`Not much. He has a service station across from the Barcelona. He struck me as dependable. He's a war veteran-'
`So was Hitler. L A says Daly had previous dealings with Sipe. Sipe bought secondhand cars through him, for instance.'
`That would be natural enough. Daly ran the nearest service station to where Sipe worked.'
`So you don't think Daly killed him to shut him up?'
`No, but I'll bear it in mind. I'm more interested in the other killing. Have you seen the knife that Harley was stabbed with?'
`Not yet. I have a description.'
Bastin moved some papers around on top of his desk. `It's what they call a hunting knife, made by the Oregon firm of Forstmann, with their name on it. It has a broad blade about six inches long, is very sharp and pointed, has a striped rubber handle, black and white, with finger moldings on it. Practically brand new. Is that an accurate description?'
`I only saw the striped rubber handle. The fact that the blade is quite broad, sharp, and pointed suggests that it's the same knife that stabbed Carol.'
`So I told L A they're going to send me the knife for identification work.'
`That's what I was going to suggest.'
Bastian leaned forward, bringing his arms down heavily among the papers on his desktop. `You think somebody in town here stabbed him?'
`It's an idea worth considering.'
`Why? For his share of the money?'
`It couldn't have been that. Harley had nothing left by the time he left Las Vegas. I talked to the high-roller who cleaned him out.'
`I'm surprised Harley didn't shoot him.'
`I gather there were professional guns around. Harley was never more than a semi-pro.'
`Why then?'
Bastian said, his eyebrows arched. `Why was Harley killed if it wasn't for money?'
`I don't think we'll know until we put our finger on the killer.'
`Do you have any nominations?' he said.
`No. Do you?'
`I have some thoughts on the subject, but I'd better not think them out loud.'
`Because I'm working for Hillman?'
`I didn't say that.'
His dark eyes veiled themselves, and he changed the subject. `A man named Robert Brown, the victim's father, was here asking for you. He's at the City Hotel.'
`I'll look him up tomorrow. Treat him gently, eh?'
`I treat 'em all gently. Harold Harley called me a few minutes ago. He's taking his brother's death hard.'
`He would. When did you let him go?'
`Yesterday. We had no good reason to hold him in custody. There's no law that says you have to inform on your own brother.'
`Is he back home in Long Beach?'
`Yes. He'll be available for the trial, if there's anybody left to prosecute.'
He was needling me about the death of Otto Sipe. On that note I left.
I made a detour up the coast highway on the way to my appointment with Dr Weintraub, and stopped at Ben Daly's service station. Ben was there by the pump, with a bandage around his head. When he saw me he went into the office and didn't come out. A boy who looked like a teen-aged version of Ben emerged after a while. He asked in an unfriendly way if there was anything he could do for me.
`I'd like to talk to Mr. Daly for a minute.'
`I'm sorry. Dad doesn't want to talk to you. He's very upset, about this morning.'
`So am I. Tell him that. And ask him if he'll look at a picture for identification purposes.'
The boy went into the office, closing the door behind him. Across the roaring highway, the Barcelona Hotel asserted itself in the sunlight like a monument of a dead civilization. In the driveway I could see a number of county cars, and a man in deputy's uniform keeping back a crowd of onlookers.
Daly's boy came back with a grim look on his face. `Dad says he doesn't want to look at any more of your pictures. He says you and your pictures brought him bad luck.'
`Tell him I'm sorry.'
The boy retreated formally, like an emissary. He didn't show himself again, and neither did his father. I gave up on Daly for the present.
Dr Weintraub's office was in one of the new medical buildings on Wilshire, near Cedars of Lebanon Hospital. I
