“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 neck.
“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.”
“You’ve got to find out,” she whispered. “You’ve got to. I can’t stand thinking what I think, day after day. Can’t stand seeing him this way. There must be something wrong, or else why would he drink like this?”
I sighed. “You mentioned his drinking before, Miss Trent. And I started to ask you something else, then dropped it. But I’d like to ask again, because it could be important. Very important.”
“Go ahead.”
“Don’t get me wrong, now, but have you ever noticed your brother taking anything besides alcohol?”
“You mean—?”
“That’s right,” I said, gently. “Is he a narcotics addict, have you ever seen him with a reefer?”
She shook her head.
“All right. You’ve been a great help.”
“I must go. He’ll get suspicious, I’ve been away so long.”
“I understand. But from now on, I’ll keep in touch with you. You live at the house there?”
“Yes. But don’t call. He’d be furious. Let me call you. Where can I reach you?”
I hesitated, then gave her the office number. “Give me a day or two,” I said. “Maybe I can find out something. I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank
Then she was out the door. I watched her trot up the street, watched her through the rear view mirror. Cute kid. And she wanted to help. A refreshing change from the old buttoned-lips routine I’d been getting. Nothing like a new routine to brighten the day.
I frowned. Could this be a routine, too? A different kind of one? Sure, she might be on the level; just a mixed-up minx with a problem and no shoulder to cry on. Then again, she could be a plant. Hell, how did I even know she was Trent’s sister?
I tried to expel the notion with a sigh. Mustn’t let this get me down. The way I was going, I’d end up trusting nobody. The world wasn’t all phony. There were still plenty of ordinary people around; ordinary, straightforward people who asked straight questions, gave straight answers.
Like this guy with the crewcut who stopped at the side of the car now and stuck his head through the window.
“Hey, Mister,” he said. “Can you tell me how to get over to the LaBrea Tar Pits from here?”
“Why, I guess so.” I slid over in my seat and pointed south. “You take Western Avenue down to Wilshire Boulevard, then turn west on Wilshire and—”
I turned my head. Somebody had opened the other door, next to the wheel. A small man slid into the driver’s seat next to me. He nodded and reached out, and I felt something hard press against my side.
“Sit still,” he said. “No bright ideas.”
I sat still. I didn’t have any bright ideas. No bright ideas about ordinary straightforward people who asked
