Shooting Star / Spiderweb

by Robert Bloch

  I tried to move my arms and legs. It wasn’t easy. Maybe if I rolled over to the wall I could brace myself enough to stand up.

  I tried. Just raising myself made my head ache. And standing on my numbed legs was almost impossible. After a few minutes of effort it became possible, though.

  Now what?

  I worked my wrists. The knots held. Maybe I could follow the wall into the kitchen, get a knife out of the drawer. Better roll into there, though.

  I rolled. Once again there was the business of raising myself up. I found the cupboard and the drawer, inched my way upright alongside it, stood with my back to the drawer and got the edge under one hand. I tugged. The drawer opened, then fell to the floor with a thud.

  A thud, not a crash. There was no tinkle. I stared down through the shadows on the kitchen floor. The drawer was empty. They’d thought of everything.

  I started to roll back, passing the bathroom on my way. Too bad this wasn’t a hotel. In hotels they usually have that dojinger on the door for opening bottles and stuff.

  Wait. Maybe...

  I rolled back into the kitchen. I forced myself upright again. Then I saw what I was looking for on the far wall. I edged around towards it, hopping a step at a time and keeping my balance by sticking close to the wall. Then I reached the spot. There was a wall can opener and it had a bottle-opening attachment.

  So far so good. But the rest was awful. The thing was set up too high for me to reach easily with my hands tied behind my back. I had to bend my arms. For a little while I thought I’d have to break them before I could make contact. Then I managed by twisting my left arm almost out of its socket.

  I began to run my wrists back and forth against the knots. Of course there was no way of seeing what I was doing, and I had to be careful. The bottle opener was sharp; I didn’t want to puncture my wrists. A few gashes were to be expected, but that didn’t make them hurt any less when I felt them.

  It took time. Quite a long time. Then I felt the knots giving. I pulled away and worked my hands. Something came loose. My hands were free.

  I sat down, wrung a little circulation back into my fingers, and took the gag out of my mouth. Then I untied my feet. I rubbed my ankles, stood up again, felt the top of my head just for luck.

  Then I looked at my watch.

  No wonder it was dark. Almost nine o’clock. I’d been out for over five hours.

  That was a long time. Long enough for the two of them to get a long, healthy head start.

  I wondered where they’d run off to.

  Switching on the lights, I made a brief tour of the apartment. They’d packed, all right. Taken everything, and left. I found a few ties in the bedroom, though; all were striped patterns. Dean had worn a striped tie. Which meant Estrellita had probably lied about not seeing him any more. The two of them were in this together.

  All of which didn’t matter now. There were other puzzlers.

  My gun, for instance, or rather Bannock’s gun. It was still in my pocket, I discovered. Thoughtful of them. Or thoughtless.

  Well, there was nothing I could do about that. Nothing except go to the police and tell them what I knew. About Dean, Juarez, and this man Hastings. Edward Hastings. So he had to turn out to be the killer. Like those old-fashioned mysteries where everybody is suspected and it ends up that the butler did it. A fine thing. And I was a fine amateur private eye, too.

  No sense looking any further. They wouldn’t have left anything around that might help.

  I went out and closed the door behind me. Nobody lurked in the hall. Nobody opened up to peek at me from the Little Gypsy Tea Room. I hit the street and headed for the nearest drugstore.

  It was about time I turned sensible and called Thompson. Yes, that was the only thing left for me. Call Thompson and try to work with him, for a change. We could still round up the murderer, if luck only held.

  The drugstore wasn’t hard to find. I went in, looking around for a phone. I couldn’t see it, so I walked up to the clerk at the counter.

  “Yes?”

  “Have you got—?” I stopped. There was a pile of early morning editions on the counter. I picked up the top one and gave the clerk a buck. I started to walk away.

  “Hey, mister, you forgot your change!”

  I didn’t pick up my change. I kept right on walking. Walking and reading.

  It was only a box on the front page; that’s all they had time for when the flash came in. Maybe there’d be an extra later. I didn’t know. I didn’t care.

