Shooting Star / Spiderweb Read online

  Brackett made good use of the crowds, too. He had about twenty assistant directors in formal afternoon wear, running up and down the aisles playing usher. Actually, they were grouping the audience to the best advantage. Those who had contributed the best floral offerings got the front seats. Everything according to protocol, everything to keep the distinguished guests happy and place them where the press could spot them easily.

  Outside the set, on the curb, Brackett made equally good use of a dozen volunteer assistant directors wearing police uniforms. They handled the mob scenes, holding the crowd back behind the ropes strung along the sidewalk, and keeping the curb clear as the cars drove up.

  Oh, it was a genuine Hamilton Brackett production, all right. His funerals were always the best show in town.

  I won’t review the performance itself. Everything was flawless. No original score by Dmitri Tiomkin, but the organist knew what to do with the oldies he played. And the guy Brackett had cast for the sermon part was sensational. He had Laughton beat for delivery any day, and whoever wrote his script did a bangup job. Even managed to work in some religious stuff—that always goes over big with audiences—but mostly he kept building up to the big scene. Plugging Polly Foster, all the way. How beautiful she was, how charming, how intelligent; what a personality she had. He told about her life; made you see her as she actually was, radiant, ravishing, poised on the threshold of achievement. Then he turned on the agony, worked that old tragedy angle. By the time he finished, he had them crying. Their tongues were hanging out for a sight of her, for a great big close-up.

  That was the deal, of course. The whole gang began to file past the coffin for that close-up.

  I went along with the rest. I was way in the rear, naturally, but I kept my eye open. I saw Bannock and Daisy, and the little girl from Bannock’s office who wouldn’t be getting her autographed menu unless the police released it from the exhibits they were holding as evidence.

  I was looking for other faces, though. Gradually, as I worked my way up the line approaching the casket, I spotted a few.

  Tom Trent was there, in a black suit minus the monogram initials. He was accompanied by a small brunette I couldn’t identify, and he didn’t see me. Near the head of the procession was a chunky little redfaced man with a hairline receding almost to the back of his neck. I recognized Abe Kolmar, from Ace. He’d been Polly Foster’s producer, and Dick Ryan’s too. His eyes were red, and he kept twisting a big handkerchief in his hands.

  I saw Al Thompson, too—or, rather, he saw me. He wasn’t in line, just standing there leaning against a floral arch as I went past. He nodded.

  “What brings you here?” I whispered.

  “Same as you. Looking around.” He joined me in the file. “See anybody?”

  “Whole town’s here.”

  “What about Estrellita Juarez? Joe Dean?”

  “Dean was here, but he didn’t stay. We questioned him, you know.”

  “Clean?”

  Thompson shrugged. “He’s out, if that’s what you mean.”

  “And Juarez?”

  “Can’t locate her. We’re trying.” Thompson scowled. “Quit needling me. That’s official business.”

  “My business, too. You might say I have a personal interest at stake now.”

  “Well, I wish you’d lay off. Before you’re laid out.”

  “Is there a flip to that record?”

  “Never mind the repartee. If you’d listened to my advice at the beginning, you wouldn’t have had any trouble. And maybe Polly Foster wouldn’t have had any trouble, either. Ever think about that angle, Clayburn?”

  I’d thought about it, all right. I’d been thinking about it ever since the murder.

  That’s why I kept trying to kid myself along, building up a line about this being a Hamilton Brackett production. Anything to take my mind off the facts, the cold, hard facts of the case.

  Now it was my turn at the casket, and I couldn’t pretend any longer. I was looking down at the cold, hard facts in the silver case. The cold death mask, the hard death mask with the smiling lips. The lips I’d threatened to wash with soap. The lips I could conceivably have kissed.

  But that was gone now. That mouth had been washed out for the last time. And when I thought about what would soon be kissing those lips...

  My fault, all my fault.

  Like hell it was!

