Death Spins the Platter

3

Layton walked down the arm of the L that went past the dressing rooms. At the door to number 2 he hesitated. King and the redhead were probably in there; the door was closed this time and he had no excuse for opening it. But where had the scared brunette holed up? He peered into every dressing room along the corridor whose door was open, but they were all unoccupied.

She was probably in a hurry to get to the women’s john, Layton thought with a grin, and what she’d been afraid of was that she wouldn’t make it.

He backtracked and strolled down the other corridor. As he was passing the station manager’s office a tall, trim, gray-haired man stepped out He favored the reporter with the sort of vague, half-smiling nod politicians bestow on passers-by who might conceivably have once been introduced to them. The tall gray man strode up the corridor and around the corner, from where Layton had just come.

The man had not closed Hathaway’s door, and Layton looked in. The outer office was unoccupied except for Hathaway’s secretary, a thin, harried-looking female whose gray hair had recently had a blue rinse.

“Mr. Hathaway isn’t here, Mr. Layton,” she said. “You’ll find him in. the Studio B and C control room. That’s over beyond the dressing rooms.”

“I’ve already had the pleasure remember?” Layton smiled. To his surprise, she smiled back. “I’m killing time till the King show goes back on. By the way, who was that man of distinction — the gent who just left?”

“Mr. Stander, Hubert Stander. He’s chairman of the board.”

“Looking for Hathaway?”

“Now, Mr. Layton,” the secretary said, still smiling. “Come in and sit down, why don’t you? In your job you probably walk your feet off.”

“Thanks.” Layton drifted in and dropped into a chair near her desk. “Cigarette?”

“That’s not my vice,” she said. Her voice was quite warm now. “But you go ahead and be as vicious as you want.” She pushed an ash tray toward him.

“If you don’t smoke, why do you have an ash tray on your desk?”

“So that people like you won’t get ashes all over the floor, Mr. Layton.”

Layton grinned. “Didn’t I hear Hathaway call you Hazel?”

She nodded. “Hazel Grant.”

“What do you think of Tutter King’s being fired, Miss Grant?”

“Mrs. Grant.”

“Sorry. Mrs. Grant.”

“You mean for publication?”

“Any way you want.”

“I would have to be off the record,” she said, leaning back. “Mr. Hathaway would have forty kinds of fits if his secretary talked to the papers. Especially about this. The station’s already given out its official statement.”

“I know,” Layton said. “Dripping With devotion to the public interest. But on account of I’m such a doll, Mrs. Grant — how do you feel about it?”

The woman stared at him quite steadily. “You promise not to mention my name?”

“I won’t mention your name.”

Hazel Grant glanced toward the open doorway. Then she said in a very low voice, “They’ve known for years about Tutter’s arrangement with the record companies.”

“Oh?” Layton said. “Who’s they?”

“The station brass.”

“Hathaway?”

She began to look nervous. “I don’t know why I said anything at all. I really shouldn’t have.”

“Don’t worry about it. Hathaway’s known all along, huh?”

“Yes,” she said with venom. “He’s actually made envious remarks to me about the piles of money Tutter’s been making under cover. He had to ignore what was going on because the program was so successful. Now that the story’s come out, they all act surprised and self-righteous. I can’t stand hypocrisy.”

“I know what you mean,” Layton said sympathetically. “By the way, was Tutter the only one in on it?”

“What?” Hazel Grant looked puzzled. “How do you mean?”

“Haven’t you heard the story going around?”

“What story?”

“Why, I heard it myself just this afternoon in the station. That Tutter King had to split the payola with some of the big shots around here.”

The woman’s harassed eyes turned wary. “I hadn’t heard anything like that.”

“Then it isn’t true?”

“I wouldn’t know, Mr. Layton.” She swung back to her typewriter, “I’m afraid I’ll have to get to work.”

Layton glanced at his watch. “And I’d better get to Studio A.” He stubbed his cigarette out in the ash tray. “Enjoyed our chat, Mrs. Grant. Seeing you.”

“Please.” She was quite pale. “You won’t quote me, will you? You promised.”

“I keep my promises,” Layton said. “Relax, Hazel.”

He met no one on his way back to the studio. The big room was still noisy; the newscast had little more than a minute to run. The frightened-looking woman was again in her chair by the door, and she was still looking frightened. So much for my john theory, Layton thought. She was now the sole surviving adult in the studio audience.

He turned at hearing his name called. Lola Arkwright was running toward him. “Seen Tutter anywhere?” she panted.

“No. Wasn’t he with you?”

