HE STAYED THERE near the body, keeping the curious kids back, until the law arrived.
He knew both of the detectives who came. They were out of the West Side Station, both sergeants. The brighter one of the duo was Sergeant Krivick, and he took Joe to one side, while the other man went down to wait for the ambulance.
Krivick said, “You live out here, or are you here officially?”
“I live out here. I left the Department some time ago, Ernie. I was in the clubhouse when we heard this shot. One of the men in the clubhouse turned on the lights while I went outside. And there he was. He’s Bruce Dysart, a movie producer. Releases out of Paramount, I guess.”
Krivick nodded. “A big, big man. Headline material, Joe. Anything you know about it?”
Joe took a breath. “Well—” He paused.
Krivick said softly, “Murder, Joe. I don’t have to tell you about murder. No friends in this kind of case.”
“All right. Dysart was supposed to come here, tonight, to meet a Miss Sharon Cassidy. She—or at least he thought she had leaked some information about a production of his. He was hot about it. She was telling us the story in the kitchen, there, when we heard the shot.”
“She was admitting Dysart was hot at her?”
“That’s right. Yesterday, I was at the beach with Dysart and this Sharon, and they quarreled about it then. And Dysart mentioned somebody else, a man with horn-rimmed glasses who must have passed the information on to Sharon. Dysart said he’d ‘take care of him,’ whatever he meant by that.”
“I see. And Joe, what were you doing here?”
Joe studied Krivick a second before replying. “I joined this little theater group which meets here. There’s a rehearsal tonight. That was some question, Ernie.”
“Standard. You know that, Joe. Yesterday, you’re with Dysart. Is that your kind of crowd? You a millionaire, Joe?”
“I guess. Just about. Didn’t you hear about the inheritance?”
“No.” In the dimness, Krivick studied him. “What’s this-a gag?”
“Hell, no. Don’t you guys get any news on the West Side? I inherited a wad from an aunt, quit the Force, and bought a home out here.”
“I’ll be damned.” Krivick took out a pack of cigarettes, started to withdraw one, then paused and offered the pack to Joe. “Hey, I’d better be good to you. Millionaire. A dumb Irish dick a millionaire. Holy Christ!” Joe laughed. “Sure. You get rough with me, I’ll get the Times on your neck. You’re talking to royalty now.”
Krivick took a deep puff of his cigarette and brought his notebook up into the light coming through the kitchen windows. “Who was in the kitchen when you heard the shot?”
“Norah Payne, Walter Hamilton, Sharon Cassidy, and yours truly.”
Krivick wrote them all down. “What do you know about them?”
“Norah’s a realtor, Hamilton’s in the investment business, Sharon Cassidy is an actress, and I’m just an ordinary big shot.”
“And how about the rest of them? On the stage? In the auditorium? Or maybe out in the back, hunting?”
“I don’t know, Ernie. I’d only been here a few minutes.” “And this guy with the horn-rimmed glasses—who is he?”
“I don’t know. He isn’t a member of the Players, I’m sure. That’s the only way Dysart identified him yesterday.”
Krivick was facing the kitchen windows and he said, “That wouldn’t be the man, in there next to that redhead, now, near the stove?”
Joe turned to look into the lighted kitchen. A tall man, with a hooked, thin nose and black hair in a crew cut was standing next to Sharon Cassidy. They were talking very earnestly. The man wore horn-rimmed glasses.
“I never saw him before,” Joe said. “It very well could be. That’s Sharon Cassidy he’s talking to.”
“Uh-huh. Some woman, eh? Know her well, Joe?”
“No.”
“You’d like to, I’ll bet. Wait here.” Krivick went to the doorway and through it, and Joe saw him gesture to the tall man.
Joe watched Sharon as the man left her side. Her body was held stiffly erect, and her eyes followed the pair all the way to Joe.
Here, Krivick said, “Could I have your name, please?”
“Alan Dysart.”
A pause, and then Krivick said, “You are related to the—the deceased?”
“He was my uncle.”
“Oh. I see. I’m sorry that I have to—”
“Don’t be,” Dysart said brusquely. “I can’t think of anyone who meant less to me.”
“Oh? You didn’t get along?”
“Definitely not. We never have.”
“I see. What did you do when you heard the shot?”
“I didn’t hear it. I’ve just arrived.” “From home?”
“Well, not immediately from home. I spent some time in a bookstore in Santa Monica.” “Before that, you were home?” “Yes.”
“You live with your uncle?”
