I
I LOOKED up and down the corridor. There was no one in sight. A faint and far-off sound of movement told me that at least some of the occupants behind the many doors were beginning to greet the day; even if they went no farther than rolling over in bed.
I moved cautiously out of Room 23 and closed the door. Then I took off my hat and wiped my face with my handker-chief. I lit a cigarette and drew in a lungful of smoke. That helped a little, but not much. What I needed was a large whisky, neat, and in a hurry.
I stepped across the corridor to the redhead’s door. On the left-hand panel with a card that read: Miss Joy Dreadon. At home weekdays after five.
I tapped with my finger-nails on the door, making no more noise than a mouse makes when it is nibbling at die wainscot-ting, but it was loud enough.
The door opened about eight inches and Miss Dreadon peered at me through the opening. She seemed to have lost her bonhomie and her trustful air of welcome.
‘Well?’
Her big green eyes were suspicious and watchful.
I decided to waste no time and to talk to her in a language she would understand and appreciate.
‘I want to buy a little information,’ I said, and pushed my card at her. ‘Twenty dollars buys ten minutes at my rates: nice clean bills and secrecy guaranteed.’
She read the card with that pained expression people usually wear who don’t read a great deal and are still bothered by long words. She had to make an obvious effort not to move her lips while she spelt out the letters to herself.
Then she opened the door a couple more notches and push-ed the card back at me.
‘Let’s see die money.’
A simple, direct soul, I thought, who gets straight to the point of interest and doesn’t bother to ask unnecessary questions.
I took out my bill-fold and showed her two crisp clean ten-dollar bills. I didn’t give them to her. I just showed them to her.
She eyed them the way a small child eyes Santa Claus’s sack, and opened the door.
‘Come on in. I don’t care who you are, but those berries certainly make my palms itch. Sure it’s information you want?’
I stepped past her into a room a little larger than 23, and much more pleasant and comfortable. There was a divan, a settee, two armchairs, a couple of expensive Chinese rugs on the grey fitted carpet and a bowl of red-and-yellow begonias on a table in the window recess.
I put my hat down on a chair and said I was sure it was information I wanted.
She held out a white hand with dark red, polished nails.
‘Let’s have half. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but it’s a good principle. You can have a drink if you like, or coffee.’
I gave her one of the ten-dollar bills, thinking this case was costing me plenty. I seemed to be spending the entire morning giving my money away.
She folded the bill and hid it in her brassiere as I said a Scotch would adequately meet the case.
She wasn’t niggardly about it. She gave me the bottle and glass and told me to help myself.
‘Give me a second to get my coffee.’
By the time she was back I was two drinks ahead of her.
She set a tray on the table near her and flopped on the settee, showing me a pair of long, slender legs that might have given me ideas if my head wasn’t already full of ideas of a different kind. Seeing the direction of my studied stare, she flicked the wrap into place and raised her eyebrows.
‘What are you: a private dick or something?’
‘Something like that. Not quite, but it’ll do.’
‘I knew it. As soon as I saw you, I knew you weren’t the usual prowler. You’ve got nice eyes. Sure you wouldn’t like a little fun?’
I started to make a courteous speech, but she stopped me with a wave of her hand and a wide, friendly grin.
‘Forget it, honey, I was only kidding. It’s not often I get a good-looking man in here who doesn’t start climbing up the wall immediately the door shuts. It’s a novelty, and I like it. What do you want to know?’
I made a third drink.
‘The subject of the inquiry is Gracie Lehmann. Do you know her?’
Miss Dreadon’s face hardened.
‘For crying out loud! You’re not wasting good money to find out about her, ar e you?’
The Scotch had set me up. In fact it was so good it nearly, set me up on my ear.
‘I’m working for a client who’s in trouble with the police. Gracie could have cleared him. No other reason.’
‘Well, go and ask her. Why come to me?’
‘I doubt if she’s going to be much help now. She’s dead.’
She started and spilt some coffee on her bare knee, she swore softly under her breath, put down the coffee cup and wiped her knee with her handkerchief.
‘Must you say things like that?’ Then, as I didn’t say anything, but looked at her, she went on, ‘You don’t mean she’s really dead?’
‘She’s dead all right. I’ve just been in there. She’s hanging at the back of the bathroom door.’
She gave a little shudder, grimaced, gave another little shudder and reached for the whisky bottle.
‘She was a stupid little fool, but I didn’t think she’d be that stupid. The trouble with her was she couldn’t leave reefers alone.’
‘I guessed that. I could smell the stuff in the room.’ I took out my cigarette case and offered it
She took one and we lit up, then she poured a shot of whisky into her coffee and drank it.
‘Now I’ve got the jitters,’ she confessed. ‘I hate hearing things like that.’
‘Did you see her last night?’
‘Yes; I’m always running into her.’
‘When?’
‘Oh, when I went out to dinner she was coming in, and we met again on the stairs when I returned. She must have gone out again while I was having dinner. We both came in together.
‘What time was this?’
Miss Dreadon suppressed a yawn, not very successfully.
‘It was late. About three-thirty I guess. I didn’t particularly notice, but it was plenty late enough.’
‘Was she alone?’
She shook her head.
