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

Brackett made equally good use of a dozen volunteer assistant directors wearing police uniforms. They handled the mob scenes, holding the crowd back behind the ropes strung along the sidewalk, and keeping the curb clear as the cars drove up.
    Oh, it was a genuine Hamilton Brackett production, all right. His funerals were always the best show in town.
    I won’t review the performance itself. Everything was flawless. No original score by Dmitri Tiomkin, but the organist knew what to do with the oldies he played. And the guy Brackett had cast for the sermon part was sensational. He had Laughton beat for delivery any day, and whoever wrote his script did a bangup job. Even managed to work in some religious stuff—that always goes over big with audiences—but mostly he kept building up to the big scene. Plugging Polly Foster, all the way. How beautiful she was, how charming, how intelligent; what a personality she had. He told about her life; made you see her as she actually was, radiant, ravishing, poised on the threshold of achievement. Then he turned on the agony, worked that old tragedy angle. By the time he finished, he had them crying. Their tongues were hanging out for a sight of her, for a great big close-up.
    That was the deal, of course. The whole gang began to file past the coffin for that close-up.
    I went along with the rest. I was way in the rear, naturally, but I kept my eye open. I saw Bannock and Daisy, and the little girl from Bannock’s office who wouldn’t be getting her autographed menu unless the police released it from the exhibits they were holding as evidence.
    I was looking for other faces, though. Gradually, as I worked my way up the line approaching the casket, I spotted a few.
    Tom Trent was there, in a black suit minus the monogram initials. He was accompanied by a small brunette I couldn’t identify, and he didn’t see me. Near the head of the procession was a chunky little redfaced man with a hairline receding almost to the back of his neck. I recognized Abe Kolmar, from Ace. He’d been Polly Foster’s producer, and Dick Ryan’s too. His eyes were red, and he kept twisting a big handkerchief in his hands.
    I saw Al Thompson, too—or, rather, he saw me. He wasn’t in line, just standing there leaning against a floral arch as I went past. He nodded.
    “What brings you here?” I whispered.
    “Same as you. Looking around.” He joined me in the file. “See anybody?”
    “Whole town’s here.”
    “What about Estrellita Juarez? Joe Dean?”
    “Dean was here, but he didn’t stay. We questioned him, you know.”
    “Clean?”
    Thompson shrugged. “He’s out, if that’s what you mean.”
    “And Juarez?”
    “Can’t locate her. We’re trying.” Thompson scowled. “Quit needling me. That’s official business.”
    “My business, too. You might say I have a personal interest at stake now.”
    “Well, I wish you’d lay off. Before you’re laid out.”
    “Is there a flip to that record?”
    “Never mind the repartee. If you’d listened to my advice at the beginning, you wouldn’t have had any trouble. And maybe Polly Foster wouldn’t have had any trouble, either. Ever think about that angle, Clayburn?”
    I’d thought about it, all right. I’d been thinking about it ever since the murder.
    That’s why I kept trying to kid myself along, building up a line about this being a Hamilton Brackett production. Anything to take my mind off the facts, the cold, hard facts of the case.
    Now it was my turn at the casket, and I couldn’t pretend any longer. I was looking down at the cold, hard facts in the silver case. The cold death mask, the hard death mask with the smiling lips. The lips I’d threatened to wash with soap. The lips I could conceivably have kissed.
    But that was gone now. That mouth had been washed out for the last time. And when I thought about what would soon be kissing those lips...
    My fault, all my fault.
    Like hell it was!
    I hadn’t killed her. That was the