Joy's fingers dug even deeper into the flesh of Stanton's arm. "What are they talking about? Don't stand there gaping like a fool, Bob. Tell me. What are they talking about?"

  "I don't know," he said. "Believe me."

  He turned and walked down the path to the car port. Treech made a movement as if to stop him, then changed his mind and followed close behind Joy who was still clinging to Stan−ton's arm, taking three steps to his one in order to keep up with him. Hi Lo walked into the house. Ferris hesitated briefly, then followed Stanton and Joy and the two detectives.

  Stanton looked first at the crumpled rear fender of his car. His first blind panic over, his mind was beginning to function. This wasn't a hit and run case. He hadn't hit anyone with the fender. He'd hit the tree with that. He had gouged, or so one of the detectives said, six inches of bark and wood out of the oak. But neither the tree nor the fender had anything to do with the blood on the seat or the tears in the upholstery. The seat of his car looked as if someone had stuck a pig in it. A dozen blue bottle flies were buzzing noisily over the pools of clotted blood. The two holes in the back of the seat could have been made by soft−nosed bullets that had already been flattened by smashing through flesh or bone. He had seen such tears before, in human flesh.

  "Who did this to my car?" he asked Treech. "And how does it concern me?"

  Looking under his arm, Joy whimpered, "Oh, Bob. It's blood."

  It seemed suddenly imperative to Stanton to spare Joy any further possible revelations. "Take her home, will you, Lyle?" he asked the actor.

  "No," Joy said. "I won't go home. I want to know what's happened." Inspector Treech took off his hat and wiped the sweatband with his handkerchief. "A girl has been murdered, Miss Parnell. A girl by the name of Grace Turner. An English girl. You may have seen the headlines in this afternoon's paper?"

  "I saw the headline," Ferris said, "but I didn't bother to read the story. I wish I had." He touched Joy's arm. "Come on, Joy. Bob asked me to take you home."

  Tears brimming in her eyes, the blonde star pulled away from him fiercely. "No. I tell you I won't go home. I won't leave Bob if he's in trouble." She clung to Stanton. "You didn't do it, did you, Bob? You didn't kill any girl."

  Stanton rested his forehead briefly on her shining hair. "I don't know, Joy," he said finally. "I don't think so. But then, on the other hand, I don't know what I did last night."

  "You had better get some clothes on, Stanton," Inspector Treech suggested. "And while I don't advise it, Miss Parnell, if you want to ride into town with us—"

  "I do. I do," Joy said.

  Stanton dressed, with Swen and Gieger waiting on him, watching every move he made. Out on the patio Marta was arguing hotly with Treech. "But Mr. Stanton cannot go away. He has not yet eaten breakfast."

  Stanton could not hear Inspector Treech's reply but Hi Lo said something to Marta that caused her to subside. A moment later Hi Lo came into the room. "I still haven't been able to get ahold of Goetz. His secretary is ringing every place he might be and so am I. I'll keep on trying for another fifteen minutes. Then if we can't get ahold of him, I'll get some other lawyer."

  "You do that," Stanton said.

  Dressed, he walked out onto the patio accompanied by Gieger and Swen. Marta was standing by the acacia tree, her full face working and the hem of her apron to her eyes. Joy was already seated in the back seat of the squad car completely ignoring whatever it was Ferris was attempting to tell her.

  Kelly slid in back of the wheel.

  "Ready to go?" Treech asked.

  "Ready to go," Stanton said.

  He rode holding Joy's hand in his. She had never been so near or dear to him. Public opinion was vitally important to her career. One burst of bad publicity could tumble her out of the high income tax brackets and the constellation of the great in the Hollywood firmament. Yet she was taking that risk to be with him. He squeezed her hand. "You're nice."

  "Shh. Don't talk," she told him. "This is just a bad dream. We'll wake up pretty soon."

  There were no reporters or cameramen at the morgue. Inspector Treech insisted Joy—wait in the car as he handcuffed Stanton to Ms left wrist. "Not that I think you'll attempt to make a break. But regulations are regulations."

  "I know, Stanton said. "It says in the book. I got that in the Army."

  "We want to see the Turner dame," Treech informed the attendant. "Have the M.E. and the lab finished with her yet?"

  "Two hours ago," the attendant told him. "There's not much to them gunshot cases." He slid out a lower drawer in the cold room as he asked, incuriously, "Is this the lad who killed her?"

  "We intend charging him with it," Treech said.

  Stanton looked down at the girl. She had a thin, unattractive face made even more unattractive by death. A wisp of hair hung untidily under one ear. Her shrunken lips revealed bad teeth. She had mere nubbins of breasts. Her nude body was so thin he could count her ribs. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, and suddenly wanted to do both. Something was terribly screwball somewhere. The name on the drawer was plain—Grace Turner. This was the girl with whose murder he was presently to be charged. But to the best of his sober, or intoxicated, knowledge he had never seen her before.

  Chapter 3

  FIVE HOURS had passed. Stanton lay on the bunk in his cell blowing smoke rings at the ceiling and wondering if Hi Lo had been able to contact Ernie Goetz. As yet he had not been formally charged with murder. He had seen the complaint on the charge sheet when Inspector Treech had taken him up to the cell block. He was booked for investigation. That could be a good or a bad sign.