‘Oh no. She had a man with her as usual. What they can see in that dirty little…’ She broke off, frowning. ‘Oh well, I’d better not talk like that now she’s dead.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Much too good for her. The kind of man I’d go for in a big way: like Clark Gable. Not like him in looks, but his style.’
‘How was he dressed?’
‘He had on a snappy number in fawn flannel suiting, a white felt hat and a hand-painted tie. He wore big doughnut sized sun-glasses. I guess he put those on in case any of his friends spotted him going in with her. The tricks men get up to.’
I was sitting on the edge of my chair now, trying very hard to keep calm.
‘Did he have a thin, black moustache and hard, lean face?’
‘Certainly he had. Do you know him?’
‘I ran into him coming down the stairs this morning.’
‘This morning?’ Her eyes opened very wide. ‘But if she’s dead...?’
‘Yeah. She’s been dead some time. I’d make a guess and put it at about eight hours.’
‘You mean she went into the bathroom and hanged herself while he was in the other room?’
‘I saw him coming downstairs about twenty minutes ago. She died eight hours ago; say about four o’clock in the morn-ing. Obviously she died while he was in her room, unless he left before four and came back this morning for some reason or other.’
She sank back on the cushions of the settee and fanned herself with her hand.
‘He could have done that, couldn’t he? Gee! I was getting all worked up.’
‘I remembered the lean man’s unshaven chin. If he had left last night, why hadn’t he shaved this morning before coming out on to the streets? There might be a perfectly good answer to that one, but until I heard it it seemed to me he had spent the night in Gracie’s room.
This was too important to let slide. I had to find out for certain.
I got to my feet
‘Here’s the other ten I owe you. Thanks for the help. Take my tip and keep out of this. Let someone else find her.’
‘Uuugh! I won’t sleep a wink thinking of her in there.’
‘You’ll sleep even less if some tough cop takes you down to Headquarters and gets to work on you. Keep out of it.’
‘Aren’t you going to tell them?’
I shook my head.
‘I haven’t the time to waste on a suicide case. You’ll be surprised how quickly someone will miss her. They always do.’ I took out my bill-fold and another ten-dollar bill. ‘If they ask questions, keep me out of it. Tell them about this guy in the fawn suit, but not until they ask you.’
She took the bill and stowed it away in her brassiere.
‘I’ll keep you out of it.’
I left her sitting on the settee, biting her under-lip and frowning. She looked a lot less happy and a lot more worried than when I had first seen her.
Out in the corridor again, I peeped to right and left, satisfied myself no one was watching me, then stepped across the corridor into Room 23. I closed the door and began a quick but systematic search of the room.
I was looking for some proof that would tell me the lean man had spent the night here. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I looked just the same.
First I examined the bed and found a couple of black hairs on the pillow. Gracie was blonde. If he had rested his head on the pillow, it didn’t mean he had stayed in the room all night. But it certainly hinted he had.
It wasn’t until I had covered practically every inch of the apartment and was giving up that I found what I wanted. There were two cupboards in the kitchenette: one contained cups and saucers and plates; the other, jugs and dishes and cooking utensils. There was a cup and saucer amongst the jugs. They shouldn’t have been in that cupboard. They should have been in the adjacent cupboard. That gave me an idea. I turned my attention to the trash basket. Dumped on top of the usual refuse was a small pile of coffee grounds; and they were luke-warm. There was no mistake about that. They had been emptied out of a percolator some time this morning.
Gracie hadn’t made coffee this morning. That was certain. If the lean man had returned because he had forgotten something he wouldn’t have made himself coffee. That I wouldn’t believe. But if he had slept there the night, he might have made himself coffee before leaving. It would be a cold-blooded thing to have done, as he must have known Gracie was hanging dead in the bathroom. Come to think of it, he probably knew she was dead before he went to bed; and that was even more cold-blooded.
Then suddenly it was as obvious as a neon light on a dark night. This wasn’t suicide: it was murder.
II
There was a call-box in the darker part of the lobby. I opened the door and stepped inside. It smelt as if someone had kept a goat in there at one time, and not a particularly nice goat at that.
Holding my breath, I hung my handkerchief over the ancient mouthpiece, lifted off the receiver and dialled.
After a while a voice bellowed: ‘Police Headquarters. Sergeant Harker talking.’
‘Connect me with Lieutenant Mifflin,’ I said, speaking away from the mouthpiece. I probably sounded at the other end like Hamlet’s father’s ghost.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Harry Truman,’ I said. ‘Make it snappy. You may not think it but time’s money to me.’
‘Hold on,’ the sergeant said. I heard him call across the room, ‘Is the Lieutenant in? There’s a guy wanting him. Says his name is Harry Truman. That’s familiar, ain’t it? I’ve heard it before somewhere.’
Someone called the sergeant a very rude name.
Then Mifflin came on the line.
‘Lieutenant of the Police talking,’ he said sternly. ‘Who’s that?’
I’m reporting a hanging in Room 23, second floor, 274 Fel-man Street. If you get over there fast you’ll find a clue in the refuse bin. Don’t be too sure it’s suicide, and take a little trouble checking on the woman. It’ll pay dividends.’
‘Who’s that talking?’ Mifflin demanded.
I could hear the scratch of his pen as he wrote down the address.
I haven’t the faintest idea,’ I said, and hung up.