“Of course not. We saw as little of each other as possible.”
“Mmmm-hmmm. What’d you do with the gun?”
“I have no gun. Officer, are you suggesting that I—”
Krivick waved a flat hand. “Of course not.” He raised his voice to a uniformed officer who was standing near the kitchen door. “Come here, Deke.”
As the officer started over, Krivick turned back to Dysart. “Why did you tell Sharon Cassidy about your uncle casting Week End Widow?”
“It was just a conversation we had. I didn’t think it had any significance beyond proving to her how unscrupulous and completely commercial he was. It was just a symbol, you might say, of his piratical personality.”
“You might say it,” Krivick told him. “Not me.” He turned to the uniformed officer. “Tell Adams I want a paraffin test on Mr. Dysart here, and scrapings from his shoes and both shoe prints. And then I want him held until I get back to the station.”
Dysart stood there a second, staring at Krivick, and then the uniformed man touched his arm. “This way, Mr. Dysart.”
Alan Dysart’s laugh was short. “Dick Tracy. Oh, gawd—” He turned and went with the officer.
Krivick pulled out another cigarette. “Dick Tracy? I noticed his muddy shoes. That’s more in the Sherlock Holmes line. Right, Joe?”
“You looked pretty good there for a while,” Joe admitted. “I’d say maybe a Texas League Philip Marlowe.”
“I hope he’s guilty, anyway,” Krivick said. “I hate these bright bastards.” Joe said nothing.
“He hated his uncle. I never heard anything bad about Bruce Dysart, and I been in this town a long, long time. Right, Joe?”
“Right. You’ve been in this town a long, long time. Going to give ‘em all paraffin tests?”
“All but the four in the kitchen. I guess your word on them is good enough for me. How soon after the shot did you get outside?”
“I’d say ten or fifteen seconds. No more than that. And there wasn’t anybody in sight but the kids on the playground. And they were a long ways off. And he was too low on the hill for anybody to nail him from the playground.”
“I see. Guess I’ll talk to that redhead. Want to go along?”
“Not unless you order it. I feel like Judas right now. These people are my friends.”
“Thought you didn’t know her well.”
“Not well enough. But I know her. And the other girl who was in the kitchen about ten minutes ago is a real friend of mine.”
“That would be the blonde?”
“Norah Payne, yes. A very fine girl. And the man is Walter Hamilton, a highly respected gent in these parts.”
“My, my.” Krivick shook his head. “You do travel in elite circles, Mr. Burke.” He walked off toward the kitchen.
Then, from the shadows of the overhang near the office, Norah came over to stand next to Joe. “Isn’t it horrible?”
“Yes. I’ve seen a lot of it. But I’ve never been involved this closely. It doesn’t figure.” He brought out a package of cigarettes and lighted one for her.
“Thanks.” She looked up at him. “The bird with the horn-rimmed glasses Dysart talked about—that would be Alan Dysart, wouldn’t it?”
“I guess it would. Know anything about him?”
“Not much. Dabbled in experimental theater, worked as a writer at Columbia, tried painting.” Her voice faltered. “God, I’m scared.”
From the direction of the slope, a flash bulb went off.
Joe said, “Nobody’s after you, honey. Calm down.”
In the kitchen, a photographer and reporter were talking to Sergeant Krivick. Sharon still stood near the stove.
“Headline kill,” Joe said. “This will make a seven-day wonder in all the papers. I told the sergeant about the beach yesterday, and what Sharon admitted tonight. He’ll want to talk to you.”
Then, from the direction of the slope, Joe saw the lads in white with their burden, and he took Norah’s arm. “Let’s go into the auditorium.”
“I want the air,” she protested, and then looked past him and must have seen the stretcher bearers. “All right.”
Two uniformed officers were chasing the kids out of the auditorium, ordering them to go directly home. Along the far wall, the other members of the Players sat in a long row on folding chairs. A Kiss for Kate had a large cast.
At a table set under the basketball backboard, Krivick’s partner was questioning Larry Puma. He finished with him and gestured toward the girl in the first chair along the wall.
Larry came back to where Joe and Norah were sitting. He looked worried.
Joe told him, “Routine questioning, Larry. You’ve nothing to fear unless you’re guilty.”
“And no reason to be guilty,” Norah added. “What is it they look for, Joe? Isn’t it motive, means, and opportunity?”
