Fadeout Read Online Free PDF

the book back and touched the shiny metal of the tall stands. "These microphones cost three hundred dollars each. They're the finest made." 
    "What about the painting?" Dave.asked. "Where did that come in?" 
    "The painting?" She opened blank eyes at him. The brandy had worked. "Oh . . . I thought I told you. Before the war, Pearl Harbor, he studied art. For a year, at the Provence School. On Western Avenue. He and a friend, Doug Sawyer. I never knew him. He joined the Air Force. Lost on a bombing mission over Europe in the first months. That was when Fox went into the aircraft factory. 
    "He told me when we met that he'd never touch a brush again. And it was a good many years before he wanted to. And then there wasn't time or strength. Not with working eight hours a day and writing too. And he'd invested too much in the writing to stop that. Years. So painting was one of those things he was going to do when his book got published and became a best seller and we were rich." 
    "And you got rich and he started. Right?" 
    "Right." She finished the last of her brandy and set the glass down with a click. "And the book is going to be a reality too. All those years of writing are going to pay off at last. Do you know what the advance royalty was? Twenty-five thousand dollars. That, my friend, is success! He was illustrating it himself. Here . . ." She slid a portfolio from the art cabinet and opened it on the drafting table. Dave went to look. The drawings were ink and wash. Quick and funny and filled with small-town atmosphere. 
    "I'll have to read the stories," he said. 
    "You do that." The brandy hadn't softened her. It had dissolved the polish.. She walked to the desk, scooped up the heap of scripts, came back and thrust them into his hands. "And try to forget your grade-B-thriller theories, Mr. Brandstetter. Fox Olson didn't demolish his new sixthousand- dollar car and trudge off into nowhere in the middle of a rainy night. He'd reached the best years of his life. They were just beginning. Record companies were interested. Television ... " She glanced at her watch again. "See Hale McNeil, if you still have any doubts. At KPIM. He'll show you the letters, the contract offers. Now I'm sorry, but you're going to have to excuse me.... " 
    Dave smiled. "There'll be other days." 
    "I hope not!" she flared. "Frankly, I'm really quite upset and angry about this. It's perfectly senseless. When the storm is over, Fox's body will be found. Then you'll feel as absurd as I know right now you are." She turned away. "Come along. I'll give you your coat. . . ." 
    When he reached his car, under the dripping, blue-gray manzanita, his feet wet again from the shallow river that was the road, he tossed the damp scripts into the back seat. He started the engine, released the brake. But he wasn't leaving yet. He drove up the road fifty yards, argued the car around, twice nearly sinking the rear wheels in a pothole big enough to qualify as a scenic wonder, and parked with the engine running. There was a lot of wet green brush here. Mountain holly. It masked the car. 
    He waited. About five minutes. Then a station wagon swung into the Olson driveway. Green-and-blue logo on the door: KPIM. Dave slid across the seat. The blurred glass didn't help, but through a gap in the brush he saw the station wagon brake behind the Mustang. The old Chevy was gone. It must have belonged to the girl, Terry. 
    The driver got out of the station wagon. Distance and rain made it impossible to see his features. He was well set up, broad in the shoulders. No hat. Dark hair. Tan fly-front coat. Head down, he trotted along the flags toward the house. Dave lost sight of him in the tangle of brush for a second. Then he found a gap that showed him the house door. It opened. 
    Thorne Olson came out, still in the brown boy's clothes. She ran five steps through the rain and into the man's arms. He closed them around her. She clung to him and he bent his head and covered