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interviews this morning?”
    The face moved from left to right.
    “Sorry,” Trent said. “You know the rules. No story without a clearance from the front office.”
    “I really should have checked first,” I told him. “I didn’t mean to barge in on you like this. But I happened to be in the neighborhood.”
    “Who you with?”
    I shrugged. “Freelance. But I’ve got a sort of roving assignment for features from Photoplay . You know, profile stuff, with a picture spread.”
    “You can get anything you want from Higgins, in Publicity,” Trent informed me. “If you get together with him, he’ll set up the whole deal.”
    I smiled. “I understand that, Mr. Trent. But what I had in mind was something a little different.”
    The big man scratched himself under the arm. “That so? What’s the angle?”
    “Well, it’s rather confidential.” I shot a look at the face hanging over the pool. Trent followed my gaze.
    “Hey,” he called. “Swim underwater for a while, will you?”
    The face disappeared.
    “Sit down and help yourself. What were you saying about confidential, now?”
    I sat down, ignored the bottle and glasses, and concentrated on smiling and keeping my voice soft. “Well, it’s like this. I’m trying to work up a series of interviews with dead stars.”
    “Huh?”
    “Novelty idea. For instance, I’m going to contact the Barrymores about a yarn on John. You know, intimate details, little bits of personal reminiscence, things like that. I’d like to do one on Beery and maybe Dix. Get the dope and then write it up in question-and-answer form, in the first person, just as if they were talking.”
    “Sounds screwy if you ask me.” Trent scowled. “Besides, I ain’t dead.” He poured himself another shot.
    “Of course not. But you happen to have been associated with a star who died recently. I thought you might have some interesting material I could use.”
    He’d started to lift his drink, but put it down again now. The sun sparkled on the initials cut into the side of the tumbler.
    “Who you talking about?”
    “Dick Ryan,” I said.
    Trent looked at me. Then he raised the glass, emptied it and lowered it to the table again, all in a single continuous motion. He stared at me again before he spoke. “Never heard of him.”
    “What’s that? I’m talking about Lucky Larry. ”
    “Never heard of him, either.”
    “But you played in a whole series together. You were with him the night he died.”
    Trent stood up. “I told you,” he said. “I never heard of Dick Ryan. End of story.”
    “Well, if that’s the way you want to be.”
    He wasn’t letting me finish my sentences. “That’s the way it is, Clayburn. And let me give you a tip for what it’s worth to you: you never heard of Dick Ryan, either. And you don’t want to write a yarn about him, or ask anyone else.”
    “Mind if I ask why?”
    Trent scowled. “How’d you lose the eye?” he asked. “Poking it in other people’s keyholes?” He was a big man, and he had a big hand. It felt like a ton, resting on my shoulder.
    “What’s wrong with asking?” I murmured. “Who knows, maybe I can find a few interesting angles. Since you didn’t know this Dick Ryan, you might be surprised to learn that he was murdered.” I paused. “Then again, you might not.”
    Trent’s hand began to clamp down. I reached up and batted it off. He made a sound in his chest. “Why, you!”
    There was the sound of splashing from the pool. Both of us turned and saw the face beneath the bathing cap bob up. The head shook again, a slow, grave movement.
    “All right.” His voice shook with the effort at control. “I’m giving you a break. I’m leaving you the other eye, if you get out of here right now. But get this, Clayburn. You aren’t doing any story on Dick Ryan. You’re not asking anyone else about him, either. He’s dead. Let him stay that way. You’re alive. And if you want to stay that way—”
    The hand gave me a shove. I