Joe nodded, studying the line of players along the wall. Puma said, “This is the night I had to be late. This night I couldn’t be here and on the stage when Dysart dies. Typical Larry Puma timing. What’s that business with the wax, Joe?”
“Are they doing that here?”
“In the property room. They did it to me and to Sharon and Walter Hamilton already.”
“It’s a way of searching for burned powder. An old gun will have some blow-by. Did you hear the shot, Larry?”
“I think so. It was about the time I turned off Sunset. I wouldn’t hear it from that distance, though, would I?”
“I think so. Sam keep you working late tonight?”
“No. What is this? Are you back on the Force, or something?”
“No. I was thinking that if you were in hearing range of the shot, and coming up this way on Alma Real, you might have noticed somebody running away from this direction. He sure as hell got out of here in a hurry.”
“That would be a breeze,” Larry said. “I can get out of sight from that basin in ten seconds.”
“How do you know? Did you ever try it?”
Larry looked over at Joe. “Sure. Practicing for the murder.” He took a package of cigarettes from his pocket and lighted one. “Now that you have the opportunity established, how about the motive?”
Norah said lightly, “Well, you’re such a fan of Sharon’s, and Dysart was coming over here to talk to her and what he had to say wasn’t going to be pleasant. So, naturally, out of your deep love for Sharon, you intercepted him and—” Norah stopped short and put a hand on Joe’s knee. “Stop me; I’m getting hysterical.”
Larry looked at her curiously. “Is that true—Dysart was coming over here to see Sharon?”
Joe nodded.
Larry shook his head. “Another idol fallen. I always thought he put out good pictures.”
“He did,” Norah said quietly. “As good as any profitable picture can be. He wasn’t coming here to talk contract, Larry. He had a bone to pick with Sharon.”
“Okay. I can mourn him, then. There aren’t many left with his integrity.”
Joe said, “You and young Dysart don’t agree. He thinks his uncle was a pirate, unscrupulous and completely commercial.”
Larry nodded. “I know the kid. He knows less about more subjects than any other phony his age.” Larry took a deep puff of his cigarette. “If I were a cop, he’d be my number one pick. The kid has no balance.”
“He’s no kid, really,” Joe said. “He must be twenty-five.”
“Some people are kids at eighty,” Larry explained. “Including some of the cinema’s finest ‘arteests.’ Emotional adolescents.”
Joe stood up. “If Sharon and Hamilton had a paraffin test, I’d better have one, too. I’ll be back.”
In the kitchen, Krivick was finishing his questioning of Sharon, and Joe told him what he wanted.
Krivick shrugged. “I don’t get it, Joe.”
“I don’t want you to play any favorites, Ernie. Hamilton and Sharon were in the kitchen with me. I’m just as suspect as they are.”
“Okay. Testing them wasn’t my idea; my partner got to it before I got a chance to talk to them. But if you insist, a man of your standing in the community—” He went over to open the door that led to the prop room. “Mr. Joe Burke next, Charley. He demands it.”
From the next room, Charley Adams said, “It will be a pleasure. Maybe we can frame the plutocrat.”
As they waited for Charley to finish the job he was on, Joe said, “Maybe you shouldn’t have sent all those kids home, Ernie. Some of the kids these days—”
“Sure. But they were too far away, you said. And it couldn’t have been done from a distance; there’s powder burns. So—?”
“So they can run like hell, those kids, and—”
Krivick said quietly, “You want to handle it, Joe? I’ll gladly step out.”
“Sorry,” Joe said. “You’re right—I’m making like an indignant taxpayer.”
From the next room, Charley called, “Okay. Send the big man in, Ernie.”
When he went out again, there was a reporter talking to Larry and Norah. Joe was in time to hear the reporter ask, “This Dysart was a member of the Players?”
Larry shook his head. “No. He lived in the area, but he wasn’t active in our group.”
The reporter glanced at Joe, glanced away and then back, and. his eyes grew thoughtful. “I’ve seen you somewhere.”
“No kidding? I’m out of Central Homicide. Beat it.”
“Cut it out. I know you now. Joe Burke, the millionaire cop. What’s this, a hobby with you now, this murder?”
“They call me in on the tough ones,” Joe said.
“I’ll bet. Seriously, what’s the story? It should make a great angle.”
“I live out here,” Joe said. “When I heard the sirens, I had to come. That’s all there is. That’s the gospel.”
“All right,” the reporter said. “I’ll get it from Krivick, anyway. That man loves ink.”
Norah said, “Are we supposed to hang around, Joe? I’m getting awfully jittery. I could use a drink.”
