I eased out my notebook and began writing.
“Did they get along at that meeting?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I wasn’t there, and they did not come to the office, at least Mr. Faulkner didn’t. He simply called, asked to talk to Mr. Shatzkin, and the two of them arranged it. It’s right on Mr. Shatzkin’s calendar, if you’d like to see it. One o’clock lunch with W. Faulkner on Thursday.” “I believe you,” I said. “Do you know where they ate?”
“No,” she said.
“Did Shatzkin particularly like Bernstein’s Fish Grotto?”
She looked puzzled and shook her head.
“He never mentioned it. I doubt that he would go there for lunch unless Mr. Faulkner insisted. It’s too far away, and Mr. Shatzkin was not particularly fond of seafood.”
“Couple more questions and I’ll be done,” I said with a smile. “Do you know what they were supposed to talk about at the luncheon?”
“Mr. Peters, why do you not simply ask Mr. Faulkner?”
“Because,” I said, “some things are not making sense in this. I’m not quite sure what they are, but something is cock-eyed besides my old science teacher at Glendale High School.”
“I don’t know what Mr. Faulkner wanted to talk about, but I think it had something to do with getting Mr. Shatzkin to represent him.”
“Okay,” I said, standing up. “Do you have any photographs of Mr. Shatzkin, by any chance?” “No,” she said emphatically. “There was one on his desk, but Mrs. Shatzkin sent her handyman Haliburton to get his things, including the wedding photograph on his desk.”
There was a lot in the way she said it that made me go on. She had underlined both Mrs. and her handyman. There was also the suggestion that the widow could have waited until the corpse had cooled before spring cleaning.
“Mrs. Shatzkin identified William Faulkner as the man who shot her husband,” I said.
Mrs. Summerland shrugged.
“I think she was lying or mistaken,” I continued.
“Both are possible,” said Mrs. Summerland, looking me straight in the eye. “But what isn’t possible is that Mr. Shatzkin lied, dying or not. If he said Faulkner shot him, then he told the truth. Mr. Shatzkin was a quiet, honest man. He wasn’t the fast-talking pitchman who some…” Mrs. Summerland’s composed exterior was about to shatter into tears, and she didn’t want that, at least not in front of me.
“You’ve been very helpful,” I said, closing her door behind me just as her head went down.
The sun was almost out when I limped outside, and it was a little warmer but not warm enough to resell my coat to Hy O’Brien. Things were starting to pile up, and the heap they formed might mean something, especially if I got it burning.
My next stop was the apartment of Jerry Vernoff off La Brea in Inglewood. It was a one-story courtyard job with a small pool in the middle and some stunted yearning palms cutting off the sun. I knocked on his door and knew from my experience in such places that everyone who was home heard the knock vibrating through his walls.
“Yeah,” came a voice.
“Peters,” I said.
“Right,” said the voice. I waited a few seconds, and the door came open on a slightly soft but reasonably good-looking big guy with straight blond hair and a smile. His teeth were white. His skin was tan and his shirt was open.
“Come on in,” he said. “Find a place to sit. I’ve got to clean my hands. Messed up a can of chili.”
He disappeared, and I looked for a place to sit. There was a sofa and two chairs. There was also a card table set up as a desk with a chair. On each of these pieces of furniture there were piles of paper and index cards full of writing.
“Just pick up a pile and shift it,” he shouted. “But try to keep it in order.”
I opted for one of the chairs. I moved two piles of typed notes onto the floor and sat down.
“Can I get you a drink?” Vernoff shouted over running water. “A beer or a Coke?”
“Coke is fine,” I said.
He came back with a bottle for me and one for himself.
“I can’t even cook a can of chili,” he said with a grin.
“I know the feeling.”
“Shoot,” he said, draining a third of his Coke.
“You work with Faulkner?” I said.
“Well, I do on this job. I’m a free-lance story man,” he explained. “See all this,” he said with a sweep of his left hand to take in the pages and the wall of books. “Cabinet in the corner is filled with plot cards. I’ve got hundreds of them. Hell, I’ve got thousands. If you count the possibilities for mixing and matching, I probably have a million plots in this room. Producers and writers hire me to get them going, give them a start, some ideas. I shoot plots and variations at them to see if they can get something going in their imaginations. The pay is reasonably good. The work has been pretty steady for the last few years.”
“And you like it?”
He shrugged and gulped down another third of the bottle before he grinned in my direction.
“It’s all right until I can sell one of my own screenplays. Hey, about Friday, I told the cops Faulkner and I were in his hotel room.”
“But you said he went out around nine.”
“Right,” said Vernoff, “but that was to throw down a few drinks. Faulkner has been known to tie one on from time to time. That’s what did him in the last time he worked out here.”
“Why didn’t you go with him?”
Vernoff laughed, and I made a dent in my Coke.
“He didn’t invite me. Our Mr. Faulkner is a rather private man, and to tell the truth I don’t think he liked working with me. I move too fast, think too fast. I made him nervous, but hell, that’s what I was getting paid to do, to stimulate him, get him moving and thinking.”
“You like him?” I asked.
“Not much,” he admitted, “do you?” “I don’t think so,” I admitted. “But I don’t think he killed Shatzkin.”
“I don’t even know he knew Shatzkin,” sighed Vernoff. “Shatzkin’s my agent, or was. Can’t say he did a hell of a lot of good for me, but he was a good man. The whole thing doesn’t make sense. I’m not even going to do a plot card on it.”
“Maybe you can work out a plot to tell me who killed Shatzkin and why,” I said, finishing my Coke and standing up.
“Sure,” he said, joining me. “I could think of a lot of them. It’s all there.” He pointed at the file cabinet. “Numbered and ready if you know what to look for. Say, it’s lunch time. You want to share a can of chili and a hunk of lettuce?”
I agreed, and we moved into his kitchen, which was an extension of his living room, full of papers, newspaper clippings, books, and notes. He cleared two places at the table and served the chili in two bowls directly from a messy pot that I could see was burned at the bottom. Vernoff told me about his adventures with various writers, including a stint with F. Scott Fitzgerald, who had come to the apartment, looked at the mess, and departed on a one-week binge. In turn, I told Vernoff about some of my more celebrated cases, concluding with the Bela Lugosi problem.
“I’ve got about two hundred cards on vampire plot variations,” he said dripping chili on a copy of American Mercury. “I could do a vampire script in five days… no, three days, but nobody wants vampire scripts. They want war stories. That’s what I was trying to feed Faulkner, but he kept getting melancholy about the war and some brother who died in an airplane. Say, I earned my money working with him.”
I finished up, we shook hands, and he asked whether he could get in touch with me some time to work up some plot cards from my cases. I told him it was fine with me and left him to clean up the dishes and find the typewriter he had temporarily misplaced.
I headed home because it was easier to park there than my office, and I wanted to catch Gunther. I passed
