“No. I asked him. From Ryan, or Ryan’s friends—that’s what he thought. And then, after Ryan died, something went wrong.”
“Did you tell the police this?” I muttered.
“Of course not. That’s the part I couldn’t tell anyone. You know what it would do to Tom’s reputation. I was thinking of that the other day when I came to you, hoping you could find out something without the police getting wind of it. Now that Tom’s dead, I don’t want his name blackened.”
“But you should have told them,” I said. “If it helps them to find the killer...”
She shook her head. “It wouldn’t do any good for me to say my brother was an addict. If I knew anything more than just that, yes. But that’s all. And they already have the information on Dick Ryan; that should be enough.”
“What’s their theory about your brother’s death?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. They just kept asking me questions. Who were Tom’s friends? Did he have any enemies?”
“Did he?”
“None that I know of.”
“How about him and this man Dean?”
“I don’t know.” She brushed her hair from her forehead. “You’re just as bad as the police.”
“Sorry.”
“I don’t really mean that.” Billie smiled at me. “It’s just that I’m so sick of questions, questions, questions all the time.”
“One or two more, and that’s all,” I promised. “Did they find anything out about who called your brother that last evening?”
“No. He answered the phone himself.”
“And that was the only call he got?”
She leaned forward again. “That evening, yes. But when we were leaving for the funeral, there was another.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“No. Because of what I said, about Tom’s reputation. She was nothing but a tramp. I hated her, and I wasn’t going to—”
“Who? Tell me.”
Billie hesitated. “That Mexican girl—Estrellita Juarez.”
“She phoned before the funeral?”
“Yes. I heard Tom talking to her in the next room. He didn’t speak to me about it after, but he let her name slip during the conversation.”
“What did he say?”
“I can’t remember. Something about wanting to see her, and why was it impossible. Something else, he was thanking her but he wasn’t scared.” She paused. “Yes, that’s what he said, I recall now! He wasn’t scared, and he wouldn’t think of leaving. But that doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“First sense I’ve heard,” I muttered. “Don’t you see now? The cops have been looking for this Juarez dame from the start. She disappeared right after Ryan’s death. Why? Obviously because she knows something about it and doesn’t want to be questioned. She called your brother to warn him, warn him about something or someone threatening his life. Told him to get out of town, probably.
“No wonder he was nervous; that, plus being deprived of weed. Then, sometime during the evening, he got another call. He went somewhere and the warning came true.”
Billie Trent frowned. “Then you think I should go to the police now and tell them about that call?”
It was my turn to frown. “You don’t want to, do you? Because your brother and Juarez were...?”
She nodded.
“All right. Let me handle it. I’ve got a hunch that even if the cops know she’s still in town, they won’t be able to find her. Even if they do, she wouldn’t talk. Maybe I’ll have better luck. At least, it’s worth a try.”
“You’ll be careful?”
This was my day, all right. Two women in a row telling me to be careful. I gave her hand a final pat. “Sure. Careful Clayburn, that’s me.” We got up and left the restaurant. “Can I drop you off?”
“No. I’m staying in town, at Gerry Summer’s house, until after the funeral. You’ll be there?”
I’d forgotten all about it. “Yes,” I said. “Tomorrow?”
“That’s right.”
“See you then.”
We parted on the corner. I went back to my office, and read the mail. I was particularly interested in a little bulletin from the editorial office of an eastern newspaper. They were starting a Sunday supplement and indicated they were open to the submission of short stories. Their requirements specifically emphasized that they were not interested in murders, crimes of violence, sexual transgressions, marital infidelity; no profanity or drinking in the stories, and absolutely nothing offensive to religious organizations or reflecting upon the morals and integrity of any group.
I did a little wondering about what would happen if they should apply the same standards to the real life stories on their front page, and then forgot it. Maybe they had something there; maybe their readers wanted a diet of pap for escape. Maybe they felt safer if they sat back and closed their eyes to the terrifying truth all around them.
But I couldn’t. I knew too much of the truth, because I’d been a part of it. And I had the rather stubborn personal conviction that the more people who knew the truth, the better. The truth about what makes people dope, and drink, and deviate and dissemble and destroy. Destroy...
I picked up the phone and called Bannock’s house. The maid answered.
“Hello, Sarah, this is Mr. Clayburn. Is Mr. Bannock there?”
“No sir, he’s out for the evening.”
“Mrs. Bannock?”
“She’s out, too.”
“Thank you. Tell Mr. Bannock I’ll get in touch with him tomorrow.”
That was that. Nothing to do now but go home and wait for tomorrow.
I locked the office and went downstairs.
Without realizing it, I’d had my luck working with me when I called and found Bannock was out. Because if he’d been home I’d have talked to him. And I wouldn’t have reached the street just when I did. Just in time to see the squad car pull up behind my heap.
I was out the door and down the street before anyone noticed. They didn’t go up right away; they were opening the door of my car. It took three cops to do it. One of them opened the glove compartment and brought out Kolmar’s gun. I could see him pointing at it, saying something.
He put it in his pocket and sat there in the front seat. The other two cops started for the doorway of the office building. I didn’t wait to see them go in. I knew all I needed right now.
Kolmar had started something. Probably cooked up some story about me coming out there and attacking him and Dean and stealing his gun. That’s a criminal offense. At least, it would be criminal enough to get me locked up. Locked up and out of the way.
So they’d come looking for me at the office. They’d be looking for me at the apartment, at the hotel. Technically now, I was a fugitive from justice.
What does a fugitive from justice do?
I know what I did. I walked over to the Hotel Mars and took a room under the name of Orville Wright. It was that kind of a fleabag. I could have brought in a blonde and registered her with me as my brother Wilbur and nobody would ask any questions. Any more than they did when they saw I didn’t have any baggage. Five bucks on the line in advance; that’s all they cared to know about.
I went upstairs and sat down in my crummy little room and spread my crummy little assets on the crummy little bed. Forty-four dollars and twelve cents in cash. A driver’s license, but no car any more. A key to an office which I wouldn’t dare to use. My own gun was up there, in the desk. A social security card, but no feeling of being socially secure to go with it.
There wasn’t much security left for me now, I realized; not with my name out, and my description. This eye-patch was easy to spot anywhere. I didn’t have much chance. And I didn’t have much time.
That was the rub. If I intended to do anything, I’d have to work fast from now on. The police were looking for me. Kolmar and his pals were looking for me. The murderer was looking for me, or was that last remark redundant? I didn’t know, but I’d better find out in a hurry. Somewhere in the streets below a siren wailed. I closed the window, pulled down the blinds and went to bed. That kept the siren out of everything.