Ed McBaines 87th Precinct Mystery Magazine. Volume 1, No. 4. April, 1975

To Be — Or Not To Be... by Dan Hall

It started out as a pretty good party, especially the kissing scene. Then Joan hauled out that revolver and I suddenly became a party-pooper. It was supposed to be all in fun, but the muzzle of that .38 wasn’t smiling.

I got into it by accident. I was driving down a busy suburb of Phoenix, admiring a blonde in a bikini across the street, when I drove through a red light and side-swiped a sheriffs department patrol car.

It made an awful crunching sound and the two bull-like faces that swung to glare at me were those of Smith and Jones — the two deputies who were already after my hide.

I took off. They swung around at the end of the block and came after me. We played cat-and-mouse until I reached the outskirts of town and finally lost them on one of the country roads. But I felt no relief — I knew they would hunt me for the rest of the day. Even worse than the side-swiping, they would remember how I had tried to be a shrewd amateur detective and show them a trick or two...

A couple of weeks before, there had been a big-time blackmail group operating in Phoenix, headed by a beady-eyed, thinlipped character called Cicero Sam. For three days I had tailed a beady-eyed, thin-lipped character who had to be Cicero Sam. Sometimes he would have mysterious callers at night — victims from whom he was extorting money, of course.

Well... I would rather not review the painful details. Let it suffice for me to say that I slipped into Cicero Sam’s house through the back door one night — bumping into a couple of his victims in the dark as they hurried out — with the intention of confronting him with my knowledge of his identity and holding him there until the police arrived.

I was still confronting him when Smith and Jones came roaring in like a pair of enraged lions, to tell me that he was Mr. K. J. Keningsworth, one of Phoenix’s more respected business men, and that he had been cooperating with them in laying a trap for the kidnappers; a trap that would have been sprung that very night if I hadn’t interfered.

They were very unhappy with me. I’m pretty sure they would have shot me if it hadn’t been against the law.

And now they were baying blood-thirstily along my trail, panting for revenge, while I had a tire with a slow leak and no spare, fifteen cents in my pocket, and a gas gauge that was just touching the E.

Through the dark cloud of worry I saw that I was driving up La Paloma Valley. This is a small and exclusive valley; estates of the rich scattered the length of it. The houses — mansions, rather — all set some distance back from the road, protected from the proletariat by high steel fences and locked gates.

I drove on, without much interest. I earn my groceries — usually hamburgers — as a mediocre fee-lance writer, but I couldn’t see any story in La Paloma Valley.

Then I came to a gate with a little sign that read: Brookson’s Rancho. A bell began to ring in my mind and I stopped, to stare thoughtfully at the locked gate. Beyond, among a grove of trees, was a rambling, ranch-type house that seemed to cover about an acre. The gravel driveway showed very recent travel.

I wondered if Joan Brookson might be there. Her father had died recently, leaving her several million dollars plus a string of supermarkets. She was rich — you know, the kind who can say to her chauffeur, “Hubert, T noticed some dust on one of my Lincolns this morning. Take it in and trade it off on a new one.”

She had been written up several times in the past six months with such baloney headings as: YOUNG MULTIMILLIONAIRE BUSINESS GIRL DISCUSSES PRICE LEVELS WITH TOP EXECUTIVES.

Actually, of course, she had highly paid managers to take care of her business for her and probably didn’t even know the price of her own Brookson Supermarket hamburger. Which, by the way, was forty-nine cents a pound.

I had my camera with me and I could see a story coming up. I would portray her as the poor little rich girl who yearned for the simple things of life; who hated the sordid world of business and million-dollar bank accounts; who loved to get away every week-end and relax on her rancho, doing her own cooking and sweeping; roping and saddling her horse every afternoon to go galloping across the fields with her golden hair blowing in the wind (I hoped there would be a horse of some kind around and she could keep from falling off it long enough for me to get a picture); the kind of girl who liked to read a good book in the evening as she petted the kitten in her lap (there would surely be a cat around somewhere) and who, in her more thoughtful moods, liked to walk barefooted in the rain as she communed with nature.

