Hard Case Crime: Shooting Star & Spiderweb (11 page)

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.”

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.