Shooting Star/Spiderweb

Shooting STAR

&

SPIDERWEB

by Robert Bloch

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Shooting Star

Spiderweb

In The Land of the Blonde, The One-Eyed Man Is King

A famous movie star found dead on the set of his latest picture...

Drugs hastily disposed of at the scene of the crime...

It’s the stuff of Tinseltown scandal—and could ruin the investment Harry Bannock made in the dead man’s library of films.

For help, Bannock turns to Mark Clayburn, a one-eyed private eye with his own history of scandals. But can Clayburn uncover the truth about Dick Ryan’s murder before time runs out for Ryan’s co-stars...and for Clayburn himself?

“Robert Bloch is one of the all-time masters.”

—Peter Straub

Robert Bloch was the legendary author of PSYCHO and a true Hollywood insider, writing scripts for numerous movies and TV shows including ALFRED HITCHCOCK PRESENTS, Boris Karloff’s THRILLER, and the original STAR TREK. You haven’t see Hollywood’s dark side till you’ve seen it through Bloch’s eyes...

SOME OTHER HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY:

GRAVE DESCEND by John Lange

THE PEDDLER by Richard S. Prather

LUCKY AT CARDS by Lawrence Block

ROBBIE’S WIFE by Russell Hill

THE VENGEFUL VIRGIN by Gil Brewer

THE WOUNDED AND THE SLAIN by David Goodis

BLACKMAILER by George Axelrod

SONGS OF INNOCENCE by Richard Aleas

FRIGHT by Cornell Woolrich

KILL NOW, PAY LATER by Robert Terrall

SLIDE by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr

DEAD STREET by Mickey Spillane

DEADLY BELOVED by Max Allan Collins

A DIET OF TREACLE by Lawrence Block

MONEY SHOT by Christa Faust

ZERO COOL by John Lange

Shooting STAR

by Robert Bloch

A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK

(HCC-042)

First Hard Case Crime edition: April 2008

Chapter One

My private eye was a little bloodshot this morning.

I focused it on the mirror, then wished I hadn’t. There was somebody in the mirror I didn’t care to see: the tall, thin guy with the graying hair; the man with the bloodshot eye. He bothered me. I didn’t like the way he looked today. He’d shaved and dressed too carelessly, and with that black eye-patch and the ridiculous little mustache, he bore a mocking resemblance to the man in those shirt ads of a few years back. Besides, his good eye was bloodshot.

We nodded at one another in the mirror though, just like old friends. Why not? I knew all about him and he knew all about me. Maybe I didn’t approve of my own reflection but, who knows, perhaps my reflection didn’t approve of me, either. We were even on that score.

Maybe my reflection remembered the days when I had two eyes. The days before the hair started to turn gray and the collars began to fray a little at the edges. The days when I was Mark Clayburn Literary Agency, with an office on the Strip.

Well, I remembered those days, too. Perhaps that’s why my eye got bloodshot—from too much remembering, from drinking too many toasts to the past. But it couldn’t be helped. I was stuck with my reflection and my reflection was stuck with me. Me, Mark Clayburn, still a Literary Agency, but not on the Strip any more.

I thought about that for a moment, thought about the long road leading from the Strip to Olive Street in downtown L.A., and of the things I’d lost along the way. The eye went in the accident, and most of my savings were gone by the time I got out of the hospital. Then I found my clients had disappeared, and my help, and the big office.

So here I was, starting all over again. Just a part-time tenpercenter, really, with a typewriter, a telephone, and a couple of small clients. Plus a license as a Notary Public and another one as a Private Investigator. Anything to make a buck. Not a very fast buck, either.

My bloodshot eye did a fast pirouette around the office. Nothing much to see there: a desk, files, a few chairs. No beautiful bra-breaking blonde secretary, no top-shelf rye in the bottom drawer. It was just a walkup office, the kind nobody ever comes to unless they’ve been kicked out of all the better places first.

I went over to the desk and sat down. This was no time to feel sorry for myself. Save that for tonight. Right now I had work to do: a science-fiction yarn to send to Boucher, for a client; another to try on a confessions mag, and a true-detective job to revise.

That was still my meat—the true-detective yarn. I picked it up and started to read it over, wondering for the ten thousandth time why so many people are interested in crime and its solution. How many of them identify themselves with the detective and how many of them identify themselves with the criminal? Yes, and how many of them subconsciously identify themselves with the victim? Come to think of it, you could divide all society up into those three classes: the potential investigators, the potential criminals, and the potential victims. Might do an essay on it some time, stressing the fascination people have for reading about murder. Call it Five Little Peppers And How They Slew.

But right now, my job was to read the manuscript, read it and correct it, sitting in the dingy little office that nobody ever visited. I picked up the pages, bent my head, then jerked erect.

The door opened.

He stood there, big and bluff and blond, bulking in the narrow doorway so that his tweeded shoulders almost touched either side of the frame. His eyes and teeth and rings sparkled and he said, “Hello, Mark. Long time no, si?”

“Harry Bannock! Come on in!”

“I am in.” The big man walked over and pumped my hand. First he looked at me and then he looked down. They all do if they haven’t seen the eye-patch before. “Great to see you! You’re looking great. How’s business?”

“Great,” I told him. He seemed to like the word, always had.

“Glad to hear it. Been meaning to look you up now for a long time.” He sat down. “But I’ve been rushed.”

“Sure,” I said. “I know how it is.”

“You had a pretty rough time of it, from what I heard—losing the agency and all. But you’re back in business, and that’s the main thing.”

“That’s right.” I riffled the pages of the manuscript. “I’m back in business. And you didn’t come all the way downtown just to tell me how great it is either.”

Harry Bannock leaned forward. “You don’t like me, do you?”

I smiled at him. “I wouldn’t say that, Harry. You and I used to be pretty close. We worked on a lot of deals together. I sold my clients’ stories to the studios and the networks. You sold your clients as actors. We did each other a lot of favors, tipped one another off whenever there was a lead, made some money together. And you used to phone me at least once a week and ask, ‘What are you doing for lunch, sweetheart?’ Good old Hollywood custom—everybody’s a ‘sweetheart’ or a ‘darling’ or a ‘lover’ or a ‘doll’.

“Then I had my trouble, and you didn’t phone me. You didn’t come to see me, or write me, or anything. Neither did anyone else I knew. They had their own affairs to handle, and they just forgot about me. Good old Hollywood custom.” I shrugged. “No, I’m not sore at you—sweetheart.”

For the second time, Harry Bannock looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry, Mark. Honest to God, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. Forget it. Now that I’ve said my little piece, I feel better. But what can I do for you? Business? Want to buy a story?”

“That’s right, Mark.” He took out a cigarette case, flipped it open, extended it. “I want to buy a story.”

“For one of your stable? Looking for a vehicle for a picture, is that it? I’ve got a few originals knocking around here that you might—”

“No. It’s a true story I’m after.”

“You mean one of those true-detective yarns?”

“In a way. Only it hasn’t been written yet. And it’s never going to be written. I don’t want to see it on paper, either. I want you to tell it to me.”

“Don’t be coy, Harry. What’s this all about?”

“I told you. I want to buy a true story from you. The story of a man named Dick Ryan.”

“Dick Ryan?” I took a deep drag and let the smoke out slowly. “But I was in the hospital when it happened. I read the papers, and that’s all I know about it.”

“That’s all anyone knows about it,” Bannock said. “I want the facts. And I’m willing to pay you to find out for me.”

“Ryan was murdered,” I told him. “There was a big scandal. The police investigated but they couldn’t pin it on anybody. That was six months ago, and now you show up and ask me to solve it. Why?”

Bannock grinned. “Call it curiosity.”

I shook my head. “I don’t buy that. Come on, let’s have it, was Ryan a client of yours?”

“No.”

“Then what do you care? He got his name smeared in the news, but it’s all over with now, and forgotten. Why bother?”

Bannock stood up. “I want his name cleared, Mark. And solving the case will do it. I think he was framed as well as murdered. I think—”

“Save it for the cops,” I said. “Which reminds me. We do have a police department here, you know. Understand they even have one of those newfangled Homicide Bureaus. Why don’t you ask them for a little help?”

“Believe me, I have. But they couldn’t do anything. Or said they couldn’t. And meanwhile, there it sits. Ryan’s dead; they can’t find the killer; his name is mud all over town, all over the country. I’d like to set the record straight.”

I rose and faced him. “Big-hearted Harry. Fighting to defend a dead man’s honor! How like you that gesture is! Yes, and how dark it is here in the pig’s hinder.”

“Wait a minute now...”

“I’m waiting,” I said. “I’m waiting until I hear the real reason. Just where are you tied in on the Ryan murder, Harry? Did you do it? Does somebody suspect you? Do you know who the killer is?”

“All right.” Bannock sat down again. “I’ll show you the cards—the whole deck.”

“You’d better. I’ve got a right to know what you want me to get into.”

“It’s like this. I don’t know who killed him, or why. Actually, I don’t much care. Ryan was a louse, for my money. Everybody knew he played around, and there were probably a dozen husbands who’d have put a bullet into him, and two dozen wives. That part’s all right with me. But it’s the tie-in. You know, when they found him they found those reefer butts. And that’s what hurts. They began to talk about a dope ring, say that he was on the stuff. It isn’t true. Everybody who knew Ryan swears he never monkeyed around with weed or anything else. But the story’s out and nothing will change it except the facts. The police can’t give them to me, and I need them, bad.”

“Why, Harry? If he wasn’t your client...”

“He is, now.”

“But he’s dead.”

“Dick Ryan’s dead, yes. But Lucky Larry lives on. Or can live on. When this murder came out, when the scandal broke, Ryan’s studio yanked all his pictures back from the exhibitors. The whole Lucky Larry series was put on the shelf. Poison at the box office when a cowboy star gets that kind of publicity. At least that’s what Abe Kolmar thought, over at Apex. You know him, don’t you, Mark?”

“I know of him, yes. Little indie producer, isn’t he?”

“That’s right. The Lucky Larry flicks were his biggest grossers. When he shelved them he was hard up for dough. But he figured there was no other way because of the stink being raised, and I didn’t try to talk him out of it. Instead, I went there and I bought the whole business, outright: lock, stock and negative.”

“You bought—?”

Bannock nodded. “Thirty-nine Lucky Larry pictures, at five grand apiece, with the rights to the name and future production thrown in. One hundred and ninety-five thousand dollars I paid. And in cash.”

“You’re crazy!”

“That’s what everybody told me, including my ever-loving wife. Until I told her that See-More TV Productions were willing to buy the series for three hundred and ninety thousand. Ten Gs apiece, plus five percent of all future rentals. Now do you get the angle?”

“I get it. You double your money, and then some. Because westerns are hot stuff for TV rental. And the Lucky Larry name will sell.”

“Right. That’s exactly how I figured it. But at the time, I didn’t figure there’d be quite as much of a stink raised. Now See-More keeps stalling me. They’re leery of buying and using a star who’s tied in with dope addiction. You know the angle: kids see westerns, parents object, they write to the sponsor, sponsor cancels out. It’s a rough deal all around.”

“And that’s why you want Ryan’s name cleared.”

“Now you’ve got it, sweetheart.”

“But why do you come to me? If the cops won’t or can’t help, there are plenty of big private investigation outfits you could work with.”

“Too risky.” Bannock ground out his cigarette. “Why do you suppose the case died so suddenly? One day the papers were full of it: big investigation planned on all this dope ring stuff. Next day, nothing. You ought to be able to figure the answer, Mark. It means things were getting a little too hot. Getting a little bit too close to some of the big wheels in the industry who were mixed up in narcotics. We’ve got a couple of stars who carry a monkey on their backs, and a few producers and directors, too. Somebody passed the word along to lay off.”

“You mean they fixed the cops?”

“Of course not. But they did the next best thing, they clammed up tight. And they’ve stayed clammed up ever since. Do you think they’d talk to a big-time investigating outfit? You know better than that.

“But a little guy—a guy who’s known in the industry—he can get around and nobody will bother him. Particularly if he gets to them under false pretenses—say he wants to discuss a story, or something. I need a little guy, Mark. An honest little guy. So I came to you.”

I shrugged. “Very touching. But let me remind you of a few things. I’m still a writer’s agent. Sure, I’ve got a permit to carry a pistol and a license for private investigation, but I only use it when I’m working on a true-detective assignment. It helps me to get in and go after material for an article. I don’t know anything about narcotics. I’ve never tangled with a murderer in my life. With this eye-patch I couldn’t use my pistol to shoot Charles Laughton in the belly at five paces.”

“But you’re honest.”

“Sure. I’m honest. Like you say, ‘an honest little guy’. And you’re a big-time operator. A big-time operator who thinks he can walk in on an honest little guy and buy him body and soul for a big hello and a five-dollar bill.”

“Listen to me, Mark. I’ve got a hundred and ninety-five thousand dollars tied up in this deal. Almost every penny of cash I could scrape together. I mortgaged the house on it. I’ve got to clear Ryan’s name so I can unload. And we’re not talking about five-dollar bills.” He gripped my arm. “I’m offering you this assignment, to handle in your own way. It may take a day, it may take a week, it may take a month—though I hope to God it doesn’t. But I won’t be paying you on a time basis. I offer a flat deal.”

“I’m listening, but I haven’t heard anything yet.”

“A thousand dollars cash right now, and five thousand if you find me the murderer and let me turn the information over to the police. Plus another five thousand if I sell the films. That’s eleven grand in all.”

“I used to get good grades in arithmetic,” I told him. “But I was just thinking—”

“Good, I want you to think. That’s what you’re being paid for.” Bannock took out his wallet. It was big and fat and bulging, like Bannock himself. He opened it and started to lay down hundred-dollar bills. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...

I used to get good grades in arithmetic, and I was figuring what a thousand dollars would buy: Three months’ rent for the office, for the flat; three months’ groceries and gas supply. And five thousand more would give me a full year. Another five thousand might mean a chance to open up a real office again, with a little front to it, a girl receptionist, my name on the door, a few ads in Film Daily. Eleven thousand dollars cash meant a new start with a good push.

“What do you say?” Bannock asked.

I walked over to the mirror and stared for a moment. And I said to myself, What do you want to get mixed up in all this for? It’s one thing to write about murder and another thing to go out and find it. You couldn’t kill anyone because you’re not the criminal type. And what makes you think you’re an investigator? The way you look, with that damned patch, you’re more like a potential victim. Are you going to risk your hide for eleven grand?

I took a good long look at what I was risking. The grayed, frayed figure didn’t impress me. Eleven grand was a good price. The bloodshot eye stared at me. Then it winked.

“All right,” I said. “You’ve got a deal.”

I walked over to the desk, scooped up the money, then opened the bottom drawer and took out my pistol.

“Where you going with that?” Bannock asked.

“Public library,” I said. “I always carry a pistol when I go there. Never did trust those stone lions.”

Chapter Two

I’d been kidding about the public library, of course. They don’t have lions. But they do have a very pretty little feline in the Reference Room who purred at me when I asked for the newspapers. She didn’t look as if you’d have to use a pistol on her, and I doubt if she was carnivorous. At another time I might have been willing to take the chance of finding out, but right now I wanted to see those back issues.

I gave her a list of dates, as near as I could recall.

“Not again!” she said, checking them over on her pad.

“Somebody else ask for them?”

“This morning. Look, here’s the old sheet—same dates. I know, because I had to haul them out.”

“Happen to know who it was?”

“Why?”

“Just curious.” I leaned over the counter. “Confidentially, I happen to be a writer. The reason I want those papers is to check up on a story I’m doing. And I wondered if somebody else might have the same idea and plans to beat me to it.”

“Oh.” She smiled. “You know, the minute you walked in here I said to myself, he’s a writer!”

“How could you tell?”

“I just knew, that’s all. We get a lot of them in here.”

“I’ll bet. And the person this morning?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t see him. I just went and got the papers. Mae filled out the slip, but she’s too old to go hauling around in the files. Wait, I’ll go ask her.”

My little feline friend padded off. Presently she returned.

“Sorry. She says she can’t remember who it was.”

“But if she tried...”

“She did try.” The girl gestured toward the room. “Look, mister, we get a hundred people an hour in here, eight hours a day, six days a week. Who bothers to remember all those faces? Mae’s been here twelve years.”

“Bully for her,” I said. “And thanks, anyway. Now, can I take a look?”

The girl brought me the stack and I took them over to a table. I pulled out a pen and a notebook and went to work. For the next hour I was up to my neck in murder.

The newspapers told it their own way—with headlines, with pictures, with feature stories, even with editorials. But gradually I got the facts sifted until I could tell it in my own way, to myself.

Dick Ryan was a pretty boy. He had black, curly hair and clear blue eyes and stood six feet two in lounging pajamas. He had a great following among the youth of America; in the 6-to-12-year-old group with the boys, and the 16-to-36-year-old group with the girls. The boys thought he looked good on a horse. What the girls thought I really couldn’t say. (I could, but there are limits).

Ryan had played in oaters for about five years before his death, working for two or three studios before he tied up with Abe Kolmar at Apex and starred in the Lucky Larry series. Although he didn’t sing, play the guitar or twirl a baton, his pictures were highly successful; particularly in the rural areas, where his protrusions of jaw and biceps were equated with manly cleancut heroism. He did not smoke, drink or indulge in amorous advances on the screen.

But when the cameras stopped grinding on the evening of April 2nd, Dick Ryan held a little party in his private trailer. He was on location at Abe Kolmar’s ranch out in the San Fernando Valley, and he might easily have chosen to drive into town or stay at Kolmar’s place. But Ryan preferred his trailer, a handsome, custom-built job that accompanied him whenever he was shooting away from the studio. It had a built-in bar and a number of other conveniences which made it ideal for parties.

This particular party started out in a small way, as a matter of fact with just Ryan and a bottle. But shortly after the dinner hour at the Kolmar ranch, the celebration grew. Polly Foster came in. This wasn’t unusual, because Polly Foster played opposite Dick Ryan on (and some said off) the screen. Tom Trent, who did the villain in the series, accompanied her. Both of them were staying at Kolmar’s place overnight, as were most of the principals in the cast.

According to their story, Ryan was already high when they arrived. He was cursing Joe Dean, and that wasn’t unusual either. Dean was his stooge, valet, chauffeur, masseur, and one-man audience. At the moment, Dean was driving Abe Kolmar into town for a preview. The visitors gathered that Ryan did not approve of this.

They partook of their host’s hospitality nonetheless, endured his curses, and waited for Dean’s return. He came back about nine, accompanied by Estrellita Juarez, a minor player in the film.

