The still cold of the desert night had melted under the impact of the sun’s rays. The Dearborne residence seemed devoid of life. The brilliant desert sun caught the front of the building and turned the white stucco into eye-aching glare.
I sat in my rented car, parked across the street and in the middle of the block, waiting — soaking up the warmth of the sunlight and trying to keep from feeling drowsy.
I tried smoking cigarettes, but they only relieved the nerve tension, and made me feel even more relaxed. There was a mellow somnolence permeating the entire atmosphere. I closed my eyes to relieve them of the glare — and couldn’t raise the leaden lids again. It might have been ten seconds or ten minutes. I snapped to reproachful wakefulness with a start, lowered a window in the door of the car, tried inhaling and exhaling as deeply and rapidly as possible, getting an over-abundance of oxygen in my blood. I tried to think of something that would make me mad. The door opened, and Ogden Dearborne came out.
He stood on the front porch for a minute, stretching his arms above his head. I slid down in the seat of the automobile so that only my eyes remained above the level of the glass in the door.
He looked up at the sky, down at the little strip of lawn in front of the house, straightened, and yawned again, a man without a care in the world, just an engineer working on a government job under civil service, pay checks coming in regularly, election over with, his party in power, and to hell with taxes. Then he casually went back into the house.
Within three seconds after the door had closed on him, it opened again, and Eloise Dearborne came out.
She wasted no time looking up and down the street or at the scenery. She walked with quick, firm steps, quite evidently headed toward some definite destination.
I sat in the car and watched her go. She turned a corner to the left, three blocks down the street. I started the motor, kept far enough back to be out of sight, and swung the car in close to the curb.
It was easy to keep her in view now. The district was becoming more built up, with little stores rubbing elbows. She went into a small grocery store, and I quit crawling along close to the curb, and shut off the motor.
I waited for nearly ten minutes, then she came out, carrying two large paper bags. This time she went only half a block. The sign on the door said, “Light housekeeping apartments.”
I jumped out of the car, walked rapidly to the grocery store, bought a ten-cent can of condensed milk, went down to the rooming-house. A woman was sweeping the corridor. I held out the can of milk with an ingratiating grin, and asked, “Where can I find the woman who just came in with the groceries?”
The woman paused in her sweeping, looked up, saw the can of milk.
“What’s the matter? Did she drop something?”
“Apparently so.”
“I think she’s in apartment Two-A,” she said. “That’s right upstairs and on the front.”
I thanked her, climbed halfway up the stairs, waited until I heard the swish-swish-swish of the broom cease, and heard the click of a door. Then I ran back down, jumped into my car, tossed the can of milk into the back, and went to the telephone office.
“Long distance,” I said, “station-to-station call. The number of the B. Cool Detective Agency in Los Angeles. Make it snappy.”
Elsie Brand came on the line almost as soon as central got the Los Angeles connection.
“Hello, Elsie. How’s the sex appeal?” I asked.
“Rotten. How’s the boss?”
“You won’t believe it. She’s slimmed herself down to around a hundred and fifty.”
“What?”
“No fooling. What’s more, she’s getting coy.”
“You’re drunk. When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know. Listen. Go down to a friendly newspaper office. Look in their morgue for all the dope on a man by the name of Sid Jannix who was a prize fighter. He was up somewhere near the top at one time. Either get some photographs or get a photographer to copy the pictures if you have to. I want them sent on here by air mail. Sal Sagev Hotel.”
“Using your own name?” she asked.
“Uh huh. So’s Bertha. We’re both there at the Sal Sagev. Here’s another one. Get hold of the Bureau of Vital Statistics, find out who Sidney Jannix married. See if there’s ever been a divorce. Get that information and rush it me by wire.”
“Okay. There are a couple of people anxious to get some service at this end. One of them’s a blackmail case, and the other’s a hit-and-run. What’ll I tell them?”
“Tell them Bertha Cool can’t pledge the agency’s unique service unless she receives a substantial cash retainer. See how strong they’ll go. If it looks good—”
A feminine voice said, “Your three minutes are up.”
I jerked the receiver away from my ear, and slammed it on the pronged cradle, but just before the receiver hit, I could hear the unmistakable click coming over the line that announced Elsie Brand had beat me to it. Bertha Cool would never have stood for overtime on a long-distance call. “It took me less than three minutes to tell my husband where he got off,” she used to declare, “and nothing that’s been said since has been half as important. So if you can’t say what you want to get off your chest within three minutes, you’ve got to learn.”