I pushed my handkerchief into my pocket and took quick, silent steps to the front door. I had about three minutes, not more, to get clear. The city police might not be over-bright, but in emergencies they were fast.
As I slammed the Buick door, a boy in a ragged wind-breaker and a pair of dirty flannel trousers jumped on the running board. He pushed his grimy little face through the open window.
‘Hey, mister, you’re to go to 2 Coral Row; right away: its urgent.’
I started the engine, my eye on the driving mirror, expecting to see a police car come pounding up behind me.
‘Who says so?’
‘Some guy gave me a dollar to tell you. Says it’s urgent, and you’d know.’
He dropped off the running board and bolted off down the street. I hadn’t time to go after him. I wanted to, but the need to get away from 274 was more pressing. Already I could hear the distant sound of a police siren. I sent the car shooting towards Beach Road.
I had never heard of Coral Row, but it would be somewhere in Coral Gables. I headed that way because I was curious. Right at this moment I had a lot on my mind. I was wondering if the old waiter would remember me, and if he had noticed the number of my car. I was particularly anxious not to get tied up with Mifflin at this time. He could work out the problem of Gracie’s murder without my help. I had other more pressing things to do. But if he began asking questions and got around to the waiter, he might get a description of me. I knew he wouldn’t be pleased I had left before he arrived.
At the bottom of Beach Road I turned left on to the waterfront, and parked in a vacant space hedged in on either side by coils of rope and oil drums.
Coral Gables is no place to wander around in unless you have an escort or carry a gun. Even the cops go around in pairs and scarcely a month passes without someone is found up an alley with a knife in his back.
As I got out of the Buick and looked up and down the long harbour, crammed with small boats and fishing trawlers, I was aware that I was being stared at by groups of men who lounged in the sun, picturesque enough in their soiled canvas trousers and various coloured sweat-shirts, their shifty, dark eyes weighing me up.
I picked on one who was on his own, aimlessly whittling a piece of wood into the shape of a boat.
‘Can you put me on to Coral Row?’
He eyed me over, leaned away from me to spit into the oily water of the harbour and jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the coffee-shops, the sea-food stalls and the like that faced the waterfront.
‘Behind Yate’s Bar,’ he said curtly.
Yate’s Bar is a two-storey wooden building where, if you aren’t fussy who you eat with, you can get a good clam-chowder and a ten-year-old ale that sneaks up on you if you don’t watch out. I had been in there once or twice with Kerman. It’s the kind of place where anything can happen, and very often does.
‘Thanks,’ I said, and crossed the broad water-front road to the bar.
Alongside the wooden building was an alley. High up on the wall was a notice that read: Leading to Coral Row.
I paused to light a cigarette while I regarded the alley with a certain amount of caution and no enthusiasm. The high walls blocked out the sunlight. The far end of the alley was a black patch of smelly air and suspicious silence.
I slid my hand inside my coat to reassure myself I could get the .38 out fast in case of an emergency, then I walked quietly towards the darkness.
At the end of the alley, and at a sharp right-angle to it, was Coral Row: a dismal, dark courtyard flanked on three sides by derelict-looking buildings that had at one time or another served as marine storehouses. By the look of them now they were nothing better than ratinfested ruins.
High above me I could see the stark, black roofs of the buildings sharply outlined against a patch of blue sky.
I stood in the opening of the alley, looking at the buildings, wondering if I was about to walk into a trap.
Opposite, a worm-eaten door sagged on one hinge. A dirty brass number, a 2, was screwed to the central panel.
There it was: 2 Coral Row. It now depended on myself whether I’d go in there or not. I took a drag at my cigarette while I looked the place over. It would probably be as dark as a Homburg hat inside, and I hadn’t a flashlight. The boards would be rotten, and it would be impossible to move silently.
I decided to go ahead and see what happened.
Throwing my cigarette away, I walked across the courtyard to the sagging door. I wasn’t any calmer than a hen chased by a motor car, and my heart was banging against my ribs but I went ahead because I’m a sucker for discipline, and I feel, every now and then, it is good for one’s morale to do things like this.
I gum-shoed up the stone steps and peered into a long, dark passage. Facing me was a flight of stairs, several of them crushed flat as if some heavy foot had been too much for the wormrotten timber. There were no banisters, and the stains looked unpleasantly suicidal. I decided to leave them alone, and investigate the passage.
The floor creaked and groaned under my feet as I walked slowly and cautiously into the stalesmelling darkness. Ahead of me I heard a sudden rustle and a scamper of rats. The sound brought me to a standstill, and the hair at the back of my neck stiffened. To be on the safe side, and probably to bolster up my courage, I eased out my gun.
There was an open door at the end of the passage. I paused before it and peered in. There wasn’t much to see except dark- ness. I was in no hurry to go in, and after a few seconds I made out tiny chinks of light coming in through the boarded walls. Even at that, it was much, much too dark in there.
I took a couple of very cautious steps forward, and paused just inside the doorway. There seemed no point in going far- ther, and no point in staying longer. If someone was hiding in there, I couldn’t see him, and I doubted if he could see me, but in this I was wrong.
A board creaked suddenly close to me. The swish of a descending sap churned the air. I threw myself forward and sideways.
