Free Laurel and Hardy Murders by Marvin Kaye

immediately disappeared. “He just learned he has to go on after the play. Isn’t that a shame?” She stared up at me with large watery brown eyes. “Do you know me?” she asked shyly, inverting the usual form of the question to suit her comedian’s need for recognition.
    “Sure. You’re Sandy Sable.”
    Her smile lasted a fraction of a second longer this time. “What’s your name?”
    “Gene.”
    “Gene, would you do me a very special favor?” She asked it in such a low voice that for a second I thought it was going to be something very personal. Somewhere in the depths of her eyes I sensed an individual I would like to get to know.
    I asked her what the favor was and she beckoned me to follow her. She walked to the left side of the theater house, opened a door in the rear wall and passed through. I wondered what the hell I was getting into, but I followed.
    We were in a small dark room filled by a long walnut conference table, chairs, and bookshelves crammed full of ancient plays and books of theatrical theory and history. She flicked on the light and asked me to take a seat.
    For the next half-hour, Sandy Sable tried out every bit of new comedy material she’d written over the past three months. After each punch line, I had to tell her whether I really thought the joke was funny, or if I was just laughing to be polite, because I felt I had to. Actually, she would have been surprised how low my store of politeness had waned by the time I extricated myself from her flypaper grasp.
    She’d made me late, and I had to hurry home to change and pick up Hilary. I was still tiptoeing around the office to spare her any added aggravation. One of our accounts, Trim-Tram Toys, had just canceled its contract and we were in rocky financial shape, a condition in no way ameliorated by Uncle Sam’s magnetic affinity for our income.
    I had an awful feeling Hilary was going to find out about the parent tent’s stag membership policy that evening, and I fully expected the night to end in emotional fireworks.
    But things started off much more smoothly than I’d thought possible. She was already dressed when I got back to the apartment, and I nodded approval at the alluring green silk pants suit and simple matching jacket. Her hair was in an upsweep, a style I’d never seen her wear before. Usually, Hilary either let her hair hang loose about her shoulders or tied it severely in back.
    “How do you like it?” she smiled, indicating the hairdo with a graceful upward movement of both arms.
    “I wouldn’t have said it was you, but it looks great!”
    “Tonight, it is me,” she said, taking my arm. “Gene, I’ve been looking forward to this evening. If there’s something I can really use today, it’s a good laugh.”
    I agreed, but added I could also use a drink. Now Hilary is stubborn, she insists on chipping in half on the cost of our dates. Since I knew she was worried about money, I suggested a cocktail beforehand at Beefsteak Charlie’s, one of the more satisfying economical restaurant chains in the city. Considering the usual open-bar prices one finds at banquets, I figured Charlie’s would be easier on her purse.
    By the time we got to The Lambs, the cocktail hour was well under way, and so were we. Negotiating the stairs carefully, we entered the second-floor lounge, where the welcoming committee greeted us—O. J., Hal Fawkes, and Al Kilgore. Hal and O. J. checked us off on the master list and fished out identification badges which Kilgore inscribed with our names.
    “Howya, honey,” he said to Hilary, “Gene tells us all about ya!” He gestured jauntily. “I’d slap ’im, if I were you.”
    Hilary was tipsy enough not to care what I might have said about her in her absence. She laughed it off, put on her badge, and took my arm as we began a circuit of the lounge to the opposite side where the bar and, therefore, most of the activity was.
    It was a big rectangular place with two arms, too small to be