True, he now had the general outline of an idea, but it had been Dotty's, not his. He hadn't even had brains enough to fill in the minor details. Would he have to ask Dotty to do that, too?

  And now in the dim light of dawn — well, not dawn exactly, but the light would be dim until he got up and raised the shades — he'd have to get up and sit down at that blankety-blank typewriter and grind something out. Either that or have a scene with Wilkins.

  He'd never felt less like writing in his life. Dammit, he should have known better than to put it off until morning. He never felt up to doing anything creative right after breakfast. And before breakfast, even thinking about it hurt him.

  He groaned and tried to forget about Millie's Millions. But that took him back to the murders. Silly murders, without rhyme or reason. And were they over? He had a feeling that they weren't.

  Who was next?

  And rather than try to figure that out — with no basis to figure from — he got out of bed and stumbled to the shower. The cold water didn't fully wake him, but it helped.

  Dressed, he decided that he didn't want any breakfast. He'd better get that damn synopsis started. He took the cover off his typewriter and sat down.

  Let's see — Dale and Millie had to quarrel, and the first question was what they were to quarrel about. Let's see—

  Hell, his mind was still foggy. He'd better go downstairs ,for some coffee first.

  In the hallway, he met Millie Wheeler coming in, with packages.

  “Tracy!” she said. “What on earth gets you up at the awful hour of eight-thirty? Or haven't you been to bed yet?”

  “My busy day, angel. Got to work. Really work.”

  “Had breakfast?”

  “Going out for coffee now. Come along?”

  “Here's coffee.” She handed him a package. And the others. “Take the rest of it, so I can get the door open.”

  He followed her in, put the packages in the kitchenette, and sat down. She started the coffee.

  “What's doing, Tracy? Millie's Millions scripts?”

  “Synopsis for the next sequence. Millie's going to quarrel with Dale, and then he goes out and gets hit by a truck.”

  “Good idea. I mean, Dale getting hit by a truck. What are they going to quarrel about?”

  “That hasn't cooked yet. Got any suggestions?”

  “Ummm,” said Millie, “let me think a minute.” She brought plates and cups from the kitchenette and set them on the table. “Why not have Millie find out Dale's making passes at a blonde?”

  “Say, that's swe—”

  Sudden suspicion hit Tracy, but he couldn't verify it. Millie was bending over the stove to break eggs into the little pyrex skillet and he couldn't see her face.

  “—swell,” he said. “Uh — go on with it. Where does he meet the blonde?”

  “Well, he works at an office, doesn't he? Why not have her work there. A new stenographer, maybe.”

  “Yeah,” said Tracy. Since her back was still toward him anyway, he let his eyes narrow into a look of dark suspicion. “And then what happens?”

  “He gets hit by a truck,” said Millie cheerfully. “That's what you said. And it serves him right, doesn't it? How many lumps?”

  “Where? In my coffee?”

  “Certainly, you dope.” She turned around, and her face was without guile.

  Tracy insisted on helping her with the dishes after breakfast. Maybe it was his conscience. Then he was shooed out so she could dress to go to the studio.

  He wandered disconsolately back to the typewriter in his own apartment. Resolutely he put in white paper, carbon, and yellow second sheet.

  Resolutely he typed a heading, turned the roller down, and started to type out the synopsis. Had Millie's suggestion been a shot in the dark? Or—?

  Well, it was a workable idea, anyhow. Only he compromised by making the girl a comptometer operator instead of a stenographer, and a redhead instead of a blonde. At least that much of the synopsis, he thought bitterly, would be his own idea and not Dotty's or Millie's. And, of course, Dale wouldn't really be guilty of attempted philandering (Wilkins would thumb that down, anyway) but would be a victim of misleading appearances.

  He kept on going; it came out slowly, a word at a time. Each word hurt. The synopsis was a brief one, two pages double-spaced, and it took him until eleven o'clock to finish it. There was sweat on his forehead, and it wasn't all from the August heat. That had been the toughest piece of writing he'd ever done — even though he'd sat down with the idea ready to write. And not even his own — Of course! That was why it had been so hard, because it hadn't been his own.

