Shooting Star / Spiderweb Read online

  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 ord
er 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.