like a murderess in my opinion; but then, Mr. Lombroso’s theory isn’t supposed to be valid. Come to think of it, what did old Cesare Lombroso himself look like? I made a note to look up his picture in some encyclopedia when I had a chance. Perhaps he had the face of a criminal himself, according to his definition. Who knows, maybe he was the murderer? Not likely, seeing that he died almost fifty years ago. Everybody appeared to be dying off lately: Ryan, Foster, Trent. And they tried for me, and threatened Bannock too. Bannock. I’d have to talk to him tomorrow. But what could I tell him, really?
I didn’t know. All I’d actually learned today was that it isn’t safe to direct strangers to the LaBrea Tar Pits.
On which thought I drifted off to sleep. I went to the LaBrea Tar Pits and visited some of the prehistoric monsters. They were alive in my dreams, and I saw them all. Saw them over my shoulder, mostly, because they kept chasing me. Not an herbivore in the crowd. They had big teeth, every one. I saw the Kolmarsaurus and the Deanosaurus and the Estrellitajuarus; the Fritzopodus, the Bannockactyl and the ten-tentacled Trent, the Sabretoothed Thompson, and the Marijuanus Rex. The latter was a big white worm shaped like a cigarette. Smoke came out of its mouth as it crawled after me and tried to smother me in its poisonous fumes.
Oh, I had a delightful rest. Funny part was that I woke up around ten in the morning and felt fine, hardly stiff after a shower. By the time I went out for breakfast I was ready for anything.
But most of all I was ready for the morning papers. I read them over coffee. I read them when I went to the office to check my mail.
There wasn’t a line in them about any murder.
It was straight suicide, all the way. Grief-stricken actor kills himself after Polly Foster’s funeral. Love-crazed star suicide over sweetheart’s death. Details on page two.
I ignored the fake romance leads the reporters had so avidly exploited and went after those details on page two. These made less lurid reading, but better sense.
Trent and his sister had gone to the cemetery. They left about five and ate at a restaurant. Then they went home. According to the girl’s story, Trent seemed depressed but not spectacularly so—not enough to justify the headlines on page one. I wondered if Kolmar’s publicity staff had planted the romance notion in an attempt to tie things together. But no matter now; the important thing was what actually happened out there in the Valley last night.
Trent took a few drinks and Billie decided to go up to bed. She didn’t undress immediately; she lay down and read for a while. It was almost midnight when she glanced at the clock and realized she hadn’t heard Trent come up.
She went downstairs and asked Gibbs, the butler, if Trent had gone out. Gibbs said he’d left about an hour before, following a phone call. He hadn’t paid any attention, just assumed Trent took the station wagon which was parked near the gate.
Billie Trent looked out the window. The station wagon was still standing there. Either her brother had never left, or he had recently returned. She was about to comment on the fact when they both heard the sound.
Neither of them recognized it as a shot, at first. The garage was behind the house, and its solid brick walls would muffle a backfire.
Their first reaction was that somebody might be prowling around outside. Gibbs volunteered to take a look, but Billie refused to stay in the house alone.
They went out together, down the walk between the trees. Gibbs tried the garage door and found it locked. Billie’s feminine indirection led her to the side door. It was open.
She went in. Tom Trent lay on his back. He was still warm. So was the barrel of the .32 he held in his right hand.
Billie called Gibbs. Gibbs called the doctor, then the police, then the studio. Trent wouldn’t have approved of the order; he’d probably have wanted the studio called first. But
I didn’t know. All I’d actually learned today was that it isn’t safe to direct strangers to the LaBrea Tar Pits.
On which thought I drifted off to sleep. I went to the LaBrea Tar Pits and visited some of the prehistoric monsters. They were alive in my dreams, and I saw them all. Saw them over my shoulder, mostly, because they kept chasing me. Not an herbivore in the crowd. They had big teeth, every one. I saw the Kolmarsaurus and the Deanosaurus and the Estrellitajuarus; the Fritzopodus, the Bannockactyl and the ten-tentacled Trent, the Sabretoothed Thompson, and the Marijuanus Rex. The latter was a big white worm shaped like a cigarette. Smoke came out of its mouth as it crawled after me and tried to smother me in its poisonous fumes.
Oh, I had a delightful rest. Funny part was that I woke up around ten in the morning and felt fine, hardly stiff after a shower. By the time I went out for breakfast I was ready for anything.
But most of all I was ready for the morning papers. I read them over coffee. I read them when I went to the office to check my mail.
There wasn’t a line in them about any murder.
It was straight suicide, all the way. Grief-stricken actor kills himself after Polly Foster’s funeral. Love-crazed star suicide over sweetheart’s death. Details on page two.
I ignored the fake romance leads the reporters had so avidly exploited and went after those details on page two. These made less lurid reading, but better sense.
Trent and his sister had gone to the cemetery. They left about five and ate at a restaurant. Then they went home. According to the girl’s story, Trent seemed depressed but not spectacularly so—not enough to justify the headlines on page one. I wondered if Kolmar’s publicity staff had planted the romance notion in an attempt to tie things together. But no matter now; the important thing was what actually happened out there in the Valley last night.
Trent took a few drinks and Billie decided to go up to bed. She didn’t undress immediately; she lay down and read for a while. It was almost midnight when she glanced at the clock and realized she hadn’t heard Trent come up.
She went downstairs and asked Gibbs, the butler, if Trent had gone out. Gibbs said he’d left about an hour before, following a phone call. He hadn’t paid any attention, just assumed Trent took the station wagon which was parked near the gate.
Billie Trent looked out the window. The station wagon was still standing there. Either her brother had never left, or he had recently returned. She was about to comment on the fact when they both heard the sound.
Neither of them recognized it as a shot, at first. The garage was behind the house, and its solid brick walls would muffle a backfire.
Their first reaction was that somebody might be prowling around outside. Gibbs volunteered to take a look, but Billie refused to stay in the house alone.
They went out together, down the walk between the trees. Gibbs tried the garage door and found it locked. Billie’s feminine indirection led her to the side door. It was open.
She went in. Tom Trent lay on his back. He was still warm. So was the barrel of the .32 he held in his right hand.
Billie called Gibbs. Gibbs called the doctor, then the police, then the studio. Trent wouldn’t have approved of the order; he’d probably have wanted the studio called first. But
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