  He sighed with relief at the comforting thought, and got out quickly. He'd have to hurry to be sure of catching Wilkins. And Wilkins was probably fuming. It was a wonder he hadn't called on the phone.

  But the ordeal turned out to be not too bad. Wilkins frowned when Tracy entered his office, but thawed out when the synopsis was on the desk before him. He read it slowly and nodded. “It'll do,” he said. “Any of the continuity ready?”

  “Thought I'd get your approval on the synopsis first, in case you want to suggest any changes. I can have a few scripts by Monday.”

  “Fine. I might suggest one slight change. Wouldn't it seem more — ah — usual to have the girl at the office a blonde? I mean—”

  “No,” said Tracy. “For that very reason, not a blonde. A brunette, if you think a redhead would be too outre.“

  Wilkins' right eyebrow went up a trifle. “You don't — ah — care for blondes, Mr. Tracy? Somehow I got the impression—”

  Tracy grinned. “It's not personal, Mr. Wilkins. Just the fact that blondes have been overworked for that sort of thing. They're hackneyed. But speaking of blondes, is Dotty around? With a stenographer, I might get a start at those scripts now, in one of the offices.”

  “She has probably left. She works only until noon on Saturday and it's now — yes, it's ten minutes after. Miss Hill is working this afternoon, I believe. Shall I have her type for you?”

  “Never mind, Mr. Wilkins. I can work better, really, by myself. I just thought that it would — sort of help Dotty on the radio writing angle, if she were working anyway.”

  “I see. It's unfortunate, then, that she's gone. By the way, Mr. Tracy, there is one point in this sequence that is definitely debatable. I mean, the possibility which you suggest of Dale Elkins actually dying. That is a major point which would have to be taken up with our sponsors. We could not take any such — ah — radical step without their approval.”

  “Of course,” Tracy said. “That's why I merely suggested it as a possibility. The business of the quarrel will take several days — the same several in which we're finally extricating Reggie from his difficulty at the bank. Then, just before the last script that will concern the bank angle, will come the accident. And all the hospital scenes — they're good for weeks.”

  Wilkins nodded. “I'm seeing our sponsor Tuesday. I'll show him this synopsis and get his opinion. But I'll guarantee that the first part — the quarrel and the accident and the early hospital scenes — will be satisfactory. You may go ahead with a week's scripts, even two weeks', on that basis.”

  Tracy felt better as he took the elevator down. One hurdle had been taken. Now if he could get a couple of scripts done over Sunday—

  Force of habit rather than serious desire for drink turned his steps toward the bar downstairs. He ordered a bottle of beer and nursed it along, getting up courage to go home and tackle the scripts. He had a hunch it would be tough going.

  Why in hell did there have to be scripts due now? Why hadn't he been further ahead of the game when this murder business came up? If there was only some way he could take a vacation for a week and forget all about Millie's Millions—

  A bulky figure moved in beside him at the bar.

  “Hi, Tracy,” said Sergeant Corey's voice. “I was just upstairs to see if you was there, and Mr. Wilkins told me you'd probably drop in here on 'your way out.”

  “A smart cookie, that Wilkins,” said Tracy. “What'll you have, Sarge?”

  “Well — guess a beer won't hurt me. But don't tell the Inspector. Just happened to be near here and thought I'd tell you something we found out, if you were around. We found out where the Santa Claus suit came from.”

  Tracy put down his beer. “Where?”

  “Seabright's, the theatrical costumer's. They had a burglary last Monday night — the night before Dineen was killed. They'd reported it, but hadn't reported anything stolen. Didn't come to our department, naturally, and we didn't know about it until this morning.”

  “When they missed the Santa suit?”

  Corey nodded sagely. “Right on 'the head. Y'see, when they found the place had been broken into, Tuesday morning, they first looked for the cash — there was only a few dollars in a change drawer — and it was all there, so they figured the burglar hadn't found it. They gave the stock a quick once-over, but didn't open every box. But then this morning they got a request for a Santa suit, and they missed it.”

  “Who the hell would want a Santa suit this time of year?”