What happened during the next two hours came in four separate versions: Polly Foster’s story, Trent’s account, and the evidence of Joe Dean and Miss Juarez. Put them all together and it spelled something like this.

Ryan took a drink. Then he fired Joe Dean. Ryan took another drink. Then he called Estrellita Juarez a dirty greaser and told her to get the hell out of there. Ryan took another drink. He punched Tom Trent on the jaw. Ryan took another drink. He pitched Polly Foster bodily from the trailer and told her to take her goddam blubbering someplace else because he was expecting company.

Joe Dean said he left right away and he didn’t see any muggles being smoked. Estrellita Juarez said she left right away and she didn’t see any muggles being smoked. Tom Trent said he left right away and he didn’t see any muggles being smoked. Polly Foster said—

Anyway, they all left. None of them knew about marijuana. None of them came back. Dean took his car and drove Estrellita to a motel. Trent went home and let his doctor work on his black eye. Polly Foster drove back to town herself.

And that’s all there was to it. Employees on the ranch noted that Ryan’s trailer lights were out by eleven. Nobody woke up during the middle of the night to see or hear anything.

But in the morning, Ryan was dead. Dead as a doornail, if you can picture a six foot two doornail with one bullet in its head and another in its hips.

That’s the way it went, according to the newspaper reports of the testimony at the inquest. But there was a little bit more to it.

The reefer butts, for instance. There were four or five of them, lying on the floor and in the ashtrays. Homicide found them right away, and it seemed odd none of the guests knew anything about the matter.

Then there was the little business of Joe Dean getting fired. Did he or did he not threaten his employer? Nobody seemed to recall that he did, but the police wondered vaguely, inasmuch as their records disclosed that Joe Dean had once been a naughty boy back in Detroit. Some years ago he’d enjoyed a reputation as a strong-arm artist, and the authorities thought he might not have taken his dismissal so lightly.

And this incident of Ryan punching Tom Trent on the jaw. That was all right, as far as it went, but how could a mere punch on the jaw produce a black eye, plus a broken chair, two broken glasses, and a ripped shirt? The police wondered, not quite so vaguely, if there hadn’t been a bit more of a fight than was first mentioned. And if Tom Trent couldn’t have left the trailer in a rather unpleasant mood.

They also speculated on just how Miss Juarez might have reacted to being called a dirty greaser (the more so because dirty greasers are notoriously hot-tempered) and how Polly Foster felt about being tossed out of the trailer.

But nobody could help them there, it seems. Everybody stuck to the story, everybody had an alibi, everybody suggested hopefully that since Ryan said he was “expecting somebody later” he was, ergo, murdered by “somebody later.”

“Somebody later” smoked the reefers, of course. “Somebody later” smashed the furniture. It all added up. Added up to the “death at the hands of a person or persons unknown” verdict which was reluctantly delivered and even more reluctantly received.

There the matter rested. But not for long. The follow-up stories began to appear: stories about Ryan and his previous escapades; stories about the reefer parties he’d held with other well-known cinematic celebrities, where everybody got stark, staring stoned.

A couple of columnists sniffed pay dirt and began to excavate for golden nuggets of gossip. They came up with a series of exposés on life in the film capital. Up in the editorial department they decided to lay off Russia for a day and consider the matter of Hollywood hi-jinks, from Arbuckle to Zukor (though what they had on Zukor nobody could possibly imagine).

And the authorities, chasing down lead after lead, let a few hints slip about a narcotics ring. That was enough. The press took up the “Ryan murder scandal” all over the nation.

Took it up, and then dropped it with a dull thud.

Seven full columns in three papers on April 24th. Not a line on April 25th. Or thereafter. Three full weeks of sound and fury, and then the nothingness. Dig that crazy, mixed-up case! Yes, dig! And I dug, but there was nothing more to read. Ryan was cool. Ryan was gone.

And, a few minutes after I satisfied myself about the newspapers, so was I. I stopped in at Clifton’s for a bite to eat and a chance to chew over what I’d learned. There was no time at present to digest it.

Still indulging in mental mastication, I stopped back at the office long enough to check the mail. Two letters. Tilden took a story and Browne bounced one. I made a note to call my clients later. Right now I had a thousand dollars’ retainer on a case and ten thousand riding. Right now I’d better go to the bank and make a deposit before two o’clock closing. Right now—

The phone rang.

I picked it up. “Hello?”

“Clayburn?” I didn’t recognize the voice, but it recognized me.

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“You can lay off.”

“What’s that?”

“Lay off, Clayburn. Lay off the Ryan case.”

“Who is this?”

“A friend, Clayburn. But you’d better lay off if you want to keep me friendly.”

“But—”

He hung up.

I held the phone in my hand for a moment, then dropped it in its cradle.

There it was. This morning I’d been feeling sorry for myself. I thought I didn’t have a friend in the world. But I’d been wrong.

I had a friend, after all. A friend who seemed to have my best interests at heart. Somebody who would rather see me dead than get into trouble.

It was something to think about. I thought about it all the way downtown. And by the time I walked into Al Thompson’s office, my mind was made up.

Chapter Three

Al Thompson used to be on the Vice Squad until he lost his hair. In his younger days he looked a good deal like Stewart Granger and specialized in jobs around Pershing Square. When he started to get bald, they transferred him to Homicide, and he’s been there ever since.

I once asked him how he liked the change. “Just fine,” he told me. “You meet a much better class of people in Homicide.”

If I remember rightly, I quoted the remark in one of the true-detective articles I worked on with a client. That’s how I met Thompson originally: I went to him for material. Since that time I’d got into the habit of calling on him whenever I needed help along the article line.

And now...

Thompson was sitting at his desk, going over some post office pinups when I came in. He looked up and nodded, thus acknowledging my presence and indicating that I should sit down. I took a chair and waited. After a minute or so he pushed the stack of pictures aside.

“Hi, Clayburn. What can I do for you? Another yarn?”

I smiled. I didn’t really want to smile. I didn’t really want him to think it was another yarn. But that was the way to play it.

“That’s right. I was thinking of doing a piece on the Ryan murder.”

“Dick Ryan?”

“Seems like a good idea,” I told him. “Unsolved mystery angle.”

“But we’re still working on it.” Thompson hesitated. “A story like that doesn’t do the Department any good.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to use the police-are-baffled approach,” I assured him. “That’s why I came to you. I wanted to check my facts and clear them, seeing as you were on the case.”

Thompson sat back. “You know the regulations. I’m not supposed to talk. And I haven’t got the authority to okay anything. Maybe if you went in and saw Captain—”

“Never mind.” I lit a cigarette. “This visit is off the record. Just thought you’d be interested.”

“All right. What’ve you got?”

I recited what I’d learned from reading the newspapers. He listened shifting around in his chair and staring up at the ceiling. When I finished he grunted and said, “Is that all?”

“Sure. That’s all the papers carried. Why? Is there more?”

Thompson smiled, and despite the bald head I could see why he’d been the fair-haired boy of the Vice Squad. “You hope there is, don’t you? That’s why you came to me now, right?”

“Well...” I paused. “Since this is all off the record...”

“Just how long do you think it would stay off the record if you broke a story containing facts known only to this office? They’d come running in here for my scalp.”

“Little late for that,” I said. “Come on, give a guy a break. We’ve worked together before.”

“Not on something like this.”

“Well, can’t you tell me anything?”

Thompson hesitated. “Let’s see, there’s a few things you missed in the papers which might not sound out of line. That gun, for instance. It was a .38 revolver. The same gun Ryan used in the picture. Ordinarily it was loaded with blanks, but that afternoon Ryan had loaned it to Trent. He was doing a little target practice out there on the ranch, and that’s why it had real bullets in it. He claims he was called to the set in the middle of his shooting—just after reloading—and gave the gun back to Ryan, forgetting to tell him it was loaded. Anyway, Ryan must have taken it to his trailer and left it there without examining it. So right there you have an interesting question. Did the killer know the loaded gun was there, or did he just happen to come on it by accident? In other words, was the murder premeditated?”

I made a note, just for effect. “What about fingerprints?”

“There weren’t any. Not on the gun. Whoever did the job saw to that. Lots of other prints around, all over. Polly Foster’s, and Trent’s and Joe Dean’s, Estrellita Juarez, even Kolmar himself. But nothing that helps us establish anything.”

I made another note. “About the killing,” I said. “The paper said all six shots were fired. One in the head, the rest in the hips.”

Thompson shook his head. “I can tell you that much, too, I suppose. The newspapers had to say hips. On account of the family audience. But the murderer didn’t shoot Ryan in the hips, Clayburn. Between them, that’s where.”

“You mean?”

“Jealous husband, boyfriend, lover? Homicidal maniac, sex pervert? We’ve thought about all the angles.”

“How about someone who’d flipped? Loaded on reefers or—”

“The reefer angle’s out.”

“But they found those butts. And the whole things points to some kind of narcotics tie-up.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Don’t know or won’t tell?”

“Suit yourself. Either way, I got nothing to say about the reefer situation. Ryan didn’t go in for that sort of thing. He got his kicks in a different way.”

“And the alibis all hold up? Dean, Juarez, Foster, Kolmar, Trent?”

“If they didn’t, we’d have made an arrest.”

“Why haven’t you made any since then?”

“We’re still working on the case.”

“There hasn’t been a line in the papers. Did the drug angle scare you off?”

Thompson stood up. “Sorry, that’s all I know. If you want to talk to the captain, now, maybe—”

“Never mind.” I rose. “I guess I’ve got enough for my story. But I hate to leave it hanging in the air like this. I hate to let the readers think that maybe everything isn’t exactly on the up-and-up.”

The detective put a fatherly hand on my shoulder, and squeezed it in a most unfatherly way. “You write anything like that and I’ll kick your teeth down your throat,” he muttered. The grip relaxed. “No, I didn’t mean it. Forget it. It’s a free country. Write what you please. But I can’t tell you any more. Except one thing.” He paused.

“What’s that?”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t write the story. I wouldn’t write anything at all. I’d just forget it.”

“Forget it?”

“If it’s a yarn you’re after, I can give you a dozen better ones. Complete with solutions and pictures of the guilty parties. How about a nice, juicy torso murder? We got one where the guy burned this dame’s arms and legs off with a blowtorch, and then he got to work on her head with—”

“You really don’t want me to write this, eh?”

“I really don’t.”

“And you can’t give me a good reason?”

“That’s it.” Thompson walked me over to the door. “But you’re a smart guy, Clayburn. You’re a writer, you’ve got an imagination. Maybe you can dream up a reason. Like say, if there was something like a narcotics ring mixed up in the case. And they didn’t want anyone nosing around, trying to uncover clues that could lead to them or to their very important customers. Figure a reason like that, if you like. And then, like a smart guy, forget the whole thing. Including the fact that you talked to me.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

“You do that.”

“Thanks for the help. And the advice.”

“It’s all right. You know I’m always glad to do what I can. But...think it over.”

I thought it over all the way back to the office. Then I called Harry Bannock.

“Hello. Bannock here.” He must have picked that up from some English movie.

“Mark Clayburn. When can I see you?”

“Business?”

“Yes. But I’d rather not talk over the phone.”

“Right.” He hesitated. “You free tonight? How about coming out to the house for dinner? I’ll call Daisy. Good. Make it seven, then. See you.”

I made it seven.

Bannock had a big layout in the foothills, not far from Laurel Canyon. I leaned on the doorbell and watched the sunset over the hills. The sky was a deep orange.

Her hair was a deep orange, too. She wore it long, over bare shoulders, and it contrasted with the creamy tint of her skin. The chartreuse garment she wore was what is generally called a hostess gown. Seeing it on her, I could easily understand why.

“Mr. Clayburn?” She smiled. “I’m Daisy Bannock. Come right in. Harry said we’d be expecting you. He phoned just a few minutes ago to say he’d be a little late.”

I followed her perfume down the hall, into the parlor.

“Fix you a drink?”

“Thanks.” I nodded. She walked over to the bar in the alcove.

“What’ll it be?”

“Oh, I don’t care. Whatever you prefer.”

“I don’t indulge.” She shook the orange curl from her forehead. “But you needn’t worry, I’m supposed to be a very capable bartender.”

“In that case, make it a Manhattan. No—an Orange Blossom.” Why I wanted an Orange Blossom I didn’t know. Until I looked at her again. Then I knew.

Her fingers flew in deft deliberation. From time to time she paused and shook that single unruly curl back into place. Harry’s wife. And he was delayed at the office. If I had a wife like that, I wouldn’t be delayed. Maybe I wouldn’t even go to the office at all.

“Here you are.”

“Thanks.” Yes, thanks for the drink, and thanks for letting your fingers accidentally (was it accidentally?) touch mine. I sat down on the sofa. She took a chair, and through the window the sun set fire to her hair.

“So you’re Mark Clayburn. Harry’s told me quite a lot about you.”

“Is that so? Well, he never told me anything about you. Not that I blame him.”

She laughed. “Harry never mixes business with his domestic affairs.”

“Then I’m sorry I butted in like this. Because I’m here on a sort of a business matter.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You do?”

“Of course. Harry told me.” She leaned forward. I offered her a cigarette. “No, thanks. I’m afraid I don’t smoke, either. But you go ahead.” I lit my cigarette and she continued. “The poor guy’s so worried he doesn’t know what to do. And I can understand how he feels. All that money tied up, and just on account of a no-good heel like Ryan.” She shook her head. “Even when he’s dead he makes trouble for Harry.”

“Trouble? Harry never told me he had any dealings with Ryan before.”

“He wouldn’t. Harry isn’t the type to talk about it. But he used to be Ryan’s agent. When he came out here, from New York.”

“When was that?”

“About seven years ago. I was working in Harry’s office then. He’d just gotten started in the business and didn’t handle any big names. When he saw Ryan he thought the guy had possibilities, and he knocked himself out trying to get a break for him.

“Ryan must have hung around for a couple of months before he got his first assignment. Harry even staked him until the opening came along and he got his first billing.”

“What kind of a guy was Ryan in those days?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Nice kid. You know the type. Fresh out of dramatic school, a few bits in New York, some radio work. Thought he was all ready to set the world on fire out here. But Harry wised him up. Made him take riding lessons, fencing, dancing. Taught him how to handle a gun. Harry was the one who groomed him for westerns. Said he’d have a better chance there than in juvenile stuff for the Bs.”

“What did you think?”

“Well...” She shrugged again. “I didn’t like the setup. Harry and I weren’t married yet; we were waiting until he got himself set with the agency, had the business going good. And here he was shelling out dough to keep Ryan eating, to pay for his lessons. Of course, Harry expected he’d get it all back, and then some, if Ryan clicked. But I didn’t feel so sure about it.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Call it a hunch. I told Harry he couldn’t trust him, asked him to stop subsidizing Ryan. We almost had a quarrel over it, once.”

I finished my drink. “You say you had a hunch about Ryan. Why? What kind of hunch?”

Daisy giggled. “How can you explain a hunch? You’ve heard of feminine intuition, haven’t you?”

“I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never believed in it,” I told her. I leaned forward. “Could it have had anything to do with women? Was Ryan a chaser in those days?”

Daisy giggled again. “I never saw him go for a girl under twelve, and I never saw him get interested in a woman over fifty. But anything in between—oh, brother!”

I smiled at her. “Then I take it he also made a pass at you?”

She wasn’t giggling now. Two vertical lines formed in her forehead above her eyebrows. “He tried. But Harry put a stop to that. That’s when they had their big fight. Ryan walked out. Walked out cold, just like that. We never saw him again. About two months later we heard he got a role in one of Kolmar’s horse operas. And he was on his way.”

“You haven’t seen him since?”

“No. And Harry never got his money back. Oh, it was only a few hundred, and it doesn’t matter. But the louse never came near us after he made good. He hooked up with another agency. And last year he cut Harry dead at the Academy Award banquet.”

She stood up. “Fix you an encore?” she asked.

“Wait a minute.” I stood up, too. “Does Harry hate Ryan? Or did he hate him when he was alive?”

“He didn’t like him, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s not what I mean. There’s a difference between not liking a guy and hating him.” I was close enough to her to smell her perfume. “If I were Harry and I took this kid on, staked him, trained him for a career, and then had him walk out on me, I’d dislike him. And if he never paid me back, gave me the freeze after he became successful, I might hate him a little.” The lines in her forehead, between her eyebrows, came back now. I stared at them as I continued. “But if I was Harry and I found out that Ryan was making a pass at you, I’d hate him a lot. I might even hate him enough to—”

She raised her head and now I was staring straight into her eyes. “You’re crazy,” she said. “Harry didn’t kill Ryan. He wouldn’t wait almost seven years. Besides, Ryan never got to first base with me. And what kind of sense would that make, putting you on the case, if he did?”

“No sense at all,” I answered. “But you can’t be too careful.”

“How right you are,” Daisy murmured. “And if you’d only thought of that, you might have bothered to check up on what Harry was doing the night of the murder. He was in the Mark Hopkins at San Francisco, at a conference with some of the people from Twentieth Century. And there are a dozen witnesses to testify he never left the hotel all night.”

“Where were you?” I asked.

“You really are a suspicious type, aren’t you?” The giggle came back again. “Just for punishment, I ought to make you look up the record yourself. But if you must know, I was at Dr. Levinson’s Clinic. I checked in at dinnertime. I was under observation that night and the next day. They almost yanked my appendix out. There are witnesses for that, too.”

“All right,” I said. “Sorry I got so nosey. I’ll take that drink, now.”

She crossed the room, then halted.

“Harry’s home!”

I heard the door slam, listened for the footsteps. Bannock stood in the doorway. Daisy ran over and put her arms around him. He stood there. She said, “Darling, we’ve missed you.” He stood there. She kissed him. He stood there.

Daisy stepped back. “Honey, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he said. “But just before I left the office, I got a phone call. Somebody whose voice I never heard before. He told me that if I didn’t lay off the Ryan case, he’d kill me.”

Chapter Four

The maid announced dinner. She served roast duck with wild rice, and it looked good enough to eat. None of us ate very much, though. We just sat there and stared at the table like one big happy family. Sat there and talked about the phone calls—the one Harry got and the one I got.

For the third time Bannock said, “But who?”

“Think,” I suggested. “All you have to do is remember everyone you talked to about this business. Who overheard you mention you were coming to see me? Who knew you were interested in finding out about the murder?”

“I am thinking.” Bannock sighed. “There’s the three of us. Your friend Al Thompson, in Homicide.”

“You can check him off,” I told Bannock. “He’s not the type.”

“But he asked you to quit the case.”