  Everything was over, now.

  Hastings was dead. Edward Hastings, 42, of such-and-such an address, found shot through the head late this afternoon at...

  I read the address again, read what Hastings did for a living.

  Then I turned around and went back into the store.

  “Where’s the phone?” I asked.

  “Back there, behind the counter.”

  “Thanks.”

  I didn’t dial the police. I called Bannock, at his house.

  “Hello.”

  “Yes?” Daisy’s voice.

  “This is Mark. Is Harry there?”

  “No.”

  “Where is he—police?”

  “Of course not. Why should he be?”

  “Then you haven’t heard?”

  “Mark, what’s this all about? Harry ought to be in soon, he had to finish up at the office after the funeral this afternoon.”

  I’d forgotten all about the funeral. I’d forgotten about a lot of things, apparently.

  “Well, if he comes in, be sure to hold him. I’m on my way out.”

  “Mark, is there something—?”

  “Plenty,” I said. “Stay right where you are.”

  I hung up and went out. I hailed a cab up the street and gave the driver Bannock’s address.

  It was a long haul across town and I had plenty of time to think things out. No matter how I put the pieces together, they always fitted.

  Over? Nothing was over. Not yet.

  The moon was shining bright as we drove up in front of Bannock’s place. There was a light in the window for the wandering boy, too.

  I got out and wandered up the walk.

  Daisy let me in. “Sarah’s day off,” she told me. “And me with a stinking headache.”

  “How was the funeral?”

  “I didn’t go. Harry went, though.”

  “Did he?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll tell you.”

  She looked at me. “What happened to you?” she asked. “Is it the police?”

  “No. They haven’t caught up with me yet. I’m going to call them in a little while, though. But first let me tell you the whole deal.”

  “Come in. I’ll mix a drink,” I did, and she did. It was pleasant to sit back and relax in the soft lamplight, with an easy chair to rest in, a tall glass in my hand, and Daisy’s presence vibrant before me.

  Only I wasn’t relaxing. Not yet.

  First I had to bring Daisy up to date. I told her about seeing Kolmar and Joe Dean, about my interview with Billie Trent and the police finding Kolmar’s gun in my car.

  Then I went on and gave her a report of my interview with Harry. I told her how I’d found Estrellita Juarez; how Dean had found me again, and finally I told her about what I had just read in the paper.

  “But I still don’t understand,” she said. “What does it all mean?”

  “It could mean several things,” I said. “It could mean that Juarez and Dean were working together all along; that they killed Dicky Ryan, Polly Foster, Tom Trent. Or perhaps one of them did and the other knew about it.

  “And so did this man Hastings, because Juarez was a runner for him in his dope peddling racket. So this afternoon, when things got hot, they decided to bump him off before they left town for good. Cover up the trail.”

  Daisy nodded. “But why come to Harry with that? Why don’t you call the police?”

  “I will. Only I won’t tell them
this theory. Because I don’t believe it’s true.” I took a drink and felt a little better. “There’s one thing wrong with that setup. The motive. You see, there isn’t any. Why should Juarez and Dean, or either one of them separately, kill those three people? No reason.” I sighed. “Besides, both of them have alibis to account for their whereabouts during Ryan’s murder. And Dean has alibis covering him for the other killings, too.”

  “But they still could have killed this man Hastings. If they were leaving town, and thought he was the murderer, maybe they went to him and tried to blackmail him.” Daisy took my glass and refilled it.

  “I thought of that. It’s a possibility. Won’t know unless they’re picked up, of course. Until then all we have to go on is hunches, and my hunch is they’d be too frightened, too anxious about getting out. I don’t think they’d risk breaking in on Hastings cold and trying a fast shakedown.”

  “Maybe it’s a coincidence, then,” Daisy mused. “You say this Hastings was operating a reefer peddling setup. He might have a lot of enemies in that business who would want him out of the way.”

