Free Hard Case Crime: Shooting Star & Spiderweb by Robert Bloch

take a sneak around to look through the window. Let’s say it was when she was phoning me.
    “The window was unlocked. He might have opened it and heard—heard enough for him to come inside the moment she hung up. And then...”
    “Sounds logical,” Daisy said. “Doesn’t it, dear?”
    “I don’t know. I’m trying to think who could possibly be involved.”
    “I’m willing to play my hunches,” I murmured. “And my hunches say it has to be a friend of Polly Foster’s. Somebody close to her.”
    “Then your job is clear,” Bannock said. “Start working on her friends.”
    “Just like that, eh?” I scowled. “What should I do, run an ad and call a meeting?”
    “No need for that. You’ll see them all tomorrow afternoon at her funeral.”
    “Maybe,” I said.
    Bannock put down his cigar. “Please, Mark! You know how important this is to me. I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t.”
    “All right,” I answered. “I’ll go to the funeral. Unless something happens to interfere.”
    “Such as what?” Daisy asked.
    “Such as another killing.” I smiled. “In that case, I’ll probably be going to my own funeral instead.”

Chapter Eight
    You can talk about Zanuck. You can talk about Dore Schary, Ford, Capra, Mervyn LeRoy, all the rest of them. But for my money, the top producer in Hollywood is Hamilton Brackett.
    No matter how you look at it, he’s got what it takes. Talk about grosses; he’s never turned out a job yet that lost him money. Talk about art; he knows every trick in the business. His casting is superb, his handling of crowds is perfect, he knows how to wring the last ounce of drama from every situation and every scene.
    And what a production staff! Some of his settings are really out of this world; his props are all genuine; his costumes beat anything Adrian ever dreamed up; his makeup artists have it all over the Westmores. Terrific public relations, too. No wonder he draws the crowds whenever one of his jobs has a showing.
    Of course, he knows the real secret of production. You’ve got to build everything around a star. And when he gets the right lead for a part, he can run rings around any outfit in town.
    Hamilton Brackett was doing his finest work today, but then he really had a hot attraction to feature.
    Polly Foster never looked lovelier.
    Wardrobe must have had a touch of genius when they suggested that simple black strapless gown, so symbolic and yet so photogenic.
    Brackett’s staff must have spent hours on her makeup job: getting just the right touches to the hairdo, concentrating on the precise poignancy of her smile. Of course, they were working with a cooperative subject. Say what you will about Polly Foster, she was a trouper. She’d realize the importance of making the best appearance in her big scene.
    And the scene was big. Hamilton Brackett’s stage was almost an auditorium set, with a big pipe organ, just like they used to use back in the days of the silent movies. He actually rolled out the red carpet for the center aisle, and his juicers furnished a light-setting that was colorful and effective. Whoever thought of throwing an amber spot on Polly Foster’s face deserved a bonus.
    Brackett always did have an eye for color, though, and today he could give it a real workout. He was hitting with red, blue and green spots, all over the flowers. Because the flowers really made the scene. They banked the stage and the sides of the hall on both walls. You wouldn’t see a bigger display at the Tournament of Roses.
    Brackett made good use of the crowds, too. He had about twenty assistant directors in formal afternoon wear, running up and down the aisles playing usher. Actually, they were grouping the audience to the best advantage. Those who had contributed the best floral offerings got the front seats. Everything according to protocol, everything to keep the distinguished guests happy and place them where the press could spot them easily.
    Outside the set, on the curb,