Dead Seed by William Campbell Gault

from their problems. They rank with quitters to me. Fortney Grange certainly had not killed his longtime friend. That I couldn’t believe. But there was a strong possibility that Morgenstern had died because Grange had run. A good agent, and Morgenstern had clearly been that and more, protects his client. Quite often, he protects his client from the client’s worst enemy—himself.
    But to die for a client? For ten percent of the gross? There is no ten percent death; death is always one hundred percent.
    The lovers had fled with their secret. Morgenstern had died with his secret and possibly because of it, the “private things” he had come to town to tell them. He had been their victim.
    The six o’clock news on the local station had more on the story. Grange had admitted arguing with Morgenstern. He had been indignant with his agent, he had told the police, because he had learned there had been several offers for small parts in pictures over the last few months that his agent had turned down. Grange was still being held, pending bail.
    “He lied, didn’t he?” Jan asked.
    “I guess. Maybe not.”
    “Did you tell the police Morgenstern was here Friday night?”
    “There weren’t any policemen around when I got to the hotel.”
    “Don’t you think you should phone them?”
    “I’ll wait until Bernie is back to work tomorrow.”
    “You sound down,” she said. “I thought you would be champing at the bit, ready to dash out and find the killer so you could prove your hero’s innocence.”
    “He’s not my hero and I’m not sure he’s innocent. When are we going to eat?”
    “In about an hour. I’ll fix you a drink.”
    She brought me a bourbon and water almost as strong as I usually made for myself, and twice as strong as she usually made for me.
    “Drink up,” she said, “and grow up. The man is a human being, subject to all our human frailties. He is not a knight in shining armor, or a dauntless Western marshal. He is a human being who happens to be an actor.”
    “Oh, for God’s sake, I know that!”
    “And maybe,” she went on, “everything he has done that troubles you was done to protect Carol.”
    “Probably,” I agreed. “I can’t believe that running away was Grange’s idea, not yet, not quite.”
    I didn’t have much talk to offer the rest of the evening. Jan and Mrs. Casey discussed the murder, offering their opinions, pro and con. They waited up for more on the story on the eleven o’clock news. I went to bed.
    The urge to steer clear of the mess was strong in me. But one man hadn’t run; there had been one hero involved, the late Sydney Morgenstern. I went down to the station next morning.
    Bernie was in Chief Harris’s office. I waited in his. When he came in, I asked him, “Am I cleared for action?”
    He nodded. “More or less. Did Morgenstern get in touch with you?”
    “He came to my house. He had a message, he told me, for Grange and Miss Medford from Carl Lacrosse. He wouldn’t tell me what it was.”
    “And now,” Bernie said, “the messenger is dead. Did he tell you where Lacrosse could be reached?”
    “No. He saw him at a gallery in Los Angeles. He doubted that Lacrosse was still down there, because his exhibition ended two days ago.” I related the rest of my conversation with Morgenstern.
    And then I asked, “Now, what do you have?”
    “Not much.” He took out a cigarette, studied it, and put it back in the pack.
    “I see what you mean by more or less,” I said. “More from me and less from you.”
    “Stop pouting, for Christ’s sake! I was thinking.”
    He took out a cigarette again, looked at it and lighted it. I went over to open a window and came back to sit down.
    “It ties in with Kelly,” he told me. “The hotel has a record of a phone call Morgenstern made to Kelly’s house.”
    “Oh, boy! Has Kelly been questioned?”
    He shook his head. “We can’t locate him. He’s not home. Nobody is there.”
    “How did Grange learn that