  I nodded. “That’s so. And if it turns out to be the answer, then we’re right back where we started from. We still don’t know the identity of Ryan’s killer, or Polly Foster’s, or Tom Trent’s.”

  “What about Kolmar?”

  “He was telling me the truth the other day, I think. Kolmar wouldn’t murder his own stars. Why should he kill the geese that laid the golden eggs?”

  Daisy shook her head. “Must we go on like this, Mark? I’m sick of murder and murder talk—physically sick! Didn’t Harry tell you to lay off the case? Isn’t it bad enough to have your life threatened, get beat up this way, put yourself on the spot with the police?”

  “Sure it is,” I answered. “But there won’t be any more of it. Not now.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Positive.” I sat back and put my drink down. “Because I think I’ve got the answer now. It was sitting right under my nose all the time, of course. I should have spent less time figuring why these people were being killed and more time wondering why these things happened to me.”

  “You?”

  “Of course. I’m the clue to the whole business. Ryan died months ago and nothing happened. But the minute I was brought into the picture, trouble started again. Everybody who might know about Ryan’s death either disappeared or was permanently silenced. The murderer got there before I did. It wasn’t coincidence. The murderer must have known who I planned to see.”

  “But how could that be?”

  “There’s only one answer,” I said. “I must have told the killer myself just what I was going to do.”

  Daisy made a little sound in her throat.

  “Mark! No!”

  “Yes,” I said. “Who hired me? Harry. Who arranged my interview with Polly Foster? Harry. Who did I tell beforehand that I was going to have a showdown with Tom Trent? Harry. And who knew I was still working on this business today? Harry.”

  I paused. “The other night, when Trent was murdered, Harry said he was with a client in Pacific Palisades. Does he have proof? And what makes you sure he went back to the office today, after the funeral?”

  “That’s absurd! When Polly Foster was murdered, both Harry and I were playing cards at the Shermans. The police checked his alibi about this client in Pacific Palisades. And he wouldn’t dare say he was at the office. He never works there alone, someone would be with him.”

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s figure it this way. See if it makes sense. Harry killed Ryan. He got someone else to kill Foster and Trent because he was afraid they’d talk. And then he got someone to kill Hastings.”

  Daisy shook her head. “You’re crazy. Harry wouldn’t jeopardize his TV deal any more. He hired you in good faith, just to clear things up. And how would he know Hastings?”

  I was silent for a moment. “That’s so. He didn’t have a motive, did he? And he didn’t know Hastings. That leaves only one person. One person who also knew what my movements would be, because Harry wouldn’t suspect anything wrong if he revealed them.”

  Daisy looked at me. I nodded. “That’s right, Daisy. There’s only one person left. You.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  She stood up quickly.

  I had the gun out of my pocket now. It felt good to be on the right end of a gun for a change.

  “Sit down, Daisy,” I said. “First you’re going to listen. Then you’re going to talk.”

  “You can’t bluff me.”

  “I’m not bluffing. I’ve got the goods on you. Ever since I read about Hastings’ death tonight. When I read where he worked, I knew.”

  “Where he worked?”

  “The papers said he was an interne at Dr. Levinson’s clinic. The clinic you went to, the day before Ryan died.”

  She sat down again. I held the gun on her.

  “That was your alibi, wasn’t it, Daisy? Hastings covered up for you the night you sneaked out to visit Ryan at his trailer. You were the person he expected.

  “You’d known Ryan since the old days, when he was your husband’s client. He was also your lover. Harry never suspected that, did he?

  “Any more than he suspected you had the reefer habit. Or that Hastings was your source of supply. No wonder you went to the clinic he worked at instead of to a hospital. Am I right so far?”

  She didn’t answer.

  I went on. “Ryan was drunk when you got to his trailer. You started to smoke. There was a quarrel, a serious quarrel. Something set you off. The gun was there, and you used it. Then you went back to the hospital. Hastings covered up for you with an alibi after Ryan’s body was discovered. And for a while everything was all right.

