“Then I had my trouble, and you didn’t phone me. You didn’t come to see me, or write me, or anything. Neither did anyone else I knew. They had their own affairs to handle, and they just forgot about me. Good old Hollywood custom.” I shrugged. “No, I’m not sore at you—sweetheart.”
For the second time, Harry Bannock looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry, Mark. Honest to God, I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. Forget it. Now that I’ve said my little piece, I feel better. But what can I do for you? Business? Want to buy a story?”
“That’s right, Mark.” He took out a cigarette case, flipped it open, extended it. “I want to buy a story.”
“For one of your stable? Looking for a vehicle for a picture, is that it? I’ve got a few originals knocking around here that you might—”
“No. It’s a true story I’m after.”
“You mean one of those true-detective yarns?”
“In a way. Only it hasn’t been written yet. And it’s never going to be written. I don’t want to see it on paper, either. I want you to tell it to me.”
“Don’t be coy, Harry. What’s this all about?”
“I told you. I want to buy a true story from you. The story of a man named Dick Ryan.”
“Dick Ryan?” I took a deep drag and let the smoke out slowly. “But I was in the hospital when it happened. I read the papers, and that’s all I know about it.”
“That’s all anyone knows about it,” Bannock said. “I want the facts. And I’m willing to pay you to find out for me.”
“Ryan was murdered,” I told him. “There was a big scandal. The police investigated but they couldn’t pin it on anybody. That was six months ago, and now you show up and ask me to solve it. Why?”
Bannock grinned. “Call it curiosity.”
I shook my head. “I don’t buy that. Come on, let’s have it, was Ryan a client of yours?”
“No.”
“Then what do you care? He got his name smeared in the news, but it’s all over with now, and forgotten. Why bother?”
Bannock stood up. “I want his name cleared, Mark. And solving the case will do it. I think he was framed as well as murdered. I think—”
“Save it for the cops,” I said. “Which reminds me. We do have a police department here, you know. Understand they even have one of those newfangled Homicide Bureaus. Why don’t you ask them for a little help?”
“Believe me, I have. But they couldn’t do anything. Or said they couldn’t. And meanwhile, there it sits. Ryan’s dead; they can’t find the killer; his name is mud all over town, all over the country. I’d like to set the record straight.”
I rose and faced him. “Big-hearted Harry. Fighting to defend a dead man’s honor! How like you that gesture is! Yes, and how dark it is here in the pig’s hinder.”
“Wait a minute now...”
“I’m waiting,” I said. “I’m waiting until I hear the real reason. Just where are you tied in on the Ryan murder, Harry? Did you do it? Does somebody suspect you? Do you know who the killer is?”
“All right.” Bannock sat down again. “I’ll show you the cards—the whole deck.”
“You’d better. I’ve got a right to know what you want me to get into.”
“It’s like this. I don’t know who killed him, or why. Actually, I don’t much care. Ryan was a louse, for my money. Everybody knew he played around, and there were probably a dozen husbands who’d have put a bullet into him, and two dozen wives. That part’s all right with me. But it’s the tie-in. You know, when they found him they found those reefer butts. And that’s what hurts. They began to talk about a dope ring, say that he was on the stuff. It isn’t true. Everybody who knew Ryan swears he never monkeyed around with weed or anything else. But the story’s out and nothing will change it except the facts. The police can’t give them to me, and I need them, bad.”
“Why, Harry? If he wasn’t your client...”
“He is, now.”
“But he’s dead.”
“Dick Ryan’s dead, yes. But Lucky Larry lives on. Or can live on. When this murder came out, when the scandal broke, Ryan’s studio yanked all his pictures back from the exhibitors. The whole Lucky Larry series was put on the shelf. Poison at the box office when a cowboy star gets that kind of publicity. At least that’s what Abe Kolmar thought, over at Apex. You know him, don’t you, Mark?”
“I know of him, yes. Little indie producer, isn’t he?”
“That’s right. The Lucky Larry flicks were his biggest grossers. When he shelved them he was hard up for dough. But he figured there was no other way because of the stink being raised, and I didn’t try to talk him out of it. Instead, I went there and I bought the whole business, outright: lock, stock and negative.”
“You bought—?”
Bannock nodded. “Thirty-nine Lucky Larry pictures, at five grand apiece, with the rights to the name and future production thrown in. One hundred and ninety-five thousand dollars I paid. And in cash.”
“You’re crazy!”
“That’s what everybody told me, including my ever-loving wife. Until I told her that See-More TV Productions were willing to buy the series for three hundred and ninety thousand. Ten Gs apiece, plus five percent of all future rentals. Now do you get the angle?”
“I get it. You double your money, and then some. Because westerns are hot stuff for TV rental. And the Lucky Larry name will sell.”
“Right. That’s exactly how I figured it. But at the time, I didn’t figure there’d be quite as much of a stink raised. Now See-More keeps stalling me. They’re leery of buying and using a star who’s tied in with dope addiction. You know the angle: kids see westerns, parents object, they write to the sponsor, sponsor cancels out. It’s a rough deal all around.”
“And that’s why you want Ryan’s name cleared.”
“Now you’ve got it, sweetheart.”
“But why do you come to me? If the cops won’t or can’t help, there are plenty of big private investigation outfits you could work with.”
“Too risky.” Bannock ground out his cigarette. “Why do you suppose the case died so suddenly? One day the papers were full of it: big investigation planned on all this dope ring stuff. Next day, nothing. You ought to be able to figure the answer, Mark. It means things were getting a little too hot. Getting a little bit too close to some of the big wheels in the industry who were mixed up in narcotics. We’ve got a couple of stars who carry a monkey on their backs, and a few producers and directors, too. Somebody passed the word along to lay off.”
“You mean they fixed the cops?”
“Of course not. But they did the next best thing, they clammed up tight. And they’ve stayed clammed up ever since. Do you think they’d talk to a big-time investigating outfit? You know better than that.
“But a little guy—a guy who’s known in the industry—he can get around and nobody will bother him. Particularly if he gets to them under false pretenses—say he wants to discuss a story, or something. I need a little guy, Mark. An honest little guy. So I came to you.”
I shrugged. “Very touching. But let me remind you of a few things. I’m still a writer’s agent. Sure, I’ve got a permit to carry a pistol and a license for private investigation, but I only use it when I’m working on a true-detective assignment. It helps me to get in and go after material for an article. I don’t know anything about narcotics. I’ve never tangled with a murderer in my life. With this eye-patch I couldn’t use my pistol to shoot Charles Laughton in the belly at five paces.”