Shooting Star / Spiderweb Read online

  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 th
em 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.