Crime on My Hands by George Sanders Page B

up my sleeve. Not here. I didn’t want Riegleman even to wiggle his ears.
    â€œWhat do you want?” I asked, surprised that my voice didn’t squeak.
    â€œI want to talk to you. What the hell did you think?” he shouted. “Put out that blasted light!”
    The ice melted around my heart, and I did things about lights. I held the gun in my jacket pocket, though, with a sweaty hand.
    â€œPeople don’t usually come slipping into dark houses,” I pointed out, “to talk to absent occupants. You knew I was intending to eat dinner.”
    â€œI owe you an apology, of course,” he admitted. “May I sit down, or does that gun mean that I must elevate my hands?”
    I took my hand, empty, out of my pocket. ‘I’m a little quick,” I said. “Did you kill Severance Flynne?”
    He stared at me, as if I were something out of Lewis Carroll. A slithy tove, for example.
    â€œI just wanted to know,” I told him. “You see, I have contrived a ruse to trap a murderer. You knew about it, for I told you myself. When I saw you come in that door, I felt that you could be after only one thing – proof of guilt. Although,” I added wryly, “I must admit that door has been busy as the entrance to a pub on a hot day. Well, what did you want to talk about?”
    Riegleman’s gloomy eyes were accusing. “I went to see the sheriff. You told me you were on your way there. You didn’t go. I want to know why. I ordered you to drop all this nonsense about catching a murderer. We’re up here to shoot a picture, not to let you lose sleep. Nor to let you be killed. You’re a valuable property.”
    â€œDo you realize,” I said, “that a human being has been murdered, and that the value of a human life is far above any shadow play you may produce?”
    He stared at me. “Neither of us ever heard of this, uh, Flynne, is it? I, for one, don’t know any more about him than I did before he was killed. Oh, I’m sorry for the poor fellow. But his death means very little more to me than the death of a native in the Australian bush. But, this project means a great deal to me. Seven Dreams is very likely to be my triumph. Yours, too, George, if you pay attention to business.”
    â€œLet me clarify my place in this situation, Riegleman. I am in a position to learn who killed a man. Peculiar circumstances have put me in that position. I must do what I can – for reasons which we won’t go into here.”
    â€œWhy not? Let’s go into them. I’m interested.”
    â€œNo.” Could I tell him that I had had the murder gun in my possession, that I had lied to the police, that I had withheld evidence, that Lamar James might come looking for me at any moment? I could imagine his screams of rage. Riegleman would fight for his budget like a tiger for her cub.
    â€œVery well,” he said calmly. “You say that you must persist in this idiotic conduct, I say that you must not. We reach an impasse, then. I should imagine that your contract has a clause covering such a condition. We can invite you to give up your professional career and starve as a private detective.
    â€œGeorge,” he went on in exasperation, “you won’t make a farthing even if you succeed in this folly. That’s what I can’t comprehend. There’s nothing in it for you.”
    There was deep feeling in this. I knew that Riegleman’s attitude toward money was intense, and of long standing. Which gave me a lever.
    â€œI suppose,” I said, lightly, “that you could dismiss me if I jeopardized the picture against orders. On the other hand, I feel certain that you wouldn’t like to see me go.”
    â€œOf course I wouldn’t like it, George, old boy. I think you’re magnificent in the role!”
    â€œThanks. Neither would you like the expensive delay entailed in replacing me. Eh?”
    â€œQuite