Something very hard and that hurt hit my shoulder, driving the gun out of my hand: a blow aimed at my head, and which would have sent me to sleep for a long, long time if it had landed.
I fell on my hands and knees. Legs brushed against my side, fingers groped up my arm, touched my face and shifted to my throat: lean, strong fingers, damp against my skin, and cold.
I shoved my chin into my collar so he couldn’t get a prom grip, straightened, groped in my turn for a hold. My hand touched a coat, went up a powerful bicep. That gave me an idea where his face was. I slammed in a short, hard punch that connected with what felt like an ear.
There was a grunt, then a weight that could have been around fourteen stone dropped on top of me, driving me flat on to the floor. The fingers dug into my neck; hot, hurried breathing fanned my face.
But this time he wasn’t dealing with a girl. Probably he hadn’t had a great deal of trouble in handling Gracie, but he was going to have some trouble handling me.
I caught hold of his thumbs and bent them back. I heard him catch his breath in a gasp of pain. He jerked his thumbs out of my grip only because I let him, and as he straightened up I clouted him on the side of the head with a round-house swing that sent him away from me with a grunt of anguish.
I was half up, with my fingers touching the floor, as he launched himself at me again. I could just make out his dim form in the darkness as he came, and I lurched towards him. We met with a crash like a couple of charging bulls. He reeled back, and I socked him in the belly: a goingaway punch that hadn’t the beef to put him down, but that brought the wind out of him like the hiss of a punctured tyre.
At the back of my mind I could see that screwed-up figure in the soiled blue nightdress hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and it made me mad. I kept moving in, belting him with right and left punches, not always landing, but taking good care when they did land they’d hurt. I took one bang on the side of the jaw that sent my head back, but it wasn’t hard enough to stop me.
He was gasping for breath now, and backing away as fast as he could. I had to stop throwing punches, because I lost sight of him. I could only hear his heavy breathing, and guess he was somewhere just ahead of me. For a moment or so we stood in the darkness, trying to see each other, listening and watching for any sudden move.
I thought I could just make out a shadow in the darkness about a yard to my left, but I wasn’t sure. I stamped my foot, and the shadow swerved away like a scared cat. Before he could cover his balance, I jumped in, and my fist caught him on the side of his neck. The impact sounded like a cleaver driving into a hunk of beef.
He gave a wheezing gasp, fell over on his back, scrambled up and backed away. He now seemed very anxious to break up the meeting and go home. I dived forward to finish him, in- stead, my foot landed on a rotten plank that gave under me and I came down with a crash that shook the breath out of me.
He had me cold then, but he wasn’t interested. All he could think of was getting home.
He bolted for the door.
I struggled to get up, but my foot was firmly held in the rotten flooring. I caught a glimpse of a tall, broad-shouldered figure outlined in the dimness of the doorway; then it vanish-ed.
By the time I got my foot free I knew it would be useless to go after him. There were too many bolt-holes in Coral Gables to find him after such a start.
I limped to the door, swearing to myself. Something white lying in the passage caught my eye. I bent to pick it up.
It was a white felt hat.
III
The barman in Yate’s Bar looked like a retired all-in-wrestler. He was getting old now, but he still looked tough enough to quell a riot.
He served me with a slice of baked ham between rye bread and a pint of beer, and while I ate he rested hairy arms on the counter and stared at me.
At this hour of the day the bar was slack. There were not more than half a dozen men at the various tables dotted around the room: fishermen and turtle men waiting for the tide to turn. They took no notice of me, but I seemed to fascinate the barman. His battle-scarred face was heavy with thought, and every now and then he passed a hand as big as a ham over his shaven head as if to coax his brain to work.
‘Seen yuh kisser some place,’ he said, pulling at a nose that had been stamped on in the past. ‘Been in here before, ain’t yu?’
He had a high, falsetto voice that would have embarrassed a choirboy.
I said I had been in before.
He nodded his shaven head, scratched where his ear had been, and showed a set of very white even teeth.
‘Never forget a kisser. Yuh come in here fifty yars from now and I’d remember ya. Fact.’
I thought it wasn’t likely either of us would live that long, but I didn’t say so.
‘Wonderful how some people remember faces,’ I said. ‘Wish I could. Meet a man one day, walk through him the next. Bad for business.’
‘Yah,’ the barman said. ‘Guy came in yesterday; ain’t been in here for three yars. Give him a pint of old ale before he could ask for it. Always drank old ale. That’s memory.’
If he had served me old ale without asking me I wouldn’t have argued with him. He didn’t look as if he had a lot of patience with people who argued.
‘Test your memory on this one,’ I said. ‘Tall, thin, broad-shouldered. Wears a fawn suit and a white felt hat. Seen him around here?’
The squat, heavy body stiffened. The battered, hairy face hardened.
‘It ain’t smart to ask questions in dis joint, brother,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘If yuh don’t want to lose yu front teeth, better keep yu yap shut.’
I drank some beer while I eyed him over the rim of the glass.
‘That scarcely answers my question,’ I said, put down the glass and produced a five-dollar bill. I kept it between my fingers so only he and I could see it.
He looked to right and left, frowned, hesitated, then looked to right and left again: as obvious as a ham actor playing Hard-iron, the spy, for the first time.
‘Give me it wid a butt,’ he said, without moving his lips.