She belonged to some amateur theatrical group and would probably enjoy hamming it up for my story, especially walking barefooted in the rain even if it hadn’t rained for six months. And I would have a story that would bring me some steaks instead of hamburgers. I had reached the point where it turned my stomach even to think about another hamburger.

If only I could get in...

It turned out to be very easy.

A car drove out from the house and stopped on the other side of the gate. The guy in it looked like some way-out conception of a movie producer; loud clothes, beard, dark glasses, beret...

“Hello,” I said. “Is Miss Brookson home?”

“She was expecting you?”

He sounded a little surprised — and I was a little surprised that he spoke plain, ordinary English.

“No,” I said. “I’m here to do a story about her — assignment from the Republic.”

Which wasn’t quite true — but it sounded impressive.

“So you’re a reporter?” He sounded thoughtful.

“Free-lance, except on special assignments. Name is Don Steele.”

“Hmmrn — I don’t believe I’ve read any of your stuff.”

“Oh, I use a pen name for that,” I said.

Which was true — Don Steele. My own name of Elmer Dunkengerfer seemed to lack something...

He thoughtfully stroked his beard. “Do you have any other appointments this afternoon — anyone to come hunting you up while you wait to see Miss Brookson?”

“I’m free as a bird.”

“Good.” He got out and unlocked the gate. “I’m a talent scout for the Adventures of Gloria show and we’re here to give Miss Brookson a screen test. Did you ever do any acting?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “I used to be very active in the small theatres.”

Well... actually, it was a high school play, once, in which I was the masked burglar with no speaking part and the boy who played the lead role slugged me over the head with a real baseball bat instead of the balsa wood fake he was supposed to use. He was the jealous type and had caught me smooching his girl a couple of hours before...

“Fine — fine!” the talent scout said. “Our little caste is one member short — I’m afraid the young fellow I hired must have stopped at a bar — and I was just going out to find someone else.” He stroked his beard again. “I’m glad you came along, Don.”

He swung the gate open and I drove through with the creepy feeling up my backbone that Smith and Jones would be along any moment. I parked my car as well-hidden as possible, saw that the tire with the slow leak was almost completely flat, and we went into the house.

It was a large room, furnished with expensive furniture, and three people were sitting at a big mahogany table.

One was a tall, sallow-faced man of about thirty, slouched in his chair with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. One was a dark-haired woman about the same age, wearing some kind of a semi-formal gown, a long, ivory cigarette holder in one white-gloved hand. She was good looking in a cool, impersonal way.

And one was Joan Brookson; golden-haired and gray-eyed, her face flushed with excitement, looking like seventeen instead of twenty-two. She would have been a knock-out in a bikini...

The talent scout introduced us:

“Folks, meet Don — he’s had acting experience. You recognize Joan, of course, Don. This is Jack, my camera man, and Sophia, Jack’s wife and my script writer for these bits we’re about to do. And I’m Dave — we won’t bother with formality here.”

“Yeah,” Jack said around the cigarette in his mouth. “We’re just a friendly little group, here to give Joan her big chance. Sophia, hand Don a drink.”

“Bourbon and water would be fine,” I said to her questioning glance.

“Sit down by Joan,” Dave said to me. “You two might as well get acquainted.”

I did so and Sophia handed me a tall drink. Joan smiled at me, so warm and friendly that I suspected she had had several more drinks than just the one she held in her hand.

“Isn’t this thrilling, Don!” she exclaimed.

I took a long drink — Sophia had certainly been liberal with the bourbon — and said, “I suppose so, Miss Brookson — Joan. I’m a little hazy as to what it’s all about, though.”

Dave spoke before Joan could answer:

“Unless I’m mistaken, Don, you’re sitting beside the future star of a new show my sponsor is starting — Big City Girl.”

“Joan has a marvelous stage presence,” Sophia said, putting another cigarette in the ivory holder, “but we have to have her on sound-track film to show the producer what she can do.”

“Imagine!” Joan said excitedly. “I did Joan of Arc in our little theatre last night and I didn’t even know these talent scouts were watching me!”

“Big City Girl will call for a variety of roles,” Dave said. “A society girl, wealthy and aristocratic — which Joan already is — who has another side: that as the girl who is an FBI man’s secret helper. Which means anything might happen, including gun battles with killers.”