  “Then Harry bought those films, and he hired me to try and clear Ryan’s name. You were against that from the start. You called your friend Hastings, had him phone me and Harry with a warning. Hastings even paid a visit to my place when I was out.

  “That didn’t stop us. Hastings also supplied Polly Foster with reefers, and one of his runners—Estrellita Juarez— knew Tom Trent. He contacted Foster and Trent right away, told them not to talk to anyone.

  “But Polly Foster was frightened. She’d come back to the trailer later that night, evidently, and seen you. I don’t think she actually recognized you, but she knew a woman had been there. She wanted to find out if anyone had actually spotted her, so she came to see me.

  “You learned that from Harry. He told you he’d made an appointment for me. So Polly Foster was killed.”

  Daisy breathed hard, but she was smiling now. “Ridiculous! How could I have killed her? Ask the police—they know Harry and I were with the Shermans at their house all evening.”

  “Sure. You didn’t kill Polly Foster. Your friend Hastings did that little job for you. I’ll bet when the police check back they’ll find he had a night off. He went to her place and heard her phoning me; then he came in and shot her.”

  “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “Two reasons. The first is, he couldn’t afford to have his reefer racket exposed. Must have made a nice piece of change off his big shot clients, and maybe he worked a little blackmail on the side. Reason enough for silencing Foster, but I think he had a better one. I think by this time he’d taken Ryan’s place with you.”

  “Why, you—” Her voice quivered with indignant protest.

  “No show, Daisy. You’re a little late with that innocence act. You forget, after Polly Foster’s death, that you offered me the same privileges if I’d lay off.”

  “Rave on,” she said. “I suppose I also hired those thugs to beat you up out in the dunes.”

  “No, I don’t think so. You might have, but I’m inclined to suspect Kolmar of that little deal. He was beginning to get paranoid delusions of persecution by this time, seeing his people get killed. Maybe he passed the word to Joe Dean that he’d like to know what I was up to in the case. And Dean told his brother to come after me with this
other hood.

  “Anyway, it didn’t work. Foster was dead, your friend Hastings told Estrellita Juarez to hide out, but I was still on the case. And I told Harry I meant to interview Tom Trent again about the murder of Ryan.

  “He had several hours unaccounted for on the night of Ryan’s death, and you couldn’t be sure he didn’t know something. You had to act fast.

  “Estrellita Juarez knew he was in danger and called to warn him. Then he got another call—from you. I don’t know what you told him; maybe you said you knew who the killer was and wanted his advice about going to the police. Anyway, you got him to do what you wanted—to meet him off the roadway alongside his property.

  “While Harry was in Pacific Palisades, you drove over to Trent’s place and waited for him to come out. He climbed in the car with you. You shot him, dragged his body to the garage, tried to make it look like suicide. Then you drove off. Somebody saw the car, but didn’t pay any particular attention to it. That was the riskiest deal of all, but you were panicky.

  “I don’t think you wanted to kill Trent, Daisy. I think by this time Hastings was forcing you, threatening to expose you, threatening to cut off your supply of muggles, making you go through with his plans and help protect him.

  “He told you I had to be dealt with next. You promised you’d make Harry take me off the investigation. And Harry promised.

  “Only I didn’t get off the case. I went to see Kolmar, he sent the police out after me because I took his gun, and then I told Harry I wanted another twenty-four hours to work in. I told him not to let you know about it.

  “But he did, didn’t he? You wormed it out of him this noon, Daisy, isn’t that it? And you knew I’d be looking for Estrellita Juarez or Joe Dean, because they were the only suspects left on my list. If I found either of them, the trail would lead straight to Hastings and to you.

  “I think you called Joe Dean and warned him this noon. Right after you told Harry you had a headache and didn’t want to go to the funeral. That would take care of me, you figured, if Dean found me.

  “But there was still Hastings. Hastings, who knew the whole story, who had you under his thumb as long as he could threaten to talk. You decided to silence him. You went to the clinic—it wasn’t the first time you sneaked into his room when he was off duty—and surprised him...with a slug in the head. Then you came back here, and I called.