I gave him a cigarette and the bill. Only five of the six men in the bar saw him take it. The other had his back turned.
‘One of Barratt’s boys,’ he said. ‘Keep clear of him: he’s dangerous.’
‘Yeah; and so’s a mosquito if you let it bite you,’ I said, and paid for the beer and the sandwich.
As he scooped up the money, I asked, ‘What’s he call himself?’
He looked at me, frowning, then moved off down to the far end of the bar. I waited a moment until I was sure he wasn’t coming back, then I slid off the stool and went out into the hot afternoon sunshine.
Jeff Barratt: could be, I thought. I didn’t know he had any boys. He had a good reason to shut Gracie’s mouth. I began to wonder if he was the master-mind behind the kidnapping. It would fit together very well if he was; possibly too well.
I also wondered, as I walked across to where I had parked the Buick, if Mary Jerome was hooked up in some way with Barratt. It was time I did something about her. I decided to run up to the Acme Garage and ask some questions.
I drove fast up Beach Road into Hawthorne Avenue and I turned left into Foothill Boulevard.
The sun was strong, and I lowered the blue sunshield over the windshield. The sunlight, coming through the blue glass, filled the car with a soft, easy light and made me feel as if I was in an aquarium.
The Acme Garage stood at the corner of Foothill Boulevard and Hollywood Avenue, facing the desert. It wasn’t anything to get excited about, and I wondered why Lute Ferris had selected such an isolated, out-of-the-way spot for a filling station.
There were six pumps, two air- and water-towers in a row before a large steel and corrugated shed that acted as a repair shop. To the right was a dilapidated rest-room and snack bar, and behind the shed, almost out of sight, was a squat, ugly looking bungalow with a flat roof.
At one time the station might have looked smart. You could still see signs of a blue-and-white check pattern on the build-ings, but the salt air, the sand from the desert, the winds and the rain had caught up with the smartness, and no one had bothered to take on an unequal battle.
Before one of the gas pumps was a low-slung Bentley coupé; black and glittering in the sunshine. At the far end of the ramp leading to the repair shop was a four-ton truck.
There seemed no one about, and I drove slowly up to one of the pumps and stopped; my bumpers about a couple of yard from the Bentley’s rear.
I tapped on the horn and waited; using my eyes, seeing nothing to excite my interest.
After a while a boy in a blue, greasy overall came out of the repair shop as if he had the whole day still on his hands, and wasn’t sure what he was going to do with it now he had it. He lounged past the Bentley, and raised eyebrows at me without any show of interest.
At a guess he was about sixteen, but old in sin and cunning. His oil-smudged face was thin and hard, and his small green eyes were shifty.
‘Ten,’ I said, took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘Don’t exhaust yourself. I don’t have to be in bed until midnight.’
He gave me a cold, blank stare, and went around to the back of the car. I kept my eye on the spinning dial just to be sure he didn’t short-change me.
After a while he reappeared and shoved out a grubby paw. I paid.
‘Where’s Ferris?’
The green eyes shifted to my face and away.
‘Out of town.’
‘When will he be back?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Mrs. Ferris about?’
‘She’s busy.’
I jerked my thumb towards the bungalow.
‘In there?’
‘Wherever she is, she’s still busy,’ the boy said and moved off.
I was about to yell after him when from behind the repair shop came a tall, immaculate figure in a light check lounge suit, a snap-brimmed brown hat well over one eye and a blood-red carnation in his buttonhole: Jeff Barratt.
I sat still and watched him, knowing he couldn’t see me through the dark blue sunshield.
He gave the Buick a casual stare before climbing into the Bentley. He drove off towards Beechwood Avenue.
The boy had gone into the repair shop. I had an idea he was watching me, although I couldn’t see him. I waited a moment or so, thinking. Was it a coincidence that Barratt had appeared here? I didn’t think so. Then I remembered Mifflin had told me Lute Ferris was a suspected marijuana smuggler. I knew Barratt smoked the stuff. Was that the hook-up between them? Was it also a coincidence that Mary Jerome should have picked on his out-of-the-way garage from which to hire a car? Again I didn’t think so. I suddenly realized I was making discoveries and progress for the first time since I started on this case. I decided to take a look at Mrs. Ferris.
I got out of the Buick, and set off along the concrete path that led past the repair shop to the bungalow.
The boy was standing in the shadows, just inside the door of repair shop. He stared at me woodenly as I passed. I stared right back at him.
He didn’t move or say anything, so I went on, turned the comer of the shed and marched up the path to the bungalow.
There was a line of washed clothes across the unkept garden: a man’s singlet, a woman’s vest, socks, stockings and a pair of ancient dungarees. I ducked under the stockings, and rapped on the shabby, blistered front door.
There was a lengthy pause, and as I was going to rap again the door opened.
The girl who stood in the doorway was small and Compact and blowsy. Even at a guess I couldn’t have put her age within five years either side of twenty-five. She looked as if life hadn’t been fun for a long time; so long she had ceased to care about fun, anyway. Her badly bleached hair was stringy and limp. Her face was puffy and her eyes red with recent weeping. Only the cold, hard set to her mouth showed she had a little spirit left, not much, but enough.
‘Yes?’ She looked at me suspiciously. ‘What do you want?’
I tipped my hat at her.
