Murder on Location by Howard Engel Page B

was passing over. Her brow smoothed out, and she stopped fidgeting. She then looked up at me suddenly: “Have you told him where I am?”
    â€œHow could I? I just found you. You’re the first to know.”
    â€œHell, Mr. Cooperman, I didn’t even know I was lost.”
    â€œHe thought you’d been killed. That’s how worried he is. Why would he think a thing like that? Do they play rough, those real-estate pals of his?” The beginnings of a smile died at the corner of her lips.
    â€œThey’d grind my bones to make their bread. They can’t find out where I am. I’m finished with all that. In a week I won’t even remember any of their names. I’m next door to the biggest break an actress ever had. Don’t muck it up for me, Mr. Cooperman.
    â€œI’d do a lot to please a lady, Mrs. Mason, but it’s your old man that’s paying the bills. I’ll have to turn you in.”
    That didn’t please her, but she accepted it as reasonable. And she didn’t take it personally. From time to time she looked into the mirror to see if David Hayes had come into the restaurant.
    â€œDavid won’t be coming,” I said flatly. She looked up at me with something of a challenge in her face.
    â€œIs that a clever detective guess? How do you know about David anyway?”
    â€œI was in his room when you called. In fact, you spoke to me, not David.” I let that hang there between us for a few moments before I went on. “David was out.”
    â€œYou make me sick. Why don’t you get an honest job in a factory or greasing cars? I don’t know how you can touch yourself after the things you’ve done. I’m going. Please don’t try to follow me.”
    â€œSit still. I’ll tell you about David. About why he can’t come.”
    â€œIt’s because he’s drunk again. Poor David. He’s not really a lush. It’s just that … Anyway, I have news for him from Ed Noonan. Why are you looking at me that way? Why don’t you say anything? You make me nervous.”
    â€œDavid’s dead,” I said simply. I could see that it hit her, but it was a glancing blow; she didn’t fully take in the news.
    â€œThat’s not funny, Mr. Cooperman. What were you doing in his room? He doesn’t know where I’ve been. Where is he, and why didn’t he come himself?”
    â€œI told you. I’m sorry. David’s dead. He was killed this morning in his room at the hotel.” Her eyes suddenly had bigger whites, and then she looked disappointed, as though David’s death was a dirty trick someone was playing on her. She looked cross, almost sulky. By now, though, I think she believed me. She didn’t say anything, she just sat there watching me play with the empty cream container. I took my wadded paper napkin, pressed it down inside the fluted plastic and bore down on it with some force. When I removed it, the napkin had taken the shape of the empty container. Billie Mason watched and neither of us said anything.
    After about three minutes he hand reached across to mine and took the creamer away from me, as though I was her child. “Tell me,” she said. “Tell me, please.”
    I told her about Tuesday night, about coming back this morning and finding him dead. “I’m sorry,” I finished.
    â€œI just can’t believe it. People like David don’t just die.”
    â€œHe didn’t just die. He was murdered. Can you think of anyone with a reason for killing him?”
    â€œThis is a B movie. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Why do you say it was murder?”
    â€œThat’s what the police are calling it. I saw him, and that’s what I’d call it.”
    â€œIt’s like somebody strangled a teddybear,” she said. There were tears in her eyes now, and she tried wiping them away with a table napkin. It was unequal to the work, so I