“Of course he did. Only he didn’t know I was after anything more than a story. The question is, who does?”

“Sarah.” Daisy gestured toward the kitchen. “She heard us talking this morning, before Harry went to the office.”

“Really, now, Sarah’s not the type, either.” Bannock grinned.

“What about the office, then? You tell anyone there what you planned?”

“Not a soul.”

“Did your girl listen when I called this afternoon?”

“Perhaps. But you didn’t say anything that would give her a clue. Besides, we both heard a man’s voice. The same man, we must assume.”

“Maybe he’s psychic.” Daisy smiled, then frowned. “I’m sorry. This is nothing to joke about.”

I looked at Bannock. “Do you know Tom Trent’s voice over the phone?”

“Yes. I’d thought of that. It wasn’t Trent.”

“What about Joe Dean?”

“Never met him. Do you think perhaps—?”

“I don’t think anything perhaps.” I sat back. “We’ve got three possible courses of action, as I see it. First, we can call the police and tell them we’ve been threatened. And why.”

“That’s out.” Bannock shook his head. “I don’t want anyone to know this. If the news got out, it would queer my deal with See-More for sure.”

“Our second alternative,” I continued, “is to take these threats seriously and drop the investigation.”

“Drop a hundred and ninety-five grand, you mean? Not me, sweetheart.”

“But suppose somebody means business with these threats?”

Bannock scowled. “I’m not chicken. Are you?”

I pulled at my mustache. “No.”

“Well, I am!” Daisy put her arm on Bannock’s shoulder. “I don’t like this, Harry. You know I was angry when I found out you’d bought those films and tied all our money up. I said it was a big risk, and that’s how it worked out. But risking money’s one thing, and risking your life is another.”

“Don’t get panicky,” Bannock said, “Just because some lunatic makes a crazy threat—”

“Lunatic?” Daisy’s face was pale. “Ryan was murdered. Whoever killed him is still at large. Maybe he’s just crazy enough to kill you, too.”

“But the money—”

“I’d rather see you lose the money than your life. Please, Harry, lay off, for my sake.”

“For your sake.” Bannock nodded. “Listen, Daisy. It’s you I’m thinking about. What do you think I’ve worked for all these years, built up this business from a two-bit hole-in-the-wall? So that you’d have something. And I made the grade. Now everything I own is tied up in this deal. I’ve got to go through with it.”

“We could get along,” Daisy said. “You’ve got your clients, there’s money coming in.”

“I’m not going to let an anonymous phone call trick me out of the biggest deal I ever made,” Bannock declared. “Don’t worry, we’ll be careful.” He cocked his head at me. “That’s why we’ve got Mark here.”

I smiled at him. “Which brings us to our third alternative,” I said. “We can go through with our plans. As carefully as possible and as quickly as possible.”

“Right.” Bannock pushed his chair back from the table. “We’ve got to work fast. I take it you have some idea of where you want to begin?”

I nodded. “Best thing to do is take each suspect in turn,” I told him. “And I’m going to start with Ryan’s girlfriend, Miss Polly Foster. Can you get me lined up with a studio pass for tomorrow?”

“Now you’re talking. Sure, I’ll fix it for you.” He led us into the other room, stepped over to the bar. “What’ll it be?”

“What are you drinking?”

“Straight rye.”

“Make mine the same.”

“And me.” Daisy smiled at him, then at me.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” I said.

“I don’t, as a rule.” The smile never left her face. “But right now I could use one. I’m always a little bit uncomfortable when I’m around corpses.”

“Daisy, please!” Bannock sighed.

“I can’t help it.” She went to him and put her arms around his neck. “Harry, I’m scared. There’s something wrong with this whole thing, I know it. It isn’t just a murder, there’s more to it than that: something we don’t know; something we aren’t supposed to find out. You talked about a lunatic. Maybe it’s that, maybe worse.”

“What do you mean, worse?”

She walked around him, found a bottle and a glass, and poured herself a stiff hooker. “Hollywood,” she said. I watched her neck go back as she lifted the glass and downed the drink.

“What kind of a remark is that?”

“You ought to know,” Daisy answered. “You’ve been out here long enough to have heard the stories. Thirty years ago a director named Taylor was murdered. Nobody ever found out who did it or why. But you’ve heard rumors, haven’t you? About big names who hushed things up with other murders?”

Her voice lowered. “Didn’t you ever hear the rumor about Tom Ince, the producer? They said he died suddenly of poison, but there’s another story, too. About a murder, and about a big fix, because of the big names involved. And there are other cases—plenty of them.

“Harry, listen to me. Whoever killed Ryan must be crazy. You heard what Mark told us, what the detective said about how Ryan was killed. Anybody who’d do that wouldn’t be afraid to strike again, if necessary. And suppose there are others involved, who want him to strike? Please!”

Bannock shook his head.

Daisy stared for a moment, then returned to the bar and poured herself another drink.

I walked over and waited as Bannock filled our glasses. “About Polly Foster,” he said. “You can tell her you’re there for an interview. Figure out some kind of a story.”

“Right,” I answered. “I’ll handle it.”

We raised our glasses. “Here’s luck,” Bannock said.

“Luck,” I echoed.

Daisy stared at both of us over the rim of her glass. “Don’t forget,” she whispered. “There are two kinds of luck. Good...and bad.”

She drank quickly and left the room. “I’m going to bed,” she told Bannock. In a few moments we heard the sound of a radio drift down from upstairs.

“Sorry,” Bannock said. “It’s her nerves.” He reached for the bottle, chuckling a little. “Can’t say that I blame her, at that. I feel a little edgy myself.” He looked at me. “Have another?”

“No, thanks. I’ll be running along. Got a big day tomorrow. Shall I stop by your office for the pass?”

“Right. If I’m not there, Harriet will give it to you.”

He walked me to the door. “Look, Mark, I’ve been thinking it over. Maybe Daisy’s right. This could turn out to be dangerous.”

“Change your mind?”

He stood in the doorway and looked out at the night sky. “No. I’m going ahead with it because I have to. The business is in hock and it’s not as easy as she thinks. Didn’t want to worry her, but if I can’t clear up this murder and make my TV sale, it’s curtains for me. I’ve got to take the risk, no matter who threatens me.”

“I understand.”

“But I’m thinking about you. No sense getting yourself killed over a thing like this.”

“Don’t worry about me.” I said “I’m going through with it.”

“Good boy.”

“See you tomorrow.” I started down the walk. “And don’t worry, we aren’t ready for Forest Lawn yet.” I smiled and headed for the car.

Driving away, in darkness, the smile slipped off my face. It hadn’t been glued on very well in the first place. Because I really was scared.

Daisy’s notion made sense to me. I remembered all those stories about unsolved killings and mysterious suicides and sudden deaths. Everybody who has anything to do with the industry hears a dozen of them. I could understand why, too. If you’re mixed up in a billion dollar business and your success or failure depends on publicity, you’ll take steps to see that the publicity is good. You won’t hesitate to frame and fix in order to protect your good name or the good name of your product.

Not that Hollywood is any different than any other city, or the motion pictures different than any other industry. Detroit has its scandals and its unsolved murders, too. The automotive business holds secrets and so does steel and the railroads and the mines. You can’t indict the automobile industry as a whole because of a few black marks. And you can’t indict Hollywood because of the few exceptions.

On the other hand, the exceptions do exist; the black marks crop up from time to time. Ugly black marks, like the smudging X where the body is found. And if somebody threatens to rub you out, make another X, it’s worth thinking about.

I thought about it a lot during the long drive back across town. Suppose Daisy was right, and a lunatic had killed Ryan? Thompson spoke about the possibility of a pervert or a sex fiend at work. Such a man wouldn’t hesitate a moment. He’d be ready to kill again, and again if necessary. And he’d be clever. Clever enough to find out (he had found out, somehow, what we were planning) and clever enough to act.

Wilshire was welcome, with its bright lights. I headed east, through MacArthur Park, cutting off a way, then back and down to Columbia. My apartment was around the corner, on Ingraham. Darker, there. I parked in the shadows, then hurried across the street towards the safety and security of the well-lighted lobby.

I climbed the two flights, reaching for my key as I got to the second landing. At the same time I couldn’t keep my hand away from my coat pocket. It wanted to feel the gun nestling there.

I opened the door. The apartment was dark, and I switched on the light. Everything was in order. I stepped inside, but when it came to closing the door behind me, my hand wasn’t having any.

It wouldn’t cooperate. It insisted on leaving the door open as I stepped across the room to peer into the kitchen and the bath. Nobody there, of course. And nobody in the closet, when I went to hang up my coat.

“Silly,” I told my hand. And took it over to the door again. This time, reluctantly, it reached down and closed the door for me.

I turned. And my hand reached out and pointed. I followed it over to the armchair, next to the table. It brushed the top of the table and scooped up the little white card resting against the ashtray. The little white card I’d never seen before, the little white card I’d never propped there. But my hand held it up so that I could read the brief message scrawled with a common ballpoint pen.

“LAY OFF!”

That’s all the card told me.

I wasn’t frightened. My hand was frightened, though, because it trembled.

Then I looked down in the ashtray and I saw the butt. The coarse, crumpled butt of a hand-rolled cigarette. My fingers closed around it, and even before I brought it to my nostrils I could smell the harshly sweet scent of marijuana.

He’d been here. He’d been sitting in my chair, in my apartment, smoking weed. He’d given me another warning, and if I didn’t take it, he might come back. Only this time he wouldn’t bother to warn me. You get high on weed. It was a crazy thing to risk leaving a butt like this. But then, he could be a maniac.

All at once my hand stopped trembling. It dropped the butt back in the ashtray, picked up the card again, and shredded it to bits between my fingers.

Maybe I was up against a lunatic. Maybe I was up against somebody bigger—somebody who didn’t want his secrets revealed. Maybe I was just a little guy, like Bannock said, and a scared little guy at that.

But nobody, sane or insane, big or small, was going to push me around. I needed that eleven grand as badly as Bannock needed his big stake. Besides, I had a prejudice against murderers. It was so easy for me to put myself in the victim’s place.

And that, of course, was exactly what I was doing...

Chapter Five

I don’t like the smell of reefer butts.

I thought the air might be purer at a hotel, so the next morning I moved. I didn’t give up the apartment; just packed two suitcases and checked in at a room in the smallest and cheapest hostelry across the Park.

Then, just to keep the smell out of my office, I went to a hardware store and bought a new lock for the door.

By the time I’d finished changing the lock and holding a treasure hunt with the mail, looking for checks, it was close to noon.

I lunched, then drove out to Harry’s office to pick up my studio pass.

He was out, but his girl had news for me.

“Mr. Clayburn, you’re here about a pass, aren’t you?”

I nodded.

“Well, Mr. Bannock called this morning. They’re doing retakes on Miss Foster’s scenes, and they’re behind schedule, so the set is closed.”

“I see.”

“But he said for me to tell you he reserved a table at Chasen’s for you and Miss Foster tonight. Eight o’clock.”

“Thanks. And thank Mr. Bannock for me, will you?”

The girl smiled. “Gee, Mr. Clayburn, you’re an interviewer, aren’t you? Mr. Bannock says you see all the big stars. How does it feel to be in your line of work?”

“Feels good,” I said. “As I was saying to Marilyn Monroe last night, though, there are times when I get so embarrassed because Jane Russell keeps telling me things Ava Gardner shouldn’t know.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Could be.” I leaned over the desk. “Funny thing,” I said. “Here you are, right on the inside, seeing Bannock’s clients. And you’re still movie-struck. I’ve never been able to figure that one out. All the smart little chicks in Hollywood going for the phony glamor. Suppose you’d like to get in the movies yourself?”

“Would I?” Her eyes widened. “Why, I’d give anything to land a job.” Then she grinned. “Come to think of it, I did, about two years ago. But I never got the job.”

“You’re lucky,” I told her. “This is steadier work.”

“I’d still trade places with you any day,” she sighed. “Imagine, interviewing Polly Foster at Chasen’s.”

“Which reminds me,” I said. “I’ve got a lot of time to fill until eight o’clock. We interviewers have to keep busy. Does Harry still run a spot-check on current assignments?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Be a good girl and find out if Tom Trent’s listed for anything today.”

“I’ll ask Velma.”

She buzzed Velma and waited for a reply.

“No, Mr. Clayburn, Trent isn’t down on today’s schedule.”

“Good.”

“Are you going to interview him, too?”

“Why not?” I said. “It’s a free country. Thanks for the help. If you want, I’ll bring you Trent’s autograph. I’m not sure if he knows how to write, but they say his horse is very intelligent.”

“Could you...could you get Polly Foster’s autograph for me?”

I shrugged. “I’ll try. See you.”

Then I went away, wondering about this whole whacky business of hero worship. Even here in Hollywood, where you’d think they’d know better, the crowds still jam the prevues, still mob celebrities, scramble for buttons and souvenirs. Crazy. Crazy, but profitable.

That’s what made it important. It was profitable to give people what they wanted. If they wanted heroes and heroines, Hollywood must provide them. And that’s why I was on this job. I had to take the battered, bullet-riddled body of Dick Ryan and prop it up on a pedestal again.

And the first step was to see Tom Trent.

Wrong. The first step was to stop at a drugstore and hunt up his address. I might have guessed he’d live out in the Valley.

But I had time to spare. I took the scenic route and pulled up in front of his place around three.

It hardly surprised me to find that Tom Trent lived in a regulation, sure-enough ranch-house, complete with true Western air-conditioning, a trusty station wagon, and an ol’ swimmin’ hole lined with turquoise tile and surrounded by umbrella tables at which a quick-shootin’, redblooded hombre could set hisself down and have a shot of firewater—bonded, of course.

I pulled into the driveway but didn’t bother to ring the bell, because I could see little ol’ rough-and-ready, two-fisted Tom Trent out yonder at one of the tables. I went thataway.

I’d recognized Trent’s face, of course, but he was the kind who doesn’t depend on that alone. As I got closer I noted the white terrycloth robe thrown over the back of the chair so as to display the TT monogram in gold. A few steps nearer and I could see the same TT on his towel, and reproduced on his trunks. When I reached the table he raised his left hand in salutation, and I saw the silver identification bracelet dangling from the wrist. Three guesses as to what was engraved on it.

For some reason or other, he hadn’t bothered to tattoo his initials across his chest, though they may have been elsewhere, hidden by the trunks.

Trent was watching a white bathing-cap bobbing in the pool. The cap contained a brachycephalic head which now popped over the edge of the pool as I approached. The face stared up at me. Trent turned and saw me coming.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Hi. I’m Mark Clayburn, Mr. Trent. I’d like a few minutes of your time for an interview.”

“Interview? I didn’t get any word on an interview.” He glanced over at the pool. “Hey, did the studio call about any interviews this morning?”

The face moved from left to right.

“Sorry,” Trent said. “You know the rules. No story without a clearance from the front office.”

“I really should have checked first,” I told him. “I didn’t mean to barge in on you like this. But I happened to be in the neighborhood.”

“Who you with?”

I shrugged. “Freelance. But I’ve got a sort of roving assignment for features from Photoplay. You know, profile stuff, with a picture spread.”

“You can get anything you want from Higgins, in Publicity,” Trent informed me. “If you get together with him, he’ll set up the whole deal.”

I smiled. “I understand that, Mr. Trent. But what I had in mind was something a little different.”

The big man scratched himself under the arm. “That so? What’s the angle?”

“Well, it’s rather confidential.” I shot a look at the face hanging over the pool. Trent followed my gaze.

“Hey,” he called. “Swim underwater for a while, will you?”

The face disappeared.

“Sit down and help yourself. What were you saying about confidential, now?”

I sat down, ignored the bottle and glasses, and concentrated on smiling and keeping my voice soft. “Well, it’s like this. I’m trying to work up a series of interviews with dead stars.”

“Huh?”

“Novelty idea. For instance, I’m going to contact the Barrymores about a yarn on John. You know, intimate details, little bits of personal reminiscence, things like that. I’d like to do one on Beery and maybe Dix. Get the dope and then write it up in question-and-answer form, in the first person, just as if they were talking.”

“Sounds screwy if you ask me.” Trent scowled. “Besides, I ain’t dead.” He poured himself another shot.

“Of course not. But you happen to have been associated with a star who died recently. I thought you might have some interesting material I could use.”

He’d started to lift his drink, but put it down again now. The sun sparkled on the initials cut into the side of the tumbler.

“Who you talking about?”

“Dick Ryan,” I said.

Trent looked at me. Then he raised the glass, emptied it and lowered it to the table again, all in a single continuous motion. He stared at me again before he spoke. “Never heard of him.”

“What’s that? I’m talking about Lucky Larry.”

“Never heard of him, either.”

“But you played in a whole series together. You were with him the night he died.”

Trent stood up. “I told you,” he said. “I never heard of Dick Ryan. End of story.”

“Well, if that’s the way you want to be.”

He wasn’t letting me finish my sentences. “That’s the way it is, Clayburn. And let me give you a tip for what it’s worth to you: you never heard of Dick Ryan, either. And you don’t want to write a yarn about him, or ask anyone else.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

Trent scowled. “How’d you lose the eye?” he asked. “Poking it in other people’s keyholes?” He was a big man, and he had a big hand. It felt like a ton, resting on my shoulder.

“What’s wrong with asking?” I murmured. “Who knows, maybe I can find a few interesting angles. Since you didn’t know this Dick Ryan, you might be surprised to learn that he was murdered.” I paused. “Then again, you might not.”

Trent’s hand began to clamp down. I reached up and batted it off. He made a sound in his chest. “Why, you!”

There was the sound of splashing from the pool. Both of us turned and saw the face beneath the bathing cap bob up. The head shook again, a slow, grave movement.

“All right.” His voice shook with the effort at control. “I’m giving you a break. I’m leaving you the other eye, if you get out of here right now. But get this, Clayburn. You aren’t doing any story on Dick Ryan. You’re not asking anyone else about him, either. He’s dead. Let him stay that way. You’re alive. And if you want to stay that way—”

The hand gave me a shove. I moved back.

“Thank you for the hospitality and the advice,” I said. “You’ve been most gracious.” I gestured toward the pool. “Now I’ll leave you to your goldfish.”

Trent made a suggestion which I didn’t care to follow, due to certain physical limitations that rendered it impossible.

I walked away, and he stared after me. So did the face in the pool.

Then I climbed into the car and drove back to town.

The lights were coming on, twinkling in Glendale, flickering over Forest Lawn, sparkling along San Fernando Road. Los Angeles, that gaudy old whore of a city, was putting on her jewels for a big night.

