“February 1st, 1921.” Gooddorf mused. “No. How could I remember? You think I keep a diary? I don’t even know where I was then.”
“You were right here in Hollywood.”
“Probably. If you know, tell me.”
“You’ll remember.”
“Let’s see. I came out to the coast in sixteen. I was with Biograph till 1920. Was I making some comedies? That’s it. I was making a piece called Knuckleduster—on location.”
“You weren’t always on location. You were in town February 1st.”
“What is this?” Gooddorf demanded. “The third degree?”
“No—but I’ve got some information about your doings on that date.”
Gooddorf ’s face reddened; for a moment it looked as if he were going to throw Pat out of the room—then suddenly he gasped, licked his lips and stared at his desk.
“Oh,” he said, and after a minute: “But I don’t see what business it is of yours.”
“It’s the business of every decent man.”
“Since when have you been decent?”
“All my life,” said Pat. “And, even if I haven’t, I never did anything like that.”
“My foot!” said Harry contemptuously. “You showing up here with a halo! Anyhow, what’s the evidence? You’d think you had a written confession. It’s all forgotten long ago.”
“Not in the memory of decent men,” said Pat. “And as for a written confession—I’ve got it.”
“I doubt you. And I doubt if it would stand in any court. You’ve been taken in.”
“I’ve seen it,” said Pat with growing confidence. “And it’s enough to hang you.”
“Well, by God if there’s any publicity I’ll run you out of town.”
“You’ll run me out of town.”
“I don’t want any publicity.”
“Then I think you’d better come along with me. Without talking to anybody.”
“Where are we going?”
“I know a bar where we can be alone.”
The Muncherie was in fact deserted, save for the bartender and Helen Kagle who sat at a table, jumpy with alarm. Seeing her, Gooddorf’s expression changed to one of infinite reproach.
“This is a hell of a Christmas,” he said, “with my family expecting me home an hour ago. I want to know the idea. You say you’ve got something in my writing.”
Pat took the paper from his pocket and read the date aloud. Then he looked up hastily:
“This is just a copy, so don’t try and snatch it.”
He knew the technique of such scenes as this. When the vogue for Westerns had temporarily subsided he had sweated over many an orgy of crime.
“To William Bronson, Dear Bill: We killed Taylor. We should have cracked down on him sooner. So why not shut up. Yours, Harry.”
Pat paused. “You wrote this on February 3rd, 1921.”
Silence. Gooddorf turned to Helen Kagle.
“Did you do this? Did I dictate that to you?”
“No,” she admitted in an awed voice. “You wrote it yourself. I opened the letter.”
“I see. Well, what do you want?”
“Plenty,” said Pat, and found himself pleased with the sound of the word.
“What exactly?”
Pat launched into the description of a career suitable to a man of forty-nine. A glowing career. It expanded rapidly in beauty and power during the time it took him to drink three large whiskeys. But one demand he returned to again and again.
He wanted to be made a producer tomorrow.
“Why tomorrow?” demanded Gooddorf. “Can’t it wait?”
There were sudden tears in Pat’s eyes—real tears.
“This is Christmas,” he said. “It’s my Christmas wish. I’ve had a hell of a time. I’ve waited so long.”
Gooddorf got to his feet suddenly.
“Nope,” he said. “I won’t make you a producer. I couldn’t do it in fairness to the company. I’d rather stand trial.”
Pat’s mouth fell open.
“What? You won’t?”
“Not a chance. I’d rather swing.’’
He turned away, his face set, and started toward the door.
“All right!” Pat called after him. “It’s your last chance.”
Suddenly he was amazed to see Helen Kagle spring up and run after Gooddorf—try to throw her arms around him.
“Don’t worry!” she cried.“I’ll tear it up, Harry! It was a joke Harry—” Her voice trailed off rather abruptly. She had discovered that Gooddorf was shaking with laughter.
“What’s the joke?” she demanded, growing angry again. “Do you think I haven’t got it?”
“Oh, you’ve got it all right,” Gooddorf howled. “You’ve got it—but it isn’t what you think it is.”
He came back to the table, sat down and addressed Pat.
“Do you know what I thought that date meant? I thought maybe it was the date Helen and I first fell for each other. That’s what I thought. And I thought she was going to raise Cain about it. I thought she was nuts. She’s been married twice since then, and so have I.”
“That doesn’t explain the note,” said Pat sternly but with a sinky feeling. “You admit you killed Taylor.”
Gooddorf nodded.
“I still think a lot of us did,” he said. “We were a wild crowd—Taylor and Bronson and me and half the boys in the big money. So a bunch of us got together in an agreement to go slow. The country was waiting for somebody to hang. We tried to get Taylor to watch his step but he wouldn’t. So instead of cracking down on him, we let him ’go the pace.’ And some rat shot him—who did it I don’t know.”
He stood up.
“Like somebody should have cracked down on you, Pat. But you were an amusing guy in those days, and besides we were all too busy.”
Pat sniffled suddenly.
“I’ve been cracked down on,” he said. “Plenty.”
“But too late,” said Gooddorf, and added, “you’ve probably got a new Christmas wish by now, and I’ll grant it to you. I won’t say anything about this afternoon.”
When he had gone, Pat and Helen sat in silence. Presently Pat took out the note again and looked it over.
“‘So why not shut up?’” he read aloud. “He didn’t explain that.”
“Why not shut up?” Helen said.
