by Robert Bloch
After a minute, he turned to me. “They’ve found your car,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Highway Patrol located it backed off the road near the gun club, below Santa Monica. Right near Washington Boulevard. Everything’s okay, I guess. You can check and see if anything is missing. They’ll be bringing it in later.”
“Nothing on the two men?”
“Nothing so far. They’re on the lookout. Meanwhile, here’s some more pictures.”
I looked at pictures. As I looked, I began to wonder about my previous remarks concerning the integrity of the citizens of Los Angeles County. There seemed to be no end to the number of malefactors.
I stared at scars, briefly noted broken noses, carefully eyed cauliflower ears, scanned sneers; most of these men had their history written in their faces and there was no need to read a description of their misdemeanors. I know Lombroso’s theory is discredited, but there’s still something about physiognomy that registers with me. I’d seen too many faces like these in my time to discount them, seen them at the edges of dark alleys, seen them peering through the dirty, fly-specked windows of the dives, seen them staring up from the gutters of grim streets.
So far, though, I hadn’t found Fritz, or the man who looked something like Joe Dean but wasn’t. I reached for another stack when the door opened and Thompson came in.
“Hi,” I said. “Wondered whether you’d come down. Want to hear about it?”
He didn’t return my smile or my greeting. He just looked at me and shook his head.
“No time,” he said. “Leaving this minute. Just thought you might be interested in the news.”
“What news?”
“Call just came in. Tom Trent’s dead.”
I blinked.
“His sister found him in the garage five minutes ago. Shot through the heart.”
“Murder?”
“Don’t know. Could be a suicide.” He turned. “Going to find out.”
“Let me come with you.”
“You know the regulations.”
“But I—”
“Somebody’ll be around to see you tomorrow. We’ll keep in touch.”
I nodded at his back as he went out.
Then I started to look at pictures again, but I didn’t see them. All I saw was Tom Trent lying dead in his garage. It would be murder, I knew that. And he’d been shot through the heart.
The room started to spin a little, but the scene before my eye never wavered. It was so clear I could notice every detail. There was one detail I had to verify, though.
I stuck around for over an hour until the reports started coming in. Then I needled the sergeant until he told me.
“You were wrong,” he said. “Looks like suicide, so far. Had the gun in his hand and everything. Shot himself in the chest.”
Then I asked about the detail that interested me. The sergeant looked puzzled at my questions, but he told me what I wanted to know: what Trent had been wearing, and just where the bullet had entered his body.
“Thanks,” I said. “And you can tell Thompson or whoever is in charge that it wasn’t suicide.”
“No?”
I shook my head. “I’m positive. Even if Trent wanted to kill himself, there’s one thing he’d never do. He’d never shoot himself through the monogram.”
Chapter Eleven
I didn’t find the pictures which would identify either of my attackers. The car came, and I checked it. Nothing was missing but the gas they’d used. Of course I wanted to stick around and hear the reports on the Trent case, but they told me to go home.
It was late, so I went. In spite of Dr. Engebrusher’s handiwork, I felt as if I needed a rest. The hotel bed looked good to me. I’d rather sleep here than out in the dunes, or in a casket like Polly Foster, or on a garage floor, like Trent. Only he wouldn’t be on the floor any more. He’d be occupying a slab somewhere, while the coroner’s little helpers played ring-around-the-bullet-hole.
Yes, I was lucky because they hadn’t got me. Hadn’t got me yet.
I started to review the events of the day, searching for angles I might have overlooked. Those men had been sent after me, but by whom? Somebody who knew I was going to the funeral, or who had actually seen me there. He or she. Billie Trent, perhaps? Maybe her story was a gag. Maybe she’d come and talked to me as a stall, to see that I stayed put there until the two hoods arrived. Maybe she was in with her brother on the deal. Maybe she killed him.
