Crime on My Hands by George Sanders Page A

for him one night, when I knew he was coming out the gate, and we – well – got acquainted. And, Mr. Sanders, I like him. I even told mother, and, well, he came to dinner, and we started seeing previews together, and he bought me a compact once. And now, this . It’s awful!”
    I didn’t dare distract her. I sat quietly while she sniffled into a ridiculous piece of chiffon. She raised her eyes, which were beginning to puff under the lids.
    â€œHe stood me up!” she wailed. “He was supposed to see me tonight, and it’s almost ten o’clock. He’s mad because I threw those old guns away, but I did it just to keep him out of trouble. What can I do, Mr. Sanders, what can I do?”
    I felt like slapping her. “Did you come over here just for that? Slipping into my trailer when it looked empty? Really?”
    â€œI got so worried,” she said tearfully. “I thought he might be here, and when I saw it was dark, I thought he might come back. I was just going to come in out of the cold. I wasn’t even going to turn on your lights.”
    I looked at her until she dropped her eyes. Was she telling the truth? If so, she was a liability here, and the best I could do would be to throw her out. On the other hand, she was quite possibly lying. This ingenuousness could be a pose. In that case, what could I do? I could accuse her of trying to get the film and destroy it; I could charge her with having fired the fatal shot over the heads of Sammy and the others; I could demand a reason why she had tried to incriminate and then to kill me–
    But could I? Had she had an opportunity to switch guns on me? I couldn’t remember. She could have been in that group around me when the scene ended, and have escaped notice. For, although she was pretty. she was colorless. I wouldn’t have seen her if she hadn’t wanted me to see her. No, all l could do was accept her story and give fatherly advice.
    â€œThe moon won’t sulk,” I said, “if you don’t see Sammy tonight. It’ll be around tomorrow night, and fuller, too. As a matter of fact, Sammy has been working with me tonight. He couldn’t get away. But he should be almost finished by now. He may be waiting at your place.”
    â€œOh, heavens!” she cried. “And if I’m not there, he won’t wait.”
    She turned and ran. I sighed and began fussing with the searchlight again, and she stuck her head back in the door.
    â€œGee, thanks, Mr. Sanders!” she said. She pulled her head out of the door like a blonde cork, and padded off across the sand.
    Had the trap been sprung? I pondered on this as I sat in the dark. Oh, the trap had been sprung in the physical sense. Twice. Vanda and Listless. Melva, too, for that matter. But had I baited the trap for a weasel and caught three mice?
    Wanda was off the list of suspects. But was it possible that she had seen the killer and was afraid to tell? She knew Flynne, slightly at least. Could she have known the motive? Was that why she went to his room? To collect evidence, or destroy it? Was she hiding the killer?
    Had Listless killed him? Was she capable of even firing a gun, much less performing a feat of marksmanship that would spin William Cody in his grave?
    I had a bookful of questions, but not a word of answers. And, besides, I was beginning to get sleepy. My mental stature didn’t come in for many kudos there in the dark, empty trailer.
    My next visitor was Riegleman. 

Chapter Eleven
    â€œTurn that bloody thing off!” he yelled, as the beam blinded him. “Are you trying to sear my eyeballs?”
    I did nothing of the sort. I suddenly felt as if my heart had been packed in shaved ice. This was the first time I had ever faced a murderer, and it wasn’t like in the movies at all. On the screen I was even a little reckless, daring the murderer to make a move, knowing that I had three tricks – and a knife –