“Would I be looking for him if he had been?” The girl was biting her lip. “I expected to find, him back in the studio.”

“Did you try his dressing room?”

“He wasn’t there when I stopped by—”

“He wasn’t?” Layton looked at her.

“Please, Mr. Layton! Will you do me a favor, quick?”

“Find him?”

“Yes! I’ll have to stay here and fill in for him if he doesn’t make air time.” She glanced at the big studio clock. It showed twenty-eight seconds to go. She hurried to the bandstand.

Layton ran out into the corridor. The hall lined with dressing rooms was deserted. In the other hall George Hathaway and Chairman of the Board Stander were just going into Hathaway’s office.

Layton strode over to the dressing room numbered 2 and yanked the door open.

The room was empty.

He darted across the corridor to the opposite dressing room, the room numbered 1, intending to work his way from room to room all the way down the hall.

It was not necessary. He found Tutter King in dressing room 1.

The disc jockey was on the floor, sprawled on his back, legs wide, mouth and eyes open. The handle of what appeared to be an ice pick protruded from the left side of chest.

Kneeling, Layton felt for a pulse.

King was dead.

The newspaperman in him took control over his shocked faculties. King was dead, King was dead... but what about the room?

There was nothing about the room. It was a room, a dressing room. I’d make one hell of a detective, Layton thought.

He found himself in the corridor pulling the door to. Then he shook himself like a dog and made for Studio A.

It was back on the air. He eased the studio door open for a narrow look. The bandstand was unoccupied. Camera 1 was focused on the turntable. The redhead, coolly smiling, was talking into a microphone, a record in her hands. Good old Lola minding the store.

Wait till she takes inventory, Layton thought.

He made for Hathaway’s office.

Hazel Grant looked up, startled, when he walked in. She half-rose from her typewriter.

“You can’t go in there, Mr. Layton,” she said quickly. “Mr. Hathaway is busy.”

Layton paid no attention to her. He opened the door marked Private and let it bang against the wall. Behind him the blue-haired secretary was tugging at his jacket.

“Mr. Layton, I told you—”

“All right, Hazel,” George Hathaway said in an annoyed voice. She retreated and Layton shut the door. The station manager was seated behind his desk and the man of distinction, Hubert Stander, was comfortably ensconced in the chair Layton had occupied during his interview. “What is it, Layton? I’m in conference.”

“That’s good.” Layton said, “because I’ve brought you something to confer about.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tutter King is no more.”

“What?” Hathaway looked perfectly blank.

“I just found him in dressing room 1 with what I think is an ice pick in his heart.”

The two executives of KZZX got to their feet as one man. Hathaway half-turned to his right, then swung back to his left, as if he required reorientation for the route around his desk to the door. Stander was apparently a man of action as well as distinction; he was halfway across the outer office before Hathaway moved.

“And I wouldn’t touch anything,” Layton called after them. He turned to Mrs. Grant; she was back at her desk, staring after Hathaway and Stander.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Layton?”

“Get me the Bulletin,” he said, “and when I’m finished put me through to police headquarters.”

Her face went dead-white.

“I’ll use Hathaway’s phone.”

He could hear her breathing on the extension throughout his report to the city desk. Layton shrugged. She got him the police captain in charge of the Homicide day watch, and this time she hung up. She was standing behind her desk with her hand to her mouth when he ran across the outer office.

Layton had just reached the joint of the L when the door of Studio A opened and Mystery Woman came out He halted abruptly, and so did she.

“Pardon me.” She had a voice that matched the hair, the clothes, and the fear. It was a glossy, expensive-sounding voice, and it was all tightened up with tension.

“Yes?” Layton said.

“I saw you in the studio.” It was almost painful to listen to her. “Are you connected with the King show?”

“Why?”

“I thought you might know what’s wrong.”

“Is something wrong?” Layton said.

“It must be. Mr. King didn’t come back after the intermission. That redheaded girl is doing it all by herself in there. Was he taken ill or something?”

Layton said, “You sound as if you have a personal interest.”

To his surprise, her pale cheeks turned pink. He had forgotten that there were still women who blushed.

“Fan of his?”

“Well... sort of.” He was even more surprised to see her eyes light up, her face turn lively and, in the process, the fear vanish. “I don’t see any reason to keep it a secret any more,” she said defiantly. “I’m Mrs. King.”

“Mrs. King?” His echo of the name sounded stupid even to his ears. “You mean you’re Tutter King’s...?”

“Tutter King’s wife.”

All Layton could think of to say was, “I thought Tut was a bachelor.”

