Marshall shook his head.
Conti muted the sound to a whisper. “A forgotten masterpiece of 1947. Henry Hathaway’s breakthrough film- but then you must know Hathaway’s work,
“Sounds intriguing.”
“That’s putting it mildly. Not only is it a brilliant film-but it’s exactly the solution to my problem.”
Marshall frowned. “I don’t follow you.”
“When we discovered the cat was missing, I was close to panic. I was afraid my documentary-possibly even my career-was in jeopardy. You can imagine how I felt. This was to be my ne plus ultra. It was to put me right up there with Eisenstein.”
“I paced half the night, worrying, debating what to do. Then I turned to these”-he waved at the bookcases-“and as always they provided the answer I needed.”
Marshall waited, listening, as Conti nodded once more toward the screen. “You see,
He turned to Marshall, the screen illumination throwing the contours of his face into chiaroscuro. “Yesterday, in the heat of the moment, I was sure this was an act of theft. Now I’ve had time to think. And I’ve changed my mind. I’m convinced it was sabotage.”
“Sabotage?”
Conti nodded. “As valuable as that cat is, the logistics of removing it from the base-spiriting it away-simply don’t work.” He ticked the points off on his fingers. “The thieves-and there would have to be at least two, the asset is simply too heavy for one person to handle-would need transportation. That would be impossible to conceal from us. And if anyone were to leave prematurely, we’d know.”
“What about Carradine, the trucker? He not only has the transportation; he’s one of the newest arrivals.”
“His cab’s been thoroughly searched, and his movements are accounted for. As I was saying, stealing the cat would be prohibitively difficult. But if all somebody wanted was for the documentary to
“Who would want to do such a thing?” Marshall asked.
Conti looked at him. “You would.”
Marshall looked back in surprise. “Me?”
“Well-you scientists. It might be you, in particular. But on careful consideration I think Dr. Sully is the more obvious choice. He seems to be quite put out that I didn’t make him a star of
Marshall shook his head. “That’s crazy. The documentary was set to go live yesterday-you would have been gone today. Why bother with sabotage?”
“It’s true: I would have been gone today. But postproduction on a successful shoot would take several days longer. Not to mention dismantling the sets, removing the equipment. When I gave Sully an estimated timeline, he didn’t seem especially pleased.” Conti looked at him searchingly. The smile was now gone. “Sully seems like the impulsive type. You don’t. That’s why I’ve come to you. Despite our little fracas the other day, I think you’re a reasonable man. Perhaps more than your colleagues, you realize what’s at stake. So:
Marshall returned the stare. Despite the director’s carefully composed expression, it was obvious that Conti was doing a desperate dance, searching for a way,
“What about Logan?” Marshall asked, recalling the previous evening’s conversation in the RASP room. “He came here out of nowhere. Nobody knows what he wants. I’m told he’s a Yale professor-professor of history. Doesn’t that strike you as strange-and very suspicious?”
“It is strange. So strange, in fact, that I have to discount him as a suspect. He’s too obvious. Besides, I already told you: my money’s on sabotage, not theft. And Dr. Logan has no reason to sabotage my documentary. So: Where’s the cat? Sully would have told you, I think. Is it retrievable?”
“Sully didn’t tell me anything. You’re barking up the wrong tree. You should be searching among your own team.”
Conti regarded him carefully, his expression slowly dissolving into something very much like regret. “That’s Wolff’s job.” He sighed. “Listen. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I can do this one of two ways. If we find that cat, I can make the film I originally intended. With my skills, I can even turn this delay into a benefit: make things more exciting, increase the audience. Everybody wins.
He jerked his thumb back at the screen. “I’ve always wanted to make a noir picture. Now I can-except I have a
On the huge screen, Victor Mature was crossing a busy street, the urban skyline rising behind him. “Look at him,” Conti said. “An average Joe, caught up in something bigger than himself. Remind you of anybody?”
Marshall did not reply.
Conti shifted again. “So what’s it going to be, Dr. Marshall: do the right thing, side with the cops, squeal on the bad guy? Or do something else…something much more stupid?”
As Mature left the frame, the camera panned in on another figure, hiding in a dark alley: pale, lean, all in black with a white tie, eyes strangely empty. Tommy Udo. Emerging from concealment, he looked carefully around, then disappeared into a doorway.
“I always loved Richard Widmark in this role,” Conti said. “He plays such a great psycho. His mannerisms, his nervous hyena laugh-pure genius.”
Now the killer was creeping stealthily up a narrow staircase.
“I was hoping to cast you as Mature,” Conti said. “But now I’m not so sure. You’re beginning to look a little more like Widmark.”
The killer had entered an apartment and was confronting a terrified old lady in a wheelchair.
“That’s Nick Bianco’s mother,” Conti explained.
The camera looked on, with monochromatic dispassion, as the woman was interrogated, shaken about. Widmark was smiling now, a strange lopsided smile, as he manhandled the grips of the wheelchair, steered it out of the shabby apartment and onto the landing.
“Watch this,” Conti said. “An imperishable moment of cinema.”
Widmark-still smiling, a pale, grinning death’s-head in a black suit-positioned the wheelchair at the top of the stairs. There was the briefest of pauses. Then, with a sudden violent thrust, he sent it and its struggling occupant tumbling down on a one-way ride to perdition.
Conti froze the picture on Widmark’s contorted face. “The network is calling me in six hours. I’ll give you four to make your choice.”
Silently, Marshall rose.
“And remember, Dr. Marshall-one way or the other, I’ll be casting you.”
19
