“I guess not. Daisy’s got a headache. Allergy.”
“Smell of lilies, I think,” she said. “Wasn’t it awful in there? Stuffy. I hate funerals.”
“Me too.” Bannock put his hand up to his pocket, reaching for a cigar. Then he remembered and his fingers withdrew. “Call us tonight, Mark, if you hear anything.”
“Right. I may have news for you.”
“Hope so. Want a lift?”
“Brought my own heap. But thanks just the same.”
I walked out, into the late afternoon sunlight. The crowd had moved over to the side entrance around the corner, waiting for the casket to come out. The photographers were setting up their paraphernalia in the driveway.
My car was parked two blocks away. I walked toward it slowly, and it was like walking through water because of the recurrent waves of anger and confusion and pity which impeded me. I had to get rid of them, I knew. This was no time for sentiment or sentimentality. A clear head, that’s what I needed. I had to keep my mind, my eye, my ears, open.
I kept my ears open.
That’s how I heard the staccato clattering behind me. As I turned, a voice called, “Mr. Clayburn! Wait!”
I stood there, waiting until she came up, waiting until I could take a good look at the face of the girl who’d been following me. The girl whom I’d seen in the chapel, talking to Tom Trent.
“Don’t you remember me, Mr. Clayburn?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“The goldfish,” she said.
“Goldfish?”
“Yes. The one you noticed the other day at my brother’s pool.”
I looked at the face carefully now, trying to visualize it encircled by a bathing-cap. It was entirely different today: pertly piquant in makeup, framed by a brown pageboy bob, and surmounted by a small black hat. The girl was young, but there was something familiar about her features. Come to notice it, she looked a little like Tom Trent himself, in a feminine sort of way.
Apparently she read my thoughts, because she nodded quickly. “That’s right,” she said. “I’m Billie Trent. Tom’s sister.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Never mind that now. Where can we go to talk?”
Chapter Nine
I led her to the car.
“Hop in,” I said.
She paused. “I can only stay a few minutes. I told Tom I had to go to the ladies’ room.”
“Might as well sit down.”
“All right.” She climbed in. I got behind the wheel. She kept peering around.
“I’ll keep my eye on the rear view mirror,” I told her. “Don’t worry.”
“Thanks.” She looked relieved, but I noticed her hands kept moving restlessly along her lap. “Mr. Clayburn, I heard you talking to my brother just now, and of course, the other day, out at the house. I...I’m sorry for those things he said.”
“You needn’t be. He has a right to his opinion.”
“But that’s just it. He didn’t tell you what he really thought. At least, I don’t think he did. Tom hasn’t been acting natural ever since Dick Ryan was killed. It worries me.”
“You aren’t the only one,” I murmured.
“I feel foolish, coming to you like this, but I’ve just got to talk to someone. And since you’re in on this, I thought maybe you could help me.”
“All depends,” I said. “On the other hand, there’s always the police.”
She stiffened. “That’s just it. I don’t want to talk to the police. I’m...I’m afraid.”
“Why?”
“Oh, it’s not because of myself. It’s Tom. He’s got his career to think about. And ever since Dick Ryan was murdered, he just sits around and gets drunk. He used to drink a lot, but not this way, not every night.”
“Drink,” I said. “Is that all he does?”
She looked at me.
“Skip it,” I told her. “You say your brother seems to be worried. What about?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Is it his contract, something to do with the studio?”
“I don’t think so. He’s under personal contract to Mr. Kolmar, and they’re starting another picture next month. It isn’t that.”
“Do you know Kolmar?”
“I’ve seen him. He’s come to the house a few times.”
“Lately?”
“You mean, since Ryan was murdered?”
I nodded, and she went on.
“Once or twice. I wasn’t home, though.”
“Then how did you know about it? Did your brother tell you?”
“Yes. In advance. I...I always got out.”
“Don’t like Kolmar, is that it?”
“He offered me a screen test once.” Billie Trent stared at her twisting hands. “I never told Tom anything about it, because he’d be furious. So, please...”
“I get it. Kolmar made a pass at you, eh?”
“Well, not exactly. He just...suggested things.”
“I can imagine. But is there anything else, anything that might tie him in with these killings?”
“No. I don’t think so.” She was silent for a moment. “His chauffeur might know, though.”
“His chauffeur?”
“A man named Dean—Joe Dean. You must have heard of him; he was there the night Ryan was murdered.”
“I know. But he worked for Ryan, didn’t he?”
“Yes. He’s working for Mr. Kolmar now. And he’s always coming over to talk with Tom. Tom says he’s all right, but I don’t like his looks. I don’t see why Tom would want to make friends with such a man.”
“Did you ever ask Tom about him?”
She nodded. “He says Dean’s a good person to know because he hears all the studio gossip. He can tell about things before they happen.”
I sat back. “Do you happen to remember if Dean talked to your brother any time before Polly Foster was killed?”
“I don’t think so. I know Tom made some phone calls, but he didn’t say who he was speaking to. I went out for dinner that night, and I didn’t pay too much attention.”
“Out for dinner? But your brother told the police he was with you at home all evening.”
“He was. I came back around eight-thirty. We played Scrabble.”
“Was he nervous?”
“I told you, he’s always nervous. He kept going to the phone, trying to call Polly Foster.”
“Did he say why?”
“No. But of course, I read about it in the papers later. He’d called Polly Foster and told her not to see you. I guess he wanted to make sure she hadn’t.”
“What did he say about me?”
She put her head down and I could see the pink flush creeping along her neck.
“Never mind the adjectives. I mean, what did he think I was doing?”
“He thought you were trying to pull a shakedown. He thought I’d talked.”
“Talked?”
“Told someone. What I’m going to tell you now.” She turned to me and now the words came so fast I had difficulty following them. “I’m taking a big chance, Mr. Clayburn, but somebody ought to know this. Maybe they can help. There’s nobody I can trust. And I wouldn’t dare go to the police, because it might get Tom in trouble when he didn’t deserve to be. But if you’re investigating, you can find out the truth, can’t you? It may be nothing at all, and then again...I’m afraid.”
I put my hand on her shoulder. “Slow down! What is it you’re trying to tell me?”
“The night Dick Ryan died, he and Tom had a fight. And Tom came home. Gibbs—that’s the butler—taped him up and put something on his eye. Then Tom went to bed. At least, that’s what Gibbs thought, and that’s what Tom told the police. But he didn’t stay there, Mr. Clayburn. My room is down the hall, and I heard Tom get up and go out again. Around eleven o’clock. He was gone for over two hours.”
“Does your brother know you’re aware that he went out again?” I asked.