  He lighted a fresh cigarette from the butt of the one he was smoking and snuffing the butt out on the floor he attempted to recall the exact words spoken in the morgue.

  He had said, "I don't suppose you would believe me if I told you−I never saw the girl before."

  "No," Treech had said, "I would not."

  The steel webbing of the bunk cutting into his back through the thin blanket, Stanton sat up and stared glumly at the floor. He couldn't take too much of this. He had spent too much time in confinement. The steel door at the end of the short corridor banged open and Stanton looked up hopefully.

  Jack Gieger was with the fat turnkey. He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket as the fat man unlocked the cell door and shot the bolt. "How are you doing, Stanton?"

  Stanton said he was doing all right. He wished the detective sergeant wouldn't be so damn casual about it.

  "We're going downstairs," Gieger said. "Most of the reports are in including those from the lab. But there are one or two little matters you may be able to straighten out for us."

  This wasn't Inspector Treech's office. Treech occupied a glorified broom closet less than one−fourth as large as the anteroom of this one. Lyle Ferris, Lou Saunders, and Johnny Hass were standing in one comer of the anteroom. All three raised their hands in greeting. Marta and Eddie were sitting stiffly in straight−backed chairs against the wall. On the verge of tears but trying to smile, Marta wiggled her fingers at him. Hi Lo was talking to a blond man Stanton didn't know. The copper−skinned giant cut short what he was saying and crossed the room to him. "Ernie is inside," he informed him. "Are you all right, Bob?"

  Stanton nodded. "Yeah. I guess so. Outside of the butterflies."

  Barely five feet two inches tall, Ernie Goetz might have posed as a miniature man of distinction. He had the look. He wore the clothes. He drank the right brand of whiskey. More important, he had brains. He got to his feet as Stanton entered the main office with Sergeant Gieger and shook one of his manacled hands. "I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner, Bob. But it wouldn't have made much difference if I had. These things have to run their normal course."

  Stanton looked around the office. Inspector Treech was sitting on the edge of a glass−topped desk skimming through a clip board fat with reports. Jim Reisler of the D.A.'s office was looking out the window. Saul Meyers, a deputy chief, was seated back of the desk. Both Meyers and Reisler were second−level brass. Reisler was being groomed to step into the D.A.'s shoes when he moved up to Attorney General. Meyers was slated to replace the Chief when he retired. Their presence could only mean one thing. Treech had a good case against him but the big brass wanted to be certain he wasn't unnecessarily embarrassing the politically and financially powerful motion picture industry. Stanton knew Meyers well. Meyers had been a lieutenant of detectives when he had covered a police beat.

  Reisler inclined his head in greeting. Meyers said, "Hello, Bob. I'm sorry to see you in a jam like this." He added to Geiger, "You can remove those handcuffs, Sergeant."

  "Thanks. Thanks a lot, Saul," Stanton said.

  Reisler suggested, "Well, suppose we get started. You have filed a formal complaint against this man, Inspector Treech?"

  "No," Treech admitted. "I haven't. As I explained to you before, sir, it is a rather unusual case and in view of the prominence of the people involved I, frankly, don't want to kick up any stink until I am certain of my ground." He was careful not to look at Ernie Goetz. "I have had the five−hundred−dollar−a−day−boys representing the picture industry breathing down my neck before."

  Goetz fingered the four−carat diamond in his tie but said nothing.

  "It is because of that," Treech continued, "and because of your request, Mr. Deputy Chief, that I would like to check over the evidence we have with you gentlemen before I file a formal charge." He nodded to Gieger. "Let's have Shad Hanson first."

  Goetz raised his eyebrows slightly. Hanson came in smiling, nodding to each man in turn. "Mr. Reisler. Mr. Deputy Chief. Inspector Treech."

  Treech consulted his clip board. "You were in the bar of the Hollywood−Highland Hotel at approximately eleven−forty−five last night, Mr. Hanson?"

  "I was."

  Treech detached a newspaper cut from his clip board and handed it to Hanson. "Did you see this girl in there?"

  "I did. In fact I talked to her. I bought her a drink. I tried to buy her two drinks. But she told me she had a previous engagement."

  "With whom?"

  "She didn't say. But when she left to keep this other date I followed her."

  "Why?" Meyers asked.

  Hanson grinned at him. "Because she told me if her other date petered out she would meet me back in the bar at one o'clock and I wanted to see what my chances were. So I followed her down to the corner of Hollywood and Vine. She stood around in front of the Broadway for a few moments and I thought maybe her date had stood her up. But a few minutes later she got into a '47 black Caddy convertible coupe. And I said to myself, that's that."

  Inspector Treech asked him if Sergeant Gieger had shown him a car in the police garage. Hanson said Gieger had. "Was it the same car you saw this girl get into?"

  Goetz opened his mouth to say something, closed it as Hanson said, "That I couldn't say, Inspector. It was the same make and year and model. But I didn't write down the license number."