It was time for me to get to the hotel, to put on a few jewels of my own. I thought it over and settled for a shave, shower, soft shirt and striped tie. What the Well-Dressed Interviewer Should Wear.

According to me, that is. Tom Trent would probably prefer to see me in a shroud, nothing fancy, of course, but he’d be willing to let me have my initials embroidered on it.

I thought about Trent as I drove over to Chasen’s. A very aggressive gentleman, Mr. TT. What had his alibi been? Home with the butler, nursing his black eye; something like that. I wondered if the butler had been in the swimming pool. Somebody was calling signals. Maybe I’d better follow them, because it seemed as if the game was getting rough.

My table was reserved and waiting at Chasen’s, but Polly Foster hadn’t arrived. I glanced at my watch. Just eight. Perhaps I had time for a before-dinner drink.

I took it at the bar, and it tasted good. Felt good to be there again, after all this time. Used to spend a lot of evenings here, a long while ago. But of course, none of the crowd at the bar remembered me. Too much time had gone by. Almost a year.

And a year, in Hollywood, is an eternity.

I remembered the old legend about Orpheus and Eurydice. Orpheus went to Hades and got permission to take Eurydice away, on condition that he didn’t turn around and look at her during the return trip. But he looked back, and the bargain was cancelled.

Nobody here in Hollywood would ever be guilty of making Orpheus’s mistake. Because in Hollywood, no one looks back. What you did, what you were yesterday, doesn’t count. Nobody cares if you won the Academy Award last year; the big question is, who’s going to win next year?

I raised my glass and drank a silent toast to Mr. Orpheus, who’d never get in the Musician’s Local out here. I knew just how he felt.

I spotted three or four familiar faces down the bar, including a man named Wilbur Dunton who was still working out at Culver City on the strength of a contract I’d landed for him when he was in my stable.

Nobody looked at me. The freeze was on. Everybody was talking about tomorrow, and I belonged to yesterday. And so did Dick Ryan. Nobody wanted to look at him, either, or talk about what had happened. De mortuis nil nisi bonum, if you’ll pardon the expression.

I ordered another drink and wondered about Dave Chasen. Did he ever look back, now? Did he remember the days when he played stooge for Joe Cook in all those wonderful shows—Rain or Shine, Fine and Dandy, Hold Your Horses? I hoped he did. Somebody should remember old Joe Cook. A great comic. And Chasen had been a great stooge, too.

How long ago was that? Less than twenty years. And now Cook was ill and forgotten, while Chasen was a big man out here on the Coast.

There was a moral somewhere in all this, and I was just looking for it at the bottom of my glass when I happened to see Polly Foster come in.

I’d seen her on the screen several times, of course, and that had been enough to make me look forward to this evening with a certain mild anticipation. Recognizing her now, my anticipation changed immediately from mild to wild. Polly Foster in the flesh was quite something else again. Nor is that “in the flesh” merely a figure of speech. The figure she cut had nothing to do with speech.

White-gold hair over white-gold shoulders; her dress was robin’s-egg blue, and where it left off beneath her neck, any resemblance to robins’ eggs ended.

She halted just inside the door and looked around for a moment. Heads turned, which wasn’t hard for me to understand; she’d just turned mine. Several people nodded, and she nodded back. But all the while she was scanning the crowd.

I got off the stool and prepared to walk over. At that moment she spotted me and came into the bar. She walked right up, without any hesitation, and she smiled.

As she stood before me now, I could see that her lips were full, too. Her eyes were something rather special. They were smiling along with her lips, and all for me.

“Hello,” she murmured sweetly. “Are you the one-eyed bastard who wants to pump me about Dick Ryan’s death?”

Chapter Six

“My dear Miss Foster,” I said. “There seems to be—”

“I’m not your dear Miss Foster. And I don’t give a damn about what there seems to be. What I want to know is why you’re sticking your big fat nose into somebody else’s business.”

“Tell you about it at dinner,” I said. “Come on, our table’s ready.”

“Do you think I’d actually have dinner with you?”

“Of course.” I grinned at her. “You didn’t come here just to call me names. You’re just dying to find out what I know. So you’ll just have to pay the price.”

“And that price is having dinner?”

“Half of it.”

“What’s the other half?”

I winked. “Tell you about it later.”

“Well, of all the nerve—”

But she had dinner with me. Steaks, New York cut, and baked Idaho potatoes and one of the special salads. Plus Manhattans. A quick one before we ate and several during the meal.

The drinks helped a lot. Let’s give credit where credit is due. She got the first one down fast before she started to go after me.

“I suppose this is Bannock’s idea of a joke,” she said. “Pulling that interview gag. Wait until I get hold of Costigan tomorrow morning.”

“Who’s Costigan?”

“Publicity. Bannock set this up with him. I’ll tell that cheap flack a thing or two.”

“Why? It’s not Costigan’s fault. How could he know? And Bannock really thought I was after a story.”

“The hell he did.”

“What other reason would he have?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But I intend to find out. And fast.”

“Be reasonable,” I said. “Bannock was just doing me a favor. He’s not involved in this at all.”

“Then who is?”

“It’s my own idea. I’d like to do a story on the Ryan case.”

“That’s not what you told Tom Trent.”

“Oh, so he’s the one who tipped you off.”

Polly Foster made a face which might have surprised her fans. “All right, so he called me. And I said I’d find out what this was. So start talking, Mr. Clayburn. A bargain’s a bargain.”

The steaks arrived with the second round of Manhattans. “I already told you. I want to do a story, for the true-detective magazines.”

“Why don’t you go to the police?”

“I did that little thing, but they can’t seem to tell me what I want to know.”

“Which is?”

“Who killed Dick Ryan?”

She put down her fork and picked up her drink. For a moment I thought she was going to throw it at me. Instead, she gulped.

“Level with me,” she said. “Are you a cop?”

“No. Just a literary agent. Do a little writing of my own, now and then.”

“In other words, all you’re interested in is a chance to make some money.”

“That’s right. I could use a little dough, and this seemed to be an excellent lead.”

The big gray eyes narrowed. “So that’s it. I’m beginning to get it, now. How much?”

“What do you mean?”

“How much are you asking to lay off?”

I looked at her. Then I put down my knife. I put down my napkin. I stood up.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?”

“Home,” I said. “I’ve been insulted.”

Polly Foster looked around hastily, then reached out and grabbed my wrist. “For God’s sake, sit down!”

I smiled, but didn’t move.

“Come on, everybody’s looking.”

“And you don’t want anyone to see me walk out on you, is that it? Imagine the gossip! ‘Who was the unknown escort who staged a public walkout on glamorous Polly Foster the other night at—’ž”

“Sit down!”

“Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry, damn you!”

“There’s a sweet girl.” I sat down again. “But don’t ever accuse me of anything like that again. Poor but proud, that’s me. I’m no blackmailer.”

“Sorry.”

“I understand. Easy to make a mistake. The woods are full of them out here. Come on, let’s have another drink.” I signaled the waiter and ordered.

“Trent guessed you were after shakedown money.”

“Trent’s a slob.”

“Isn’t he, though?”

“What about Dick Ryan, was he a slob, too?”

“Must you drag him in?”

“That’s what I’m here for, lady. Do you think I enjoy working evenings?”

This time she nearly got up. “Well, of all the!” She dug her nails into the tablecloth. “There’s a million men who’d be damned glad to trade places with you right now.”

“Sure.” I nodded. “I know all about that. Your Mr. Costigan has done a good job for you on the glamor angle. Now, about Dick Ryan—”

“You don’t like me, do you?”

“I never said that.”

“What’s the matter? Are you a qu—”

“Careful,” I told her. “Want me to get up again?”

“Oh, hell!”

“You know what I’d do if you were mine?” I said. “I’d wash your mouth out with soap. You swear too much, young lady.” I smiled. “Outside of that, I like you fine.”

“Well, that’s certainly a load off my mind.” But she relaxed and lifted her glass. “You know, you’re kind of attractive, the way you get mad.”

“Thanks. How about Ryan, now. Was he attractive when he got mad, too?”

She groaned. “For—”

“Careful!” I said. “No profanity. Not before dessert. Or will you settle for another drink instead? Good.”

I ordered, and the waiter went away.

“All right. You win. I’ll tell you what I can. But it isn’t much. Suppose you’ve read up on the case?”

I nodded. “Got everything they printed. And I checked with Homicide on it, too. I don’t expect you have anything to add to the story you told them. What I’m interested in is a new lead.”

The drinks arrived.

“Seems to me the way to figure things out is to find out more about Ryan himself. What kind of a guy he was, what was eating him that made him get loaded that night, things like that.”

“I see.” Polly Foster twirled the maraschino cherry in her glass. “Ryan was a louse from the word go, if you must know. Strictly a bad casting. He was a conceited ham, he was a tomcat who’d prowl anybody’s back fence, he was a lush, he was a double-crosser, and—”

“He was also your lover,” I said, softly.

She made a gesture midway between a shrug and a wince. “All right, if you want to be blunt about it. He was. I suppose you can’t figure out why.”

“Yes I can. I’ve seen his pictures.”

“Funny.” She stared down into her drink. “You get so used to the type that after a while you forget there are any right guys left. And of course, there’s always a line, some kind of phony front to fool you. Then afterwards, when you find out, you figure what the—” She smiled. “Whoops, nearly got the soap there, didn’t I?”

I picked up her glass and held it out to her. “Wash your mouth out with this, instead,” I said. “I’ll order another.”

She was beginning to get a glow, and that was good. “You know the last time anybody told me that?” she said. “Fifth grade. Old lady Perkins. Kid in back of me dropped an eraser down my neck and I hollered at him.”

“I’ll bet they were all trying to drop things down your neck,” I told her. “Even when you had brown hair.”

“How’d you know my hair was brown?”

“Just guessing. Complexion. Am I right?”

“Right.” She lifted the new glass. “You’d make a good detective.”

“Don’t know about that. I’m not getting many leads on this case.”

“But there’s nothing to tell. Honestly.” She leaned forward. “You know it all. Ryan went to his trailer that night, after we finished shooting.”

“Anything happen during the day to make you suspicious?”

“You mean, to make me think he was in trouble? No. But he acted kind of sulky. I knew what that meant.”

“What did it mean?”

“He wanted me out of the way. Some other woman on the string.”

“Who?”

“How would I know? He had plenty of choices. That boy played the field.”

“What about Estrellita Juarez?”

“Could be.”

“And you think he was just putting on an act, pretending to be angry so that you’d leave him alone that night?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t actually quarrel or anything like that?”

“Of course not.”

“Did he quarrel with anyone at all before he went off and started drinking?”

“No. He said something to Tom Trent, but I don’t know what it was. Nothing serious, because Trent was willing to come with me when we went over to the trailer after dinner.”

“How did Ryan greet you?”

“He didn’t talk much. Just offered us a drink. We sat down and talked.”

“What about?”

“Trent was trying to get him to lay off the bottle. Because of the next day’s shooting schedule.”

“What did Ryan say to that?”

“If I told you, you’d wash my mouth out with soap.”

“Did Ryan seem nervous or upset?”

“Well, he kept looking at his watch.”

“As if he were expecting someone?”

“He said he was waiting for Joe Dean to get back. Joe was his valet, you know. He’d driven Abe Kolmar into town for an early preview. When Dean showed up, he brought Juarez with him.”

“Do you think that was the deal? Dean had been told to bring Estrellita Juarez to the trailer for Ryan?”

“The way it looked, she was Dean’s girl.”

“Could that have been for your benefit?”

“Maybe. But if it was, Ryan went too far. Because he got a skinful and fired Dean, and he kicked Juarez out. But you already know that.”

“Sure. And he hit Trent, too.”

“Hit him? He damned near broke him in half.”

“Why?”

“He had a skinful, like I said.”

“But there must have been some reason. Was it because Trent objected when Ryan threw Estrellita out?”

“Partly. But I guess it really started when he tried to pitch me out, too.”

“In other words, they had a fight over you.”

“I don’t know. There was so much noise, and then they started swinging, and I got out of there.”

“Statement says Ryan told you to go. Said he expected company.”

“I don’t know. I was crying, it all happened so fast.”

“Were you drunk?”

“No more than I am now.” Polly Foster stared down at the new Manhattan. “Hey, you’re getting me loaded!”

“Sorry. You don’t have to drink it.”

But she did. “Who cares? Feels good. You treat a girl right, Mr. Clayburn. Mark, isn’t it? Person’d never know you were just being polite, that you hated every minute you had to sit here with little old me.”

“Don’t rub it in,” I said. “I apologize. I know I have a temper.”

“Temper? You don’t have any temper. You’re a lamb compared to boys like Trent and Ryan. They’re the kind that haul off and clout you one. That lousy Ryan hit me on the arm when he threw me out.”

“Then he did toss you out?”

“Sure. What the hell. I didn’t want to say it, but that’s what happened. Tossed me out on my can. And Trent after me. Trent was looking for his gun, he was so damned mad.”

She stopped.

“Go on.”

“I don’t remember. We were all high, and I was crying. Of course, Trent was only talking. He didn’t have his gun anyway. Ryan did—in the trailer. And Trent went back to town to get patched up.”

“Are you sure?”

“He’s got an alibi.”

“But couldn’t he have come back later?”

“The way he was beat up? No. And with all that liquor in him?”

“You’re sure it was just liquor?”

“Of course. What else? He went back to town, and I was mad so I drove back to town myself.”

I nodded. “So I heard. You didn’t by any chance happen to turn around, did you?”

“Why?”

“Well, Ryan said something about expecting company. And it occurs to me that you may have been curious, that you might have sneaked back to take a look at his visitor.”

“Look, I was so damned mad at that louse, I never wanted to see him again. I wouldn’t have cared if somebody blew the top of his head off.”

“Somebody did,” I said, softly. “And that’s not all they did, either.”

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“Somebody knew Trent’s gun was in Ryan’s trailer. Maybe you all did. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that someone came there and killed him—killed him in a horrible way, a way that deserves to be punished. I want to see that he gets what’s coming to him, and no matter how you feel about Ryan, I think you do, too.”

“But I don’t know anything,” she murmured.

“I think you do. I think you know, and you were afraid to talk, because your name would be involved. You didn’t want to get mixed up in any scandal. There’s that reefer tie-up in it, I know.”

She drained her glass. “Go on,” she said. “I’m listening.”

“If that’s the way it is, I don’t blame you. But remember this. I’m not a cop. It’s safe to tell me. I can put my information into a story without revealing the sources. And you have my word for that. Wouldn’t you like to see them get the killer?”

Polly Foster set her glass down.

“I’m getting woozy,” she said. “Think I’ll go home.”

“But you haven’t told me—”

“Bright boy. I haven’t, have I? I’m going home.”

“Let me drive you.”

“No. Taxi.”

“Look, don’t rush off. It’s early yet. I promise, I’ll drop the subject.”

“Like hell you will. You’ll just keep pouring drinks into me until you get what you want.” She sighed. “I know the routine. Only usually, when a guy does that he’s after something else.”

“There’s a thought,” I said.

“Skip it. You aren’t even interested, are you? I can tell. And if you pretended to be, it’s only for your goddam story.”

“Please, this is important. Haven’t you ever stopped to think that there’s a murderer running around loose? Maybe it’s someone you know. Surely it’s someone who knows you. It’s dangerous to let—”

“Never mind.” She stood up, accomplishing the act without swaying. “I do a lot of thinking. And all I know is, I’m alive, and I want to stay that way.”

“Sure you won’t let me drive you home?”

“I’ll manage.” She turned, and I came around the table and took her arm.

“One thing more,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“I told you I had another favor to ask you. For a girl, a fan of yours. Will you autograph this menu?”

“Very funny.”

“I mean it.” I took out my pen. “Here.”

“Sorry. No autographs. No answers, either. You aren’t getting anything more out of me, Mr. Clayburn.”

I picked up the menu and wrote on the margin of the cover.

“All right,” I said. “If that’s the way you feel. But take it with you. If you change your mind—about the autograph or anything else—you can call me at the number I wrote down. I’ll be there tonight.”

“Don’t hang by anything until,” Polly Foster said. She favored me with a ravishing smile, and I beamed back at her as we moved toward the door.

I watched her enter the taxi and waved goodbye. She noticed the stares of the couples on the driveway and blew me a kiss for their benefit. But all the while her lips moved, and I knew she was saying something suitable for washing out with soap.

Then she was gone, and I was left alone. Left alone to reclaim my car and drive back to the hotel.

By the time I got there my glow had faded. I bought a pint at the drugstore and took it up to my room; not in any hopes that it would restore the glow, but merely to keep me company.

I needed company right now, needed it badly, because I’d goofed.

Sitting there on the bed, I opened the bottle and took a drink on that. Then I reviewed my record so far.

Goofed with Trent this afternoon. Goofed with Polly Foster tonight. Two foul-ups in one day. Quite a record for a novice. I hadn’t learned one solitary new fact. All I’d succeeded in doing was to make enemies out of the best possible leads in the case. Maybe Miss Foster had something there: I was just a one-eyed bastard who didn’t know his way around.

I took another drink. Might as well get blind. In the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king...

How long had I been sitting here? An hour, two hours? It didn’t matter. The bottle was half empty and I was more than half full. Might as well kill it. Everything else was dead. Dead as Dick Ryan. Dead as the case.

Tomorrow morning I’d have to call Bannock and tell him the deal was off. No soap. No soap to wash out the mouth that wouldn’t talk. No soap, no leads, no clues, no case—and no eleven grand for me, either.

Pity. It was all a pity. I could cry over it. Cry with one eye. But that’s the way it was. No sense in trying to fool Bannock. I’d goofed, and I didn’t have any idea what else to do.

If I saw Joe Dean or Estrellita Juarez or Abe Kolmar, I’d wind up with a blank again. Nobody was talking. The reefer angle had them all scared. So they laid off.

Or was it something else?

I sat up.

Laid off.

Had they got what I’d been getting? Had somebody gone to them directly and told them to lay off?

I’d forgotten about my phone call, the visitor to my apartment.

Sure, I could tell Bannock I was through with the case. But who’d tell the other?

I stared at the phone, sweating, wondering whether or not it would start to ring, if I’d pick it up and hear that flat voice once again.

Then I grunted, remembering that I wasn’t home any more. I was in the hotel, I was safe. He didn’t know, couldn’t call.

That called for more than a grunt. It called for a grin. In fact, it called for another drink.

I was just reaching for the bottle again when the phone rang.

No drink now. No grin. I was sweating again, and my hand wavered as it went to the phone.

But I picked it up because I had to pick it up, said “Hello” because I had to say “Hello,” and listened because I had to listen.

