Shooting Star / Spiderweb Page 3

  “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 wh
at 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.”