Black Is the Fashion for Dying by Jonathan Latimer Page B

called. The set is to be cleared, but no one is to leave the stage.” He swung around to the studio policeman. “Make sure there’s a man at every door.”
    Saying, “Yes, Mr. Fabro,” the policeman hurried off.
    Lorrance got Herbie to make the announcement, not trusting his own voice. He watched the people move away from the set, talking in hushed tones. Jenkins switched off the TV monitors, all three showing Karl standing by the campfire, head bowed, deep in thought. Two of the soundmen, passing the platform, stared at him curiously and T. J. suddenly realized they’d heard every word of the conversation with Gordon. He’d have to tell Karl. The overhead lights went off and an eerie sort of dusk fell over the set.
    Herbie asked, “Anything else, Mr. Lorrance?”
    He shook his head and went back to the fire. Karl was staring at the tent where Caresse was, his face partially obscured by the brim of his homburg. “If it was an accident,” he said slowly, almost to himself, “the picture’s ruined.”
    Lorrance watched him silently.
    â€œBut murder—” Karl was whispering now. “We couldn’t advertise it, of course. But word of mouth—people would be curious.”
    â€œ Karl! ”
    â€œShut up.” The eyes, suddenly boring into his, made Lorrance’s heart flutter. “We have to think what to tell Benjy. We have to have a plan.”
    â€œBut to use Caresse’s death!”
    â€œDid you kill her?”
    â€œWhy—why, you know—”
    â€œNeither did I. Neither did the corporation. But we’re involved. Two million dollars involved, T. J.”
    â€œYou think it’s murder?”
    â€œI don’t know.” Karl turned, somberly regarded the tent. “Let’s take a look.”
    â€œOh, no! I-I couldn’t!”
    â€œAll right. You stay here.” Hesitating, Karl uncharacteristically took off the homburg, laid it on the ground by the campfire, and started for the tent.
    Lorrance watched him go inside, a bulky shadow merging with other shadows, and then glanced at the homburg. As usual his mind cleared as soon as he was alone. A really complex man, Karl Fabro, he thought. Part savage, a ruthless ego, Nietzsche’s superman, trampling underfoot everything human or otherwise in his path with the unconcern of a rhinoceros moving through brush. Part machine, delicately adjusted electronic banks capable of producing the strangest sort of miracles. Not merely crystal equations of jumbled facts and figures, as in office conferences, but equations of emotions and words, too. As in Sky Without Stars and Fox in the Vineyard. He had wondered about the screenplays many times, knowing of course that a brain alone could produce them, coldly blueprinting human frailties and strengths, plots, motives and speeches on the basis of mastered formulae, as Bacon might have done had he written Shakespeare’s plays. But he had never quite believed this was so, and in the homburg, laid beside the fire in an unconscious gesture of respect for Caresse and death, he saw evidence that he was right. There was a third Karl Fabro lurking back of ego and brain, and it was this unknown Fabro who wrote the screenplays. He wondered if Irene knew about it.
    Complex, he was thinking again, when Karl returned and said heavily, “No way of telling what happened.”
    â€œShe was shot?”
    â€œTwice.”
    â€œI hope you didn’t … touch anything.”
    Karl grunted. “I’m not that much of a fool.” He bent down, picked up the homburg. “Go get Gordon.”
    â€œRight.” He glanced at Karl solicitously, saw he was holding the homburg reverently against his chest with both hands. To this third Fabro he said warmly, “I’m sorry it had to happen, Karl.”
    â€œWho the hell isn’t,” Karl growled. “Get going.”
    Dubious again about the third Fabro, he