Shooting Star/Spiderweb

“You mean they fixed the cops?”

“Of course not. But they did the next best thing, they clammed up tight. And they’ve stayed clammed up ever since. Do you think they’d talk to a big-time investigating outfit? You know better than that.

“But a little guy—a guy who’s known in the industry—he can get around and nobody will bother him. Particularly if he gets to them under false pretenses—say he wants to discuss a story, or something. I need a little guy, Mark. An honest little guy. So I came to you.”

I shrugged. “Very touching. But let me remind you of a few things. I’m still a writer’s agent. Sure, I’ve got a permit to carry a pistol and a license for private investigation, but I only use it when I’m working on a true-detective assignment. It helps me to get in and go after material for an article. I don’t know anything about narcotics. I’ve never tangled with a murderer in my life. With this eye-patch I couldn’t use my pistol to shoot Charles Laughton in the belly at five paces.”

“But you’re honest.”

“Sure. I’m honest. Like you say, ‘an honest little guy’. And you’re a big-time operator. A big-time operator who thinks he can walk in on an honest little guy and buy him body and soul for a big hello and a five-dollar bill.”

“Listen to me, Mark. I’ve got a hundred and ninety-five thousand dollars tied up in this deal. Almost every penny of cash I could scrape together. I mortgaged the house on it. I’ve got to clear Ryan’s name so I can unload. And we’re not talking about five-dollar bills.” He gripped my arm. “I’m offering you this assignment, to handle in your own way. It may take a day, it may take a week, it may take a month—though I hope to God it doesn’t. But I won’t be paying you on a time basis. I offer a flat deal.”

“I’m listening, but I haven’t heard anything yet.”

“A thousand dollars cash right now, and five thousand if you find me the murderer and let me turn the information over to the police. Plus another five thousand if I sell the films. That’s eleven grand in all.”

“I used to get good grades in arithmetic,” I told him. “But I was just thinking—”

“Good, I want you to think. That’s what you’re being paid for.” Bannock took out his wallet. It was big and fat and bulging, like Bannock himself. He opened it and started to lay down hundred-dollar bills. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...

I used to get good grades in arithmetic, and I was figuring what a thousand dollars would buy: Three months’ rent for the office, for the flat; three months’ groceries and gas supply. And five thousand more would give me a full year. Another five thousand might mean a chance to open up a real office again, with a little front to it, a girl receptionist, my name on the door, a few ads in Film Daily. Eleven thousand dollars cash meant a new start with a good push.

“What do you say?” Bannock asked.

I walked over to the mirror and stared for a moment. And I said to myself, What do you want to get mixed up in all this for? It’s one thing to write about murder and another thing to go out and find it. You couldn’t kill anyone because you’re not the criminal type. And what makes you think you’re an investigator? The way you look, with that damned patch, you’re more like a potential victim. Are you going to risk your hide for eleven grand?

I took a good long look at what I was risking. The grayed, frayed figure didn’t impress me. Eleven grand was a good price. The bloodshot eye stared at me. Then it winked.

“All right,” I said. “You’ve got a deal.”

I walked over to the desk, scooped up the money, then opened the bottom drawer and took out my pistol.

“Where you going with that?” Bannock asked.

“Public library,” I said. “I always carry a pistol when I go there. Never did trust those stone lions.”

Chapter Two

I’d been kidding about the public library, of course. They don’t have lions. But they do have a very pretty little feline in the Reference Room who purred at me when I asked for the newspapers. She didn’t look as if you’d have to use a pistol on her, and I doubt if she was carnivorous. At another time I might have been willing to take the chance of finding out, but right now I wanted to see those back issues.

I gave her a list of dates, as near as I could recall.

“Not again!” she said, checking them over on her pad.

“Somebody else ask for them?”

“This morning. Look, here’s the old sheet—same dates. I know, because I had to haul them out.”

“Happen to know who it was?”

“Why?”

“Just curious.” I leaned over the counter. “Confidentially, I happen to be a writer. The reason I want those papers is to check up on a story I’m doing. And I wondered if somebody else might have the same idea and plans to beat me to it.”

“Oh.” She smiled. “You know, the minute you walked in here I said to myself, he’s a writer!”

“How could you tell?”

“I just knew, that’s all. We get a lot of them in here.”

“I’ll bet. And the person this morning?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t see him. I just went and got the papers. Mae filled out the slip, but she’s too old to go hauling around in the files. Wait, I’ll go ask her.”

My little feline friend padded off. Presently she returned.

“Sorry. She says she can’t remember who it was.”

“But if she tried...”

“She did try.” The girl gestured toward the room. “Look, mister, we get a hundred people an hour in here, eight hours a day, six days a week. Who bothers to remember all those faces? Mae’s been here twelve years.”

“Bully for her,” I said. “And thanks, anyway. Now, can I take a look?”

The girl brought me the stack and I took them over to a table. I pulled out a pen and a notebook and went to work. For the next hour I was up to my neck in murder.

The newspapers told it their own way—with headlines, with pictures, with feature stories, even with editorials. But gradually I got the facts sifted until I could tell it in my own way, to myself.

Dick Ryan was a pretty boy. He had black, curly hair and clear blue eyes and stood six feet two in lounging pajamas. He had a great following among the youth of America; in the 6-to-12-year-old group with the boys, and the 16-to-36-year-old group with the girls. The boys thought he looked good on a horse. What the girls thought I really couldn’t say. (I could, but there are limits).

Ryan had played in oaters for about five years before his death, working for two or three studios before he tied up with Abe Kolmar at Apex and starred in the Lucky Larry series. Although he didn’t sing, play the guitar or twirl a baton, his pictures were highly successful; particularly in the rural areas, where his protrusions of jaw and biceps were equated with manly cleancut heroism. He did not smoke, drink or indulge in amorous advances on the screen.

But when the cameras stopped grinding on the evening of April 2nd, Dick Ryan held a little party in his private trailer. He was on location at Abe Kolmar’s ranch out in the San Fernando Valley, and he might easily have chosen to drive into town or stay at Kolmar’s place. But Ryan preferred his trailer, a handsome, custom-built job that accompanied him whenever he was shooting away from the studio. It had a built-in bar and a number of other conveniences which made it ideal for parties.

This particular party started out in a small way, as a matter of fact with just Ryan and a bottle. But shortly after the dinner hour at the Kolmar ranch, the celebration grew. Polly Foster came in. This wasn’t unusual, because Polly Foster played opposite Dick Ryan on (and some said off) the screen. Tom Trent, who did the villain in the series, accompanied her. Both of them were staying at Kolmar’s place overnight, as were most of the principals in the cast.

According to their story, Ryan was already high when they arrived. He was cursing Joe Dean, and that wasn’t unusual either. Dean was his stooge, valet, chauffeur, masseur, and one-man audience. At the moment, Dean was