Read Online Hard Case Crime: Shooting Star & Spiderweb by Robert Bloch - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Bloch
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The bullet in her back.
Chapter Seven
“All right,” said Al Thompson. “This is for the record.”
Leaving out Bannock, I gave it to him straight: about going after a story, seeing Trent, interviewing Polly Foster at Chasen’s, coming home, getting the call.
“What time did you get out here?”
“Eleven. Few minutes before. I parked in the drive. You saw my car when you came in. Rang the bell. No answer. I went around the side.”
“Why? You figure on busting in?”
“Of course not. But I told you, she’d been drinking. I had a hunch maybe she was sick, or passed out. So I looked through the window and I saw her with her head down on the table.”
“Could you tell she’d been shot?”
“No. I thought I was right, she’d passed out.”
“So you went in anyway. Why?”
“I explained that before. I glanced down and noticed the window was open. I couldn’t walk away and leave her like that—after all, she’d invited me.” I paused and stared at him. “This is straight, Thompson.”
“Nobody said it wasn’t. Keep going.”
“That’s all. I went in, walked over to her, and then I saw she was dead. Didn’t touch anything. Came right to the phone and called you.”
“Let’s go, then.”
“Where?”
“Downtown. You’ll have to tell it all over again, you know that. This time we’ll want your signature.”
“All right.”
We left. Thompson wasn’t in charge. A man named Bruce was running the show. I didn’t envy him the job. In a little while the press would be there, and the studio people, and there’d be a devil of a mess.
There’d be a devil of a mess in tomorrow’s papers, too, but I wasn’t worried about that. I had my own mess to consider.
Thompson considered it for me in the car going down. “So you couldn’t take my advice, eh?” he mused. “Had to get that story. Well, you’ve got one now, all right. And I just hope for your sake that it holds up.”
“It’ll hold,” I said.
“How come you’re living in a hotel?” he asked me. “Give up the apartment?”
“Neighbors. Objected to my typing late at night. Got a few rush assignments I had to get out in a hurry, so I decided to take a room for a week or so.”
“Why not use your office?”
“They lock the building at nine.”
“Couldn’t you get a key?”
“Never thought of it. There’s no law against moving into a hotel, is there?”
“All depends.”
“On what?”
“On what the boys turn up in your room.”
“They won’t find anything.”
“They’ll try, though.”
“Damn!” I said.
“What’s wrong now?”
“Just happened to remember. I left half a pint of good liquor up there.”
“This isn’t funny, Clayburn. We’re inclined to take our murders seriously, you know. And knocking off a name like Polly Foster is a very serious matter. Which reminds me. That autograph on the menu—what did you say was the name of the girl you were getting it for?”
“I didn’t say. I don’t know her name. She works in Bannock’s office. Harry Bannock, the agent.”
“Heard of him. But how come she knew about your date with Foster?”
“I told you. I went to Bannock because he’s got an in with the studio. Asked him to get me a pass. Instead, he arranged this dinner date. I got to kidding with his girl, and promised her an autograph.”
“I see.”
“You can ask Bannock if you like.”
“Thanks.” Thompson nodded. “I was planning on doing just that. With or without your permission.”
“Look,” I said. “I’m trying to be nice, you know. I haven’t made any trouble.”
“Oh, you haven’t, eh? You just blew the lid off the Ryan case all over again, and piled a new killing on top of it. And you haven’t made any trouble.”
“You think the two cases tie together, too, then?”
“I’m not thinking out loud right now,” Thompson said. “Let’s get this over with, first.”
We got it over with.
There’s no sense dragging anybody else along
The bullet in her back.
Chapter Seven
“All right,” said Al Thompson. “This is for the record.”
Leaving out Bannock, I gave it to him straight: about going after a story, seeing Trent, interviewing Polly Foster at Chasen’s, coming home, getting the call.
“What time did you get out here?”
“Eleven. Few minutes before. I parked in the drive. You saw my car when you came in. Rang the bell. No answer. I went around the side.”
“Why? You figure on busting in?”
“Of course not. But I told you, she’d been drinking. I had a hunch maybe she was sick, or passed out. So I looked through the window and I saw her with her head down on the table.”
“Could you tell she’d been shot?”
“No. I thought I was right, she’d passed out.”
“So you went in anyway. Why?”
“I explained that before. I glanced down and noticed the window was open. I couldn’t walk away and leave her like that—after all, she’d invited me.” I paused and stared at him. “This is straight, Thompson.”
“Nobody said it wasn’t. Keep going.”
“That’s all. I went in, walked over to her, and then I saw she was dead. Didn’t touch anything. Came right to the phone and called you.”
“Let’s go, then.”
“Where?”
“Downtown. You’ll have to tell it all over again, you know that. This time we’ll want your signature.”
“All right.”
We left. Thompson wasn’t in charge. A man named Bruce was running the show. I didn’t envy him the job. In a little while the press would be there, and the studio people, and there’d be a devil of a mess.
There’d be a devil of a mess in tomorrow’s papers, too, but I wasn’t worried about that. I had my own mess to consider.
Thompson considered it for me in the car going down. “So you couldn’t take my advice, eh?” he mused. “Had to get that story. Well, you’ve got one now, all right. And I just hope for your sake that it holds up.”
“It’ll hold,” I said.
“How come you’re living in a hotel?” he asked me. “Give up the apartment?”
“Neighbors. Objected to my typing late at night. Got a few rush assignments I had to get out in a hurry, so I decided to take a room for a week or so.”
“Why not use your office?”
“They lock the building at nine.”
“Couldn’t you get a key?”
“Never thought of it. There’s no law against moving into a hotel, is there?”
“All depends.”
“On what?”
“On what the boys turn up in your room.”
“They won’t find anything.”
“They’ll try, though.”
“Damn!” I said.
“What’s wrong now?”
“Just happened to remember. I left half a pint of good liquor up there.”
“This isn’t funny, Clayburn. We’re inclined to take our murders seriously, you know. And knocking off a name like Polly Foster is a very serious matter. Which reminds me. That autograph on the menu—what did you say was the name of the girl you were getting it for?”
“I didn’t say. I don’t know her name. She works in Bannock’s office. Harry Bannock, the agent.”
“Heard of him. But how come she knew about your date with Foster?”
“I told you. I went to Bannock because he’s got an in with the studio. Asked him to get me a pass. Instead, he arranged this dinner date. I got to kidding with his girl, and promised her an autograph.”
“I see.”
“You can ask Bannock if you like.”
“Thanks.” Thompson nodded. “I was planning on doing just that. With or without your permission.”
“Look,” I said. “I’m trying to be nice, you know. I haven’t made any trouble.”
“Oh, you haven’t, eh? You just blew the lid off the Ryan case all over again, and piled a new killing on top of it. And you haven’t made any trouble.”
“You think the two cases tie together, too, then?”
“I’m not thinking out loud right now,” Thompson said. “Let’s get this over with, first.”
We got it over with.
There’s no sense dragging anybody else along
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