“No. I never dared mention it. The whole thing’s so awful.”
I patted her shoulder, then let my hand lie still as I looked at her. “What do you think?” I murmured. “Do you think he killed Dick Ryan?”
Her eyes fell. My hand tightened its grip. She jerked away, then slumped. “I don’t know, Mr. Clayburn. That’s what’s so terrible, can’t you see? I don’t know.”
I smiled at her. “Cheer up. It’s not that bad. He may have had a perfectly legitimate reason for going out again that night. Perhaps he was too shaken up to sleep. But you can understand, under the circumstances, why he wouldn’t want the police to know he left the house later on.
“At any rate, I’ll do my best to find out for you, if that’s any help. And I must thank you for telling me what you did. I know it wasn’t easy.”
“You’ve got to find out,” she whispered. “You’ve got to. I can’t stand thinking what I think, day after day. Can’t stand seeing him this way. There must be something wrong, or else why would he drink like this?”
I sighed. “You mentioned his drinking before, Miss Trent. And I started to ask you something else, then dropped it. But I’d like to ask again, because it could be important. Very important.”
“Go ahead.”
“Don’t get me wrong, now, but have you ever noticed your brother taking anything besides alcohol?”
“You mean—?”
“That’s right,” I said, gently. “Is he a narcotics addict, have you ever seen him with a reefer?”
She shook her head.
“All right. You’ve been a great help.”
“I must go. He’ll get suspicious, I’ve been away so long.”
“I understand. But from now on, I’ll keep in touch with you. You live at the house there?”
“Yes. But don’t call. He’d be furious. Let me call you. Where can I reach you?”
I hesitated, then gave her the office number. “Give me a day or two,” I said. “Maybe I can find out something. I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
Then she was out the door. I watched her trot up the street, watched her through the rear view mirror. Cute kid. And she wanted to help. A refreshing change from the old buttoned-lips routine I’d been getting. Nothing like a new routine to brighten the day.
A new routine.
I frowned. Could this be a routine, too? A different kind of one? Sure, she might be on the level; just a mixed-up minx with a problem and no shoulder to cry on. Then again, she could be a plant. Hell, how did I even know she was Trent’s sister?
I tried to expel the notion with a sigh. Mustn’t let this get me down. The way I was going, I’d end up trusting nobody. The world wasn’t all phony. There were still plenty of ordinary people around; ordinary, straightforward people who asked straight questions, gave straight answers.
Like this guy with the crewcut who stopped at the side of the car now and stuck his head through the window.
“Hey, Mister,” he said. “Can you tell me how to get over to the LaBrea Tar Pits from here?”
“Why, I guess so.” I slid over in my seat and pointed south. “You take Western Avenue down to Wilshire Boulevard, then turn west on Wilshire and—”
I turned my head. Somebody had opened the other door, next to the wheel. A small man slid into the driver’s seat next to me. He nodded and reached out, and I felt something hard press against my side.
“Sit still,” he said. “No bright ideas.”
I sat still. I didn’t have any bright ideas. No bright ideas about ordinary straightforward people who asked straight questions and gave straight answers.
“Come on, Fritz.”
The guy with the crewcut opened the door on his side and crawled in. I sat there wedged between the two of them. All at once the pressure was gone from my left side. It was replaced by pressure on my right, as the man called Fritz took over.
The small intruder started the car.
“Mind telling me where we’re going?”
Apparently he did, because he didn’t answer.
“Would you pull down that visor? The sun’s in my eye.”
Nobody pulled down the visor. Nobody stirred, or said a word. The small man drove, the big man sat there, and I could feel something pushing hard against my ribs.
“Sure you boys aren’t making a mistake? I don’t get this.”
“You will.” Fritz spoke, and the little man uttered a short bark.
We drove west on Sunset, into the sunset. The car stopped for the lights a half-dozen times. I could look into other cars, see the people passing on the sidewalk, even stare as a squadcar passed us on the left. But I couldn’t utter a sound or make a move. Not with Fritz on the job, not with that constant reminder against my ribs.
Then we turned off down a side street and headed south through a tangle of traffic. The little man drove slowly, as though he were out for a leisurely pleasure trip. Who knows, maybe this was pleasure for him? Anyway, he took his time. And all at once I realized why.
He was waiting for it to get dark.
Now I watched the light dimming. I watched the shadows lengthen on the streets of Santa Monica when we turned west, then south again. I watched the street lights of Venice, glimpsed dusk descend over the ocean. Then we were speeding along the coast highway, heading for Long Beach.
Somewhere, we turned off. Somewhere we turned off and headed for the hills. Oil country, with derricks, dotting the dunes here and there. Some of them were working, others were deserted, pumped out.
It was quite dark now. We were jolting along a back road that was no better than a trail. The dunes rose all around us. No houses out here, just empty space, and the gray dunes looming beneath a black sky.
Abruptly the road came to an end in the middle of nowhere. But the car didn’t stop. We drove on, across the sand. Drove straight ahead into more nowhere. Drove until we rounded the side of a dune and came up against a derrick. It was old and rusty and the wind whistled through the scaffolding.
The car stopped. “Out you go,” said Fritz.
I thought, This is a hell of a place to die. But I got out. Fritz was waiting for me. He took my arm and held it while the little guy came around the front of the car. I had trouble seeing either of them in the dark, but I could feel the big hand squeezing into my arm.
This isn’t happening, I thought. I’ll close my eye and when I open it again, everything will be different. I closed my eye and put my head back.
When I opened it again I could see a single star shining up above. I wished on it. Believe me, I wished on it. But I was still standing there, Fritz still held my arm and the little guy was saying, “All right, Clayburn. Let’s have some answers. Who you working for?”
They’d been fooling me. The thing against my rib hadn’t been a gun at all—just a sap. A long leather sap with a steel handle. I could see it now in the faint light, hear it thump against Fritz’s left palm as he held it in his right hand.
“Come on,” said the little guy. “Give.”
I looked up at the star. Then all at once there were a million stars, and I felt something hot running down the side of my face. Fritz caught me before I fell.
“Sample,” he said.
“Who you working for?” the little guy repeated.
I grunted. “Trade you. You tell me who you’re working for first.”
Crunch. I could hear it this time, hear it as well as feel it. Something hit the other side of my head.
“Who is it? Names.”
“Who are you?” I panted. “Joe Dean, by any chance?”
The wind whistled through the derrick. The sap whistled. The back of my neck went numb, but only for an instant. Then it was a red-hot iron bar that burned and burned, and the sap was whistling again, and I went to my knees but the little guy held me and he said, “Who you working for?” and I tried to make my tongue move.