  “Ah,” said the sergeant.

  Tracy frowned. “Never met him. Any relation to Lo, the poor Indian? Or wait — I do know an Ah. Back in Buffalo. Used to take my shirts to him. Ah Lee Soong, I think his name was.”

  “You're kidding me, Mr. Tracy.”

  “Bet you ten. We can get a telephone directory of Buffalo and — Hey, Hank, two bottles of beer. All right, Sarge, I'll bite. Who tried to rent a Santa suit this morning? And I'll sit at your feet with bated breath.”

  “Jerry Evers, that's who. That character actor that the fight with Dineen, and the quarrel with Frank Hrdlicka.

  “Oh,” said Tracy.

  “He's down at the bureau now. They're talking to him.”

  “What's his story?”

  “Screwy as hell, but hard to disprove. Said he had a hunch the Santa suit the murderer must have used, well, that it must have been swiped from a costumer, and that he was going the rounds asking for one. Said he thought he might find out something we missed.”

  Tracy said, “That's not so screwy, is it? He did. I mean he did find something you missed.”

  “Well — yeah. We did check on the suit angle, naturally, to the extent of phoning all costumers around town to ask if they'd rented or sold any Santa suits recently, and none of 'em had. I guess — well, we should have gone farther and asked them to check their stock to see if any suits was missing, but hell, we didn't think of that. We thought if one had been stolen, they'd say so. Only Seabright's didn't know it was stolen.”

  “Had Jerry Evers really been to other places asking for a suit?”

  “One other, yeah. We checked. He'd asked for a suit and looked at it, and said he wanted one of better material — it was cheap flannel — and he did ask 'em if that was the only one they had and if they'd rented or sold any recently. Seabright's was the second place he went. But of course he'd have gone to more than one place to back up his story.”

  “Drink your beer before it gets flat, Sarge. So all right — if Jerry is the killer and if he stole that Santa suit Monday night, then what in hell possible reason would he have for calling attention to it being missing by going around and asking for it?”

  Corey sipped his beer slowly. He said, “I dunno. But we figure the killer is probably crazy. So he would do something screwy like that. He can't let well enough alone, maybe. He gets a crazy notion he's covering his tracks by bringing out where the suit came from, since we can't prove he did the burgling. Figures he's trying to divert suspicion.”

  “And succeeding?”

  Corey looked aggrieved. “I told you the guy's crazy. Look, I'll prove it. Suppose he didn't kill anybody — this Jerry Evers. Suppose he's pure as the driving snow. All right, then — he didn't like either Dineen or Hrdlicka, so what for is he going out of his way to help find who killed him? He ain't that kind of a guy. He's sneaky and kind of — what's the word I want? — furtive, that's it. Furtive.”

  Tracy shook his head sadly. Up to a point, at any rate, he wouldn't throw a monkey wrench in Jerry's publicity scheme. But Jerry could go too far. He said, “Hell, Sarge, the guy's an actor.”

  “Maybe, but I think he's scared stiff. Scared enough to act natural, instead of acting. Well, I got to blow. Just thought I'd tell you the news about the suit. So long.”

  “So long, Sarge.”

  Tracy sighed and, after Corey had left, glowered at his reflection in the bar mirror. Damn Jerry Evers, anyway. Looked like he might succeed in getting himself in the papers at that. If he was really charged, he'd get publicity all right. Enough ink to drown him. Then he could conveniently remember his hairdresser alibi and the cops would be holding the bag.

  Great stuff, except that while the police were chasing their tails up a blind alley, the real killer could be getting set for another kill. And the real clues, if there were any, were getting freezingly cold.

  Damn Jerry Evers.

  Tracy finished his second bottle of beer and wandered gloomily out into the midday heat. He tried to think of some good reason for not going home to start those Millie scripts. There wasn't any, except of course that he might as well eat some lunch first.

  Why hadn't he asked Corey to eat with him? He hated the thought of eating alone when he was going to have to suffer alone all afternoon thereafter. Dammit, why hadn't Dotty worked till one instead of twelve?

