Free Undercurrent (The Nameless Detective) by Bill Pronzini

last night," I said. "Did you hear about that?"
    "A killing—you mean a murder?"
    "Yes."
    "No, I didn't hear about it," Dancer said. "I'm coming on the end of the western, and I haven't been out of here in two days; and when I'm working I don't listen to the radio. What does a book of mine have to do with a murder?"
    "It was found in the dead man's overnight bag."
    "The hell you say!" Dancer was incredulous. "What's this guy's name?"
    "Walter Paige."
    "Paige—Walter Paige." He rubbed his free hand over the back of his neck, frowning. "Well, I don't know. I knew a guy named Walt Paige once, about five or six years ago."
    I released the breath I had been holding. "Where?"
    "Cypress Bay."
    "How well did you know him?"
    "Not very. He was a kind of drinking companion. We used to make the rounds together, along with a bunch of other regulars at the Mount Royal Bar—a place near Carmel Highlands. That's where I met him, at the Mount Royal. He was a smooth, glib bastard, one of these Errol Flynn types with the women. I didn't like him much."
    I described Walter Paige. "Is that the guy you knew?"
    "It sounds like him, all right," Dancer said.
    So we've got a connection now, I thought; but what else have we got? I said, "Did Paige know you were a writer?"
    "Sure. But he didn't seem particularly interested. All he cared about, as far as I could see, was pussy and money."
    "Then you don't have any idea why he would have one of your old books?"
    "Christ no—not one that was written twelve years or so before I ever knew him."
    "What about the others in this group you mentioned?" I asked. "Did you know any of them back in '53 or '54?"
    "No. This was a pretty young crowd, aside from me."
    I pulled at my beer reflectively. There didn't seem to be anything of import in the copy of The Dead and the Dying itself—and yet it had thus far led to a tie-up with the author, Russell Dancer, and a link six years in the past between Walter Paige and Cypress Bay. I said, "How long was Paige in this area originally?"
    "Six or seven months, I think."
    "What kind of job did he have?"
    "None, that I knew of. But he was always flush."
    "Like that, huh?"
    "Like that," Dancer agreed.
    "Where did he live?"
    "Cypress Bay somewhere, I think."
    "Why did he leave, do you know?"
    Dancer shrugged. "They come and they go."
    "Any idea where Paige went?"
    "Seems to me somebody said he'd headed south."
    "To Santa Barbara maybe?"
    "Could be. Does Paige tie up there?"
    "Uh-huh. He took a fall for burglary and spent four years in San Quentin. He got out five months ago."
    Dancer pursed his lips sardonically. "Nice company I used to keep."
    "Have you heard anything from him or about him since he left those six years ago?"
    "Not a word. I'd forgotten all about him. Hell, why would he come back after all these years?"
    "It might have been for a woman. There were indications."
    "I can imagine what they were," Dancer said. "You figure this woman did for him?"
    "Possibly."
    "Well, if so, she probably had plenty of provocation."
    "Yeah," I said. "Were there any females in this group you and Paige were part of?"
    "Sure. It was pretty free-wheeling."
    "Some were more regular than others, though?"
    "A kind of nucleus, you mean?"
    "More or less."
    "Two, I guess."
    "Was Paige involved with either of them?"
    Dancer shrugged again. "If so, they weren't talking and neither was he. I'll say this for Paige—he didn't brag up his conquests."
    "Is the group still active?"
    "No, not for a long time. You know how those things go."
    "Do the two women still live in Cypress Bay?"
    He nodded. "But I don't see either one committing murder."
    "Maybe not, but they might be able to offer a lead."
    "I suppose so."
    "Can you give me their names?"
    "Robin Tolliver is one. She married an artichoke heir named Jason Lomax, not long after Paige left. They've got an estate on Cypress Point. Robin was never any dummy."
    I wrote the names on the note pad I carry.
    Dancer said, "The other girl is Bev