Shooting Star/Spiderweb

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 sudden,” 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?”