today.”
“I was upset. I don’t know what I said today.”
“Did Adlerkreutz say anything about killing himself?”
“To me, no. Don’t know about odder people.”
Dmitri looked hopefully at Sylvia, but she was staring stonily at her gloved hands. He looked at the Sheriff, but got only a puzzled frown in return. The Coroner said: “I don’t get this. A Coroner’s jury is reluctant to return a verdict of suicide under any circumstances, but here you, without adding any item of evidence, make a lot of mysterious remarks about what you thought, and intimating that the deceased must have put the shell in the gun, and I don’t understand it, that’s all. Are you holding something back?”
“No, plizze, I hold nothing back.”
“This is all conjecture?”
“Con—”
“Just guesswork?”
“Absolutely, yes sir, guesswork .”
Irritated, the Coroner led Dmitri through the rest of his story, encountered much less gabbiness. Dmitri stood down. Then he walked off to one side. Then, to his horror, he heard the Coroner say to his jury: “O. K., then as soon as the Sheriff identifies this other stuff for the record, I’ll instruct you in the law and you can consider your verdict.”
He caught Mr. Layton outside, between the parked cars, where he had followed when that gentleman got up and hurried out of the hearing. But when he grabbed Mr. Layton’s arm, he was flung roughly against the side of the building. “So that’s the kind of a cross you pull on me, hey? Get up there and mumble something about how funny it looks, and then go off in a corner, and that’s supposed to make it a suicide, hey? Where’s that letter she was supposed to get?”
“Plizze! We wrote the letter! We—”
“Then where is it?”
“I gave it to the Sharf! He took it! He—”
Waiting no longer, Mr. Layton strode off to the rear, no doubt to drag his surprise witness out of his car and parade her in to the Coroner. Dmitri didn’t wait to see. He turned to the open window at his side, dropped his elbows on the sill, and quite unrestrainedly began to weep. He seemed to have his head in some kind of storeroom, and his tears splashed down on big green dice in an open box on the floor.
He was in a dreadful spot all right. But he had become part of a business that is accustomed to dreadful spots, and has been well-schooled in what to do about them. When a crisis arises, some writer usually bellows: “I got it, I got it, I GOT IT! Cut to those sirens! Cut to those motorcycles coming down to street! Maybe it’s not story, but it’s ACTION!”
That may have been why Dmitri suddenly straightened up, fished a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, and dropped it into the box of celluloid dice.
Chapter Eleven
T HE SIRENS WERE A success, quite as much of a success as they invariably are in a fast, gangster movie. They came screeching out from town at 80, motorcycles in front, the chief’s car behind that, the salvage truck behind that, the ladder truck behind that, and the pump behind that, a fine, glittering, noisy, 100% American midnight motorcade. Even so, it was tame in comparison with what went on inside the Domino. The inflammable dice, if they had been all, might not have amounted to much, and Dmitri’s desperate scheme might have failed for the simple reason that a fire takes a great deal longer to get going than a theatrical imagination realizes. But the box happened to be sitting within an inch or two of the big intake cable that led from the connection outside to the electric meter at rear. So when the dice flared hotly up they did not ignite the wall, for it was made of some sort of fireproof composition, but they did melt the cable, so that the first result of the cigarette was that the place went completely dark, without so much as a fuse blowing out. For a minute or so, as Americans versed in the idiosyncrasies of power houses, the gathering sat around without saying a word: one or two muttered gags about a
“I was upset. I don’t know what I said today.”
“Did Adlerkreutz say anything about killing himself?”
“To me, no. Don’t know about odder people.”
Dmitri looked hopefully at Sylvia, but she was staring stonily at her gloved hands. He looked at the Sheriff, but got only a puzzled frown in return. The Coroner said: “I don’t get this. A Coroner’s jury is reluctant to return a verdict of suicide under any circumstances, but here you, without adding any item of evidence, make a lot of mysterious remarks about what you thought, and intimating that the deceased must have put the shell in the gun, and I don’t understand it, that’s all. Are you holding something back?”
“No, plizze, I hold nothing back.”
“This is all conjecture?”
“Con—”
“Just guesswork?”
“Absolutely, yes sir, guesswork .”
Irritated, the Coroner led Dmitri through the rest of his story, encountered much less gabbiness. Dmitri stood down. Then he walked off to one side. Then, to his horror, he heard the Coroner say to his jury: “O. K., then as soon as the Sheriff identifies this other stuff for the record, I’ll instruct you in the law and you can consider your verdict.”
He caught Mr. Layton outside, between the parked cars, where he had followed when that gentleman got up and hurried out of the hearing. But when he grabbed Mr. Layton’s arm, he was flung roughly against the side of the building. “So that’s the kind of a cross you pull on me, hey? Get up there and mumble something about how funny it looks, and then go off in a corner, and that’s supposed to make it a suicide, hey? Where’s that letter she was supposed to get?”
“Plizze! We wrote the letter! We—”
“Then where is it?”
“I gave it to the Sharf! He took it! He—”
Waiting no longer, Mr. Layton strode off to the rear, no doubt to drag his surprise witness out of his car and parade her in to the Coroner. Dmitri didn’t wait to see. He turned to the open window at his side, dropped his elbows on the sill, and quite unrestrainedly began to weep. He seemed to have his head in some kind of storeroom, and his tears splashed down on big green dice in an open box on the floor.
He was in a dreadful spot all right. But he had become part of a business that is accustomed to dreadful spots, and has been well-schooled in what to do about them. When a crisis arises, some writer usually bellows: “I got it, I got it, I GOT IT! Cut to those sirens! Cut to those motorcycles coming down to street! Maybe it’s not story, but it’s ACTION!”
That may have been why Dmitri suddenly straightened up, fished a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, and dropped it into the box of celluloid dice.
Chapter Eleven
T HE SIRENS WERE A success, quite as much of a success as they invariably are in a fast, gangster movie. They came screeching out from town at 80, motorcycles in front, the chief’s car behind that, the salvage truck behind that, the ladder truck behind that, and the pump behind that, a fine, glittering, noisy, 100% American midnight motorcade. Even so, it was tame in comparison with what went on inside the Domino. The inflammable dice, if they had been all, might not have amounted to much, and Dmitri’s desperate scheme might have failed for the simple reason that a fire takes a great deal longer to get going than a theatrical imagination realizes. But the box happened to be sitting within an inch or two of the big intake cable that led from the connection outside to the electric meter at rear. So when the dice flared hotly up they did not ignite the wall, for it was made of some sort of fireproof composition, but they did melt the cable, so that the first result of the cigarette was that the place went completely dark, without so much as a fuse blowing out. For a minute or so, as Americans versed in the idiosyncrasies of power houses, the gathering sat around without saying a word: one or two muttered gags about a
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