Plenty of possible alternatives there. After all, what did I actually know concerning her, outside of what she chose to tell me? She didn’t look like a murderess in my opinion; but then, Mr. Lombroso’s theory isn’t supposed to be valid. Come to think of it, what did old Cesare Lombroso himself look like? I made a note to look up his picture in some encyclopedia when I had a chance. Perhaps he had the face of a criminal himself, according to his definition. Who knows, maybe he was the murderer? Not likely, seeing that he died almost fifty years ago. Everybody appeared to be dying off lately: Ryan, Foster, Trent. And they tried for me, and threatened Bannock too. Bannock. I’d have to talk to him tomorrow. But what could I tell him, really?
I didn’t know. All I’d actually learned today was that it isn’t safe to direct strangers to the LaBrea Tar Pits.
On which thought I drifted off to sleep. I went to the LaBrea Tar Pits and visited some of the prehistoric monsters. They were alive in my dreams, and I saw them all. Saw them over my shoulder, mostly, because they kept chasing me. Not an herbivore in the crowd. They had big teeth, every one. I saw the Kolmarsaurus and the Deanosaurus and the Estrellitajuarus; the Fritzopodus, the Bannockactyl and the ten-tentacled Trent, the Sabretoothed Thompson, and the Marijuanus Rex. The latter was a big white worm shaped like a cigarette. Smoke came out of its mouth as it crawled after me and tried to smother me in its poisonous fumes.
Oh, I had a delightful rest. Funny part was that I woke up around ten in the morning and felt fine, hardly stiff after a shower. By the time I went out for breakfast I was ready for anything.
But most of all I was ready for the morning papers. I read them over coffee. I read them when I went to the office to check my mail.
There wasn’t a line in them about any murder.
It was straight suicide, all the way. Grief-stricken actor kills himself after Polly Foster’s funeral. Love-crazed star suicide over sweetheart’s death. Details on page two.
I ignored the fake romance leads the reporters had so avidly exploited and went after those details on page two. These made less lurid reading, but better sense.
Trent and his sister had gone to the cemetery. They left about five and ate at a restaurant. Then they went home. According to the girl’s story, Trent seemed depressed but not spectacularly so—not enough to justify the headlines on page one. I wondered if Kolmar’s publicity staff had planted the romance notion in an attempt to tie things together. But no matter now; the important thing was what actually happened out there in the Valley last night.
Trent took a few drinks and Billie decided to go up to bed. She didn’t undress immediately; she lay down and read for a while. It was almost midnight when she glanced at the clock and realized she hadn’t heard Trent come up.
She went downstairs and asked Gibbs, the butler, if Trent had gone out. Gibbs said he’d left about an hour before, following a phone call. He hadn’t paid any attention, just assumed Trent took the station wagon which was parked near the gate.
Billie Trent looked out the window. The station wagon was still standing there. Either her brother had never left, or he had recently returned. She was about to comment on the fact when they both heard the sound.
Neither of them recognized it as a shot, at first. The garage was behind the house, and its solid brick walls would muffle a backfire.
Their first reaction was that somebody might be prowling around outside. Gibbs volunteered to take a look, but Billie refused to stay in the house alone.
They went out together, do
wn the walk between the trees. Gibbs tried the garage door and found it locked. Billie’s feminine indirection led her to the side door. It was open.
She went in. Tom Trent lay on his back. He was still warm. So was the barrel of the .32 he held in his right hand.
Billie called Gibbs. Gibbs called the doctor, then the police, then the studio. Trent wouldn’t have approved of the order; he’d probably have wanted the studio called first. But that’s what Gibbs did. He also verified Billie Trent’s story, in toto.
Which meant that it was true. Or that they were in on it together.
The paper didn’t say so, of course. That’s just what I conjectured now. All the papers said was that neither of them had seen anyone, neither of them knew who might have called Trent, neither of them could definitely identify the gun as his. He had a big collection of pistols and revolvers, kept them in the garage, as a matter of fact. Some were on wall racks and some were in drawers. Plenty of ammunition was around, too. An ideal setup for suicide.
Or for something else.
Well, Gibbs was being questioned and so was Billie Trent. And the police were investigating...
It was a big story, all right. So big it had crowded out any possible pitiful little squib about my own adventures. A forcible abduction and a beating were just peanuts compared to cowboy-actor-suicide-in-garage-for-love-of-beautiful-blonde-star.
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.”
Chapter Twelve
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...