Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1944)

CRIME ON MY The unpredictable Sanders gives Hollywood — and you — another shock, writes this murder mystery about himself, turns out a surprise-climax story Photoplay condenses here lYI URDER on a George Sanders set! In the midst of a shooting scene, the star discovers an extra, Severance Flynne, lying dead, shot through the head with a .38. Since everyone else in the scene was carrying ,45’s except Sanders, who carried .38’s, George decides, for the time being, to keep this information to himself while he seeks to trap the murderer. He searches Severance Flynne’s hotel room, finds a clipping from an English paper that reads: “Lord Hake, head of one of our oldest families, died of pneumonia Friday at his home, the ‘Woods.’ His eldest son, Harry, met his death almost simultaneously in Mondesley when his Daimler ran over an embankment. It is believed that he was hurrying to his father’s bedside.” Knowing that the film shot at the time of the tragedy may hold a clue to the murderer, George gives out word that he has the film in his trailer dressing room, then sets up an electric searchlight beam that will flash on as soon as anyone crosses the threshold. Putting out all lights, he waits for his visitors, any one of whom may be the criminal. To the trailer come: His agent Melva Lonegan and his press agent, Fred. Lamar James, deputy of Sheriff Gerald Callahan, who is conducting the formal investigation. Wanda Waite, glamour star, who had been seen by Sanders himself frantically searching Flynne’s room after the murder. Listless Nelson, friend of Sammy, prop man who knows that it was George who carried .38’s and who is helping George investigate. Riegleman, ambitious producer of the picture. Paul, the casting director. Curtis, the head cameraman. Carla Folsom, who is playing opposite George and who admits to having known Flynne in her pre-Hollywood past. Sammy, the prop man. No one of these visitors gives George any clues; all have logical explanations for their visits. However, Sanders discovers that some one of them has carried off the roll of film. This necessitates reshooting of the scene and George’s changing his guns for .45’s, since the .38’s have disappeared. Both Sanders and Sammy realize that there is only one chance in a hundred that this switch of guns will not be noted by the script girl, Peggy. They start filming the scene; the moment comes when George is to face the camera. His eyes are on Peggy, he sees her throw up a warning hand, about to stop the scene. Then fear screams from her eyes — and she topples forward, between her shoulder blades a circle of blood. SOME six hours after Peggy’s death, I was in jail. “The shot came from a point along your line of vision and extended beyond Miss Whittier,” Lamar James told me. “The killer may think that you saw something — like Peggy Whittier — so you’re next on his list. This is a protective arrest.” I stood up. James’ brown eyes didn’t waver before mine. “There were a couple of hundred others out there who could have seen what I did. Why single me out of the ruck?” He gave me a sly smile. “I know you’re hiding something.” . “There is one thing I’d like to see,” I told him. “Peggy’s notebook. She recorded everything she saw. If a scene was interrupted the director only needed to consult her to take up the scene again exactly as and where it was interrupted.” “She didn’t have any notebook when I got there,” James said. He stamped out, flushed with anger. And Melva arrived with Frank. “We can’t let you rot in a louseinfested cell,” Melva protested. “Any lice in this cell,” I said pointedly, “came from outside, since I’ve been here.” I turned my back on them and looked stolidly at my bunk. To my surprise, they went away. I didn’t hear Sheriff Callahan Until he spoke with bovine heartiness. “There’s no call to keep you any longer. I can’t afford to get into no trouble with the federal men. Your agent was very nice about it, and I see where we was hasty.” I stood up. I walked out. Lamar James drove up as I emerged into the sunlight. “What are you doing out?” he asked. I told him. “It doesn’t matter. I think I’ve got the killer. I’m going to pick her up in a few minutes.” “Her?” I said. “Who?” “Wanda Waite. Her fingerprints are all over Peggy Whittier’s room. It’s a little too coincidental to find ’em in Flynne’s and Whittier’s rooms both.” “Wanda didn’t kill Flynne,” I said, “and therefore had no reason to kill Peggy.” He replied, “I’m picking her up for questioning.” I followed him inside, to his laboratory. He put two battered chunks of lead under a microscope. “They didn’t come from the same gun,” he said, “but they came from the same make. Probably a pair of Smith and Wesson .38 Specials. Now, why didn’t he use the same gun?” “I came in here to tell you what I know,” I told him. “My first suggestion is that you leave Wanda Waite out of the picture. She isn’t guilty.” “What was she doing in his room, then?” “I don’t know. I watched her through the closet door, and I thought she was wiping her fingerprints off things.” “You watched her?” he exclaimed. “What the hell were you doing there?” “Looking for a motive, of course.” “Did you find anything?” “A newspaper clipping. I doubt if it means anything.” I told him what the clipping said. “Where does Wanda fit into this?” he asked. “She talked to him on the train coming up here. She says for the first time. He told her he came from Nebraska. He was on this job under false pretenses.” “How ( Continued on page 95) An Inner Sanctum Mystery Published by Simon and Schuster