of the citizens of Los Angeles County. There seemed to be no end to the number of malefactors.
I stared at scars, briefly noted broken noses, carefully eyed cauliflower ears, scanned sneers; most of these men had their history written in their faces and there was no need to read a description of their misdemeanors. I know Lombroso’s theory is discredited, but there’s still something about physiognomy that registers with me. I’d seen too many faces like these in my time to discount them, seen them at the edges of dark alleys, seen them peering through the dirty, fly-specked windows of the dives, seen them staring up from the gutters of grim streets.
So far, though, I hadn’t found Fritz, or the man who looked something like Joe Dean but wasn’t. I reached for another stack when the door opened and Thompson came in.
“Hi,” I said. “Wondered whether you’d come down. Want to hear about it?”
He didn’t return my smile or my greeting. He just looked at me and shook his head.
“No time,” he said. “Leaving this minute. Just thought you might be interested in the news.”
“What news?”
“Call just came in. Tom Trent’s dead.”
I blinked.
“His sister found him in the garage five minutes ago. Shot through the heart.”
“Murder?”
“Don’t know. Could be a suicide.” He turned. “Going to find out.”
“Let me come with you.”
“You know the regulations.”
“But I—”
“Somebody’ll be around to see you tomorrow. We’ll keep in touch.”
I nodded at his back as he went out.
Then I started to look at pictures again, but I didn’t see them. All I saw was Tom Trent lying dead in his garage. It would be murder, I knew that. And he’d been shot through the heart.
The room started to spin a little, but the scene before my eye never wavered. It was so clear I could notice every detail. There was one detail I had to verify, though.
I stuck around for over an hour until the reports started coming in. Then I needled the sergeant until he told me.
“You were wrong,” he said. “Looks like suicide, so far. Had the gun in his hand and everything. Shot himself in the chest.”
Then I asked about the detail that interested me. The sergeant looked puzzled at my questions, but he told me what I wanted to know: what Trent had been wearing, and just where the bullet had entered his body.
“Thanks,” I said. “And you can tell Thompson or whoever is in charge that it wasn’t suicide.”
“No?”
I shook my head. “I’m positive. Even if Trent wanted to kill himself, there’s one thing he’d never do. He’d never shoot himself through the monogram.”
Chapter Eleven
I didn’t find the pictures which would identify either of my attackers. The car came, and I checked it. Nothing was missing but the gas they’d used. Of course I wanted to stick around and hear the reports on the Trent case, but they told me to go home.
It was late, so I went. In spite of Dr. Engebrusher’s handiwork, I felt as if I needed a rest. The hotel bed looked good to me. I’d rather sleep here than out in the dunes, or in a casket like Polly Foster, or on a garage floor, like Trent. Only he wouldn’t be on the floor any more. He’d be occupying a slab somewhere, while the coroner’s little helpers played ring-around-the-bullet-hole.
Yes, I was lucky because they hadn’t got me. Hadn’t got me yet.
I started to review the events of the day, searching for angles I might have overlooked. Those men had been sent after me, but by whom? Somebody who knew I was going to the funeral, or who had actually seen me there. He or she. Billie Trent, perhaps? Maybe her story was a gag. Maybe she’d come and talked to me as a stall, to see that I stayed put there until the two hoods arrived. Maybe she was in with her brother on the deal. Maybe she killed him.
Plenty of possible alternatives there. After all, what did I actually know concerning her, outside of what she chose to tell me? She didn’t look
I stared at scars, briefly noted broken noses, carefully eyed cauliflower ears, scanned sneers; most of these men had their history written in their faces and there was no need to read a description of their misdemeanors. I know Lombroso’s theory is discredited, but there’s still something about physiognomy that registers with me. I’d seen too many faces like these in my time to discount them, seen them at the edges of dark alleys, seen them peering through the dirty, fly-specked windows of the dives, seen them staring up from the gutters of grim streets.
So far, though, I hadn’t found Fritz, or the man who looked something like Joe Dean but wasn’t. I reached for another stack when the door opened and Thompson came in.
“Hi,” I said. “Wondered whether you’d come down. Want to hear about it?”
He didn’t return my smile or my greeting. He just looked at me and shook his head.
“No time,” he said. “Leaving this minute. Just thought you might be interested in the news.”
“What news?”
“Call just came in. Tom Trent’s dead.”
I blinked.
“His sister found him in the garage five minutes ago. Shot through the heart.”
“Murder?”
“Don’t know. Could be a suicide.” He turned. “Going to find out.”
“Let me come with you.”
“You know the regulations.”
“But I—”
“Somebody’ll be around to see you tomorrow. We’ll keep in touch.”
I nodded at his back as he went out.
Then I started to look at pictures again, but I didn’t see them. All I saw was Tom Trent lying dead in his garage. It would be murder, I knew that. And he’d been shot through the heart.
The room started to spin a little, but the scene before my eye never wavered. It was so clear I could notice every detail. There was one detail I had to verify, though.
I stuck around for over an hour until the reports started coming in. Then I needled the sergeant until he told me.
“You were wrong,” he said. “Looks like suicide, so far. Had the gun in his hand and everything. Shot himself in the chest.”
Then I asked about the detail that interested me. The sergeant looked puzzled at my questions, but he told me what I wanted to know: what Trent had been wearing, and just where the bullet had entered his body.
“Thanks,” I said. “And you can tell Thompson or whoever is in charge that it wasn’t suicide.”
“No?”
I shook my head. “I’m positive. Even if Trent wanted to kill himself, there’s one thing he’d never do. He’d never shoot himself through the monogram.”
Chapter Eleven
I didn’t find the pictures which would identify either of my attackers. The car came, and I checked it. Nothing was missing but the gas they’d used. Of course I wanted to stick around and hear the reports on the Trent case, but they told me to go home.
It was late, so I went. In spite of Dr. Engebrusher’s handiwork, I felt as if I needed a rest. The hotel bed looked good to me. I’d rather sleep here than out in the dunes, or in a casket like Polly Foster, or on a garage floor, like Trent. Only he wouldn’t be on the floor any more. He’d be occupying a slab somewhere, while the coroner’s little helpers played ring-around-the-bullet-hole.
Yes, I was lucky because they hadn’t got me. Hadn’t got me yet.
I started to review the events of the day, searching for angles I might have overlooked. Those men had been sent after me, but by whom? Somebody who knew I was going to the funeral, or who had actually seen me there. He or she. Billie Trent, perhaps? Maybe her story was a gag. Maybe she’d come and talked to me as a stall, to see that I stayed put there until the two hoods arrived. Maybe she was in with her brother on the deal. Maybe she killed him.
Plenty of possible alternatives there. After all, what did I actually know concerning her, outside of what she chose to tell me? She didn’t look
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