paper and
pencil and do a sketch plan of everybody’s position, but when he was finished
the layout was clear. Wicker had been the farthest from the screen, so that any
of the others could have left his or her seat, traveled on hands and knees, and
approached him from behind without being seen by anyone else.
Except the projectionist.
Young March had been watching the film through a small window next to the
projector, but it turned out he’d seen the movie before—he was the messenger
who’d brought it here from the cutting room on the west coast—and he hadn’t
been completely attentive. He explained there were always things to be done in
the projection booth, but that was undoubtedly a polite falsehood; the second
time through, A Sound Of Distant Drums was probably more than a bit boring.
Besides, if the killer had stayed on his knees behind Wicker the projectionist
would have been unlikely to see him in any case.
So now the characters and the setting had been
established. A rich old movie producer, his rich young wife, a third-rate black
composer, two studio functionaries and a reliable small-time director had
gathered in a room to watch for the first time a film in which they were all
interested. What they were seeing was a rough cut, still several minutes too
long and with no musical score. In the course of this screening, one of the
others had shot the director, for reasons yet to be established.
But before getting to motive, Bray was
interested in one more physical aspect of the crime: the sound of it. Taking
over from Staples, he said, “Mr. Wicker was killed with a. 25 calibre
revolver. Now, that wouldn’t make as much noise as a. 45 automatic, but it
wouldn’t exactly be quiet either. Just how loud is this movie you were
watching?
It was Gideon Fergus, the black composer, who
answered: “Not very loud at all.
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