injuries.”
“Apart from that, your client is in fine shape,” Mr Lothian reported to Harry Wagman. “The studio, of course, is doing everything that can be done. Our insurance policies cover us rather thoroughly in the matter.”
At least Mr Lothian hoped that they did.
“Funny, it’d happen to her,” Wagman said.
“Daniels has been one of our drivers for two years, a very capable young man. Never showed up tight or anything. He was supposed to be a pushover for a cute girl, but I don’t suppose he was driving with one hand in this instance.”
Harry Wagman didn’t smile. “No, I don’t guess so. You know, Mr Lothian, it’s funny about Miss Withers happening into that thing the other day and then this right on top of it.”
“Some people are always getting into jams. The woman is a troublemaker anyway. Have you notified her family?”
If Miss Withers had a family, Wagman indicated, he was completely in the dark about it. “She blew out of her hotel last night, and nobody knows where she moved to. So I can’t dig into her luggage.”
Mr Lothian frowned. “She’s from New York City, isn’t she?”
“BUREAU IDENTIFICATION NYC POLICE CENTRE STREET’ the message came in over the teletype, “REQUEST AID IN LOCATING RELATIVES OF HILDEGARDE MARTHA WITHERS AGE APPROX FORTY FIVE WHITE AMERICAN SAID TO BE NEW YORKER INJURED SERIOUSLY HERE TODAY COMMUNICATE SAN BERNARDINO SHERIFF’S OFFICE.”
The sergeant at Centre Street glanced at the communication, yawned mightily and stuck it on a spindle. He started back to his can of coffee, raised it to his lips and then set it hastily down. “Withers,” he muttered. “Withers…. ”
He tore the message off the spindle and ran down the hall toward the Homicide Bureau.
“I thought this might interest you, Inspector, on account of—”
Inspector Oscar Piper had spent the day in court. Now he leaned back in his swivel chair, his brogans on the desk and fat blue smoke rings rising steadily from his pursed lips.
“Tomorrow, Sergeant.”
“Yes sir. Only—”
“Tomorrow is another day. Write that in your manual and look at it when your feet hurt.” Piper sighed a deep, philosophical sigh.
The sergeant nodded and laid the teletype message on the desk. Then he started to withdraw. There was a thundering crash behind him, and he turned to see the inspector kicking his chair aside, a strangely grim inspector.
“He didn’t look as much shocked, exactly, as he looked mad,” the sergeant confided to one of the boys in the wardroom later. “For the next five minutes he had everybody going nuts getting him a plane reservation and cashing checks. And then he jumps into a squad car and goes hell-bent for Newark Airport.”
“You mean he went to California without any baggage?”
“All the baggage he took with him,” admitted the sergeant, “was a bench warrant charging homicide for some guy named Derek Laval.”
Next morning the “Rambling Reporter” column in the Hollywood Reporter announced:
“It seems that there’s an amusing sequel to the recent rumpus in the Nincom unit at Mammoth. As the result of a gag pulled by Dobie and the late Saul Stafford, both former Nincom writers, the most beauteous blond secretary in the unit got delusions of grandeur and razz-berried herself right out of a job. Virgil Dobie learned this and squared things by putting her back on his own personal pay roll, which so touched and amused Mr Thorwald L. Nincom that he is insisting that Dobie, secretary and all, be reassigned to Nincom Productions’ new superspecial. It’s a ring-around-a-rosy, and everybody is happy.”
In the Times Jimmie Fidler wrote: “Memo to staff: Find out if Mammoth is riding for a fall. They’ve lost two writers by falls this week.”
The inspector was unable to read these or any other news notes, being deep in a study of the meager file on the Emily Harris case and somewhat plane-sick besides. He couldn’t sleep at all.
“Not that
“Apart from that, your client is in fine shape,” Mr Lothian reported to Harry Wagman. “The studio, of course, is doing everything that can be done. Our insurance policies cover us rather thoroughly in the matter.”
At least Mr Lothian hoped that they did.
“Funny, it’d happen to her,” Wagman said.
“Daniels has been one of our drivers for two years, a very capable young man. Never showed up tight or anything. He was supposed to be a pushover for a cute girl, but I don’t suppose he was driving with one hand in this instance.”
Harry Wagman didn’t smile. “No, I don’t guess so. You know, Mr Lothian, it’s funny about Miss Withers happening into that thing the other day and then this right on top of it.”
“Some people are always getting into jams. The woman is a troublemaker anyway. Have you notified her family?”
If Miss Withers had a family, Wagman indicated, he was completely in the dark about it. “She blew out of her hotel last night, and nobody knows where she moved to. So I can’t dig into her luggage.”
Mr Lothian frowned. “She’s from New York City, isn’t she?”
“BUREAU IDENTIFICATION NYC POLICE CENTRE STREET’ the message came in over the teletype, “REQUEST AID IN LOCATING RELATIVES OF HILDEGARDE MARTHA WITHERS AGE APPROX FORTY FIVE WHITE AMERICAN SAID TO BE NEW YORKER INJURED SERIOUSLY HERE TODAY COMMUNICATE SAN BERNARDINO SHERIFF’S OFFICE.”
The sergeant at Centre Street glanced at the communication, yawned mightily and stuck it on a spindle. He started back to his can of coffee, raised it to his lips and then set it hastily down. “Withers,” he muttered. “Withers…. ”
He tore the message off the spindle and ran down the hall toward the Homicide Bureau.
“I thought this might interest you, Inspector, on account of—”
Inspector Oscar Piper had spent the day in court. Now he leaned back in his swivel chair, his brogans on the desk and fat blue smoke rings rising steadily from his pursed lips.
“Tomorrow, Sergeant.”
“Yes sir. Only—”
“Tomorrow is another day. Write that in your manual and look at it when your feet hurt.” Piper sighed a deep, philosophical sigh.
The sergeant nodded and laid the teletype message on the desk. Then he started to withdraw. There was a thundering crash behind him, and he turned to see the inspector kicking his chair aside, a strangely grim inspector.
“He didn’t look as much shocked, exactly, as he looked mad,” the sergeant confided to one of the boys in the wardroom later. “For the next five minutes he had everybody going nuts getting him a plane reservation and cashing checks. And then he jumps into a squad car and goes hell-bent for Newark Airport.”
“You mean he went to California without any baggage?”
“All the baggage he took with him,” admitted the sergeant, “was a bench warrant charging homicide for some guy named Derek Laval.”
Next morning the “Rambling Reporter” column in the Hollywood Reporter announced:
“It seems that there’s an amusing sequel to the recent rumpus in the Nincom unit at Mammoth. As the result of a gag pulled by Dobie and the late Saul Stafford, both former Nincom writers, the most beauteous blond secretary in the unit got delusions of grandeur and razz-berried herself right out of a job. Virgil Dobie learned this and squared things by putting her back on his own personal pay roll, which so touched and amused Mr Thorwald L. Nincom that he is insisting that Dobie, secretary and all, be reassigned to Nincom Productions’ new superspecial. It’s a ring-around-a-rosy, and everybody is happy.”
In the Times Jimmie Fidler wrote: “Memo to staff: Find out if Mammoth is riding for a fall. They’ve lost two writers by falls this week.”
The inspector was unable to read these or any other news notes, being deep in a study of the meager file on the Emily Harris case and somewhat plane-sick besides. He couldn’t sleep at all.
“Not that
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