Shooting Star/Spiderweb

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.”