My head had been nodding a steady no from the instant she began, and she stopped abruptly.
“Who do you share that apartment with over in Culver City?” I asked softly.
Her face flushed. Camile Shatzkin looked like a human being instead of a mannequin for an instant, but she went back into her act.
“That has nothing to do with Jacques’s murder,” she said. “He is an actor, Thayer Newcomb. He would have absolutely nothing to gain by Jacques’s death. He knows I would never marry him and that I would despise him if he hurt Jacques. As it is, I never intend to see him again. All of this has made it clear to me how much I really loved Jacques.”
Her head was down again, and a handkerchief had appeared from nowhere. She pulled herself together and came up for another try.
“Mr. Peters, in spite of these surroundings and Jacques’ business…”
“And his insurance?” I continued.
“… and his insurance,” she agreed, “I am not really a wealthy woman. I doubt if there is even a total of $800,000 after taxes.”
“You had that figure on the tip of your grief,” I said.
She stood up in anger, looked at my calm, mashed face, and sat down again.
“Just for the sake of Jacques’s reputation and-I must admit-my own, I would like to offer you a fee for your services to keep the information you have discovered private.”
“How much of a fee?” I asked.
“Well, let’s say $20,000,” she said.
“Let’s say $50,000,” I said.
“Very well,” she said. “I would need a written statement from you guaranteeing that you would seek no further fee on this matter.”
My head was shaking again.
“No money,” I said.
She went flush again and bit her red lower lip. “I could offer…”
“And no offers of flesh, either,” I added. “I have no ambition,” I explained. “Absolutely none. I don’t want or need a lot of money. I have no dreams money can buy. What I always need is just a little more than I’ve got, not a lot more, and I’m not about to be bought for a few hundred dollars. It’s a bind, but it keeps my reputation clean and my suits old.”
“And when you go to that great Pinkerton agency in the sky, they may reward you by making you a night watchman on the gate of heaven,” she spat.
“Or the gate of hell,” I added. “I’d like that. As for you and me having a social life together, I can’t see you warm and friendly and sitting next to me tonight at the Wild Red Berry and Yukon Jake wrestling matches at the Hollywood Legion. No, Mrs. Shatzkin, I’ll just have to amble out of here with my curiosity about your friend and a little more faith in the innocence of William Faulkner.” “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Peters,” she said, rising. I joined her. “If you should change your mind, please feel free to call me. Am I to assume, however, that you plan to take your information about my private life to the police?”
“No,” I said, heading for the door. “I think I’ll just find Mr. Thayer Newcomb and have a chat. You wouldn’t want to make my job easier and give me an address, would you?”
Her lips tightened and her breasts rose. She was Joan of Arc defending her voices, a noble figure.
I went outside without an escort, closing the door behind me. Haliburton was at the car. He had obviously stopped the cops, but he hadn’t stopped his mind, what there was of it, from working.
“No trouble,” I said, holding my jacket open.
“No trouble,” he said meekly. “I… what did you mean about Culver City and… what did you mean?”
Haliburton was a hurt and jealous lap dog, waiting to be whipped or given an order. I wasn’t going to do either.
“I can’t talk much about it,” I said, easing into my car. He held the door firmly so I couldn’t close it. “It has something to do with a private transaction Mr. Shatzkin made.” He let go of the door and I closed it, but I opened the window to add, “Haliburton, I’d suggest you pack up your suitcase and head out someplace clean if I thought you’d listen, but you won’t listen. You can’t. The Medusa has made you stone deaf.”
“Medusa?”
“Skip it,” I said, and drove away. Like the last time, I watched Haliburton dwindle in my rearview mirror, but this time he was a slumped and defeated monster. There was no vengeance in those shoulders, only confusion.
I found a phone and reached Martin Leib, who told me to keep after the Thayer Newcomb lead though he had no great faith in it. He also asked me to stop by and brief Faulkner, who would be having bail set late in the afternoon, which meant that keeping his arrest for murder quiet would become more difficult.
“Even with county cooperation,” Leib said, “I doubt if we can keep this from the press for more than a day, possibly two at most. If so, William Faulkner will simply have to live with the publicity.”
“And Warner Brothers?” I asked.
“They will have to consider their options,” he said like a good lawyer. “Meaning, old Billy Faulkner will be dumped.”
“He is not a charity commitment for the studio,” Leib reminded me and hung up.
Faulkner was looking out his cell window when I got to the lock-up. The turnkey said I couldn’t go in. I reminded him I represented the accused’s lawyer. The turnkey said he didn’t care if I represented a rat’s ass.
“A Snopes,” Faulkner said with a dismissive glance at the turnkey.
“I’ve got a fair lead,” I told Faulkner. “You know a guy named Thayer Newcomb?”
Faulkner touched his mustache with his thumb and thought for a few seconds before saying, “I’m afraid the name has no meaning to me.”
“There’s a chance,” I said, “that he set you up or helped set you up.”
“Why on earth would a stranger go through all this trouble to try to make it look as if I had murdered Shatzkin?” Faulkner asked.
“Beats me,” I said.
“Let’s hope it does not,” he added. “I’ve been passing my time here working out my own mystery tale, which will be as orderly and logical as life is not, as orderly as a game of chess.” “Full of knights gambiting around,” I said, remembering the days of dodging my brother more than half my lifetime ago.
“Yes,” said Faulkner, “a knight’s gambit. Do you see yourself as a knight, Mr. Peters?” he said with a look that might be sadness or sarcasm, a protected look.
“No,” I said, “I see myself in the mirror as little as I can. What about you?”
“Ah,” sighed Faulkner, “I see myself in a hotel room alone with several bottles of Old Crow, and then I see myself with a small group of friends sitting up all night on a small island back home in Sardis Reservoir, turning spits, basting beef and pork, and singing ‘Water Boy.’ ”
From looking in mirrors, he had turned to looking into the wishful future.
“I’ll work on it,” I said, but Faulkner had already turned to head back to the window.
The turnkey led me out, complaining of his sore feet. I could have told him some tales of sore feet and knees, but he wouldn’t have listened. He was a talker. I was a listener.
With a stack of nickels in hand, I found a pay phone in a bar and called Shatzkin’s office. I got Mrs. Summerland and found that Thayer Newcomb was not a client. She had never heard the name. The information operator didn’t help either. I tried the large talent agencies and got nowhere. I was down to the last of my once- large stack of nickels and looking over my shoulder to see whether someone was pressuring me for the phone, when I got lucky. The Panorama Talent Agency did handle Newcomb. I said I was his brother James, a priest, in for a few hours from Dallas. The woman gave me an address, the Augusta Hotel. I blessed her and hung up. There was no answer in his room at the Augusta.
My Faulkner leads were running low. I could try Newcomb later or camp in the hotel lobby till he got there. Meanwhile, I could do a little work for Lugosi. I drank a Ballantine beer at the bar and listened to Vic ‘n’ Sade with the bartender. It was a little before one, and business was slow at that hour. I asked whether he had anything to eat, and he said he could slice up some cheese and slap it on a few pieces of bread with some mustard. I told him it sounded great. When he brought it back, it looked awful and carried a clear thumb indentation, but tasted fine, and