Jack spoke again. “Found anybody for the FBI part yet, Dave?”

“Ah... some that can act well enough but they don’t have the hard, masculine look that the producer wants.”

“How about him?” Sophia asked, pointing her cigarette holder at me. “Wuth that square jaw, scarred face and broken nose, he certainly looks masculine.”

“He looks the part,” Dave agreed. “If he can act it, he can have it.”

“Oh, good!” Joan almost clapped her hands with delight. “You can do it, Don — I’ll bet you’ve fought a lot of battles in your life!”

I drained my glass and said modestly, “Well, I didn’t get this face by playing tiddly-winks.”

Which was true. I acquired it by getting drunk one night and falling down a flight of concrete steps.

“Let’s bring in the equipment,” Dave said to Jack. “Sophia, fix Don and Joan another drink then come out and pick out the script we want.”

Sophia poured us each another drink, then all three of them went outside.

“Nice place you have here, Joan,” I said.

She made a face. “I hate it!”

I saw the poor-little-rich-girl story going down the drain.

“You mean you prefer a life of high society, deluxe parties, and big business?”

“High society and de luxe parties bore me. And I have a law firm, an accounting firm, and a batch of managers to take care of business for me.”

“Then what do you want?”

“To act!” She took another drink. “Did you ever want something more than anything in the world? I’ve always wanted to be an actress; to make people laugh, and cry, and hold their breath with suspense, and say, ‘Isn’t she wonderful!’ Didn’t you ever want something very much like that?”

“Well — I’ve always wanted people to say of me, ‘That Don Steele is certainly a good writer.’ ”

“And they never did, did they?”

She patted my hand sympathetically and I took another drink of bourbon. Damn it, she wasn’t following the script... or something.

“Nobody ever heard of me, either, Don” — I winced again — “but now I’ll get my big chance. They came to me backstage last night and asked me if I would be interested in a film test out here today.”

“And you were, obviously.”

“I could hardly wait. I was here at daylight and told my caretaker and his wife to take the rest of the week-end off. Then I paced the floor until Dave and the others showed up.”

She sighed with ecstasy and I rearranged my plans for the future. I wasn’t stupid enough to think I could ever be an actor but if she passed the test, I would still have a good story — the beautiful, talented rich girl who scorned Society and Wealth for her Art...

Sophia came in with a brief case and Dave and Jack followed with a compact — and evidently very expensive — soundtrack movie camera complete with tripod, floodlight, and all the trimmings.

As Jack set up the camera, Dave said, “These will all be just short bits, but very important. They will call for everything from loving glances up through jealousy, hatred, and even murderous rage.” He looked at Sophia. “Fill their glasses again and give them their scripts.”

Joan lifted her glass and stared at it uncertainly, as though she might be seeing two of them. “I don’t know about another drink — if I’m going to play my part well—”

“You’re quite right, dear,” Sophia said. “Enough for you. But Don needs to be a little more relaxed.”

She filled my tall glass again, handed us our script sheets, and went back to stand beside Dave. I looked at the first page. There was a small amount of simple dialogue — easy enough to remember.

“All right,” Dave said. “You two have fallen in love. Move closer together — that’s it. Now — action!”

Joan was instantly another person, despite the drinks she had had.

“Darling,” she said pleadingly, her eyes seeming to be almost ready to fill with tears, “tell me you won’t leave me — tell me your love is greater than that!”

“It has to be this way,” I said, in the hopeless — I hoped — tone the script called for. “You are a rich girl and I have nothing, nothing but a little pride—”

“Pride!” Her eyes flashed with temper. “Is it pride — or another woman?”

“No, Joan — there can never be anyone but you.”

“Then why” — her voice broke forlornly — “must you leave me alone in a lonely house and” — her tone changed to one of seductiveness and so did her expression — “a lonely bed?”

This was supposed to be the cue for us to go into a passionate clinch, which we did.