‘Mr. Ferris in?’
‘No. Who wants him?’
‘I understand he rented a car to Miss Jerome. I wanted to talk to him about her.’
She took a slow step back and her hand moved up to rest on the doorknob. In a second or so she was going to slam the door in my face.
‘He’s not here, and I’ve nothing to tell you.’
‘I’ve been authorized to pay for any information I get,’ I said hurriedly as the door began to move.
‘How much?’
She was looking now like a hungry dog looking at a bone.
‘Depends on what I get. I might spring a hundred bucks.’
The tip of a whitish tongue ran the length of her lips.
‘What sort of information?’
‘Could I step inside? I won’t keep you long.’
She hesitated. I could see suspicion, fear and money-hunger wrestling in her mind. Money won, as it usually does. She stood aside.
‘Well, come in. It’s not over-tidy, but I’ve been busy.’
She led me into a back room. It was shabby and dirty and sordid. The furniture looked as if it had come from the junk- man’s barrow; the threadbare carpet sent out little puffs of dust when I trod on it. There were greasy black finger-prints on the overmantel and the walls. The least one could say of it was, it was not over-tidy.
She sat down in an easy chair that sagged under her weight and stared at me, uneasy and suspicious.
‘The boy said your husband is out of town. I didn’t believe him,’ I said.
‘I don’t know where he is.’ Her eyes suddenly filled with tears and she turned her head. ‘I think he’s skipped.’
I felt a prickle run up my spine.
‘What makes you think that?’
She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘What about this money? I haven’t a damn cent. He went off, owing money everywhere. I haven’t enough even to buy food.’
‘You’ll get it if you have anything worth while to tell me.’
Her face hardened.
‘I could tell you plenty. They think I don’t know anything, but I do. I keep my ears and eyes open. I know all about them. I’ve had enough of this hole. I’ll sell them out if you give me enough to get away from here.’
‘Sell who out?’
‘Lute and Barratt.’
I took out my bill-fold. It felt very lean. I had only thirty dollars left. I took out a twentydollar bill and dangled it before her.
‘There’s more where this comes from. How much do you want?’
She leaned forward and snatched the bill out of my hand.
‘Five hundred and I’ll give you the works.’
‘What do you think I am—made of money? A hundred.’
She gave me a cold, fixed stare.
‘That’s my price; take it or leave it. I’m going to get out of here. I’ll give you a signed statement. It’ll blow the lid off their racket. Take it or leave it.’
‘I’ve got to know what I’m buying. You’ll get your five hun-dred if what you’ve got is what I want. Tell me.’
She hesitated, staring at me.
Who are you working for?’
‘Perelli. Let’s have it.’
‘I’ll give you a little of it,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll give you the whole of it when I have the money. Lute, Barratt and Dedrick are running the biggest smuggling racket on the coast. They’re supplying millions of reefers all over the country and to Paris, London, and Berlin. Lute looks after Los Angeles and San Francisco. Barratt takes care of London and New York. Ded- rick supplies Paris and Berlin. How’s that for a sample?’
‘You’re sure about Dedrick?’
She gave me a sneering little smile.
‘I’m sure. I’ve heard them talk. They think I’m dumb, but I’m not. If they had treated me right I would have kept my mouth shut. I know where they keep the reefers. There’s not much I don’t know. You’ll get it all for five hundred bucks, and it’ll be cheap at the price.’
‘What do you know about Mary Jerome?’
She chewed her underlip, her eyes hard.
‘I know all about her. I know where she is too.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She was at the Beach Hotel, but she isn’t there now. I’m not giving you any more until I get the money. I know why Ded- rick was kidnapped. I tell you, I can lift the lid right off this racket, but I’m going to be paid first.’
‘Okay. I have a car outside. Come down to my office. You’ll have your money and can talk in comfort.’
‘I’m not moving from here. You might take me anywhere.’
‘I’ll take you to my office. Come on.’
‘No! I’m not all that crazy.’
‘What did Barratt want just now?’
‘I don’t know. He comes to see the boy. That’ll show you how they treat me. He doesn’t bother to see me. He just talks to the boy and goes away again. Lute hasn’t been near me since he went off with that woman.’
‘You mean Mary Jerome?’
‘I don’t know who it was. It might have been her. I didn’t see her. She telephoned. I heard Lute talking to her. He said, ‘All right, baby, don’t get so excited. I’m coming right over. He didn’t even bother to say good-bye. He took the car and went, and I haven’t seen him since.’
‘When was this?’
‘The night Dedrick was kidnapped.’
"What time?’
‘Just before eight o’clock.’
‘Had Barratt anything to do with Dedrick’s kidnapping?’
She looked at me and smiled slyly.
‘That’s the lot, mister; get me the money and you’ll hear the rest. I know it all, but I’m not saying another word until I get the rest of it.’
‘Suppose I call the cops? You’d have to talk to them for nothing.’
She laughed.
‘I’d like to see anyone try to make me talk for nothing. I wouldn’t be talking to you if it wasn’t for the money.’
‘You’d better come with me. If I leave you here, one of them might fix you. They fixed Gracie Lehmann because she knew too much.’
‘I’m not scared. I can look after myself. Go and get the money.’
I decided I was wasting time trying to make her tell me more.
