Barney Goodman opened the front door of his modernistic home on the outskirts of Hollywood, smiled that warm smile of his and told me to come in. After leaving Gale’s I’d phoned Goodman, asked if I might see him. I hadn’t wanted to go into detail over the phone.
He shook my hand firmly, grinned his boyish grin and said, “This is a pleasure, Mr. Scott. You’re the first private investigator I’ve met. At least—you’re not investigating me, are you?”
me, “No. The main reason I’m here is to find out if Jim Brandon delivered his manuscript to you yet.”
We had walked into a paneled den, and he pointed to one of two deep leather chairs near each other. As we sat in them, he said briskly, “Not yet, but I expect it soon. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day.”
“Jim’s dead,” I said. “And the manuscript