I guess she really wanted to be the star of Big City Girl because she turned loose with some long, ten-thousand-volk kisses that put me into an orbit that must have gone out past Mars somewhere. Never had I been kissed like that. I didn’t want to ever come up for air but Dave kept yelling:

“Cut! Cut! All right, you two — that does that scene! I said, that’s it — stop! It’s all over — damn it — stop!”

I turned loose of her, reluctantly, started breathing again, and said, “I flubbed that one — we’ll have to do a retake.”

“Perfect!” Dave said. “Marvelous!” Sophia said. “Fantastic!” Jack said.

“Nuts!” I said. “I demand a retake—”

Dave cut me off with:

“Now, enter the Other Woman — Sophia will dub in for that. You sit in the chair at that little table over there, Don. Take your glass and the whiskey bottle with you. In fact, have another drink. Then face the camera and make like a guy that’s got a serious problem on his mind.”

I did as directed, thinking of Joan’s kisses as I took another drink. By now the whiskey had filled me with a warm glow and a feeling of supreme confidence; such confidence that I knew I could act well enough to get the role as FBI man...

I checked the script, finding it to again be quite simple and no problem.

Until I came to: JOAN WHIPS OUT REVOLVER—

“Hey!” I said. “Wait a minute! I—”

I jumped up as I protested, just in time to see Sophia hand Joan a .38 and hear her say, “Keep it hidden behind you until the right time, then empty it into him.”

Joan took it gingerly and said doubtfully, “I don’t know about this—”

“I do!” I yelped, knocking over my glass. “If you think I’m going to get shot—”

“Quiet, Don,” Sophia said. “These are just blanks — I’ll show you.”

She was telling the truth. It was loaded with blanks and as harmless as a water pistol.

“Okay,” I said, sitting down again and refilling my glass. “Let’s go.”

Joan took the gun and disappeared down the hallway behind me — which led to the bedroom, according to the script. I did my best to look worried, which wasn’t hard. On top of everything else, the locked gate would never keep Smith and Jones from climbing over the fence...

Sophia came walking up to my table, her back to the camera, while I stared moodily into my drink. When she was almost to the table, she said:

“So this is where I find you!”

I jerked my head up in what was supposed to be alarmed surprise and said, “Julia! I didn’t hear you come in—”

“Obviously not!” she said cuttingly. “I traced you here today. If you play around with that woman one more time, we’re through!”

“Julia — it’s not like you think...”

“It’s exactly like I think! Where is she now?”

“In bed when I left her — uh — I mean—”

I thought, My God — no idiot would ever be dumb enough to say anything like that — of all the corny scripts!

“I see.” The tone had an edge like a razor. “I’m going now. Don’t ever come back to me — we’re through!”

She swung out of the range of the camera while I stared after her, pleading, “Please, Julia! She means nothing to me, absolutely nothing...”

There was the sound of a door slamming to indicate Julia’s exit. Then there was a movement behind me and I turned to face Joan, who had just come out of the hallway, wearing a bathrobe to hide her clothes. She had taken off her shoes and stocking to make it all look very real.

“So there was another woman!” Joan’s face was twisted with jealous rage. “And I mean nothing to you, you said!”

“You don’t understand, Joan — I didn’t mean it that way—”

“Yes, you did!” Joan said, and brought the .38 from behind her back, to point it square at my hamburger basket. “Now, we’ll see—”

“Joan — please don’t kill me—” I pleaded, suddenly deciding that my role of constant pleading didn’t sound very bold and masculine. The corny script was getting worse all the time... “Please, Joan—”

“Now we’ll see how she likes loving your dead body!”

Before I could plead again she turned loose and ripped off those six blanks. I threw up my hands and fell limply to the floor, shuddered and gurgled a couple of times for effect, then became a dead body.

“Cut,” Dave said.

I got up and saw that he didn’t look very pleased. “Joan, you did well but not well enough. Remember, you’re so jealous that you’re insane with murderous rage. And, Don — you’re about to die — try to look scared.”

He looked at Sophia and said, “Put some more blanks in that thing and let’s try again — I hope Joan makes it this time — we forgot to bring that other roll of film.”

Sophia took the gun to the brief case, reloaded it, and handed it back to Joan. Joan went back down the hallway while I stared moodily at my drink. I heard Joan come back up behind me as the camera started and I stood up to face her, determined to help her by looking scared as hell.