‘I’ll be back in half an hour.’
‘I’ll wait.’
I went out of the sordid room, down the path to the Buick.
IV
Paula looked up sharply from her paper-strewn desk as I burst into her office.
‘I want five hundred dollars right away,’ I said breathlessly.’ ‘Things are really popping. Grab a notebook and pencil, and let’s go. I’ll tell you about it on the way.’
There was no flustration. Paula always kept calm. She got to her feet, went over to the office safe, counted out twenty-five twenty-dollar bills, opened a drawer, took out her notebook, picked up her handbag and the little skullcap affair she calls her hat and was ready to go: all inside twelve seconds.
On our way out, she told Trixy to wait until she got back. Trixy looked doleful, but neither of us paid any attention.
I hurried Paula along the corridor.
‘Hey!’
Martha Bendix’s sergeant-major voice hit me at the back of my neck.
I looked over my shoulder.
‘Can’t wait: I’m in a hurry.’
‘That party of yours: Souki. Just heard. No skeleton. First-rate man. Been with Marshland ten
years,’ Martha bellowed. ‘When do I get my money?’
‘You’ll get it,’ I shouted back and crowded Paula into the elevator.
‘That woman would win a hog-calling contest,’ Paula said tartly as the elevator hurtled down to the ground floor.
‘That’s a hundred and fifty dollars down the drain,’ I said gloomily. ‘I hoped to dig up some dirt on that chauffeur. Well, well, can’t be helped. With any luck, I’ve cracked this case.’
I talked solidly as I rushed the Buick along Orchid Boule-vard, up Beach Road and
Hawthorne Avenue. It was surprising how much there was to tell her since I had last seen her.
Finally, as I swung into Foothill Boulevard I got around to Mrs. Ferris.
‘This is really something,’ I said. ‘Dedrick a reefer smuggler! What do you know? For five hundred she’ll give me a signed statement.’
‘But how do you know she’s telling the truth?’
‘I’ll get the statement and then shanghai her to the police. She’ll get her money all right, but every word she’s signing is going to be checked.’
I slowed down and pulled up outside the filling station. The boy didn’t show up. I got out of the car, followed by Paula.
‘The bungalow’s around the back.’
We walked down the path, past the repair shed. I paused and look in. The boy wasn’t there. I felt a sudden tightness around my chest, and I broke into a run. I was rapping on the door of the bungalow by the time Paula caught me up. No one answered. Nothing happened.
‘Well, I warned her,’ I said savagely, drew back and slammed my shoulder against the door. It wasn’t built for such treatment and flew open. We stood, side by side, in the dark little hall.
‘Mrs. Ferris!’ I shouted. ‘Mrs. Ferris!’
Silence.
‘Well, that’s that. These rats work fast. You’d better stay here, Paula, while I look the place over.’
‘You don’t think she changed her mind and bolted?’ I shook my head.
‘Not a chance. She wanted the money too badly. The boy must have tipped them off.’
Leaving her in the hall, I went from room to room. I didn’t find her.
I came back to the hall.
‘Not here. If they haven’t taken her away, they’ve frightened her away.’
I was thinking of the screwed-up figure in the blue nightdress, hanging on the back of the bathroom door. If Mrs. Ferris knew as much as she hinted she did, her life now wasn’t worth a dime.
‘Take a look in her bedroom and see if she’s taken any clothes,’ I said. ‘She can’t have many.’
While Paula went into the bedroom, I went into the back room where we had talked. I hunted around, but didn’t find anything that told me why she had disappeared.
Paula came in after a while.
‘As far as I can see, she hasn’t taken anything. There’re no gaps in the cupboards and the drawers aren’t disturbed.’
‘I wish I knew where that boy is. If I could get him to talk—’
‘Vic!’
Paula was looking out of the window. I joined her.
‘What’s that, by the shed? Isn’t it—?’
At the end of the strip of garden was a tool shed. The door was ajar. I could see something white lying on the floor.
‘Wait here. I’ll look.’
I went to the back door, opened it, and walked quickly down the garden. As I approached the shed, I pulled out my gun. I pushed open the door, looked into the dim darkness.
She was there, lying on her face, her hands covering her head as if to protect it.
I imagined her seeing them coming up the front way, losing her head and running wildly down the path to the shed. They had probably shot her from the back door, not even bothering to come down and see if she was dead.
I turned and walked quickly back to the bungalow.
V
They were several well-bred, well-dressed and overfed men aging in the lobby of the Beach Hotel. All of them stared fixedly at Paula’s ankles as we walked over to the reception desk. The reception clerk was a tall, willowy young man with blond, wavy hair, a pink-and-white complexion and a dis-illusioned expression in his pale blue eyes.
‘Good evening,’ he said, giving Paula a little bow. ‘Have you made reservations?’
‘No; it’s not that kind of a party,’ I said, and laid my busi- ness card on the counter. ‘I’m hoping you can give me some information.’
Blond eyebrows lifted. He peered at the card, read it, picked it up, and read it again.
‘Ah, yes, Mr. Malloy. What can I do for you?’ He glanced at Paula again, and unconsciously fingered his tie.
‘We’re trying to find a young woman who we think stayed here on the 12th or maybe the 11th.’
‘We don’t encourage inquiries about our visitors, Mr. Malloy.’