  Well — maybe Dick Kreburn wouldn't have eaten yet. And he could walk home past Dick's hotel without going too far out of his way.

  Dick hadn't eaten. They went for spaghetti to a little Italian place just around the corner from Dick's. Dick's voice was still a trifle hoarse, but he insisted that he could talk as much as he wanted to now.

  “The more the better,” he said. “My voice'll be normal by Monday.”

  “Not too normal,” Tracy said. “The script calls for you to be hoarse for your Monday and Tuesday parts.”

  Dick grinned. “That's what I mean. From here on out I should talk too much to stay a little hoarse. Maybe I should take singing lessons. Say, how goes the murder business? Haven't had a talk with you since I read about that script business in the papers. Is it the McCoy?”

  “The righteous stuff, dammit.”

  “Look, if there's anything I can do, Tracy—”

  “Sure. Find out who the murderer is. No, don't take me seriously. Stay out of it, Dick. The more people get mixed up in it, the worse mixed up the coppers will be. Jerry Evers—”

  “Don't tell me Jerry's trying to tangle himself in it, Tracy. I should have guessed. That publicity hound'd murder his grandmother to get an inch on page three.”

  “He's heading for three columns on page one, with a run-over, damn him.” Tracy told what had happened.

  Dick shook his head. “You ought to give the guy away, Tracy. Or — maybe not; I don't know. But listen, the police aren't as dumb as you seem to think. Maybe they don't really think he did it; maybe they're using him as a smoke screen to make the real killer confident.”

  “He should be confident,” Tracy said. “He should be laughing his head off.”

  When they had eaten, Tracy manfully resisted temptation to kill the rest of the afternoon with Dick, and went on home. The typewriter was still there.

  He sat down to it and strove mightily. He worked honestly, with the courage of desperation. At six o'clock, after three and three-quarter hours of the toughest labor he'd ever done, he'd got halfway through one script. Even though he'd known what he was going to write, the words had come slowly, one at a time. He felt like a dishrag. When he got up to straighten his cramped legs and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he found that he looked like a dishrag, too.

  But he grinned at himself in the mirror because he'd just had an idea. A wonderful idea. If only he'd thought of it four hours sooner, he'd have saved himself an afternoon in hell. Maybe, though, it was just as well he hadn't thought of it then. He felt better now for having proved to himself that he could still put words on paper, at whatever cost. He picked up the phone and called Dotty. “Tracy,” he said. “Listen, Dotty, I got a proposition to make you. I mean a business proposition, on the level. You free this evening?”

  “Why — what I was going to do isn't really important, Bill. I could phone and call it off.”

  “Do that, then. And have you eaten yet?”

  “Why, no.”

  “Then don't. I'll be right over, soon as I can get there. I'll pick up some grub en route, and we can eat at your place. We can talk better there. 'Bye now.”

  He took a quick shower to get rid of the dishrag look and then gathered up all the old Millie's Millions scripts he could find kicking around, and his carbons of the few that had been written and not yet played. He put them into a brief case with the half of a script he had just written.

  At seven, heavily laden with assorted groceries, he arrived at Dotty's apartment.

  He waited only to put down the packages. Then he said, “Dotty, do you think you could write a week of Millie scripts for me? Five of them?”

  Her eyes opened wide and her lips parted a little. She said, “Why — I — I think I could, Bill. I'd love to try it. But why? I mean—”

  He said, “It's a big favor to me, if you can do it. I m tied up in granny knots. I need a week's vacation ten times as bad as I need a week's salary. The salary is all yours for the week. Want to try it?”

  “Do I? Why, Bill, it's marvelous. I'd love to. Are you sure you really—?”

  “Positive. It'll keep me out of the loony bin. And I can read over what you do before we turn it in; that much work won't hurt me. And your feelings won't be hurt if I don't like some parts of it, and make you do them over?”

  “Why, of course not, Bill. I'll appreciate criticism — and need it. I wouldn't think of turning in scripts without your telling me they were all right. You know so much more about it than I do.”

  “All right, then. It's a deal. Hungry? I mean, shall we eat right away and talk about it more later, or shall I turn over the scripts to you now?”

 

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