“We’ve been married ten years. Tutter felt it would hurt him with his fans, especially the girls, if they knew he had a wife. I’ve had to be awfully careful.” Recalling the mask of fear she had been carrying around, Layton nodded. Maybe in private life, he thought, the charming Tutter King hadn’t been so charming. “But it doesn’t have to be that way any more. Not after today.” With her face lighted up that way, she was almost beautiful. “Even Tutter said he’d have to go out of circulation till the talk died down. So now I can be Mrs. Tutter King right out loud.”

“Yes, Mrs. King,” Layton said. “Well...”

“But I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” King’s widow rattled on, “a perfect stranger!”

“It’s probably my kind face,” Layton muttered. And just then Hathaway and Stander came hurrying around the corner.

“Oh, Layton,” Hathaway said. His ruddy cheeks had acquired a greenish tint. “He’s dead, all right.”

“Who’s... dead?” the woman asked.

Quite mechanically Hathaway answered, “That damn fool King,” and then he saw her really for the first time. “Who in God’s name is this, Layton?”

“King’s widow,” Layton said; and he caught her just as her legs gave way.

Stander led the parade to the first door beyond the studio and unlocked it. Layton carried the woman in and Hathaway scuttled in behind him. The door said, Chairman of the Board. Stander closed it quickly.

The anteroom looked unused and smelled musty. There was no secretary. The tall gray man opened the inner door to a vast, awesome office with the same look and smell. The desk and board table were bare, the wastebasket empty. The room was dark; the Venetian blinds were closed.

“Better put her on the couch,” the tall gray man said. He shut the inner door, too. “I’ll get some water.” Layton deposited the unconscious woman on a palace-sized tapestried couch that was unpleasantly moist to the touch. Stander opened a lavatory door and went in and they heard water running.

“What is this, a tomb?” Layton grunted as he chafed the woman’s hands. “Open a window, will you?”

Hathaway went over to a window, raised the blind a little, and began struggling. “It’s only used four times a year,” he mumbled. “For the quarterly board meetings.” The window gave with a screech. “His widow,” he said. “I’ll be damned. How long were they married?”

“She said ten years.”

“Here, let me,” Hubert Stander said. He put his arm under her head and applied the edge of a water glass to her lips “Come on now, Mrs. King. Drink this.” He said savagely, “Drink it!”

It slopped all over her chin and dripped onto her dress. She choked and opened her eyes and turned her face violently away.

“What are you trying to do, drown her?” Layton shoved the chairman of the board aside. “She’ll be all right.”

“I’ll be all right,” Mrs. Tutter King said; and then, almost apologetically, she put her hands to her face and began to cry.

Like the kid who’s just been given the doll she’s always wanted, Layton thought, only to have it kicked out of her hands and shatter on the floor.

They waited helplessly, turned away.

“Rough, rough,” Hathaway said in a low voice, shaking his handsome head. “Who would ever have thought he’d take it this way?”

“Take what which way?” Layton said.

“Where have you been?” Chairman of the Board Stander said coldly. “The cancellation of the show, of course.”

“But Mr. Hathaway just said—”

“Do you mean,” the station manager said, staring at him, “you didn’t realize...” Hathaway glanced over at the weeping widow and lowered his voice, “that Tutter committed suicide?”

“Suicide,” Layton said. “Suicide?”

“Certainly!” Hubert Stander said.

“What else could it have been?” Hathaway said.

“Either you two are kidding,” Layton said, “or this is a pretty bad dream.”

Stander seemed to grow taller. “Hathaway tells me you’re a newspaperman. I warn you, Layton — be very careful what you print! King was finished and he knew it. What’s more, he knew he’d brought it all on his own head. He couldn’t face the disgrace or the ruin of his career—”

“So he took the easy way out,” Hathaway said excitedly.

Layton eyed them with total incredulity. “You mean like those old-time Spartans, or Romans, or whoever the hell they were — he drew his ice pick and fell on it?” The two executives reddened. “After announcing on the air that he’d make an important statement at the end of his show — but before he could make it?”

“The show,” Hathaway muttered. “My God, the show.” He seemed almost grateful for the opportunity Layton had given him to change the subject. “Lola — she’s got to be told Tutter’s not coming back — to finish the show herself—” He made for the door.

“Don’t tell her why, George,” Stander called after him. “We can’t have her going to pieces on the air!” He smacked his forehead suddenly. “The police. We forgot to notify the police—”

“I didn’t, Layton said.

The chairman of the board turned to glare at the press.

“You wouldn’t,” he snarled and then he hurried after Hathaway.