“I’ll ask Sergeant Krivick,” Joe told her. “I could use a drink myself.”
“And I,” Larry Puma said. “Put in a word for me, too, Joe, my friend.”
Krivick said it was all right, and they left. Larry had his car, and lived in Santa Monica; he told them he’d meet them at the Melody Club.
It was a low-ceilinged place, a half block off Wilshire, with a colored three-piece combo playing quietly to themselves in one corner.
It was peaceful, it was dim, and the rhythmic melody from the trio was soothing. They all ordered bourbon and water.
Larry said, “I hate to be callous, but we’ve lost another night of rehearsal. And Lord, how we need it.”
Norah said, “Being callous on the cheerful side, it will sell out the house for all three nights, I’ll bet.”
“But with what kind of audience?” Joe asked.
Norah smiled. “The only kind we care about, a paying audience. We can cut the comps to nothing on this one.”
Joe stirred uncomfortably in his chair. “Look, a man is dead. He died tonight.”
They both stared at him gravely. Then Larry said, “That’s right. You’re right. All I know is two-bit theater and Sam’s Shoe Salon. That’s become my world.”
Norah said to Joe, “You must have seen a lot of corpses.”
“I never could get used to it, though. Actually, I was too much of a softie for Homicide.”
Norah nodded. “I think you would be. My glass is empty.”
They emptied some glasses. Not crowding it, not going over the edge. Norah and Larry talked theater and it made good listening for Joe. The combo talked melodically to themselves and to anyone who wanted to listen.
The horror of the body on the slope grew dimmer, the memory of the crowding kids and the glaring bulbs began to recede.
A little before midnight, Larry said, “Well, I work for a living. And Sam doesn’t hold with tardy clerks.” He left some money on the table. “See you at rehearsal Thursday.”
They watched his big back disappear through the door, and then Norah looked at Joe. “I’ve had enough, too. Will you be able to drive all right?”
“Very well. Whisky never gets to me in less than quarts.”
“Big, strong man.” She rose. “Though I’m not drunk, by any standards, I feel sentimental.”
He studied her. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe the night air will make me sane again.”
They went out and the night was warm, the wind still coming from the desert. Norah said, “We haven’t had a winter like this since 1939.”
“When you were four years old?”
“When I was sixteen. Now you know that about me. I should be old enough to know my mind, shouldn’t I?”
“Don’t make an issue of it. I haven’t suggested a thing.”
“No. But if it were Sharon, walking here with you—Oh, I’m talking nonsense.”
He opened the door on the curb side for her. “I like the sound of it. You are the first woman I’ve met who seduced herself.”
“I haven’t. I’ve known you forty-eight hours, Joe Burke, and I’m not a tramp. I have gone through a horrible emotional experience tonight, and then the whisky—” She paused, as he walked around to open the other door and climb in behind the wheel.
She stared through the windshield. “Take me home, quickly.”
“Yes, m’am.” He kicked the hundred and eighty horses into life. “Isn’t it a beautiful night? From my living-room, I can see all the coast lights, way down to Palos Verdes. And there’ll be a moon, over the water. And you can hear the waves—”
“Shut up.”
He cut down to the Coast Highway, and they could see the path of the full moon on the water. Joe asked, “Want a cigarette?”
“No, thank you.”
“I’m getting to like that Larry Puma. He’s no dummy about show business, is he?”
“Larry is very discerning and knowledgable about the theater.”
Joe laughed. “Duchess, who are you fighting?”
“It’s ‘whom.’”
“Who’s hoom?”
Silence, and then she laughed faintly. “You bum. You Irish bum.”
“Want a cigarette?”
“All right. Friends, aren’t we, Joe? Always friends?”
“Always. And don’t be anything you don’t want to be with me. And be anything you do want to be. I’m not a complete slob, you know.”
“I know.” She’d lighted a cigarette, and he could feel her eyes on him. “And you are handsome. And clean, no doubt. And gentle?”
“Don’t talk it to death. When I get to the stop light on Via, you can say ‘turn left,’ if you want. That’s the way I live, to the left. Otherwise, I drive straight on and deposit you safely at your apartment. But don’t yak about it; that’s too phony for me.”
“All right, Joe. Lordy, what a beautiful night.”
He nodded. They’d stopped for the light at Chautauqua, and when it changed, he turned right, climbing toward Sunset. He wondered if she was thinking about Dick Metzger, who’d driven his Jaguar off this cliff three years ago.