“I changed my mind. You can have that autograph.”

“Miss Foster!”

“Polly, to you. I came home and had a couple drinks here all by my lonesome. Now I’m Polly.” Her voice was slurred, low. “Been thinking about you, you know that? Want to ’pologize again.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“Want to. In person. ’Bout that autograph—how’s for you coming out and picking it up?”

“Well—”

She laughed. “I know. Old one-track mind. Wants his information. All right. Told you I been thinking, didn’t I? Thinking, drinking. Lonesome. Come on out.”

“You say you’re alone?”

“Just little old me. Don’t be scared. Won’t bite you. Not hard, anyway.” She laughed again. “You’re too smart. You guessed, didn’t you? When you said maybe I went back. Well, you’re right. I did go back. Saw somebody, too. You come out, maybe I’ll tell you all about it. If you’re nice.”

“I’ll come out,” I said. “Leaving this minute.”

“Good. Hurry up. I’ll be waiting.”

I went out.

She hadn’t lied. She’d autographed the menu. And she was waiting, waiting for me with her lips kissing the signature. From the way she sat there with her head resting on the table, you’d think Polly Foster had hung up the receiver and passed right out. There was only one little detail which made me think differently...

The bullet in her back.

Chapter Seven

“All right,” said Al Thompson. “This is for the record.”

Leaving out Bannock, I gave it to him straight: about going after a story, seeing Trent, interviewing Polly Foster at Chasen’s, coming home, getting the call.

“What time did you get out here?”

“Eleven. Few minutes before. I parked in the drive. You saw my car when you came in. Rang the bell. No answer. I went around the side.”

“Why? You figure on busting in?”

“Of course not. But I told you, she’d been drinking. I had a hunch maybe she was sick, or passed out. So I looked through the window and I saw her with her head down on the table.”

“Could you tell she’d been shot?”

“No. I thought I was right, she’d passed out.”

“So you went in anyway. Why?”

“I explained that before. I glanced down and noticed the window was open. I couldn’t walk away and leave her like that—after all, she’d invited me.” I paused and stared at him. “This is straight, Thompson.”

“Nobody said it wasn’t. Keep going.”

“That’s all. I went in, walked over to her, and then I saw she was dead. Didn’t touch anything. Came right to the phone and called you.”

“Let’s go, then.”

“Where?”

“Downtown. You’ll have to tell it all over again, you know that. This time we’ll want your signature.”

“All right.”

We left. Thompson wasn’t in charge. A man named Bruce was running the show. I didn’t envy him the job. In a little while the press would be there, and the studio people, and there’d be a devil of a mess.

There’d be a devil of a mess in tomorrow’s papers, too, but I wasn’t worried about that. I had my own mess to consider.

Thompson considered it for me in the car going down. “So you couldn’t take my advice, eh?” he mused. “Had to get that story. Well, you’ve got one now, all right. And I just hope for your sake that it holds up.”

“It’ll hold,” I said.

“How come you’re living in a hotel?” he asked me. “Give up the apartment?”

“Neighbors. Objected to my typing late at night. Got a few rush assignments I had to get out in a hurry, so I decided to take a room for a week or so.”

“Why not use your office?”

“They lock the building at nine.”

“Couldn’t you get a key?”

“Never thought of it. There’s no law against moving into a hotel, is there?”

“All depends.”

“On what?”

“On what the boys turn up in your room.”

“They won’t find anything.”

“They’ll try, though.”

“Damn!” I said.

“What’s wrong now?”

“Just happened to remember. I left half a pint of good liquor up there.”

“This isn’t funny, Clayburn. We’re inclined to take our murders seriously, you know. And knocking off a name like Polly Foster is a very serious matter. Which reminds me. That autograph on the menu—what did you say was the name of the girl you were getting it for?”

“I didn’t say. I don’t know her name. She works in Bannock’s office. Harry Bannock, the agent.”

“Heard of him. But how come she knew about your date with Foster?”

“I told you. I went to Bannock because he’s got an in with the studio. Asked him to get me a pass. Instead, he arranged this dinner date. I got to kidding with his girl, and promised her an autograph.”

“I see.”

“You can ask Bannock if you like.”

“Thanks.” Thompson nodded. “I was planning on doing just that. With or without your permission.”

“Look,” I said. “I’m trying to be nice, you know. I haven’t made any trouble.”

“Oh, you haven’t, eh? You just blew the lid off the Ryan case all over again, and piled a new killing on top of it. And you haven’t made any trouble.”

“You think the two cases tie together, too, then?”

“I’m not thinking out loud right now,” Thompson said. “Let’s get this over with, first.”

We got it over with.

There’s no sense dragging anybody else along on that part of the trip. It was bad enough for me, what with statements and questioning and more statements, and a call to Joe Fileen, my attorney. Coffee, cigarettes, and then another quiz show.

They held me forty-eight hours. No, fifty-eight, counting the first night. I saw everybody and his brother, including the little guy at the liquor store who sold me the pint. And the man on the desk at the hotel, who—believe it or not— remembered me leaving to go out to Polly Foster’s place.

So that gave me an alibi, of a sort. Except that I could have gone out there and shot her, then phoned immediately. She hadn’t been dead long enough for the coroner to establish any exact time for the murder.

But they couldn’t find a gun, and they couldn’t find a motive. They looked. I don’t know where they searched for the gun, but I know where they pried for a motive. Right inside my skull, that’s where. Working in batteries, in relays.

I’m not complaining. Thompson was my friend, and the rest of them were doing a job, a job they had to do, with the pressure bearing down on them from the D.A.’s office and the newspapers and public opinion.

There was plenty of the latter around, although I didn’t see any papers until after the second day. Headline stuff, this Polly Foster slaying. Headline, front page, feature story, even editorial stuff. And me, right in the middle. In the middle of the yarn, in the middle of a ring of fugitives from Dragnet.

They were looking for a candidate for the Grand Jury, and they were looking hard. They dragged up everything I’d ever done, checked my accident, went into my files and questioned my clients. A very thorough job. I had no objections, but I got awfully tired.

And I wasn’t the only one who went through the mill. Tom Trent had his little session, although somebody swung enough weight to keep it out of the papers. Harry Bannock and Daisy were called in, too, but both of them stuck to their. story. They’d just been doing me a favor.

Which was all I expected. I saw them at the inquest, and everybody testified all over again. There was nothing to go on, and that’s why they let me out after the inquest.

That gave me twenty-four hours to prepare for the funeral, twenty-four hours to rest up, get myself straightened out.

I rested, but not too much. First of all, I had to read the papers and catch up on the case. Everybody was doing it; everybody wanted to know who killed Polly Foster. Everybody except the guy who did it.

I wondered about him. Was he reading about the case, too? And was he reading my name? Was he going to start calling up at the hotel now? Maybe I’d better move out. Maybe I’d better not attend that funeral after all.

“Of course you will.” Harry Bannock told me that, when I finally drove out to his place to see him. “Mark, I know what it’s been like these past days for you.”

“No, you don’t,” I said. “Nobody’ll ever know.”

“Well, I can guess. And I appreciate it. Here.”

He pulled out a roll.

“Never mind that. It’s not necessary.”

“Of course it is. I want you to have it.”

“Yes,” Daisy Bannock added. “Please take it. You were swell, keeping Harry’s name under cover and all.”

I pocketed the bills. “Maybe it will help some after all,” I said. “With this killing, they can’t just walk away from the Ryan tie-up. They may find the murderer, clear your boy. I hope so.”

“So do I.” Harry sighed. “I haven’t dared go near the See-More outfit since the news broke, though.”

“It shouldn’t be too long. The whole Department’ll be out on this.”

“Not enough.”

“What’s that?”

“I want you to keep on, too.”

“Now wait, you don’t need me. You’ve got what you wanted, the authorities are interested again.”

“That’s not what I wanted. I wanted Ryan’s killer. I wanted his name cleared. And the authorities may not do the job. But you can.”

“Me?” I laughed. “Know what I was going to do the night Polly Foster died? I was going to call you up and resign. Because I didn’t get anywhere. I goofed the works. I’m no investigator, Harry.”

“I’m betting you turn up the murderer.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s interested in you, now. Whoever he is, he knows you’ve been talking to people involved in the case. Chances are, you’ll hear from him one way or another.”

I smiled at Daisy. “What a coffin salesman your husband is,” I said. “Certainly knows how to make a deal sound attractive.” Then I turned to Harry. “It’s no use. I want out of this.”

“He’s right,” Daisy said. “Mark’s already done more than anyone could expect in covering up for you. You can’t ask him to run any more risks.”

“I’m not asking him to. He’s in this thing whether he likes it or not, as far as the murderer is concerned. So it doesn’t matter if he chooses to cooperate. The killer will keep an eye on him, either way. And all I’m asking him to do is keep an eye out for the killer—in case he runs across a clue.”

I tapped my eye-patch. “From now on, this is the only eye I’m keeping out for anybody.”

“Suit yourself. But I intend to go right on paying you, because I know if you turn anything up, you’ll tell me.” Bannock chewed his cigar. “Seems to me, you’d be anxious to do what you could to get this thing solved. The sooner the murderer is behind bars, the sooner you’ll be safe. Until then—”

“One more crack and I’ll probably pack up and leave town,” I told him. “Besides, what makes you so sure it’s the same party?”

“The police think so. The papers think so. And what other motive would he have?”

“I’m not so sure,” I said.

“You aren’t?” Daisy cupped her chin with one hand. “What makes you say that?”

“He’s just saying that to be contrary,” Bannock grunted.

“You keep quiet! I want to hear Mark’s ideas. So far he’s made sense.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Well, here’s my guess. And it’s just a guess. You know how Ryan was killed. Take the way he was shot, add the reefer butts, and you’ve got something a little bit special. Whoever murdered him must have really hated the guy. Went a little whacky, too, on the weed.

“But Polly Foster’s death was different. This was just pure, cold-blooded, premeditated murder in the first degree. Somebody wanted her silenced, and did the job, and did it quickly and efficiently. You were at the inquest; you heard the theories. Whoever killed her could have been there when I called. Or seen us together at the restaurant. Maybe I was on the list, too—if the killer could have found me at home in the apartment. But the chances are, it was someone who came to call on her; someone who knew her, knew her house, sneaked in and caught her while she was phoning. Waited until she hung up, and then—”

“Did Trent have an alibi?”

“I thought of that. And I asked Thompson. He was home, with his sister, all night. Double checked. Don’t worry, I asked about everybody, including you two.”

“That was smart.” Bannock grinned. “We get a clean bill of health?”

“I know you were playing cards with the Shermans, yes.” I grinned back. “By the way, you satisfied with my story, or do you think I killed Polly Foster?”

“Touché,” Daisy Bannock muttered.

“One thing more,” I said. “Maybe it’s a minor point, maybe not. Whoever killed her might not have gone there with that purpose in mind. He carried a gun, yes, but that could have been intended merely for effect—when he threatened her about keeping silent. Let’s say it was that way. Somebody saw us at Chasen’s, or she told somebody about meeting me before she kept the date, and that was enough of a tip-off. The killer went there to warn her about talking too much.

“Suppose he wasn’t sure she’d be alone, though. Suppose he thought I might be there with her, or somebody else. Then he might take a sneak around to look through the window. Let’s say it was when she was phoning me.

“The window was unlocked. He might have opened it and heard—heard enough for him to come inside the moment she hung up. And then...”

“Sounds logical,” Daisy said. “Doesn’t it, dear?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to think who could possibly be involved.”

“I’m willing to play my hunches,” I murmured. “And my hunches say it has to be a friend of Polly Foster’s. Somebody close to her.”

“Then your job is clear,” Bannock said. “Start working on her friends.”

“Just like that, eh?” I scowled. “What should I do, run an ad and call a meeting?”

“No need for that. You’ll see them all tomorrow afternoon at her funeral.”

“Maybe,” I said.

Bannock put down his cigar. “Please, Mark! You know how important this is to me. I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t.”

“All right,” I answered. “I’ll go to the funeral. Unless something happens to interfere.”

“Such as what?” Daisy asked.

“Such as another killing.” I smiled. “In that case, I’ll probably be going to my own funeral instead.”

Chapter Eight

You can talk about Zanuck. You can talk about Dore Schary, Ford, Capra, Mervyn LeRoy, all the rest of them. 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...

My fault, all my fault.

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?

Weeds. Marijuana was a weed. A weed that made some people high, made them feel that they did have the right to judge, made them feel like trampling. I knew.

And I was going to find out more. Somehow, some way, I’d find out.

I headed for the door, almost bumping into a tall man who stood in the outer entry, talking to a girl.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“So it’s you again,” the man said. “The snooper!”

I stared into Tom Trent’s face.

“I ought to let you have it,” he said. “I ought to beat your brains out.”

“You’ve got the wrong party,” I answered, softly. “Save it for the killer.”

“One more word out of you and—”

“I know,” I said. “I know how you feel. I’m sorry. And I’m going to do something about it. Can’t you forget what happened long enough to help?”

“I’ve talked to the police. Any help I can give they’ll get. Now beat it, snooper, before I change my mind. I don’t want to be caught dead talking to you.”

I turned away.

Harry and Daisy Bannock came up to me as I reached the door.

“Saw you talking to Trent just now,” Harry told me. “Did he have anything to say?”

I shook my head. “He’s still sore. But he’ll cool down. At least, I hope he does. Because I’m positive he knows something about this business.”

“You suspect him?” Daisy asked.

“Of the actual killing? No. But there’s something he knows that he didn’t want to leak out. That’s why he called Polly Foster and warned her not to talk.”

“What’s your plan?” Bannock asked.

“Nothing definite. But I intend to have another visit with Trent, and soon. I’ll get the story out of him some way.”

“You sound pretty determined all of a sudden,” Daisy said. “Yesterday you wanted to quit.”

“I’ve been thinking it over. When I saw Polly Foster lying there in the coffin...”

Harry Bannock stared at me. His voice was deliberately lowered when he spoke. “Don’t tell me you went for her? That little tramp?”

I shook my head. “No. I didn’t go for her. But she wasn’t a tramp. She was a human being, a kid who came up the hard way, maybe even the wrong way. But she came up, and she deserved to live. Everybody does. Nobody should get a slug in the back. And then a bad name on top of it. Harry, you’re the last person I’d expect to talk about Polly Foster. You want Dick Ryan’s name cleared, don’t you? Well, so do I. I want everybody’s name cleared.”

“Dig the shining armor,” Harry said. Then he reddened. “I’m sorry, Mark. You’re right. I’m talking like a heel. Forget it. Do what you think best, and I’ll back you up all the way. You want me to smooth things over with Trent for you?”

“Never mind, let me handle it,” I answered. “I’ll work things out. The sooner I can get him to help, the better.”

“Coming out to the cemetery?” Daisy asked.

“No. I’m going back to my place and rest up. You driving there?”

“I guess not. Daisy’s got a headache. Allergy.”

“Smell of lilies, I think,” she said. “Wasn’t it awful in there? Stuffy. I hate funerals.”

“Me too.” Bannock put his hand up to his pocket, reaching for a cigar. Then he remembered and his fingers withdrew. “Call us tonight, Mark, if you hear anything.”

“Right. I may have news for you.”

“Hope so. Want a lift?”

“Brought my own heap. But thanks just the same.”

I walked out, into the late afternoon sunlight. The crowd had moved over to the side entrance around the corner, waiting for the casket to come out. The photographers were setting up their paraphernalia in the driveway.

My car was parked two blocks away. I walked toward it slowly, and it was like walking through water because of the recurrent waves of anger and confusion and pity which impeded me. I had to get rid of them, I knew. This was no time for sentiment or sentimentality. A clear head, that’s what I needed. I had to keep my mind, my eye, my ears, open.

I kept my ears open.

That’s how I heard the staccato clattering behind me. As I turned, a voice called, “Mr. Clayburn! Wait!”

I stood there, waiting until she came up, waiting until I could take a good look at the face of the girl who’d been following me. The girl whom I’d seen in the chapel, talking to Tom Trent.

“Don’t you remember me, Mr. Clayburn?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“The goldfish,” she said.

“Goldfish?”

“Yes. The one you noticed the other day at my brother’s pool.”

I looked at the face carefully now, trying to visualize it encircled by a bathing-cap. It was entirely different today: pertly piquant in makeup, framed by a brown pageboy bob, and surmounted by a small black hat. The girl was young, but there was something familiar about her features. Come to notice it, she looked a little like Tom Trent himself, in a feminine sort of way.

Apparently she read my thoughts, because she nodded quickly. “That’s right,” she said. “I’m Billie Trent. Tom’s sister.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Never mind that now. Where can we go to talk?”

Chapter Nine

I led her to the car.

“Hop in,” I said.

She paused. “I can only stay a few minutes. I told Tom I had to go to the ladies’ room.”

“Might as well sit down.”

“All right.” She climbed in. I got behind the wheel. She kept peering around.

“I’ll keep my eye on the rear view mirror,” I told her. “Don’t worry.”

“Thanks.” She looked relieved, but I noticed her hands kept moving restlessly along her lap. “Mr. Clayburn, I heard you talking to my brother just now, and of course, the other day, out at the house. I...I’m sorry for those things he said.”

“You needn’t be. He has a right to his opinion.”

“But that’s just it. He didn’t tell you what he really thought. At least, I don’t think he did. Tom hasn’t been acting natural ever since Dick Ryan was killed. It worries me.”

“You aren’t the only one,” I murmured.

“I feel foolish, coming to you like this, but I’ve just got to talk to someone. And since you’re in on this, I thought maybe you could help me.”

“All depends,” I said. “On the other hand, there’s always the police.”

She stiffened. “That’s just it. I don’t want to talk to the police. I’m...I’m afraid.”

“Why?”

“Oh, it’s not because of myself. It’s Tom. He’s got his career to think about. And ever since Dick Ryan was murdered, he just sits around and gets drunk. He used to drink a lot, but not this way, not every night.”

“Drink,” I said. “Is that all he does?”

She looked at me.

“Skip it,” I told her. “You say your brother seems to be worried. What about?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

“Is it his contract, something to do with the studio?”

“I don’t think so. He’s under personal contract to Mr. Kolmar, and they’re starting another picture next month. It isn’t that.”

“Do you know Kolmar?”

“I’ve seen him. He’s come to the house a few times.”

“Lately?”

“You mean, since Ryan was murdered?”

I nodded, and she went on.

“Once or twice. I wasn’t home, though.”

“Then how did you know about it? Did your brother tell you?”

“Yes. In advance. I...I always got out.”