“So there was another woman!” Joan was really doing a job of acting. “And I mean nothing to you, you said!”

“You don’t understand, Joan — I didn’t mean it that way—”

“Yes, you did!” Joan whipped the .38 around again, this time pointed square at my breast bone. “Now, we’ll see—”

“Joan — please don’t kill—”

I suddenly lost my voice and I suddenly was no longer just pretending to be scared.

Just within the open end of each of the four visible cylinder chambers was the deadly gray of real bullets.

I didn’t have to look at the faces of Dave and Sophia and Jack, and see them intent and shining with anticipation, to realize several things in a split second. Sophia had put blanks in the .38 the first time to lull me into believing that these would be blanks, too. And Joan — there was no way she could know the difference...

I was aware of Dave making urgent motions to Joan for her to continue her part, even though I hadn’t — and didn’t intend to — finish my own lines.

“Now we’ll see how she—”

I thought of a line from Shakespeare and I thought, I have about about two seconds to figure out how to be — or not to be — alive.

“—likes loving your—”

With something resembling the speed of light, my one stage performance flashed through my mind. I was told later that when the baseball bat smacked me on top of the head, my mask flipped up, my eyes crossed, my tongue popped out about four inches, and I fell on my face with a noise that sounded like, “Gahhhh!”

Everyone had seemed to think it was hilariously funny...

“—dead bo—”

As she was finishing the fatal words I frantically crossed my eyes, popped my tongue out at her, and fell across the table with a strangled, “Gahhhh!”

The table and I went to the floor together and I fish-flopped in the general direction of the big table while Joan stared in wide-eyed amazement and Dave bellowed:

“You fool! What do you mean.”

“The idiot!” Sophia shrieked. “That scene would have been perfect for us!”

I reached the big table and hauled myself up, holding to the edge of it.

“Coffee!” I gasped. “Too many drinks — make me some black coffee and I’ll be all right.”

Right then I was willing to drink almost anything, just so long as it took them a little while to fix it and I would have time to try to figure out how to keep from getting shot.

Dave had his hand in his coat pocket and I could feel his glare of hatred, even through the dark glasses. Jack was scowling blackly, his hand in his coat pocket. Sophia’s lips were thin, hard line, and her hand was in her purse.

It didn’t look like they were going to make me any coffee...

Sophia looked at Dave and said thoughtfully, in a tone that was low and very deadly:

“Where he is now is good enough.”

“Yeah,” Dave said in the same tone. “Yeah...”

Joan had come over to the table, still holding the gun pointed at me and not even aware of it as she tried to understand what was happening.

“Pop those blanks at him where he is, Joan,” Dave commanded. “Jack — action! Joan — hurry it up — shoot!” His tone was intense with urgency. “We’re almost out of film — if you want that role, shoot!”

Her finger tightened on the trigger. I didn’t stop to say “Gahhhh!” I dived under the table and the .38 roared a split second behind my dive.

A glass knick-knack stand across the room exploded as the bullet tore through it. Joan made a sound like a startled squeak and Dave yelled in a tone more urgent than ever:

“Beautiful! Now shoot at him again — under the table!”

I saw her hand drop with indecision, the .38 still in it.

I popped halfway out from under the table like a greased gopher, jerked the gun out of her hand, and popped back under again as Dave fired.

The bullet plowed into the heavy table top, then Dave said swiftly:

“He’s wise to its — we’ll have to knock them both off—”

Joan screamed, and I reared up under the table with all my strength. It seemed to weigh a ton but Joan and I were the same as already down the drain unless I did something fast.

The table rammed against Dave and Sophia, knocking them down. I brought it all the way over as Jack shot at me, and missed. Dave and Sophia disappeared under it with a baritone Oooomph! and a soprano Eeeeek!

Jack shot again and I felt the right half of my mustache suddenly vanish. Joan, mystified but determined to help me, heaved a quart of Scotch at Jack. I ducked barely in time to keep from getting brained by it.

Then the front door practically left its hinges as two men crashed into the room with drawn guns.

