Puzzle of the Happy Hooligan by Stuart Palmer Read Free Book Online Page B

made a complete examination of the cadaver of Saul Stafford at Lumsden Mortuary Haven, 1243 Western Avenue. Results as follows: Anterior surface of body—negative.’ That means no bruises. ‘Abdominal cavity—negative to all poisons except ethyl alcohol. Cranial cavity—negative except to ethyl alcohol, concentration of 0.184.’ That means he was moderately tight. ‘Skeletal structure—a fracture dislocation of the second cervical vertebra and lesion of the spinal cord. Conclusion: Death from brain coma and/or lung asphyxia caused by break in spinal cord, either of which alone would be sufficient to cause death. There are no evidences of violence or of suicidal intent. All symptoms listed are entirely compatible with the theory of death by misadventure.’ So you see, Miss Withers—”
    “Stafford was about two thirds swacked and he fell offen a chair and busted his neck,” Sansom put in heavily.
    “I’m telling you this, Miss Withers, because we want you to be perfectly satisfied,” Lothian continued. “Doctor Panzer is an experienced and conscientious man.” He rose to his feet. “And I might also point out to you that in the forty-some years since the motion-picture industry moved to California there has been no major crime committed inside the walls of any studio!”
    “There’s a first time for everything,” said the schoolteacher doggedly. But she was on the spot and knew it. “Of course,” she reminded them, “there is the fact that I had a talk with Stafford before he died and he told me he was afraid of being murdered….”
    “A coincidence,” Lothian told her. “If he wasn’t pulling your leg. The man had a mania for playing practical jokes and ribbing people, you know.”
    “But death had the last laugh,” pointed out Miss Withers tartly, and made her exit.
    If the front-office nabobs had a tendency to take the demise of Saul Stafford somewhat lightly, it was not a feeling shared on the third floor of Writers’ where very little work was in progress that morning. In Gertrude’s office there was a gathering of the secretaries, Lillian and fat Clara and one or two others, all talking a blue streak and reading the morning papers.
    The Stafford story was on page nineteen of the Times whose modest one-column head was “ACCIDENT FATAL TO SCENARIST.” Even the Examiner went no further than “DEATH DRAWS CURTAIN ON PLAYBOY WRITER’S MADCAP LIFE.” Both papers discreetly omitted the name Mammoth, saying only “a major studio.”
    “Take it easy, Lil,” Gertrude said. “They didn’t even mention your name.”
    “There are a lot of things that didn’t get into the paper,” Lillian said sharply.
    “And that won’t, dearie,” Gertrude interposed. She looked up as the elevator door clanged and Miss Hildegarde Withers came up to the window. Then she carefully wrote down “10:35 A.M.— Withers in.”
    “Good morning,” greeted the schoolteacher. “By the way, do you keep a record like that for everyone?”
    Gertrude nodded. “It’s a sort of studio rule. Not so much to check up on the hours people keep and how many callers they have as it is to have a record of where all writers are—in case the producer or supervisor wants to get in touch with them.”
    “You don’t throw the sheets away, do you?” Miss Withers pressed on. “I was thinking particularly of yesterday afternoon.” She suddenly lowered her voice, realizing that the secretaries were listening so hard that you could almost feel it. “Could I see that record?”
    “I’m very sorry, Miss Withers, but—”
    “It isn’t just idle curiosity,” insisted the schoolteacher. “It struck me that no one can come out of the elevator without being seen from where you sit. Nor can anyone come up the stairs and pass to any one of the offices in this wing. In other words, you have a complete check on everything.”
    “I’m sorry, but it’s against the studio rules,” Gertrude announced. “Besides, I’ve turned