But for my money, the top producer in Hollywood is Hamilton Brackett.
No matter how you look at it, he’s got what it takes. Talk about grosses; he’s never turned out a job yet that lost him money. Talk about art; he knows every trick in the business. His casting is superb, his handling of crowds is perfect, he knows how to wring the last ounce of drama from every situation and every scene.
And what a production staff! Some of his settings are really out of this world; his props are all genuine; his costumes beat anything Adrian ever dreamed up; his makeup artists have it all over the Westmores. Terrific public relations, too. No wonder he draws the crowds whenever one of his jobs has a showing.
Of course, he knows the real secret of production. You’ve got to build everything around a star. And when he gets the right lead for a part, he can run rings around any outfit in town.
Hamilton Brackett was doing his finest work today, but then he really had a hot attraction to feature.
Polly Foster never looked lovelier.
Wardrobe must have had a touch of genius when they suggested that simple black strapless gown, so symbolic and yet so photogenic.
Brackett’s staff must have spent hours on her makeup job: getting just the right touches to the hairdo, concentrating on the precise poignancy of her smile. Of course, they were working with a cooperative subject. Say what you will about Polly Foster, she was a trouper. She’d realize the importance of making the best appearance in her big scene.
And the scene was big. Hamilton Brackett’s stage was almost an auditorium set, with a big pipe organ, just like they used to use back in the days of the silent movies. He actually rolled out the red carpet for the center aisle, and his juicers furnished a light-setting that was colorful and effective. Whoever thought of throwing an amber spot on Polly Foster’s face deserved a bonus.
Brackett always did have an eye for color, though, and today he could give it a real workout. He was hitting with red, blue and green spots, all over the flowers. Because the flowers really made the scene. They banked the stage and the sides of the hall on both walls. You wouldn’t see a bigger display at the Tournament of Roses.
Brackett made good use of the crowds, too. He had about twenty assistant directors in formal afternoon wear, running up and down the aisles playing usher. Actually, they were grouping the audience to the best advantage. Those who had contributed the best floral offerings got the front seats. Everything according to protocol, everything to keep the distinguished guests happy and place them where the press could spot them easily.
Outside the set, on the curb, Brackett made equally good use of a dozen volunteer assistant directors wearing police uniforms. They handled the mob scenes, holding the crowd back behind the ropes strung along the sidewalk, and keeping the curb clear as the cars drove up.
Oh, it was a genuine Hamilton Brackett production, all right. His funerals were always the best show in town.
I won’t review the performance itself. Everything was flawless. No original score by Dmitri Tiomkin, but the organist knew what to do with the oldies he played. And the guy Brackett had cast for the sermon part was sensational. He had Laughton beat for delivery any day, and whoever wrote his script did a bangup job. Even managed to work in some religious stuff—that always goes over big with audiences—but mostly he kept building up to the big scene. Plugging Polly Foster, all the way. How beautiful she was, how charming, how intelligent; what a personality she had. He told about her life; made you see her as she actually was, radiant, ravishing, poised on the threshold of achievement. Then he turned on the agony, worked that old tragedy angle. By the time he finished, he had them crying. Their tongues were hanging out for a sight of her, for a great big close-up.
That was the deal, of course. The whole gang began to file past the coffin for that close-up.
I went along with the rest. I was way in the rear, naturally, but I kept my eye open. I saw Bannock and Daisy, and the little girl from Bannock’s office who wouldn’t be getting her autographed menu unless the police released it from the exhibits they were holding as evidence.
I was looking for other faces, though. Gradually, as I worked my way up the line approaching the casket, I spotted a few.
Tom Trent was there, in a black suit minus the monogram initials. He was accompanied by a small brunette I couldn’t identify, and he didn’t see me. Near the head of the procession was a chunky little redfaced man with a hairline receding almost to the back of his neck. I recognized Abe Kolmar, from Ace. He’d been Polly Foster’s producer, and Dick Ryan’s too. His eyes were red, and he kept twisting a big handkerchief in his hands.
I saw Al Thompson, too—or, rather, he saw me. He wasn’t in line, just standing there leaning against a floral arch as I went past. He nodded.
“What brings you here?” I whispered.
“Same as you. Looking around.” He joined me in the file. “See anybody?”
“Whole town’s here.”
“What about Estrellita Juarez? Joe Dean?”
“Dean was here, but he didn’t stay. We questioned him, you know.”
“Clean?”
Thompson shrugged. “He’s out, if that’s what you mean.”
“And Juarez?”
“Can’t locate her. We’re trying.” Thompson scowled. “Quit needling me. That’s official business.”
“My business, too. You might say I have a personal interest at stake now.”
“Well, I wish you’d lay off. Before you’re laid out.”
“Is there a flip to that record?”
“Never mind the repartee. If you’d listened to my advice at the beginning, you wouldn’t have had any trouble. And maybe Polly Foster wouldn’t have had any trouble, either. Ever think about that angle, Clayburn?”
I’d thought about it, all right. I’d been thinking about it ever since the murder.
That’s why I kept trying to kid myself along, building up a line about this being a Hamilton Brackett production. Anything to take my mind off the facts, the cold, hard facts of the case.
Now it was my turn at the casket, and I couldn’t pretend any longer. I was looking down at the cold, hard facts in the silver case. The cold death mask, the hard death mask with the smiling lips. The lips I’d threatened to wash with soap. The lips I could conceivably have kissed.
But that was gone now. That mouth had been washed out for the last time. And when I thought about what would soon be kissing those lips...
Like hell it was!
I hadn’t killed her. That was the murderer’s responsibility, and neither Thompson nor anybody else was going to make me take the rap.
I looked at Polly Foster a long time. At least, it seemed like a long time because I thought of so many things. I thought about a little girl with brown hair who was always bothered by the boys. Who grew up and was still bothered by the boys—the wrong kind of boys—until she got the wrong kind of slant on things. I thought about a woman who swore too much and drank too much and probably slept around too much, and I thought that maybe she did it because she was afraid too much. Afraid of a world that valued her only for her beauty. A ghoul-world, always after her body; wanting to photograph it, wanting to see it, wanting to paw it. Afraid, perhaps, of one particular ghoul who wanted to destroy it. And who succeeded.
I was sorry about that, but I wasn’t to blame. And as I took my final glance, I wasn’t even sorry any more. I was angry. “Lay off,” Thompson had said. That’s what all of them wanted me to do, including the guy who had sat in my apartment with a monkey on his back.
I stared at Polly Foster for the last time and if the dead can read minds, she knew that I was telling myself —and her—that I would never lay off now.
Then I moved on.
Thompson went over to talk to Abe Kolmar. He and most of the other big shots were going out to the cemetery. I didn’t feel like it. This new, sudden feeling of anger made me want to slug somebody. For the first time I was beginning to understand the meaning of murder.
Sure, like the hammy preacher said, it was tragic to see someone ruthlessly trample a white rose. But it’s always a tragedy, even when someone tramples a weed. No one has that right. And who is even fit to sit in judgment, to separate the weeds from the roses?