It was the Matched Pair; Smith and Jones, both of them big and muscular and rocky-jawed and looking about as friendly and gentle as a pair of mad grizzlies. Their jaws dropped at what they saw but their guns didn’t.

I thoughtfully dropped my gun, however, and Jack followed suit. Dave and Sophia, halfway out from under the table with their guns in their hands, took a look and decided to go along with the crowd.

All three were handcuffed a few seconds later. I was grateful that Smith and Jones ran out of handcuffs before they got to me.

Smith looked around at the wreckage in the room then turned to Joan and said, “Now, Miss Brookson, tell us what this is all about.”

“I–I really don’t know,” she said, looking even more puzzled than they did. “These people got mad at us all at once and tried to kill us. It was because Don can’t act very well and fell on his face... I think.”

“What?”

“If you two don’t mind,” I said, “I can tell you exactly what happened.”

They hesitated, then Jones said curtly, “All right — go ahead.”

I told them what had happened, then said:

“When I saw they had put live cartridges in the .38 I knew it could be but one thing — they were framing Joan for about half a million dollars worth of blackmail. If she didn’t come across they could have notified the police where she — presumably — had buried my body. They would have the .38 with her finger prints on it and the film, which they would have cut and edited to suit their purpose.”

Joan, wide-eyed, her hand to her mouth, said, “Good heavens!”

Jones and Smith said nothing, mentally digesting the information in their slow, thorough way.

“And now, gentlemen,” I said, resisting the desire to bow sardonically, “allow me to present you with your elusive quarry — Cicero Sam. Just remove the dark glasses and beard.”

For once they didn’t argue. Jones went over to Dave and I crossed my fingers as the disguise was jerked off. Then I breathed again.

There, beady-eyed, thin-lipped, bald-headed and glaring, was Cicero Sam.

Smith and Jones looked thoughtfully at each other, then turned to stare at me.

“Yes, Mr. Dunkengerfer,” Smith said in an icy tone. “This is our elusive quarry. But do you recall why we didn’t have him in jail two weeks ago?”

“I assume,” Jones said in the same tone, “that when you write your story about this, you intend to omit mention of your amateurish bungling?”

Well, as a matter of fact, I had...

“You’ve got him now, haven’t you?” I said. “I think I deserve recognition for what I did today.”

“Yes, indeed,” Smith said, in a tone I didn’t like. “Let us enumerate your achievements for the day...”

He produced a pad of forms and intoned as he wrote:

“Driving through a red light — failing to yield the right of way — destruction of Sheriff’s Office property — leaving the scene of an accident — hit and run driving—”

“Wait!” I protested. “You can’t do this to me!”

“Reckless driving,” Smith went on. “Exceeding the speed limit—”

“Negligent driving,” Jones added helpfully. “Exhibitionist driving — attempting to elude capture—”

“I didn’t even know I hit you!”

“I see,” Smith said, nodding happily. “Driving while intoxicated — disturbing the peace—”

He paused, chewing on his pen.

“And disorderly conduct,” Jones said. “I think that pretty well covers everything he did today.”

“It ought to!” I wailed. “Not even Al Capone had that many charges against him!”

Joan stepped forward and said in her sweetest tone:

“Sirs, I can never thank you enough for what you did here today. As for Don — I’ll assume full responsibility for him and pay all his fines Monday. Don’t take him to jail — please!”

She made her eyes soft and pleading and her lower lip trembled a little. They wilted, as though each had been hit in the stomach with a cannon ball. They didn’t even bother to look at each other before they answered.

“As you wish, Miss Brookson,” Smith said, with a slight bow.

“Of course, Miss Brookson,” Jones said with a slight bow.”

A minute later, they and the prisoners were gone and Joan and I were alone. I sighed and Joan patted me on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry Don — I won’t let them put you in jail.”

“It’s a good thing you’re rich,” I said. “Do you have a horse?”

“A horse? No — why?”

“I’m hungry enough to eat one.”

“How about some thick steaks? I’ll put them on right now.”

“Wonderful! Make mine medium rare. But, first, let’s do a retake of that kissing scene. By the time I come back down out of orbit again, my steak should be done.”

So, we did and it was.