Hard Case Crime: Shooting Star & Spiderweb (12 page)

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.”

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.”