  I hadn’t killed her. That was the murderer’s responsibility, and neither Thompson nor anybody else was going to make me take the rap.

  I looked at Polly Foster a long time. At least, it seemed like a long time because I thought of so many things. I thought about a little girl with brown hair who was always bothered by the boys. Who grew up and was still bothered by the boys—the wrong kind of boys—until she got the wrong kind of slant on things. I thought about a woman who swore too much and drank too much and probably slept around too much, and I thought that maybe she did it because she was afraid too much. Afraid of a world that valued her only for her beauty. A ghoul-world, always after her body; wanting to photograph it, wanting to see it, wanting to paw it. Afraid, perhaps, of one particular ghoul who wanted to destroy it. And who succeeded.

  I was sorry about that, but I wasn’t to blame. And as I took my final glance, I wasn’t even sorry any more. I was angry. “Lay off,” Thompson had said. That’s what all of them wanted me to do, including the guy who had sat in my apartment with a monkey on his back.

  I stared at Polly Foster for the last time and if the dead can read minds, she knew that I was telling myself—and her—that I would never lay off now.

  Then I moved on.

  Thompson went over to talk to Abe Kolmar. He and most of the other big shots were going out to the cemetery. I didn’t feel like it. This new, sudden feeling of anger made me want to slug somebody. For the first time I was beginning to understand the meaning of murder.

  Sure, like the hammy preacher said, it was tragic to see someone ruthlessly trample a white rose. But it’s always a tragedy, even when someone tramples a weed. No one has that right. And who is even fit to sit in judgment, to separate the weeds from the roses?

  Weeds. Marijuana was a weed. A weed that made some people high, made them feel that they did have the right to judge, made them feel like trampling. I knew.

  And I was going to find out more. Somehow, some way, I’d find out.

  I headed for the door, almost bumping into a tall man who stood in the outer entry, talking to a girl.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “So it’s you again,” the man said. “The snooper!”

  I stared into Tom Trent’s face.

  “I ought to let you have it,” he said. “I ought to beat your brains out.”

  “You’ve got the wrong party,” I answered, softly. “Save it for the killer.”

  “One more word out of you and—”

  “I know,” I said. “I know how you feel. I’m sorry. And I’m going to do something about it. Can’t you forget what happened long enough to help?”

  “I’ve talked to the police. Any help I can give they’ll get. Now beat it, snooper, before I change my mind. I don’t want to be caught dead talking to you.”

  I turned away.

  Harry and Daisy Bannock came up to me as I reached the door.

  “Saw you talking to Trent just now,” Harry told me. “Did he have anything to say?”

  I shook my head. “He’s still sore. But he’ll cool down. At least, I hope he does. Because I’m positive he knows something about this business.”

  “You suspect him?” Daisy asked.

  “Of the actual killing? No. But there’s something he knows that he didn’t want to leak out. That’s why he called Polly Foster and warned her not to talk.”

  “What’s your plan?” Bannock asked.

  “Nothing definite. But I intend to have another visit with Trent, and soon. I’ll get the story out of him some way.”

  “You sound pretty determined all of a sudde
n,” Daisy said. “Yesterday you wanted to quit.”

  “I’ve been thinking it over. When I saw Polly Foster lying there in the coffin...”

  Harry Bannock stared at me. His voice was deliberately lowered when he spoke. “Don’t tell me you went for her? That little tramp?”

  I shook my head. “No. I didn’t go for her. But she wasn’t a tramp. She was a human being, a kid who came up the hard way, maybe even the wrong way. But she came up, and she deserved to live. Everybody does. Nobody should get a slug in the back. And then a bad name on top of it. Harry, you’re the last person I’d expect to talk about Polly Foster. You want Dick Ryan’s name cleared, don’t you? Well, so do I. I want everybody’s name cleared.”

  “Dig the shining armor,” Harry said. Then he reddened. “I’m sorry, Mark. You’re right. I’m talking like a heel. Forget it. Do what you think best, and I’ll back you up all the way. You want me to smooth things over with Trent for you?”

