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Shatzkin identified William Faulkner, writer, as his assailant. Camile Shatzkin, deceased’s wife, also identified Faulkner. Jacques Shatzkin’s identification was positive. Shatzkin was author’s representative and had met previously with Faulkner. Faulkner had been invited for dinner to talk business. He arrived late, according to deceased and his widow, fired point-blank at Shatzkin, and then left. Though victim was unable to do more than identify assailant, the wife said that she knew of no quarrel between the two, though husband had described Faulkner as moody during their one lunch meeting. Faulkner was picked up at the Hollywood Hotel at 10:10 p.m. He denied knowledge of Shatzkin murder or dinner invitation and was singularly uncooperative. He admitted having had lunch with Shatzkin two days earlier (Wednesday). Check with Shatzkin’s office confirmed luncheon meeting on Wednesday with Faulkner. Search of Faulkner’s hotel room, conducted 4:30 a.m. Saturday, January 4, with Sergeant Veldu present and two security officers from Warner’s, Lovell and Hillier, led to discovery of .38 caliber revolver, recently fired. Ballistics run indicates this was weapon used to kill Shatzkin. Faulkner charged with murder 7 a.m. Saturday, January 4, 1942. Asked to call lawyer, Martin R. Leib of Westwood. Made no further statement.”
    I had just finished the report when the door opened and Cawelti of the sleek dark hair ushered William Faulkner into the small office.

CHAPTER THREE

    F aulkner was a wiry guy about my age and height with a small mustache and a chip on his shoulder the size of Catalina Island. He had a high-bridged, almost Indian nose with heavy-lidded, deep-set brown eyes. His face was tan and he held a blackened pipe in his thin lips. I couldn’t tell what was going on in his head other than that he had a distaste for the room, the situation, me, and possibly life in general. His eyes seemed to show melancholy, calculation, and a private sense of humor at the same time, as if he saw himself as a tragic figure and accepted the role, maybe even welcomed it. I can’t say I liked him immediately. I wondered whether he knew any vampire poems.
    â€œYour client,” Cawelti said, ushering Faulkner to the chair across from Phil’s desk and backing out with feigned respect. Faulkner didn’t sit. He didn’t offer his hand. He took the pipe out of his mouth and examined me.
    â€œForgive my lack of social grace in these surroundings, Mister …”
    â€œPeters,” I said. “Toby Peters. Private investigator working for Martin Leib and, I guess, Warner Brothers on your behalf.”
    Faulkner’s voice was a little deeper than I had expected and distinctly Southern. I was having trouble with my words, trying to be formal and knowing I was unnatural. He had that effect. Faulkner stood behind the chair playing with his pipe, and I walked over to the window behind Phil’s desk and pretended to look out. Since it faced a brick wall four feet away and hadn’t been cleaned for a generation of two, I couldn’t see anything.
    â€œI don’t think they’re going to give us a lot of time in here,” I said, “so I’d appreciate it if you’d just tell your story.”
    I pulled out my notebook with the worn spirals. It had a few ragged pages left. I could finish up on the back of the letter in my pocket from a hotel in Fresno complaining that I owed them for a night’s lodging from a lifetime or two ago. I turned my eyes to Faulkner, who looked as if he might be deciding to tell me to go to hell. An almost nonexistent move of his shoulder made me think he had chosen possible salvation over dignity. I almost wrote that down, but I didn’t have enough paper and the nub of my pencil might not last long. I also thought I had stolen the line from the one Faulkner novel I had read.
    â€œThere is irony in your request,” Faulkner