He was as stiff as a Dowager watching a bubble dance.
‘That I can understand. But she happens to be this young lady’s sister.’ I waved to Paula, who gave him a look from under her eyelashes that made his knees buckle. ‘She ran away from home and we’re anxious to trace her.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He hesitated. ‘Well, perhaps, in that case I might… What is her name?’
‘We think she was staying here under an assumed name. You don’t get many unattached young women staying here, do you?’
He shook his head regretfully.
‘Actually, not. I think I know the one you mean. Miss Mary Henderson, if I remember rightly.’ He flicked the pages of the register, ran a well-manicured finger down a page, paused. ‘Yes; Miss Henderson. Tall, dark, distinctly pretty. Would that be the one?’
‘Sounds like her. She wore a wine-coloured evening gown and a black silk wrap on the evening of the 12th.’
He nodded, patted his lips with a snow-white handkerchief and gave Paula a dazzling smile.
‘That’s Miss Henderson.’
‘Fine. When did she book in?’
He consulted the register.
‘Six o’clock on the 12th.’
‘Any forwarding address?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘When did she leave?’
‘On the 13th. I remember now. I was rather surprised. She had booked the room for a week.’
‘Did she have a car?’
The clerk frowned, studied Paula’s lovely, intent face seemed to draw inspiration from it for he said, ‘Actually, not. At least, not when she arrived. But before she went up to her room, she arranged to hire a car. She said she wanted it that evening as she was going out.’
‘Did you hire the car for her?’
‘Oh, yes. We deal with the Acme Garage. You may know it?’
I said I knew it.
‘Ferris brought the car around at six-thirty or seven, and left it for Miss Henderson.’
‘Did he see her?’
The clerk lifted his eyebrows.
‘Why, no. That wasn’t necessary.’
‘You’re quite sure he didn’t see her?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened to the car?’
‘As a matter of fact, it’s still in our garage. I’m glad you reminded me. Ferris usually comes and takes it away. I must remind him.’
‘Mind if I look at it?’
‘Why, certainly.’
‘What is it?
‘A black Lincoln. The attendant will show it to you.’ He was looking puzzled.
‘Well, thanks. One more thing; did Miss Henderson have any visitors while she was here?’
He thought for a moment.
‘One gentleman. Yes, that’s right. He came to see her in the afternoon on the 13th. She cancelled her room after he had gone.’
I lit a cigarette before I asked, ‘Did you see him?’
‘Certainly. He came to the desk and asked for her.’ Again he patted his lips with his handkerchief and gave Paula a quick, admiring glance out of the corners of his eyes.
‘Can you describe him?’
‘He was an elderly gentleman. Well dressed; obviously well-to-do. He said his name was Franklin Marshland.’
I drew in a slow deep breath, asked, ‘Short, suntanned, beaky nose and very small feet?’
‘I didn’t notice his feet, Mr. Malloy, but the rest is right.’
‘And Miss Henderson left almost immediately after? Did she seem upset?’
‘I wouldn’t say upset, but perhaps a little flustered. She seemed very anxious to go. I was rather surprised. I think I told you. She had reserved the room for a week.’
‘Did she take a taxi?’
‘I believe she did. The porter will remember her.’
‘If we could find the taxi-driver, he might know where she went.’
The clerk was taking a lot of interest by now.
‘I’ll ask the porter. Just wait a moment.’
When he crossed the lobby to the porter’s desk, Paula and I exchanged glances.
‘Well, we are certainly making progress,’ I said. ‘I wonder what Marshland wanted with her. You know, I’m beginning to think my idea that Marshland has something to do with the kidnapping isn’t such a scatty one at that.’
‘Do we know where he was at the time of the kidnapping?’
‘I don’t think that matters. He wouldn’t have had anything to do with it himself. He would have hired someone to do it.’
The clerk came back.
‘No luck, I’m afraid. The porter remembers Miss Henderson, but has no idea who the driver was. The cab was cruising when he stopped it.’
‘Well, thanks for giving me so much of your time. I’ll take a look at the car now. The garage’s around the back?’
He said the garage was around the back.
‘I hope you find her,’ he said to Paula.
Paula thanked him with a smile that had him running his hand over his curly blond hair.
As we walked across the lobby the well-fed loungers again paused in their conversations to stare at Paula’s ankles.
The attendant in the garage took us over to a black Lincoln.
‘That’s the job. Can’t understand why Ferris hasn’t collected it yet,’ he said. He too seemed smitten with Paula.
‘Do you remember what time she brought it in on the nightof the 12th?’I asked.
‘I can tell you. We log all cars as they come in.’
While he went over to the office, I examined the car, pushing my hands down the sides of the seats, turning up the floor mats, and going through the pockets, hoping to find some-thing she might have dropped or forgotten. I didn’t find a thing.
The attendant came back.
‘She booked in at twenty minutes to eleven.’
‘Did you see her?’
‘I must have, but I don’t remember.’
It would have been too good to be true if he had.
‘Okay,’ I said, and gave him a buck. ‘Well, thanks.’
We went back to the Buick. The time was now half-past six.
‘I’ll drop you off at the office. Get Trixy off home,’ I said.
‘And you?’ Paula asked.
‘I’m going to talk to Marshland.’