At the bend of Sunset, they stopped for the sign, and she said, “Alan Dysart is the one that sergeant suspects, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know. The sergeant doesn’t like him.”
“So, could he railroad him?”
“No.”
“Is this just loyalty to the Force, Joe?”
“No. Sergeant Krivick’s a pretty good man. Even if he wanted to frame somebody, it would be impossible, after the murder. And that isn’t done, despite what you read in the newspapers.”
She sighed. “I have kind of a soft spot for the Alan Dysart type, young men in revolt. Haven’t you?”
“No. I’ve jailed too many of them.”
Talk, above the pound of his heart. The car moved steadily, though his hands on the wheel trembled. She talked, but the words had no meaning to him.
They passed the theater and the shopping district and the light on Via was flashing in a steady caution warning. The light grew bigger and Norah grew quiet.
Then, just as the front wheels entered the intersection, she said, “Turn left, Joe.”
Not another word from either of them all the way to his house. There, as he closed the front door behind them, she said, “No lights. I can see the place in the morning.”
And a little later: “Be gentle with me, honey. It’s been three years.”
• • •
In the morning, when he wakened, he was alone in the room and he wondered if she’d left during the night. A remarkable girl. For a moment he thought of the dilettante who’d gone over the cliff, and the thought pained him.
She was too nice a girl for playboys. And too nice for a plaything. He remembered Walter Hamilton’s, “She’s a really fine girl—” Well, damn it, he hadn’t pressured her. He was glad it had happened, but he hadn’t laid any plans for it. And now she was gone.
He thought—until he smelled the coffee. And heard the closing of the refrigerator door. He rose and put on a robe and went out to the kitchen.
Her back was to him; she was plugging the toaster into the breakfast-nook receptacle.
“Good morning,” he said.
She turned and there was the faintest color in her cheeks. “Good morning, beast.” “You’re blushing.”
“I don’t do this every day. Or night. Aren’t you going to shave?”
“I’m going to shave. I just wanted to look at you, first. I thought you’d gone and it—disturbed me.”
She smiled. “Thank you. It was only a crumb, but it helps. Do you like me, Joe?”
“I like you, Norah Payne. I will go to make myself pretty for you.” He winked at her, and went out.
As he shaved, he smiled. And shaving, he naturally saw the smile. And seeing it, he stopped smiling. It had looked too much like a smirk. He was no smirker.
Beeg man, he told himself. Beeg, lustful, dominating animal, you dumb Irish bastard. You’re just lucky.
Adultery wasn’t a game he could completely enjoy. He had left the church at twenty-one, but he still remembered all the things Father Riley had told him.
Orange juice and scrambled eggs and little pork sausages. Toast and marmalade and coffee. Everything just right.
Even the pompous Times had given the death of Bruce Dysart a big splash on the first page. For Dysart had not only been a famous man; he had been a wealthy one and politically active in the industry on the Times’s side of the fence.
The words heinous, barbarous, fiendish and brutal were used. No lead as to the identity of the killer was stated, though the holding of Alan Dysart was given enough ink. And the Times made it clear he was no Republican.
Norah said, “They don’t know any more now than they did last night, do they?”
“The newspapers don’t. But the police might. They’re holding young Dysart.”
“They would.”
“Was he a—or is he a Commie?”
“I don’t know. He was in college when Wallace ran, and I read he was making speeches for Wallace around the campus. He went to UCLA.”
“That was kind of a hot bed, at one time, wasn’t it?”
“UCLA? No. If you want to go to a major college in this town, and you don’t play football, where else can you go?”
“Loyola. He was probably one of those parlor pinks.”
Norah took a deep breath. “Joe, you’re not real right wing, are you?”
“I voted for Ike. Krivick is going to give that kid a workout; you can be sure. The kid’s too lippy.”
“Around policemen I have a tendency to become lippy myself. They bring out the worst in me.”
He grinned at her. “I know it.”
She was reaching for a cup to throw when the front door chime sounded. She paused to stare at Joe, her hand still reaching for the cup.
“Migawd,” she said hoarsely. “Who could it be?”
“Somebody selling vacuum cleaners.”
“Not this time of the morning. Don’t go.”
Joe leaned back in his chair to where he could see through the dining-room wing to the front porch. “It’s Sharon Cassidy.”
Norah’s chin went up and she lifted a hand to fluff out her hair. “Open the door, Joe. Bring her in for a cup of coffee. This, I want her to see.”