  “Never mind, let me handle it,” I answered. “I’ll work things out. The sooner I can get him to help, the better.”

  “Coming out to the cemetery?” Daisy asked.

  “No. I’m going back to my place and rest up. You driving there?”

  “I guess not. Daisy’s got a headache. Allergy.”

  “Smell of lilies, I think,” she said. “Wasn’t it awful in there? Stuffy. I hate funerals.”

  “Me too.” Bannock put his hand up to his pocket, reaching for a cigar. Then he remembered and his fingers withdrew. “Call us tonight, Mark, if you hear anything.”

  “Right. I may have news for you.”

  “Hope so. Want a lift?”

  “Brought my own heap. But thanks just the same.”

  I walked out, into the late afternoon sunlight. The crowd had moved over to the side entrance around the corner, waiting for the casket to come out. The photographers were setting up their paraphernalia in the driveway.

  My car was parked two blocks away. I walked toward it slowly, and it was like walking through water because of the recurrent waves of anger and confusion and pity which impeded me. I had to get rid of them, I knew. This was no time for sentiment or sentimentality. A clear head, that’s what I needed. I had to keep my mind, my eye, my ears, open.

  I kept my ears open.

  That’s how I heard the staccato clattering behind me. As I turned, a voice called, “Mr. Clayburn! Wait!”

  I stood there, waiting until she came up, waiting until I could take a good look at the face of the girl who’d been following me. The girl whom I’d seen in the chapel, talking to Tom Trent.

  “Don’t you remember me, Mr. Clayburn?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “The goldfish,” she said.

  “Goldfish?”

  “Yes. The one you noticed the other day at my brother’s pool.”

  I looked at the face carefully now, trying to visualize it encircled by a bathing-cap. It was entirely different today: pertly piquant in makeup, framed by a brown pageboy bob, and surmounted by a small black hat. The girl was young, but there was something familiar about her features. Come to notice it, she looked a little like Tom Trent himself, in a feminine sort of way.

  Apparently she read my thoughts, because she nodded quickly. “That’s right,” she said. “I’m Billie Trent. Tom’s sister.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Never mind that now. Where can we go to talk?”

  Chapter Nine

  I led her to the car.

  “Hop in,” I said.

  She paused. “I can only stay a few minutes. I told Tom I had to go to the ladies’ room.”

  “Might as well sit down.”

  “All right.” She climbed in. I got behind the wheel. She kept peering around.

  “I’ll keep my eye on the rear view mirror,” I told her. “Don’t worry.”

  “Thanks.” She looked relieved, but I noticed her hands kept moving restlessly along her lap. “Mr. Clayburn, I heard you talking to my brother just now, and of course, the other day, out at the house. I...I’m sorry for those things he said.”

  “You needn’t be. He has a right to his opinion.”

  “But that’s just it. He didn’t tell you what he really thought. At least, I don’t think he did. Tom hasn’t been acting natural ever since Dick Ryan was killed. It worries me.”

  “You aren’t the only one,” I murmured.

  “I feel foolish, coming to you like this, but I’ve just got to talk to someone. And since you’re in on this, I thought maybe you could help me.”

  “All depends,” I said. “On the other hand, there’s always the police.”

  She stiffened. “That’s just it. I don’t want to talk to the police. I’m...I’m afraid.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, it’s not because of myself. It’s Tom. He’s got his career to think about. And ever since Dick Ryan was murdered, he just sits around and gets drunk. He used to drink a lot, but not this way, not every night.”

  “Drink,” I said. “Is that all he does?”

  She looked at me.

  “Skip it,” I told her. “You say your brother seems to be worried. What about?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “Is it his contract, something to do with the studio?”

  “I don’t think so. He’s under personal contract to Mr. Kolmar, and they’re starting another picture next month. It isn’t that.”

