“Don’t give me that malarkey.” Tall but bent, he had foxed-paper skin, coarse white hair, and clouded blue eyes. Stiff fingers bent the card in half and palmed it. A fleshy, open-pored nose dipped toward a lopsided twig of an upper lip. “Albert Beamish, formerly of Martin, Crutch, and Melvyn and ninety-three other partners until the mandatory out-to-pasture clause kicked in and they sentenced me to ‘emeritus.’ That was eighteen years ago so do the arithmetic and choose your words efficiently. I could drop dead right in front of you and you’d have to lie to someone else.”

“Till a hundred and twenty, sir.”

Albert Beamish said, “Get on with it, kiddo. What’d that one do?”

“One of her students was murdered and we’re getting background information from people who knew the victim.”

“And you spoke to her and you saw what a lunatic she is.”

Milo chuckled.

Albert Beamish said, “Students? They let her teach? When did that start?”

“She runs her own acting school.”

Beamish’s laughter was jagged. It took a while for his cocktail to reach his lips. “Acting. That’s just more of the same.”

“The same what?”

“Being the indolent, spoiled brat she’s always been.”

Milo said, “You’ve known her for a while.”

“She grew up in that overgrown log cabin. Her grandfather built it back in the twenties, a blight on the neighborhood then, just as it is now. Doesn’t fit, should be in Pasadena or some place where they like that kind of thing.” Beamish’s filmy irises aimed across the street. “You see any others like it around here?”

“No, sir.”

“There’s a reason for that, kiddo. Doesn’t fit. Try telling that to Bill Dowd Senior— the grandfather. No sophistication. Came from Oklahoma, made money in groceries, dry goods, something of that sort. His wife was low-class, uneducated, thought she could buy her way in spending money. Same with the daughter-in-law— that one’s mother. Blond tramp, always throwing ostentatious parties.”

Beamish drank some more. “Damned elephant.”

Milo said, “Sir?”

“One time they brought in a damned elephant. For one of their birthdays, don’t remember which one. Filthied up the street, the stench lasted for days.” His nostrils quivered. “Bill Junior never worked a day in his life, fooled around on his daddy’s money, married late. Woman just like his mother, no class. Now you’re telling me that one teaches acting. Where does this travesty take place?”

“West L.A.,” said Milo. “The PlayHouse.”

“I never venture that far from civilization,” said Beamish. “A play house? Sounds damned frivolous.”

“It’s a Craftsman building, same as the house,” I said.

“Does it fit in over there?”

“The neighorhood’s pretty hetero— ”