“Don’t like Kolmar, is that it?”

“He offered me a screen test once.” Billie Trent stared at her twisting hands. “I never told Tom anything about it, because he’d be furious. So, please...”

“I get it. Kolmar made a pass at you, eh?”

“Well, not exactly. He just...suggested things.”

“I can imagine. But is there anything else, anything that might tie him in with these killings?”

“No. I don’t think so.” She was silent for a moment. “His chauffeur might know, though.”

“His chauffeur?”

“A man named Dean—Joe Dean. You must have heard of him; he was there the night Ryan was murdered.”

“I know. But he worked for Ryan, didn’t he?”

“Yes. He’s working for Mr. Kolmar now. And he’s always coming over to talk with Tom. Tom says he’s all right, but I don’t like his looks. I don’t see why Tom would want to make friends with such a man.”

“Did you ever ask Tom about him?”

She nodded. “He says Dean’s a good person to know because he hears all the studio gossip. He can tell about things before they happen.”

I sat back. “Do you happen to remember if Dean talked to your brother any time before Polly Foster was killed?”

“I don’t think so. I know Tom made some phone calls, but he didn’t say who he was speaking to. I went out for dinner that night, and I didn’t pay too much attention.”

“Out for dinner? But your brother told the police he was with you at home all evening.”

“He was. I came back around eight-thirty. We played Scrabble.”

“Was he nervous?”

“I told you, he’s always nervous. He kept going to the phone, trying to call Polly Foster.”

“Did he say why?”

“No. But of course, I read about it in the papers later. He’d called Polly Foster and told her not to see you. I guess he wanted to make sure she hadn’t.”

“What did he say about me?”

She put her head down and I could see the pink flush creeping along her neck.

“Never mind the adjectives. I mean, what did he think I was doing?”

“He thought you were trying to pull a shakedown. He thought I’d talked.”

“Talked?”

“Told someone. What I’m going to tell you now.” She turned to me and now the words came so fast I had difficulty following them. “I’m taking a big chance, Mr. Clayburn, but somebody ought to know this. Maybe they can help. There’s nobody I can trust. And I wouldn’t dare go to the police, because it might get Tom in trouble when he didn’t deserve to be. But if you’re investigating, you can find out the truth, can’t you? It may be nothing at all, and then again...I’m afraid.”

I put my hand on her shoulder. “Slow down! What is it you’re trying to tell me?”

“The night Dick Ryan died, he and Tom had a fight. And Tom came home. Gibbs—that’s the butler—taped him up and put something on his eye. Then Tom went to bed. At least, that’s what Gibbs thought, and that’s what Tom told the police. But he didn’t stay there, Mr. Clayburn. My room is down the hall, and I heard Tom get up and go out again. Around eleven o’clock. He was gone for over two hours.”

“Does your brother know you’re aware that he went out again?” I asked.

“No. I never dared mention it. The whole thing’s so awful.”

I patted her shoulder, then let my hand lie still as I looked at her. “What do you think?” I murmured. “Do you think he killed Dick Ryan?”

Her eyes fell. My hand tightened its grip. She jerked away, then slumped. “I don’t know, Mr. Clayburn. That’s what’s so terrible, can’t you see? I don’t know.”

I smiled at her. “Cheer up. It’s not that bad. He may have had a perfectly legitimate reason for going out again that night. Perhaps he was too shaken up to sleep. But you can understand, under the circumstances, why he wouldn’t want the police to know he left the house later on.

“At any rate, I’ll do my best to find out for you, if that’s any help. And I must thank you for telling me what you did. I know it wasn’t easy.”

“You’ve got to find out,” she whispered. “You’ve got to. I can’t stand thinking what I think, day after day. Can’t stand seeing him this way. There must be something wrong, or else why would he drink like this?”

I sighed. “You mentioned his drinking before, Miss Trent. And I started to ask you something else, then dropped it. But I’d like to ask again, because it could be important. Very important.”

“Go ahead.”

“Don’t get me wrong, now, but have you ever noticed your brother taking anything besides alcohol?”

“You mean—?”

“That’s right,” I said, gently. “Is he a narcotics addict, have you ever seen him with a reefer?”

She shook her head.

“All right. You’ve been a great help.”

“I must go. He’ll get suspicious, I’ve been away so long.”

“I understand. But from now on, I’ll keep in touch with you. You live at the house there?”

“Yes. But don’t call. He’d be furious. Let me call you. Where can I reach you?”

I hesitated, then gave her the office number. “Give me a day or two,” I said. “Maybe I can find out something. I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

Then she was out the door. I watched her trot up the street, watched her through the rear view mirror. Cute kid. And she wanted to help. A refreshing change from the old buttoned-lips routine I’d been getting. Nothing like a new routine to brighten the day.

A new routine.

I frowned. Could this be a routine, too? A different kind of one? Sure, she might be on the level; just a mixed-up minx with a problem and no shoulder to cry on. Then again, she could be a plant. Hell, how did I even know she was Trent’s sister?

I tried to expel the notion with a sigh. Mustn’t let this get me down. The way I was going, I’d end up trusting nobody. The world wasn’t all phony. There were still plenty of ordinary people around; ordinary, straightforward people who asked straight questions, gave straight answers.

Like this guy with the crewcut who stopped at the side of the car now and stuck his head through the window.

“Hey, Mister,” he said. “Can you tell me how to get over to the LaBrea Tar Pits from here?”

“Why, I guess so.” I slid over in my seat and pointed south. “You take Western Avenue down to Wilshire Boulevard, then turn west on Wilshire and—”

I turned my head. Somebody had opened the other door, next to the wheel. A small man slid into the driver’s seat next to me. He nodded and reached out, and I felt something hard press against my side.

“Sit still,” he said. “No bright ideas.”

I sat still. I didn’t have any bright ideas. No bright ideas about ordinary straightforward people who asked straight questions and gave straight answers.

“Come on, Fritz.”

The guy with the crewcut opened the door on his side and crawled in. I sat there wedged between the two of them. All at once the pressure was gone from my left side. It was replaced by pressure on my right, as the man called Fritz took over.

The small intruder started the car.

“Mind telling me where we’re going?”

Apparently he did, because he didn’t answer.

“Would you pull down that visor? The sun’s in my eye.”

Nobody pulled down the visor. Nobody stirred, or said a word. The small man drove, the big man sat there, and I could feel something pushing hard against my ribs.

“Sure you boys aren’t making a mistake? I don’t get this.”

“You will.” Fritz spoke, and the little man uttered a short bark.

We drove west on Sunset, into the sunset. The car stopped for the lights a half-dozen times. I could look into other cars, see the people passing on the sidewalk, even stare as a squadcar passed us on the left. But I couldn’t utter a sound or make a move. Not with Fritz on the job, not with that constant reminder against my ribs.

Then we turned off down a side street and headed south through a tangle of traffic. The little man drove slowly, as though he were out for a leisurely pleasure trip. Who knows, maybe this was pleasure for him? Anyway, he took his time. And all at once I realized why.

He was waiting for it to get dark.

Now I watched the light dimming. I watched the shadows lengthen on the streets of Santa Monica when we turned west, then south again. I watched the street lights of Venice, glimpsed dusk descend over the ocean. Then we were speeding along the coast highway, heading for Long Beach.

Somewhere, we turned off. Somewhere we turned off and headed for the hills. Oil country, with derricks, dotting the dunes here and there. Some of them were working, others were deserted, pumped out.

It was quite dark now. We were jolting along a back road that was no better than a trail. The dunes rose all around us. No houses out here, just empty space, and the gray dunes looming beneath a black sky.

Abruptly the road came to an end in the middle of nowhere. But the car didn’t stop. We drove on, across the sand. Drove straight ahead into more nowhere. Drove until we rounded the side of a dune and came up against a derrick. It was old and rusty and the wind whistled through the scaffolding.

The car stopped. “Out you go,” said Fritz.

I thought, This is a hell of a place to die. But I got out. Fritz was waiting for me. He took my arm and held it while the little guy came around the front of the car. I had trouble seeing either of them in the dark, but I could feel the big hand squeezing into my arm.

This isn’t happening, I thought. I’ll close my eye and when I open it again, everything will be different. I closed my eye and put my head back.

When I opened it again I could see a single star shining up above. I wished on it. Believe me, I wished on it. But I was still standing there, Fritz still held my arm and the little guy was saying, “All right, Clayburn. Let’s have some answers. Who you working for?”

They’d been fooling me. The thing against my rib hadn’t been a gun at all—just a sap. A long leather sap with a steel handle. I could see it now in the faint light, hear it thump against Fritz’s left palm as he held it in his right hand.

“Come on,” said the little guy. “Give.”

I looked up at the star. Then all at once there were a million stars, and I felt something hot running down the side of my face. Fritz caught me before I fell.

“Sample,” he said.

“Who you working for?” the little guy repeated.

I grunted. “Trade you. You tell me who you’re working for first.”

Crunch. I could hear it this time, hear it as well as feel it. Something hit the other side of my head.

“Who is it? Names.”

“Who are you?” I panted. “Joe Dean, by any chance?”

The wind whistled through the derrick. The sap whistled. The back of my neck went numb, but only for an instant. Then it was a red-hot iron bar that burned and burned, and the sap was whistling again, and I went to my knees but the little guy held me and he said, “Who you working for?” and I tried to make my tongue move.

“Do you smoke reefers?” I wheezed.

Crack. The sap made a sound like a wet towel smacking up against a board, but it wasn’t a wet towel and my lower spine wasn’t a board, and nobody could hear it anyway because this was out in the middle of nowhere. Nobody could hear it, but I could feel it. Feel the fire flooding my kidneys, feel the blood on my knees as I went down, feel the hand tearing at my hair.

“You better talk soon,” the little guy said. “Fritz gets mad easy.” I saw the sap rise in rhythm with the little guy’s voice. “Who you working for?”

“Who are you working—?”

I never finished the sentence. The sap came down, and I tried to twist my head away. I felt a jarring wrench, but no blow.

“Goddamn you!” the little guy howled. “You hit my hand! Jesus, I think my wrist’s busted.”

He let go of me and stood there, moaning and holding his right hand.

Fritz scowled. “Get out of the way,” he said. “I’ll finish this.” The small man stepped back, letting his partner advance. He crouched before me, and the sap went back.

“Listen,” he said. “I ain’t got all night. This is your last chance. Either you tell us what we want to know, or—”

I swayed there, watching the sap come up again.

“All right, then!” Fritz moved forward and swung the sap down.

I swung with it, dropping to my knees. At the same time I pushed forward, catching him just below the belt with the top of my head. I put all my weight behind it, and he felt it.

At first, when he opened his mouth, I thought he screamed. But he couldn’t scream. It was the other one who made all the racket. Because the big guy fell on top of him.

I raised my head, located the hand holding the sap, and twisted. Then I put my foot down on the fingers and jerked the sap away. I got it free and raised it. I brought it down once, twice, three times. Fritz stopped moving. The little guy beneath him stopped screaming. I wondered if he’d passed out, too.

Well, I’d know in a minute. Now the trick was to lug them both into the car and take them back to town.

I moved toward Fritz, trying to summon up energy for the effort. My knees were wobbly, and I wondered if I could manage to support myself, let alone a big man like Fritz.

I never found out.

Because the little guy wasn’t unconscious. And he wasn’t unarmed, either.

As I stooped over Fritz, the little guy moved. He rolled out from underneath, his left hand dipping towards the coat pocket, then emerging. He groaned and rose to his knees. The hand pointed towards me.

One red burst, and a million echoes, bouncing off the dunes.

One red burst, and then I was running, dodging and weaving as I tried to outguess the gun, outrace the second shot.

The echoes exploded again, and I turned sharply, veering off to the right. It was hard to run, hard to just keep on my feet, even hard to breathe.

Another shot. My head throbbed, my heart was pounding, the back of my neck ached. But I had to get away. I had to.

Then I mounted a rise and looked back. I saw the spurt, but never heard the echoes.

I took one more step and fell into the middle of nowhere.

Chapter Ten

The middle of nowhere isn’t such a bad place to be. The trouble is, you can’t stay there very long. Sooner or later, something starts to throb. At first it’s just a far-off motion you’re aware of; then you begin to react to the throbbing, feel its effects, realize that it’s your head.

Then the pain comes in waves, like the tide washing its way up a beach. The beach is your body, and it lies there and lets the pain ebb and flow, ebb and flow, over your head, over your neck, over your shoulders and arms and chest.

Finally you decide to do something about it, something hard, like opening your eyes.

That’s what I did, eventually. I opened my eye and found myself lying at the bottom of the dune. I’d pitched off the top, apparently, and slid down. The bullet hadn’t hit me, the fall didn’t break any bones. It was the sapping that caused the pain, and that was enough. I ached all over.

I lay there, moving my hand over my limbs and torso. I stretched my legs, sat up, steadied myself against a long moment of dizziness, and then I listened.

No sound. Nothing to hear. And nothing to see, either, in the dark. I gazed up at the rim of the dune, towards the sky beyond. The first star was still twinkling.

Damn you, I thought, I’ll never wish on you again.

I wondered about my little playmates. Were they still looking for me in the dark? Well, I could join the game. Hide-and-seek didn’t exactly appeal to me at the moment, but I knew I’d better play along.

The dune was high. I started to stand up, then decided it would be more comfortable to crawl. I inched forward, upward, until I clung to the dune’s lip, peering over towards the derrick.

By this time my eye was adapted to the light, or the lack of it. I gazed at the ground, looking for Fritz. He was gone. And the small man wasn’t there, either.

More important, and more convincing to me, was the realization that my car was gone, too.

Of course, they might be waiting down the road. But I’d have to chance it.

I stood up, took a deep breath. My ribs protested, but my lungs enjoyed it, so I took another. And another. Gradually my head cleared. I found I could walk.

Making my way into the shadow of the derrick, I examined the sand. Plenty of footprints, and the imprint of Fritz’s body, plus my own. And the car tracks, two sets of them. They’d turned and gone out the same way; there was no other choice.

I followed the tracks, moving slowly and cautiously. I wound my way along until I could see the road. It was clear. Then I started walking. It seemed like forever before I hit the highway. It seemed like forever before I thumbed a ride. I guess nobody was interested in picking up a bleeding stranger with an eye-patch who stood on the highway in the middle of the night. Nobody except an ambulance driver.

But as luck would have it, I got the next best thing. The car that finally halted contained a Dr. Engebrusher, of Santa Monica. He took an immediate professional interest in me. I regaled him with the story of my mysterious assailants as we drove to his home.

Once there, he patched me up. I don’t know if he believed me at first, but he patched me up. And when I asked to use his phone, I guess he realized my story was straight. He listened while I dialed the L.A. police and reported that my car was missing. Then I told them about the assault. They were very courteous; told me to stay right where I was until they signaled a squad car to pick me up and bring me in.

I asked for Thompson, then. My luck was holding. He was on duty, late as it was.

“Hello, this is Mark Clayburn. I just gave your people a report. Want to hear it?”

His groan was audible over the phone. “Now what?” he said.

I told him what it was now. All of it. All of it except why. That I had to change to protect Bannock. I made the reason appear to be that they were trying to find out what I knew about the deaths. Which, in a way, was still true enough. Then I described my playmates, in rich and, I fear, somewhat profane detail.

“Recognize the little guy?” I asked. “Sound like Dean, by any chance?”

“A little. In fact, more than a little. But it wasn’t,” Thompson answered.

“Why do you say that?”

“According to your story, you were picked up around four or four-thirty, right?”

“Right.”

“And they drove you south and jumped you about an hour and a half, say two hours later?”

“That’s about it. I figure seven o’clock, thereabouts,” I said.

“Well, at seven o’clock, thereabouts, Dean was sitting here in this office, telling us he didn’t know anything about where Estrellita Juarez had run off to.”

“Must have been two other guys,” I told him.

“Must have been. But don’t worry, we’ll check the files. Probably have lots of pictures waiting for you by the time you get down here.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. We aim to please.”

I hung up. I was just forcing ten bucks on Dr. Engebrusher when the squad car arrived for me.

After that, we went into action.

I’ve got to hand it to the boys; maybe they were having a little trouble finding a murderer, but there was nothing wrong with their methods.

They didn’t take me right in. They took me back to the place where I got slugged. They made me reconstruct the action, took down a full description of everything. They contacted the State Highway Patrol about covering the scene in daylight to look for the bullets. The bulletin about the car and the description of Fritz and his little friend had already gone out.

There were three men in the car, and we had quite a chat as we finally drove downtown. They wanted to know all about the Foster case, of course. One of them, off the record, seemed to disagree with my theory that the killing was the work of a cold-blooded, calculating murderer.

“He must have been nuts,” he told me. “Anybody that breaks in on a dish like that Polly Foster just to shoot her has to be crazy.”

He turned to me. “You’re the one who found her, isn’t that so? What kind of a story is that, about going out there to get her autograph?”

“It’s the truth,” I said. “So help me.”

“What kind of a dame was she? I mean, on the level.”

“Sorry. I only met her once. And our relations were strictly vertical.”

He didn’t get it, but the cop who was driving laughed.

“I guess they’re all alike,” he said. “All them Hollywood people. Bunch of screwballs, in one mess after another.”

“You know better than that,” I answered. “There’s hundreds who never get into any trouble. Lots of nice, decent citizens in the movie colony, just as there’s lots of nice, decent citizens down on Olive, or Main. But the few exceptions, the wrongos, are the only ones you ever hear about. That’s what gives a bad reputation to the whole bunch.”

“Pretty funny talk, coming from a guy who’s just been beat up the way you have.”

“Maybe so, but it’s the truth. What about your Department? There’ve been cases where a couple of cops went off the deep end. But does that mean you’re all crooked?”

“He’s right, Evans,” said the man sitting next to me. “And I’m sorry I sounded off that way about Polly Foster. But you know how you get after a few years in this game.”

We reached our destination, but I didn’t see Thompson waiting for me. My business was with another department. They had everything ready for me to swear out a complaint, and they took down the story and the description again, and then a sergeant brought out the file and I started to look at faces.

As I said before, all very efficient and quite polite. It was nice to be on the other side of the fence for a change, after the grilling I’d taken when they heard about Polly Foster.

I was even beginning to relish the attention a little, enjoy the way they hovered over me as I checked the photos. Then they took the play away from me. Somebody buzzed the sergeant and he hit the phone.

After a minute, he turned to me. “They’ve found your car,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Highway Patrol located it backed off the road near the gun club, below Santa Monica. Right near Washington Boulevard. Everything’s okay, I guess. You can check and see if anything is missing. They’ll be bringing it in later.”

