That was the deal, of course. The whole gang began to file past the coffin for that close-up.
I went along with the rest. I was way in the rear, naturally, but I kept my eye open. I saw Bannock and Daisy, and the little girl from Bannock’s office who wouldn’t be getting her autographed menu unless the police released it from the exhibits they were holding as evidence.
I was looking for other faces, though. Gradually, as I worked my way up the line approaching the casket, I spotted a few.
Tom Trent was there, in a black suit minus the monogram initials. He was accompanied by a small brunette I couldn’t identify, and he didn’t see me. Near the head of the procession was a chunky little redfaced man with a hairline receding almost to the back of his neck. I recognized Abe Kolmar, from Ace. He’d been Polly Foster’s producer, and Dick Ryan’s too. His eyes were red, and he kept twisting a big handkerchief in his hands.
I saw Al Thompson, too—or, rather, he saw me. He wasn’t in line, just standing there leaning against a floral arch as I went past. He nodded.
“What brings you here?” I whispered.
“Same as you. Looking around.” He joined me in the file. “See anybody?”
“Whole town’s here.”
“What about Estrellita Juarez? Joe Dean?”
“Dean was here, but he didn’t stay. We questioned him, you know.”
“Clean?”
Thompson shrugged. “He’s out, if that’s what you mean.”
“And Juarez?”
“Can’t locate her. We’re trying.” Thompson scowled. “Quit needling me. That’s official business.”
“My business, too. You might say I have a personal interest at stake now.”
“Well, I wish you’d lay off. Before you’re laid out.”
“Is there a flip to that record?”
“Never mind the repartee. If you’d listened to my advice at the beginning, you wouldn’t have had any trouble. And maybe Polly Foster wouldn’t have had any trouble, either. Ever think about that angle, Clayburn?”
I’d thought about it, all right. I’d been thinking about it ever since the murder.
That’s why I kept trying to kid myself along, building up a line about this being a Hamilton Brackett production. Anything to take my mind off the facts, the cold, hard facts of the case.
Now it was my turn at the casket, and I couldn’t pretend any longer. I was looking down at the cold, hard facts in the silver case. The cold death mask, the hard death mask with the smiling lips. The lips I’d threatened to wash with soap. The lips I could conceivably have kissed.
But that was gone now. That mouth had been washed out for the last time. And when I thought about what would soon be kissing those lips...
My fault, all my fault.
Like hell it was!
I hadn’t killed her. That was the murderer’s responsibility, and neither Thompson nor anybody else was going to make me take the rap.
I looked at Polly Foster a long time. At least, it seemed like a long time because I thought of so many things. I thought about a little girl with brown hair who was always bothered by the boys. Who grew up and was still bothered by the boys—the wrong kind of boys—until she got the wrong kind of slant on things. I thought about a woman who swore too much and drank too much and probably slept around too much, and I thought that maybe she did it because she was afraid too much. Afraid of a world that valued her only for her beauty. A ghoul-world, always after her body; wanting to photograph it, wanting to see it, wanting to paw it. Afraid, perhaps, of one particular ghoul who wanted to destroy it. And who succeeded.
I was sorry about that, but I wasn’t to blame. And as I took my final glance, I wasn’t even sorry any more. I was angry. “Lay off,” Thompson had said. That’s what all of them wanted me to do, including the guy who had sat in my apartment with a monkey on his back.
I stared at Polly Foster for the last time and if the dead can read minds, she knew that I was telling myself—and her—that I would never lay off now.
Then I moved on.
Thompson went over to talk to Abe Kolmar. He and most of the other big shots were going out to the cemetery. I didn’t feel like it. This new, sudden feeling of anger made me want to slug somebody. For the first time I was beginning to understand the meaning of murder.
Sure, like the hammy preacher said, it was tragic to see someone ruthlessly trample a white rose. But it’s always a tragedy, even when someone tramples a weed. No one has that right. And who is even fit to sit in judgment, to separate the weeds from the roses?
Weeds. Marijuana was a weed. A weed that made some people high, made them feel that they did have the right to judge, made them feel like trampling. I knew.
And I was going to find out more. Somehow, some way, I’d find out.
I headed for the door, almost bumping into a tall man who stood in the outer entry, talking to a girl.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“So it’s you again,” the man said. “The snooper!”
I stared into Tom Trent’s face.
“I ought to let you have it,” he said. “I ought to beat your brains out.”
“You’ve got the wrong party,” I answered, softly. “Save it for the killer.”
“One more word out of you and—”
“I know,” I said. “I know how you feel. I’m sorry. And I’m going to do something about it. Can’t you forget what happened long enough to help?”
“I’ve talked to the police. Any help I can give they’ll get. Now beat it, snooper, before I change my mind. I don’t want to be caught dead talking to you.”
I turned away.
Harry and Daisy Bannock came up to me as I reached the door.
“Saw you talking to Trent just now,” Harry told me. “Did he have anything to say?”
I shook my head. “He’s still sore. But he’ll cool down. At least, I hope he does. Because I’m positive he knows something about this business.”
“You suspect him?” Daisy asked.
“Of the actual killing? No. But there’s something he knows that he didn’t want to leak out. That’s why he called Polly Foster and warned her not to talk.”
“What’s your plan?” Bannock asked.
“Nothing definite. But I intend to have another visit with Trent, and soon. I’ll get the story out of him some way.”
“You sound pretty determined all of a sudden,” Daisy said. “Yesterday you wanted to quit.”
“I’ve been thinking it over. When I saw Polly Foster lying there in the coffin...”
Harry Bannock stared at me. His voice was deliberately lowered when he spoke. “Don’t tell me you went for her? That little tramp?”
I shook my head. “No. I didn’t go for her. But she wasn’t a tramp. She was a human being, a kid who came up the hard way, maybe even the wrong way. But she came up, and she deserved to live. Everybody does. Nobody should get a slug in the back. And then a bad name on top of it. Harry, you’re the last person I’d expect to talk about Polly Foster. You want Dick Ryan’s name cleared, don’t you? Well, so do I. I want everybody’s name cleared.”
“Dig the shining armor,” Harry said. Then he reddened. “I’m sorry, Mark. You’re right. I’m talking like a heel. Forget it. Do what you think best, and I’ll back you up all the way. You want me to smooth things over with Trent for you?”
“Never mind, let me handle it,” I answered. “I’ll work things out. The sooner I can get him to help, the better.”
“Coming out to the cemetery?” Daisy asked.
“No. I’m going back to my place and rest up. You driving there?”