  "A man was driving this car the girl got into?"

  "That's right."

  "Can you identify him?"

  "No sir. I cannot. I didn't see his face."

  After Hanson had left the office, Inspector Treech told Reisler "It was Hanson who put us on the trail so quickly, saw the dead girl's picture in one of the early editions and told us about meeting her in the bar. It was a push−over after that She had only made the one phone call from her room, and that to the Silver Pheasant."

  The waiter from the Silver Pheasant was next. He said he had been on duty at one o'clock the previous afternoon. A few minutes after one a girl giving her name as Grace Turner of the Hollywood−Highland Hotel had phoned and asked to speak to Mr. Robert Stanton. He had plugged in a portable phone to complete the connection and that was all he knew about it.

  Gieger returned from escorting him out of the office to report two men who said they were executives from Consolidated Pictures but who refused to give their names were waiting in the anteroom. "Let them wait," Treech said. He consulted his clip board. "Next we'll have Hass, Saunders, Ferris, and Wilcox."

  Gieger said, "The others are here but we couldn't reach Wilcox. He's the flesh agent and his secretary told Bill he left on the seven o'clock T.W.A. for New York this morning."

  Meyers wanted to know what the three men did. Treech said, "Hass is a free−lance cameraman. Saunders is the local head of one of the press associations. Ferris is an actor."

  Treech looked at the three men. "I've talked to you fellows before. All of you were at the table when the dead English girl phoned Stanton. Now all I want to know is if any of you have anything to add to what you have already told me."

  "I haven't," Ferris said.

  "How did he act after the phone call? I mean did Stanton seem worried or depressed?"

  "No. He thought it was a gag. We all did."

  Unimpressed by the brass, Saunders lighted a cigarette. "I think you're barking up the wrong tree, Treech. I don't think Bob killed her."

  "Who did?"

  "How the hell do I know? I'm a reporter. You're the cop. But that blood in his car and the bullet holes, plus the phone call—no. That's laying it on too thick. I've known Stanton for years. And while we have never been particularly intimate I think I know him well enough to know he wouldn't be so stupid as to send himself to the lethal chamber for lack of a little common sense."

  "He was drunk."

  Saunders shrugged. "Have it your own way. But I haven't named him in any of the stories I've sent out."

  "Thanks, Lou," Stanton said.

  "Thanks for nothing," the reporter jeered. "I'm probably missing a damn good bonus by not nailing you to the cross. That's what friendship gets you."

  Goetz got up from his chair. "I wonder," he asked Meyers, "if I might talk to my client privately a moment?" Meyers nodded at a door. "Use the John if you want to, Ernie."

  Stanton leaned against the wash bowl in the men's room. Goetz used one of the facilities. "Boy, am I glad to get in here! I've been out all afternoon drinking beer with a bimbo from Gary. And could she put it away. Did you do it, Bob? Did you kill this Grace Turner?"

  "I don't know. But I don't see why I should have. I'm not particularly vicious when I'm drinking. I don't even know the girl. I never saw her before in my life. But I don't remember anything I did."

  The lawyer thought a. moment "Are you willing to take a gamble?"

  "What sort of a gamble?"

  "Sodium pentathol. I won't pull it on them unless I have to. I don't think they are prepared to administer it if I do. But it makes a swell talking point. I can pound on desks, insist you want to prove your innocence and are willing to cooperate with the police in any way. That throws the onus back on them. And if I can keep you from being booked and out of the jug until we have time to investigate this thing we are that much farther ahead."

  Stanton said he was willing to chance the truth serum. "I don't think I killed her."

  "Fine," Goetz told him. "Fine. You're practically home and in your own bed right now."

  Hass, Ferris and Saunders were gone when they returned to the office. Inspector Treech continued, "As yet we haven't found the gun with which Miss Turner was killed but we have recovered the slugs. In the upholstery of Stanton's car."

  Goetz asked if the slugs were in a condition to be submitted to ballistics for comparison if and when the death weapon was found. Ignoring the question, Inspector Treech looked at still another report on his clip board. "The blood on the seat and floor mat of Stanton's car has been typed and found to be the same as that of the deceased. Blood was also found in the trunk of the car, not much, just a smear."

  "This blood, too, was of the same type as that of the deceased?"

  Again Treech ignored the lawyer. "The girl wore a mustard−colored tweed coat over her suit coat when she left the hotel. That hasn't turned up yet, nor has the white cloth purse witnesses say she was carrying."

  "How about her background?" Meyers asked.

  "So far we don't know a thing about her except she was English Her passport was visaed in London on October eighth. That's three weeks ago. I've contacted both the London police and our immigration authorities, requesting any information about her that may be in their files."

  "How about the clothes Stanton was wearing?" This from Reisler.

  Treech said there was blood on his shirt. "Of the same type as his own," he admitted.

  "You have attempted to trace his movements last night?"

  "We have traced them to Sherry's out on the Strip. We have a witness who places him there between eleven and eleven−thirty."

  "And the M.E. established the time of death at what hour?"

  "Twelve−thirty, give or take a half hour either way."

 

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