good.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to use the police-are-baffled approach,” I assured him. “That’s why I came to you. I wanted to check my facts and clear them, seeing as you were on the case.”
Thompson sat back. “You know the regulations. I’m not supposed to talk. And I haven’t got the authority to okay anything. Maybe if you went in and saw Captain—”
“Never mind.” I lit a cigarette. “This visit is off the record. Just thought you’d be interested.”
“All right. What’ve you got?”
I recited what I’d learned from reading the newspapers. He listened shifting around in his chair and staring up at the ceiling. When I finished he grunted and said, “Is that all?”
“Sure. That’s all the papers carried. Why? Is there more?”
Thompson smiled, and despite the bald head I could see why he’d been the fair-haired boy of the Vice Squad. “You hope there is, don’t you? That’s why you came to me now, right?”
“Well...” I paused. “Since this is all off the record...”
“Just how long do you think it would stay off the record if you broke a story containing facts known only to this office? They’d come running in here for my scalp.”
“Little late for that,” I said. “Come on, give a guy a break. We’ve worked together before.”
“Not on something like this.”
“Well, can’t you tell me anything?”
Thompson hesitated. “Let’s see, there’s a few things you missed in the papers which might not sound out of line. That gun, for instance. It was a .38 revolver. The same gun Ryan used in the picture. Ordinarily it was loaded with blanks, but that afternoon Ryan had loaned it to Trent. He was doing a little target practice out there on the ranch, and that’s why it had real bullets in it. He claims he was called to the set in the middle of his shooting—just after reloading—and gave the gun back to Ryan, forgetting to tell him it was loaded. Anyway, Ryan must have taken it to his trailer and left it there without examining it. So right there you have an interesting question. Did the killer know the loaded gun was there, or did he just happen to come on it by accident? In other words, was the murder premeditated?”
I made a note, just for effect. “What about fingerprints?”
“There weren’t any. Not on the gun. Whoever did the job saw to that. Lots of other prints around, all over. Polly Foster’s, and Trent’s and Joe Dean’s, Estrellita Juarez, even Kolmar himself. But nothing that helps us establish anything.”
I made another note. “About the killing,” I said. “The paper said all six shots were fired. One in the head, the rest in the hips.”
Thompson shook his head. “I can tell you that much, too, I suppose. The newspapers had to say hips. On account of the family audience. But the murderer didn’t shoot Ryan in the hips, Clayburn. Between them, that’s where.”
“You mean?”
“Jealous husband, boyfriend, lover? Homicidal maniac, sex pervert? We’ve thought about all the angles.”
“How about someone who’d flipped? Loaded on reefers or—”
“The reefer angle’s out.”
“But they found those butts. And the whole things points to some kind of narcotics tie-up.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Don’t know or won’t tell?”
“Suit yourself. Either way, I got nothing to say about the reefer situation. Ryan didn’t go in for that sort of thing. He got his kicks in a different way.”
“And the alibis all hold up? Dean, Juarez, Foster, Kolmar, Trent?”
“If they didn’t, we’d have made an arrest.”
“Why haven’t you made any since then?”
“We’re still working on the case.”
“There hasn’t been a line in the papers. Did the drug angle scare you off?”
Thompson stood up. “Sorry, that’s all I know. If you want to talk to the captain, now, maybe—”
“Never mind.” I rose. “I guess I’ve got enough for my story. But I hate to leave it hanging in the air like this. I hate to let the readers think that maybe everything isn’t exactly on the up-and-up.”
The detective put a fatherly hand on my shoulder, and squeezed it in a most unfatherly way. “You write anything like that and I’ll kick your teeth down your throat,” he muttered. The grip relaxed. “No, I didn’t mean it. Forget it. It’s a free country. Write what you please. But I can’t tell you any more. Except one thing.” He paused.
“What’s that?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t write the story. I wouldn’t write anything at all. I’d just forget it.”
“Forget it?”
“If it’s a yarn you’re after, I can give you a dozen better ones. Complete with solutions and pictures of the guilty parties. How about a nice, juicy torso murder? We got one where the guy burned this dame’s arms and legs off with a blowtorch, and then he got to work on her head with—”
“You really don’t want me to write this, eh?”
“I really don’t.”
“And you can’t give me a good reason?”
“That’s it.” Thompson walked me over to the door. “But you’re a smart guy, Clayburn. You’re a writer, you’ve got an imagination. Maybe you can dream up a reason. Like say, if there was something like a narcotics ring mixed up in the case. And they didn’t want anyone nosing around, trying to uncover clues that could lead to them or to their very important customers. Figure a reason like that, if you like. And then, like a smart guy, forget the whole thing. Including the fact that you talked to me.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
“You do that.”
“Thanks for the help. And the advice.”
“It’s all right. You know I’m always glad to do what I can. But...think it over.”
I thought it over all the way back to the office. Then I called Harry Bannock.
“Hello. Bannock here.” He must have picked that up from some English movie.
“Mark Clayburn. When can I see you?”
“Business?”
“Yes. But I’d rather not talk over the phone.”
“Right.” He hesitated. “You free tonight? How about coming out to the house for dinner? I’ll call Daisy. Good. Make it seven, then. See you.”
I made it seven.
Bannock had a big layout in the foothills, not far from Laurel Canyon. I leaned on the doorbell and watched the sunset over the hills. The sky was a deep orange.
Her hair was a deep orange, too. She wore it long, over bare shoulders, and it contrasted with the creamy tint of her skin. The chartreuse garment she wore was what is generally called a hostess gown. Seeing it on her, I could easily understand why.
“Mr. Clayburn?” She smiled. “I’m Daisy Bannock. Come right in. Harry said we’d be expecting you. He phoned just a few minutes ago to say he’d be a little late.”
I followed her perfume down the hall, into the parlor.
“Fix you a drink?”
“Thanks.” I nodded. She walked over to the bar in the alcove.
“What’ll it be?”
“Oh, I don’t care. Whatever you prefer.”
“I don’t indulge.” She shook the orange curl from her forehead. “But you needn’t worry, I’m supposed to be a very capable bartender.”
“In that case, make it a Manhattan. No—an Orange Blossom.” Why I wanted an Orange Blossom I didn’t know. Until I looked at her again. Then I knew.
Her fingers flew in deft deliberation. From time to time she paused and shook that single unruly curl back into