“Nothing on the two men?”

“Nothing so far. They’re on the lookout. Meanwhile, here’s some more pictures.”

I looked at pictures. As I looked, I began to wonder about my previous remarks concerning the integrity of the citizens of Los Angeles County. There seemed to be no end to the number of malefactors.

I stared at scars, briefly noted broken noses, carefully eyed cauliflower ears, scanned sneers; most of these men had their history written in their faces and there was no need to read a description of their misdemeanors. I know Lombroso’s theory is discredited, but there’s still something about physiognomy that registers with me. I’d seen too many faces like these in my time to discount them, seen them at the edges of dark alleys, seen them peering through the dirty, fly-specked windows of the dives, seen them staring up from the gutters of grim streets.

So far, though, I hadn’t found Fritz, or the man who looked something like Joe Dean but wasn’t. I reached for another stack when the door opened and Thompson came in.

“Hi,” I said. “Wondered whether you’d come down. Want to hear about it?”

He didn’t return my smile or my greeting. He just looked at me and shook his head.

“No time,” he said. “Leaving this minute. Just thought you might be interested in the news.”

“What news?”

“Call just came in. Tom Trent’s dead.”

I blinked.

“His sister found him in the garage five minutes ago. Shot through the heart.”

“Murder?”

“Don’t know. Could be a suicide.” He turned. “Going to find out.”

“Let me come with you.”

“You know the regulations.”

“But I—”

“Somebody’ll be around to see you tomorrow. We’ll keep in touch.”

I nodded at his back as he went out.

Then I started to look at pictures again, but I didn’t see them. All I saw was Tom Trent lying dead in his garage. It would be murder, I knew that. And he’d been shot through the heart.

The room started to spin a little, but the scene before my eye never wavered. It was so clear I could notice every detail. There was one detail I had to verify, though.

I stuck around for over an hour until the reports started coming in. Then I needled the sergeant until he told me.

“You were wrong,” he said. “Looks like suicide, so far. Had the gun in his hand and everything. Shot himself in the chest.”

Then I asked about the detail that interested me. The sergeant looked puzzled at my questions, but he told me what I wanted to know: what Trent had been wearing, and just where the bullet had entered his body.

“Thanks,” I said. “And you can tell Thompson or whoever is in charge that it wasn’t suicide.”

“No?”

I shook my head. “I’m positive. Even if Trent wanted to kill himself, there’s one thing he’d never do. He’d never shoot himself through the monogram.”

Chapter Eleven

I didn’t find the pictures which would identify either of my attackers. The car came, and I checked it. Nothing was missing but the gas they’d used. Of course I wanted to stick around and hear the reports on the Trent case, but they told me to go home.

It was late, so I went. In spite of Dr. Engebrusher’s handiwork, I felt as if I needed a rest. The hotel bed looked good to me. I’d rather sleep here than out in the dunes, or in a casket like Polly Foster, or on a garage floor, like Trent. Only he wouldn’t be on the floor any more. He’d be occupying a slab somewhere, while the coroner’s little helpers played ring-around-the-bullet-hole.

Yes, I was lucky because they hadn’t got me. Hadn’t got me yet.

I started to review the events of the day, searching for angles I might have overlooked. Those men had been sent after me, but by whom? Somebody who knew I was going to the funeral, or who had actually seen me there. He or she. Billie Trent, perhaps? Maybe her story was a gag. Maybe she’d come and talked to me as a stall, to see that I stayed put there until the two hoods arrived. Maybe she was in with her brother on the deal. Maybe she killed him.

Plenty of possible alternatives there. After all, what did I actually know concerning her, outside of what she chose to tell me? She didn’t look like a murderess in my opinion; but then, Mr. Lombroso’s theory isn’t supposed to be valid. Come to think of it, what did old Cesare Lombroso himself look like? I made a note to look up his picture in some encyclopedia when I had a chance. Perhaps he had the face of a criminal himself, according to his definition. Who knows, maybe he was the murderer? Not likely, seeing that he died almost fifty years ago. Everybody appeared to be dying off lately: Ryan, Foster, Trent. And they tried for me, and threatened Bannock too. Bannock. I’d have to talk to him tomorrow. But what could I tell him, really?

I didn’t know. All I’d actually learned today was that it isn’t safe to direct strangers to the LaBrea Tar Pits.

On which thought I drifted off to sleep. I went to the LaBrea Tar Pits and visited some of the prehistoric monsters. They were alive in my dreams, and I saw them all. Saw them over my shoulder, mostly, because they kept chasing me. Not an herbivore in the crowd. They had big teeth, every one. I saw the Kolmarsaurus and the Deanosaurus and the Estrellitajuarus; the Fritzopodus, the Bannockactyl and the ten-tentacled Trent, the Sabretoothed Thompson, and the Marijuanus Rex. The latter was a big white worm shaped like a cigarette. Smoke came out of its mouth as it crawled after me and tried to smother me in its poisonous fumes.

Oh, I had a delightful rest. Funny part was that I woke up around ten in the morning and felt fine, hardly stiff after a shower. By the time I went out for breakfast I was ready for anything.

But most of all I was ready for the morning papers. I read them over coffee. I read them when I went to the office to check my mail.

There wasn’t a line in them about any murder.

It was straight suicide, all the way. Grief-stricken actor kills himself after Polly Foster’s funeral. Love-crazed star suicide over sweetheart’s death. Details on page two.

I ignored the fake romance leads the reporters had so avidly exploited and went after those details on page two. These made less lurid reading, but better sense.

Trent and his sister had gone to the cemetery. They left about five and ate at a restaurant. Then they went home. According to the girl’s story, Trent seemed depressed but not spectacularly so—not enough to justify the headlines on page one. I wondered if Kolmar’s publicity staff had planted the romance notion in an attempt to tie things together. But no matter now; the important thing was what actually happened out there in the Valley last night.

Trent took a few drinks and Billie decided to go up to bed. She didn’t undress immediately; she lay down and read for a while. It was almost midnight when she glanced at the clock and realized she hadn’t heard Trent come up.

She went downstairs and asked Gibbs, the butler, if Trent had gone out. Gibbs said he’d left about an hour before, following a phone call. He hadn’t paid any attention, just assumed Trent took the station wagon which was parked near the gate.

Billie Trent looked out the window. The station wagon was still standing there. Either her brother had never left, or he had recently returned. She was about to comment on the fact when they both heard the sound.

Neither of them recognized it as a shot, at first. The garage was behind the house, and its solid brick walls would muffle a backfire.

Their first reaction was that somebody might be prowling around outside. Gibbs volunteered to take a look, but Billie refused to stay in the house alone.

They went out together, down the walk between the trees. Gibbs tried the garage door and found it locked. Billie’s feminine indirection led her to the side door. It was open.

She went in. Tom Trent lay on his back. He was still warm. So was the barrel of the .32 he held in his right hand.

Billie called Gibbs. Gibbs called the doctor, then the police, then the studio. Trent wouldn’t have approved of the order; he’d probably have wanted the studio called first. But that’s what Gibbs did. He also verified Billie Trent’s story, in toto.

Which meant that it was true. Or that they were in on it together.

The paper didn’t say so, of course. That’s just what I conjectured now. All the papers said was that neither of them had seen anyone, neither of them knew who might have called Trent, neither of them could definitely identify the gun as his. He had a big collection of pistols and revolvers, kept them in the garage, as a matter of fact. Some were on wall racks and some were in drawers. Plenty of ammunition was around, too. An ideal setup for suicide.

Or for something else.

Well, Gibbs was being questioned and so was Billie Trent. And the police were investigating...

It was a big story, all right. So big it had crowded out any possible pitiful little squib about my own adventures. A forcible abduction and a beating were just peanuts compared to cowboy-actor-suicide-in-garage-for-love-of-beautiful-blonde-star.

I put the papers aside and began opening my mail. About time I paid a little attention to my work. I’d almost forgotten I was still an agent after being kept so busy running around getting beat over the head and finding bodies. This private eye business can be very wearing.

It was a relief to open envelopes, to return again to the reality of the treasure hunt which constitutes a literary agent’s daily life. A treasure hunt in search of little blue pieces of paper. Some of them are checks. Some of them are just slips saying, “Sorry, not for us.” But you never know what’s going to turn up next. After a while, the mailman becomes Mercury, bearing messages from the gods. And every time the phone rings, you jump.

I jumped.

“Hello.”

“Hello yourself. Bannock. Did you read the papers?”

“Just now.”

“Just now? Where the hell were you last night when it came over the radio? I called and called.”

I told him where the hell I was last night.

He listened through it all without interrupting.

“You’d better come over to the office,” he said. “We’ve got to figure things out.”

I paused and watched my door open. “Can’t make it right now,” I told him. “I’ve got company. Get in touch with you later.”

Then I hung up and turned to face Al Thompson.

“Sit down,” I said. “You got here sooner than I expected.”

“Never mind that. Who you talking to just now?”

“Friend of mine. Harry Bannock.”

“Him again? What’s the tie-up, Clayburn?”

“No tie-up. He wanted to find out what I thought about the news.”

“What do you think?”

“Rogers.”

“Roger?”

“No, Rogers. Will Rogers. He used to say it, didn’t he? ‘All I know is what I read in the papers.’ ”

“You sure that’s all you know?”

“Why?”

“Last night you made some kind of crack to Sergeant Campbell. Something about you didn’t believe this was suicide, because Trent was shot through the monogram initial of his jacket.”

“I remember.”

“You have anything else to go on when you made that remark?”

“No. Why?”

Thompson didn’t answer. I leaned forward.

“It was murder,” I said.

“Yeah. It was.”

“Who?”

“Do you think I’d be sitting here now if I could answer that one?”

“Then how do you know?”

“Did a little checking. In the first place, it wasn’t Trent’s gun. We found a list, complete inventory of his stuff, with the permits and purchase dates. He was a careful, methodical guy when it came to his hobby. No such gun was listed. He wouldn’t go in for an ordinary thirty-two pistol anyway.” Thompson lit a cigarette. “Also, he wasn’t killed standing up. He was killed lying down, on the floor. The bullet went through.”

“Neither of those things rule out suicide,” I said.

“That’s right.” Thompson blew smoke at my telephone. “But it seems mighty funny for a guy to lie down before he shoots himself in the chest that way. Mighty funny for him to buy or borrow a strange gun when he has a small arsenal on hand. Mighty funny for him to register every weapon he owns, and then file all the identification off the pistol he uses to kill himself with.”

“Circumstantial evidence.”

“So’s the rest. Guy named Keasler driving past about the time of the shooting, near as we can establish it. Said he saw a car pulling away from Trent’s place. Not out of the driveway; it was parked under the trees adjoining the property.”

I nodded. “I remember the spot. You could put a car in there, back from the road, and nobody would notice it at night, unless they were looking for it.”

“Right. We found marks there, too.”

“Tire tracks?”

Thompson groaned. “No. It’s never that simple when I get a case. This fellow Keasler didn’t jot down the license number for me, either. Just saw a big black car pull away. A big black car just like a hundred thousand other cars in town. But that’s enough for a lead.”

“What about the butler, and Miss Trent?”

“They’re clean.”

“And that phone call?”

Thompson waved his cigarette. “Who knows?” He reached out and found an ashtray. “I didn’t come here to make an official report. I came to find out if you had any basis for your suspicion about this being murder.”

“No basis at all. I was serious about the monogram, though. Trent was a pretty conceited character.”

“He was a pretty worried character, too. I talked to his sister.”

“What’d she say?”

Thompson grinned. “She didn’t know about your little caper last night. She suggested maybe you killed him.”

“Why, the—”

The grin never left his face. “So come clean, Clayburn. She doesn’t exactly seem to trust you. Why trust her? You saw her yesterday afternoon. What did she tell you?”

“I already gave my story.”

“Sure. But I’m not convinced you gave us all you know. What did she say about Trent? Why did she come to you in the first place?”

“She was worried about him. He’d been drinking too much.”

“Since when are you supposed to be interested in that? You the new head of Alcoholics Anonymous?”

I shook my head. “She came to me because she knew I’d seen Trent. Wondered if there was some connection.”

“Was there?”

“No.”

“All right, boy.” Thompson stood up. “If that’s the way you want it.”

“That’s the way it is.” I walked him to the door. “Don’t worry, if I turn up anything, I’ll let you know.”

He stopped grinning. “You’d better not try,” he remarked. “You’ve turned up more than enough already. Clayburn, this whole business smells. Everywhere you go, there’s murder. If I ever find out you’ve been holding out on us, I’ll—”

“Put a tail on me if you like,” I answered. “Just to save you the trouble for the moment, I’ll tell you where I’m going right now. Over to Harry Bannock’s office, to discuss the case. Is it all right if I mention it’s murder? Or must I wait until the afternoon papers scoop me?”

“Suit yourself.” He opened the door. “But please, I’m not fooling. Keep out of this mess. Everything I told you at the first goes double now. This is big. And we don’t want it to get any bigger. Unless you’re shilling for some undertaker’s union.”

“I’m not shilling for anybody.”

“Good. Just keep your nose clean, Clayburn. If you don’t, somebody’s going to be patting it with a spade.”

Chapter Twelve

I drove over to Bannock’s office.

He had a new receptionist. Could be that the other girl quit when she knew she wouldn’t be getting Polly Foster’s autograph.

I gave my name and asked for Harry.

“Mr. Bannock has left for the day.”

“Home?”

“He didn’t say.’”

I didn’t offer this girl any autograph-collecting services. I went out, got in the car, and drove to Bannock’s place. The sun was shining over Laurel Canyon, but I wasn’t in the mood for Nature appreciation.

There was too much to think about. Tom Trent was dead, and Hamilton Brackett was probably getting ready to declare another dividend to his stockholders on the strength of it. There was a notion—maybe Hamilton Brackett was the killer, on the loose, out drumming up business.

But why would he pick on Apex Studio players? I wondered about that. I wondered how Abe Kolmar must feel, losing his talent right and left. I wondered a lot about Kolmar, wondered so much I nearly ran into a coupe as it turned out of Bannock’s driveway. It wasn’t Bannock’s car, though.

I turned in, parked, and went up the walk. The door opened before I had a chance to knock or ring, and I smelled that old familiar perfume.

“Hello,” said Daisy.

“Is Harry home?”

“No. Why, were you expecting him?” She looked puzzled.

“Well, I talked to him this morning about getting together. Then I took a run over to the office, and they said he’d left for the day.”

“He didn’t tell me anything about it.” Daisy frowned. “Come on in, Mark.”

I followed her into the front room. “Fix you something?”

“No, thanks.”

“Mind if I have one, then? I’ve got the jumps.”

“Getting you down, eh?”

“Can’t you tell by looking at me? I’m a fright.”

That was her opinion. To me she looked good. I’d thought I wasn’t in the mood for nature appreciation, but that was before I saw Daisy. Today she was wearing white sateen lounging pajamas, and when she sat down on the sofa, drink in hand, and started to lounge...

“Mark, where do you think Harry went?”

“How should I know? Some studio, probably. You know how he operates.”

“I know how he used to operate. Before all this started.” She must have had the jumps after all. The drink disappeared before my eye, and she was on her feet already, mixing another. “But now he doesn’t even call and let me know where to reach him. I never know what time he’s coming home.”

“Maybe the police are questioning him about Trent’s death.”

The liquor slopped over the edge of her glass “I—I never thought of that.”

“Where was he when it happened, anyway?”

She mopped up the tabletop. “Why—home, home with me. That is, he came home. He’d gone out earlier in the evening to see some client, down near Pacific Palisades.”

“But he was here most of the evening?”

“Of course.” She began to work on that second drink. “Mark, you keep asking questions about Harry, almost as if you didn’t trust him.”

“Do you?”

She bit her lip. “Of course. He’s my husband.”

“I know. I keep reminding myself about that.”

Daisy smiled. “Do you?”

I nodded. “Yeah. But that’s not what I came here to talk about.”

“Why not?”

For a minute I didn’t think I was hearing straight. Apparently she realized this, because she stood up and walked over to where I was sitting. And then she put her drink down very carefully, and lowered herself into my lap.

I didn’t move.

I didn’t have a chance to move, because her arms were around me and her head was on my shoulder, and I could feel the weight and the warmth of her quivering against me. The perfume was rising all around me, and her voice was rustling into my ear.

“Oh, Mark, I’m glad. I’m so lonely, so frightened. I don’t know what to do. If you only knew what it’s been like, just sitting here day after day, wondering what was going to happen next.”

“Please, Daisy.”

“Don’t talk. Let’s not talk now. Let’s forget all about what’s happened. You’ll do that for me, won’t you, Mark? You’ll help me to forget?”

I twisted my head away. “That’s not my job, Daisy. I’m here to help you remember.” Her pajamas had a tendency to gape. So did I. But I didn’t move.

“Mark. Darling. Try to understand...”

I wasn’t letting her finish her sentences, or anything else she planned on starting. I reached out and held her at arm’s length. “I understand, Daisy,” I said. “You don’t go for me, really. You’re just scared.”

“All right. I’m scared. I said so, didn’t I? How long do you think I can go on this way, watching people getting murdered, knowing that Harry’s been threatened too?”

“So you went into a big vamp scene,” I told her. “Which would end up by you getting me to promise that I’d quit the investigation.”

She got off my lap so fast I thought she’d hit the ceiling. Literally. Figuratively, that’s just what she was doing now. “You’re going to quit!” she snapped. “You’ve got to! I’m not taking any more of this. They killed Foster, they killed Trent, they tried to kill you. Where’s it going to end? Do you want to see Harry dead, is that it?”

“Calm down,” I answered. “Take another drink. Take two drinks. Get yourself loaded, for all I care. Do you good.”

“Nothing does any good. Not as long as this keeps on. Mark, you’ve got to lay off. Can’t you see this is all your fault? If you hadn’t stirred things up again, there wouldn’t have been any trouble.”

“My fault?” I shook my head. “Harry hired me, in case you don’t remember. And have you forgotten why? Because he has to clear things up in order to swing his deal. You’ve got a big stake in this too, Daisy. You know that.”

“Not enough to risk our lives—his and mine. Mark, be reasonable.”

“I’m reasonable.”

“I’ll talk to Harry. I don’t know how much he promised you for doing this, but I’ll see that he pays you every penny, in full. You don’t have to keep on just for the money.”

“It isn’t the money alone, believe me,” I said. “And I don’t expect to be paid off unless I deliver the goods.”