  “Do you know Kolmar?”

  “I’ve seen him. He’s come to the house a few times.”

  “Lately?”

  “You mean, since Ryan was murdered?”

  I nodded, and she went on.

  “Once or twice. I wasn’t home, though.”

  “Then how did you know about it? Did your brother tell you?”

  “Yes. In advance. I...I always got out.”

  “Don’t like Kolmar, is that it?”

  “He offered me a screen test once.” Billie Trent stared at her twisting hands. “I never told Tom anything about it, because he’d be furious. So, please...”

  “I get it. Kolmar made a pass at you, eh?”

  “Well, not exactly. He just...suggested things.”

  “I can imagine. But is there anything else, anything that might tie him in with these killings?”

  “No. I don’t think so.” She was silent for a moment. “His chauffeur might know, though.”

  “His chauffeur?”

  “A man named Dean—Joe Dean. You must have heard of him; he was there the night Ryan was murdered.”

  “I know. But he worked for Ryan, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. He’s working for Mr. Kolmar now. And he’s always coming over to talk with Tom. Tom says he’s all right, but I don’t like his looks. I don’t see why Tom would want to make friends with such a man.”

  “Did you ever ask Tom about him?”

  She nodded. “He says Dean’s a good person to know because he hears all the studio gossip. He can tell about things before they happen.”

  I sat back. “Do you happen to remember if Dean talked to your brother any time before Polly Foster was killed?”

  “I don’t think so. I know Tom made some phone calls, but he didn’t say who he was speaking to. I went out for dinner that night, and I didn’t pay too much attention.”

  “Out for dinner? But your brother told the police he was with you at home all evening.”

  “He was. I came back around eight-thirty. We played Scrabble.”

  “Was he nervous?”

  “I told you, he’s always nervous. He kept going to the phone, trying to call Polly Foster.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No. But of course, I read about it in the papers later. He’d called Polly Foster and told her not to see you. I guess he wanted to make sure she hadn’t.”

  “What did he say about me?”

  She put her head down and I could see the pink flush creeping along her nec
k.

  “Never mind the adjectives. I mean, what did he think I was doing?”

  “He thought you were trying to pull a shakedown. He thought I’d talked.”

  “Talked?”

  “Told someone. What I’m going to tell you now.” She turned to me and now the words came so fast I had difficulty following them. “I’m taking a big chance, Mr. Clayburn, but somebody ought to know this. Maybe they can help. There’s nobody I can trust. And I wouldn’t dare go to the police, because it might get Tom in trouble when he didn’t deserve to be. But if you’re investigating, you can find out the truth, can’t you? It may be nothing at all, and then again...I’m afraid.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder. “Slow down! What is it you’re trying to tell me?”

  “The night Dick Ryan died, he and Tom had a fight. And Tom came home. Gibbs—that’s the butler—taped him up and put something on his eye. Then Tom went to bed. At least, that’s what Gibbs thought, and that’s what Tom told the police. But he didn’t stay there, Mr. Clayburn. My room is down the hall, and I heard Tom get up and go out again. Around eleven o’clock. He was gone for over two hours.”

  “Does your brother know you’re aware that he went out again?” I asked.

  “No. I never dared mention it. The whole thing’s so awful.”

  I patted her shoulder, then let my hand lie still as I looked at her. “What do you think?” I murmured. “Do you think he killed Dick Ryan?”

  Her eyes fell. My hand tightened its grip. She jerked away, then slumped. “I don’t know, Mr. Clayburn. That’s what’s so terrible, can’t you see? I don’t know.”

  I smiled at her. “Cheer up. It’s not that bad. He may have had a perfectly legitimate reason for going out again that night. Perhaps he was too shaken up to sleep. But you can understand, under the circumstances, why he wouldn’t want the police to know he left the house later on.

  “At any rate, I’ll do my best to find out for you, if that’s any help. And I must thank you for telling me what you did. I know it wasn’t easy.”