“Suit yourself. But I intend to go right on paying you, because I know if you turn anything up, you’ll tell me.” Bannock chewed his cigar. “Seems to me, you’d be anxious to do what you could to get this thing solved. The sooner the murderer is behind bars, the sooner you’ll be safe. Until then—”
“One more crack and I’ll probably pack up and leave town,” I told him. “Besides, what makes you so sure it’s the same party?”
“The police think so. The papers think so. And what other motive would he have?”
“I’m not so sure,” I said.
“You aren’t?” Daisy cupped her chin with one hand. “What makes you say that?”
“He’s just saying that to be contrary,” Bannock grunted.
“You keep quiet! I want to hear Mark’s ideas. So far he’s made sense.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Well, here’s my guess. And it’s just a guess. You know how Ryan was killed. Take the way he was shot, add the reefer butts, and you’ve got something a little bit special. Whoever murdered him must have really hated the guy. Went a little whacky, too, on the weed.
“But Polly Foster’s death was different. This was just pure, cold-blooded, premeditated murder in the first degree. Somebody wanted her silenced, and did the job, and did it quickly and efficiently. You were at the inquest; you heard the theories. Whoever killed her could have been there when I called. Or seen us together at the restaurant. Maybe I was on the list, too—if the killer could have found me at home in the apartment. But the chances are, it was someone who came to call on her; someone who knew her, knew her house, sneaked in and caught her while she was phoning. Waited until she hung up, and then—”
“Did Trent have an alibi?”
“I thought of that. And I asked Thompson. He was home, with his sister, all night. Double checked. Don’t worry, I asked about everybody, including you two.”
“That was smart.” Bannock grinned. “We get a clean bill of health?”
“I know you were playing cards with the Shermans, yes.” I grinned back. “By the way, you satisfied with my story, or do you think I killed Polly Foster?”
“Touché,” Daisy Bannock muttered.
“One thing more,” I said. “Maybe it’s a minor point, maybe not. Whoever killed her might not have gone there with that purpose in mind. He carried a gun, yes, but that could have been intended merely for effect—when he threatened her about keeping silent. Let’s say it was that way. Somebody saw us at Chasen’s, or she told somebody about meeting me before she kept the date, and that was enough of a tip-off. The killer went there to warn her about talking too much.
“Suppose he wasn’t sure she’d be alone, though. Suppose he thought I might be there with her, or somebody else. Then he might take a sneak around to look through the window. Let’s say it was when she was phoning me.
“The window was unlocked. He might have opened it and heard—heard enough for him to come inside the moment she hung up. And then...”
“Sounds logical,” Daisy said. “Doesn’t it, dear?”
“I don’t know. I’m trying to think who could possibly be involved.”
“I’m willing to play my hunches,” I murmured. “And my hunches say it has to be a friend of Polly Foster’s. Somebody close to her.”
“Then your job is clear,” Bannock said. “Start working on her friends.”
“Just like that, eh?” I scowled. “What should I do, run an ad and call a meeting?”
“No need for that. You’ll see them all tomorrow afternoon at her funeral.”
“Maybe,” I said.
Bannock put down his cigar. “Please, Mark! You know how important this is to me. I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t.”
“All right,” I answered. “I’ll go to the funeral. Unless something happens to interfere.”
“Such as what?” Daisy asked.
“Such as another killing.” I smiled. “In that case, I’ll probably be going to my own funeral instead.”
Chapter Eight
You can talk about Zanuck. You can talk about Dore Schary, Ford, Capra, Mervyn LeRoy, all the rest of them. But for my money, the top producer in Hollywood is Hamilton Brackett.
No matter how you look at it, he’s got what it takes. Talk about grosses; he’s never turned out a job yet that lost him money. Talk about art; he knows every trick in the business. His casting is superb, his handling of crowds is perfect, he knows how to wring the last ounce of drama from every situation and every scene.
And what a production staff! Some of his settings are really out of this world; his props are all genuine; his costumes beat anything Adrian ever dreamed up; his makeup artists have it all over the Westmores. Terrific public relations, too. No wonder he draws the crowds whenever one of his jobs has a showing.
Of course, he knows the real secret of production. You’ve got to build everything around a star. And when he gets the right lead for a part, he can run rings around any outfit in town.
Hamilton Brackett was doing his finest work today, but then he really had a hot attraction to feature.
Polly Foster never looked lovelier.
Wardrobe must have had a touch of genius when they suggested that simple black strapless gown, so symbolic and yet so photogenic.
Brackett’s staff must have spent hours on her makeup job: getting just the right touches to the hairdo, concentrating on the precise poignancy of her smile. Of course, they were working with a cooperative subject. Say what you will about Polly Foster, she was a trouper. She’d realize the importance of making the best appearance in her big scene.
And the scene was big. Hamilton Brackett’s stage was almost an auditorium set, with a big pipe organ, just like they used to use back in the days of the silent movies. He actually rolled out the red carpet for the center aisle, and his juicers furnished a light-setting that was colorful and effective. Whoever thought of throwing an amber spot on Polly Foster’s face deserved a bonus.
Brackett always did have an eye for color, though, and today he could give it a real workout. He was hitting with red, blue and green spots, all over the flowers. Because the flowers really made the scene. They banked the stage and the sides of the hall on both walls. You wouldn’t see a bigger display at the Tournament of Roses.
Brackett made good use of the crowds, too. He had about twenty assistant directors in formal afternoon wear, running up and down the aisles playing usher. Actually, they were grouping the audience to the best advantage. Those who had contributed the best floral offerings got the front seats. Everything according to protocol, everything to keep the distinguished guests happy and place them where the press could spot them easily.
Outside the set, on the curb, Brackett made equally good use of a dozen volunteer assistant directors wearing police uniforms. They handled the mob scenes, holding the crowd back behind the ropes strung along the sidewalk, and keeping the curb clear as the cars drove up.
Oh, it was a genuine Hamilton Brackett production, all right. His funerals were always the best show in town.
I won’t review the performance itself. Everything was flawless. No original score by Dmitri Tiomkin, but the organist knew what to do with the oldies he played. And the guy Brackett had cast for the sermon part was sensational. He had Laughton beat for delivery any day, and whoever wrote his script did a bangup job. Even managed to work in some religious stuff—that always goes over big with audiences—but mostly he kept building up to the big scene. Plugging Polly Foster, all the way. How beautiful she was, how charming, how intelligent; what a personality she had. He told about her life; made you see her as she actually was, radiant, ravishing, poised on the threshold of achievement. Then he turned on the agony, worked that old tragedy angle. By the time he finished, he had them crying. Their tongues were hanging out for a sight of her, for a great big close-up.