She poured her third drink. This time she was slow about it, and careful. Nothing spilled, but when she turned to face me I could see she hadn’t lied. She was jumpy, and her voice held an unnatural edge. “Quit talking about delivering the goods. I mean it. The minute I see Harry, I’m going to get him to stop you. This has gone far enough.”

“It’s going further, I’m afraid.” I stood up. “Listen to me, Daisy. Stopping me won’t help matters now. This is a police job, because of the murders. You can take me off the case, but they’ll go on.”

“Let them. They haven’t done anything so far.”

“How do you know? Don’t underestimate the police. And they may turn up something any minute now. If they do, good. If they don’t, things won’t change. The murderer, whoever he is, will still be at large. If he has any future plans, he’ll go through with them whether I’m involved in the case or not. Seems to me you’d want my help. The more help you’ve got, the sooner we’ll settle this thing.”

“Mark, there’s something you’re not telling me. Some reason why you insist on risking your life, our lives, taking crazy chances. What is it?”

I tugged at my eye-patch. “I can’t tell you, Daisy. Let’s just say that I’m a crusader, shall we? And let it go at that?”

“Crusader?” She slammed her glass down on the table. “Well, I’m talking to Harry, wait and see. He’ll have you off your horse in no time. So you might as well stop, right now.”

I shrugged. “When he tells me to quit, I quit,” I said. “Until then—”

“Where are you going?”

“Got to see a guy about breaking a lance with the heathen.” I headed for the door. “Tell Harry I’ll call him.”

“Mark...”

She wasn’t angry any more. She was very soft. Soft and clinging.

“What is it?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

“Do you have to go?”

“I have to go. I’m sorry, Daisy. Really, I am.”

“So am I. I—I’m not putting on an act, this time. I like you, Mark.”

“I like you, too, Daisy. That’s why I’m going to try and save the family fortune.”

She sighed. Standing where she was, I could feel it as well as hear it. “All right, you stubborn idiot! But couldn’t you at least kiss me?”

“No,” I said. “I couldn’t at least kiss you. As you damned well know.”

“Maybe you’re right, at that.”

“I know I am. And so do you. See you, Daisy.”

“Promise me you’ll be careful?”

“I’m always careful. You’ve just had a demonstration.” I left her standing there and went out through the hall. The fresh air outside had its points, but I preferred the perfume I’d left behind.

Driving away, I wondered what was the matter with me. Old age setting in? Perhaps; although I hadn’t noticed any of the symptoms when Daisy Bannock put her arms around me.

Then what was it? Why did I deliberately walk away from that setup and head for trouble?

Why was I stopping at this drugstore? Why did I call Apex and ask for Mr. Kolmar? Why did I bother to find out he was at home this afternoon instead of at the studio? And why did I get back in my car and head off to the San Fernando Valley?

I’d already had the San Fernando Valley. Enough to last me the rest of my lifetime, however long that might be. Going out there again might shorten it considerably.

And remembering fat little, redfaced Abe Kolmar, I couldn’t understand why I’d prefer his company to Daisy’s. Daisy had red-gold hair and white sateen pajamas. Why, Kolmar was baldheaded, and I bet he didn’t have a pair of white sateen pajamas to his name.

So why was I going?

Mark Clayburn, crusader, riding his rusty steed into the Valley. Into the Valley of Death rode the six hundred. Bring on your heathen, your infidels. Here comes Clayburn, ye true and parfait knight. Dig the stance of that lance. Onward, Christian soldiers!

It was hot in the Valley this afternoon. I was sweating. I didn’t stop perspiring as I passed Trent’s place, either. No signs of life, though. There wouldn’t be. And what about signs of death?

No police cars, either. I was glad of that. Maybe I’d be sorry, later on. A police car in the neighborhood might come in handy.

I kept driving. Kolmar lived way out. He was a good five miles away from Trent. But come to think of it, that wasn’t very far. A man could cover the distance in a very short time. I might ask Kolmar about that.

Then again, I might not. I’d have to wait and see.

I waited and saw his ranch loom ahead.

This was the genuine article. Kolmar did have a ranch, and it was big enough to serve as a location for his oat operas. Come to think of it, here’s where Dick Ryan died. Here’s where Dick Ryan died, and Tom Trent got it only five miles away. Very interesting.

The car entered the gateway between the fence posts and climbed a long hill. The big house was set way back from the road. I could see a corral and outbuildings, baking under the sunlight.

A new Hillman-Minx was parked in the driveway alongside of a veranda. Somebody was polishing the fenders with a rag.

I pulled up behind the car and let the motor die. Then I climbed out. The car-polisher glanced up, then walked around to meet me.

“Who you looking for?” he asked.

I stared, then stiffened. “You,” I said. Then I took two steps forward and my right came up. There was a dull sound, a grunt, and another sound as he flopped at my feet.

I stood there, gazing down at the face of the little man who had come after me with Fritz.

My knuckles hurt. I started to rub them, then looked up as I heard a sound. A man appeared in the doorway of the house, a chunky man with a bald head. “What’s the big idea?” he murmured.

“Just squaring a debt,” I said. “I’ve owed this guy a punch on the jaw ever since he roughed me up the other night.”

“You’re Clayburn, aren’t you?”

I nodded.

“I’m Abe Kolmar.”

“I know. I was coming to see you.”

“Is that any reason for assaulting one of my employees?”

“Told you why I hit him. He’s one of the two guys who tried to kill me.”

The man in the doorway shook his head. “Better take another look,” he said. “This man couldn’t have attacked you. I happen to know where he was at the time you were abducted. And so do the police, because that’s where he was—at headquarters.”

I stared down. The man at my feet began to mumble and stir. I eyed his features closely. “Wait a minute,” I said. “Maybe I did make a mistake—”

“This is Joe Dean,” said Kolmar. “My chauffeur. You made a mistake all right.”

“I’m sorry, I could have sworn—”

Kolmar nodded. “A big mistake,” he said. “Suppose you come inside now and let me straighten you out.”

“Well—”

“Come inside.” Kolmar made an impatient gesture with his hand.

I looked at it. He was holding a revolver.

“This way,” he said.

I went this way.

Kolmar kept the muzzle trained on my waist. “You all right?” he called.

The little man was sitting up now. He held the side of his jaw and grunted.

“You got him, huh? This the bastard who slugged me? Put your gun down, A.J. I want a chance at him myself.”

“Come in,” Kolmar told him. “We’re going to settle this inside.”

Dean got to his feet and charged up the porch steps. “I’ll settle him,” he panted. “Hit a guy without warning, huh? I’ll rip his heart out, the sonof—”

“Shut up!”

Dean shut up. We walked into the parlor. Kolmar jerked the gun toward me. “Over there,” he said.

Dean began to move after me.

“You stay where you are,” Kolmar ordered.

“But I only want to give him a—”

“Never mind.”

I turned and nodded. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I apologize. I thought you were somebody else, one of the men who tried to kill me last night. You look just like him. It was a natural mistake.”

“The hell it was. You come right up and socked me one. If A. J. don’t let me have a chance at you, I’ll—”

“It’s the truth,” I said. “You look enough like this man to be his brother.” I paused. “Do you have a brother, Dean?”

“No.”

Kolmar grunted at him. “Get out,” he said.

“Now wait a minute, A.J.”

“Get out.”

“All right.” Dean moved toward the door. “But I’m not forgetting. You got something coming to you, brother.”

He went out.

“Are you sure he hasn’t got a brother?” I asked.

Kolmar grunted again. “I wouldn’t know, Clayburn. I wouldn’t know.” The gun kept watching me out of its one eye. We made a good pair, but I didn’t appreciate it right now.

“Suppose I ask the questions for a change,” Kolmar suggested.

“Go ahead,” I told him. “But why don’t you put that thing away? You’re not going to shoot me.”

“Don’t be too sure.”

“Tell you the truth, I’m not.” It was hard to grin, but I made it. And he put the gun down on the desk. Not too far away, though.

“What’s your interest in this business, Clayburn?”

“Looking for a story. Didn’t Trent tell you?”

“Why should he tell me anything?”

“That’s one of the things I wanted to find out. Trent worked for you. Polly Foster worked for you. Dick Ryan worked for you. And they’re all dead now.”

“So?”

“It could be a coincidence. But I don’t think so.”

He almost reached for the gun again. Instead his hand went to his pocket and came out with a handkerchief. He mopped his forehead. There was plenty to mop. It went all the way back.

“What are you suggesting, Clayburn? That I killed them? That’s impossible. The police have my alibis.”

“I’m not saying you pulled the trigger, no. But you have people working for you.”

“Killers?”

“This Joe Dean wanted to do a job on me just now.”

“You hit him. Naturally, he got sore.”

“Naturally.”

“But that doesn’t mean he’d kill you. It doesn’t mean he’d kill anybody.”

“He has a record in Detroit.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. He’s just my chauffeur.”

“And he used to work for Dick Ryan.”

“That’s right.” Kolmar put the handkerchief down. “He used to work for Dick Ryan and Ryan was murdered. You know what that cost me, to have that boy die on me in the middle of production? And everything he ever did went sour when the news hit the papers. Reefers, yet, they had to drag reefers into the case!”

“I know.”

“You know something else?” Kolmar sighed. “Polly Foster cost me another fortune: seven reels in the can, and three to go. Now she’s dead. I ask you!”

“Tough.”

“Tough, he says? And Trent. We were getting ready to do something with Trent. Had a new script lined up, going to make him over into a sympathetic character. Gotten ourselves a new hero type, maybe. So what happens? Bang.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Well be aware of this, then, Clayburn. You think I’d go to work and commit suicide by knocking off my own contract players? You think I’d toss a million dollars out the window like that? It don’t make sense.”

“Nothing makes sense,” I answered. “Nothing. That’s why I’m grabbing at anything that looks as if it formed even part of a pattern. Like the fact that all these people worked for you.”

“You think I haven’t wondered about that? Maybe it’s one of my lousy competitors, some of those guys would murder their own mothers. Take a fella like Sam Hague, now.”

I shook my head. “That’s nonsense, and you know it.”

“So what else can a guy figure? Like you say, it’s all meshuggah.”

“There’s one other possible link,” I said slowly. “And that’s what I came out here to see about.”

“What’s that?”

“Reefers.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh yes you do. They found evidence in Ryan’s trailer, didn’t they? I think that forms part of the pattern, too. Did Polly Foster smoke weed? What about Tom Trent?”

“You’re meshuggah yourself, Clayburn. My people are clean, I wouldn’t have anybody around unless I was sure of that.”

“You’ve got Dean. He has a record.”

“So maybe I’ll fire him. Clayburn, take it from me, that reefer talk don’t mean a thing.”

“I think it does. I think it’s the key to the whole mess. And I was hoping you’d be able to furnish some information which might help me. If not, I’ll just have to keep on looking.”

“For a lousy magazine story, huh?”

“It’s a living.”

“Living?” He came around from behind the desk. “You talk about a living, after what’s happened to me? I’m going to tell you something, Clayburn. These killings cost me some of my top talent. I lost more than a million bucks so far. How long you think I can afford to sit still and watch this kind of stuff go on?

“You think I’m blind or something? I know what’s happening. It’s a conspiracy, that’s what it is. You think you fool me? Maybe the cops believe that cockeyed story of yours about how you’re out trying to write a yarn for the magazines. But I know better.

“It’s a frame, isn’t it? I was right, wasn’t I? Somebody’s behind all this; somebody’s out to ruin me. And you know who. Because you’re working for them!”

“That’s not so.”

“I say it is.” He bent over me, shaking. “And I know what you really come for. You want a deal, is that it? Well, go ahead. I’ll play ball. Tell me how much you want to lay off. But you got to promise to give me the names. I want to know who it is that’s trying to knife me.”

“You’ve got it all wrong. Nobody’s out to get you, Mr. Kolmar.”

“Quit stalling and tell me how much.”

“I don’t want your money. I just want these murders to stop.”

He grunted again, turned away. I stood up.

“Where you think you’re going?”

“Away,” I said. “If you can’t help me, I’ll just have to find someone who can.”

“You aren’t going anywhere.”

He said it as if he meant it, and when he turned again I saw that he did. Because he had the gun in his hand once more.

“You think I’m gonna let you walk out of here just like that?” he muttered. “Not me. Not until I get the truth. Not until you tell me who you’re working for, what they think they’re trying to do to me.”

“Honestly, Mr. Kolmar—”

“Honestly, he says. Honestly! There ain’t no such thing in this business. I know. For days now I been thinking about it, sitting there in my office and trying to figure it out. What’s happening in the industry? Why are they out to get me— me? I’m just an independent; why pick on me? Killing Foster, killing Trent. Wrecking my schedule. Trying to bankrupt me. They’re all against me.” He was shaking and the sweat poured down, rolling into his eyes and making him blink. But he held the gun, held it steady.

“I couldn’t work today, Clayburn. I sat there and felt like I was going to blow my top. I had to come home. Something must of told me to do it. Because you’re here now, and you’re staying until you talk.”

“But I don’t know anything about it, I swear it.”

“Swear! Go ahead and swear. But make it fast. I give you ten seconds, Clayburn, ten seconds to talk, or I shoot.”

“You’re crazy!”

“So I’m crazy. What difference does it make? They kill your people, wreck your pictures, take away your business. You think I care what happens now? I just want to know who did it, that’s all. And unless you tell me...”

I sighed. “You win. But you better not let Thompson see you with that gun.”

“Thompson? That dick?”

“Just drove up,” I said. “See him coming up to the porch now.” I nodded toward the window. Kolmar turned his head.

“Where?”

I didn’t answer. I was too busy jumping him. I got my hand on the wrist holding the gun, and then I shoved my knee against his elbow. The gun dropped. Kolmar growled and made a grab at my neck. I knocked his hand down.

Then I picked up the gun. “Sorry,” I said. “There’s been enough shooting around here. Sit down and cool off, Mr. Kolmar. I know how you feel, but try to understand this—I don’t know who killed your people. But I intend to help the police find out. And if I do hear something, I’ll tell you without asking.”

He slumped into a chair, swimming in sweat. “Give me that gun,” he wheezed.

“No. I’m taking it with me. You don’t need a gun, Mr. Kolmar.”

“Yes I do. Give it to me.”

I didn’t answer, just started to walk out.

“You’d better,” he panted. “I’ll send Dean after you. He’d like that.”

“Better not, you’ve lost enough employees already.”

There was no answer to that one.

I left him sitting there, staring and sweating.

The sun was going down when I got outside. The Hillman-Minx still stood there, but I didn’t see Joe Dean around. And I didn’t try to look for him.

I put the gun in the glove compartment and drove back to town. A long drive, but I’d made it before. And once again, it was dark when I arrived. It was almost six-thirty when I hit downtown.

Time to eat; but first a stop at the office. Maybe I could call Bannock from there. Maybe I’d find some mail waiting for me.

I didn’t call Bannock, and there was no mail. Something else waited for me. A visitor, standing there in the dim light of the hall.

I came around the top step before I saw the figure, and then I wished I’d brought the gun. The figure wheeled, and I caught sight of a white face and wide eyes.

“You!”

“That’s right,” I said. “How are you, Miss Trent?”

Chapter Thirteen

“I’ve been waiting over an hour,” she said. “When they let me out down at the station, I came right over here.”

“Let’s go inside, shall we?” I unlocked the door.

“Is it—safe?”

I looked at her. “Do you mean am I going to murder you?”

She blushed. “N-no. The police told you what I said, didn’t they? I’m sorry about that, really I am. I was so hysterical, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Understandable. Forget it.”

“Then when I heard you’d been beat up, I felt awful for suspecting you. That’s what I was thinking about now when I asked if it was safe. I mean, nobody’s following you?”

“Not that I know of. What about yourself?”

“I don’t think so. They let me go.”

“So I heard.” I pushed the door open, switched on the light. “Just want to see if I’ve got any important mail. We needn’t stay here.”

I picked up the pile of letters the postman had shoved under the door. It was all routine stuff, as near as I could see. No need to open any of it now.

“Suppose we go somewhere and eat?” I suggested. “I’m starved.”

She nodded. We went downstairs and hit the first restaurant across the street. Apparently she was hungry, too. We didn’t do much talking until after the roast beef arrived.

Then I told her about what had happened since I saw her at the Foster funeral, up to and including my recent interview with Kolmar and his chauffeur.

Her eyes went wide. “They lied to you,” she said. “I know they were lying.”

“How’s that?”

“Dean does have a brother. He isn’t his twin, but he looks like it. I’ve seen him, when I went to visit Tom on location at the ranch.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. His name is Andy. Do you think—?”

“That Kolmar hired him and the other mug to beat me up? Yes, it sounds probable.”

“Then maybe he’s the murderer.”

“I won’t rule it out, no. But I’m inclined to doubt it. What he told me makes sense—dollars and cents. He’s got too much dough tied up in his company to bump off his players. At least he’d wait until their picture roles were completed. And there’s no apparent motive.” I paused. “Did Kolmar ever quarrel with your brother over anything?”

“No. I don’t believe so.”

“You see? As I say, there’s no apparent motive. Unless one turns up, we’ll have to rule Kolmar out.”

Billie Trent sighed. “But then why would he hire these men to beat you up, threaten to kill you?”

“Because he’s afraid. I told you how he acted when I saw him. These deaths have given him a persecution complex. He thinks everybody’s out to get him; that his actors have been murdered just in order to ruin his business.”

“But that’s fantastic!”

“Stranger things have happened out here. Anyway, Kolmar must have some such notion. He heard I was investigating, thought I might be tied in with the plot to wreck him. Those two characters were probably hired to beat the truth out of me. Then again...”

“What?”

“I don’t know. It could be something else entirely.”

Billie Trent picked up her coffee. “Yes, it could be.” Her brown eyes were thoughtful. “That beating you took, did it make you decide to quit?”

“I went out to Kolmar’s, didn’t I? No, I’m going to stick this thing out if it k—” I stopped and grinned at her. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be morbid.”

“That’s all right. I understand.” She put her hand on mine. It was a nice hand, and I let it rest there. A nice, tanned, healthy, outdoor-type hand that trembled only a little.

She leaned forward. “But there’s one thing I don’t understand,” she continued. “And that’s why you’re doing all this.”

“The article.”

Billie Trent shook her head. “I can’t believe that,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me the real reason, but there must be one. You’re not interested in an article any more, and I doubt if you were in the first place.”

I looked at her hand, and then I squeezed it. “That’s right. Somebody hired me to investigate the Ryan death. I won’t mention names, because it’s confidential and it has nothing to do with what’s happened, believe me. Anyway, I started out on that basis. And I’m continuing for a personal reason.” I looked at her hand again because it was easier to go on if I didn’t look at her face.