I walked out of the telephone office into a restaurant, had a pot of coffee, an order of ham and eggs, and then went over to the Cactus Patch. The attendant told me Louie Hazen wouldn’t come on duty until five o’clock that night, but just as I was walking out, another man called to me to wait a minute. Louie, it seemed, was down in the basement, making repairs on some of the machines.
I stood around waiting while they sent for him.
Louie Hazen came up, looked at me dubiously for a moment, then as recognition showed in his eyes, his face broke into a grin. “Hello, buddy,” he said, coming forward with his hand pushed out in front of him.
I reached for his hand, but his hand wasn’t there. ‘Louie wasn’t there. He’d worked that fast shift, pushed my right hand over to one side, and when my eyes finally found his grinning countenance, it was within a few inches of my own, his right fist held gently but firmly against the pit of my stomach.
“You got to watch for it, buddy,” he said. “You got to watch for it all the time.”
I looked into his filmed eyes, saw the battered nose at close range, the broad grin that disclosed the two missing teeth over on the left side.
“You weren’t watchin’ for it, were you, buddy?”
I shook my head.
“You gotta be on your guard if you’re ever goin’ to make a fighter. I could make a fighter outa you, buddy, honest I could. I could teach you how to box, and you’d be dynamite. You’ve got what it takes. You’ve got nerve. You got that chunk o’ courage in your guts that makes a fighter. I’d like to train you.”
I took his arm. “We may do that some day. Where can we talk?”
He led me over into a corner. “What’s on your mind, buddy?”
“I want you to do something for me.”
“Tickled to death. You know I took a liking to you the minute I hit you. You know how it is, buddy. Some people you’ll think you’re going to like, but the minute you shake hands with them, you freeze up inside. The minute you touch him, there’s some kind of electricity. Well, it was just like that, buddy. The minute my fist struck against the side of your jaw— Say, how is the jaw by the way?”
“Sore.”
“You’ve got what it takes, kid. You’ve got what it takes. Gimme six months and I’d make a fighter outa you.”
“Louie, I want you to do something for me.”
“Sure. I already told you that. Just say what it is.”
“Seen the morning paper?”
“No.”
“Take a look at it.”
“Why?”
“A man was killed last night.”
“Killed?”
“Uh huh. Shot with a revolver.”
Louie’s eyes got big and round.
“You mean murdered?”
“That’s right. Now, I’ve got a surprise for you. Guess who it was?”
He shook his head vaguely.
“The man who was in here playing the slot machines last night.”
“You mean Sid Jannix, the one-round kid?”
“The police think his name is Harry Beegan.”
“I tell you, he’s Sid Jannix. I knew the minute I saw him swing that left shoulder up in front of his jaw, and wind up his right, it was the old Jannix crouch. Boy, that used to get ’em. He’d come plowin’—”
“Listen, Louie, I want you to do something.”
“Oh, yes, sure. Sure, I’ll do anything you want. What is it, buddy?”
“I want you to go down to the morgue and identify the body. Not as that of the man you had the trouble with last night when he was doctoring the slot machines, but as that of Sid Jannix, an old prize-fighter friend. Spread it on about how you fought him once—”
“But I never did.”
“It wasn’t a formal match, just an informal practice match that was arranged in the gymnasium.”
“Jeeps, buddy, I don’t want to go to no morgue.”
“It isn’t going to hurt you.”
“I know it ain’t goin’ to hurt me, but it ain’t goin’ to do me no good.”
“Oh, well, if you don’t want to do it—”
“Now wait a minute, buddy. I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. I just said I didn’t want to do it.”
“I wouldn’t want you to do something you didn’t want to.”
“Sure, buddy. If you want me to do it, I want to do it. When do you want me to go?”
“Right away.”
He adjusted his tie, hitched his coat up around his shoulders, and grinned at me with that snaggle-toothed grin of slap-happy, jovial friendship. “On my way, buddy. Lookin’ at that stiff ain’t goin’ to make my breakfast set no better, but I’m on my way. Where’ll you be when I get back?”
“I’ll be in here a little later.”
“Okey doke, ol’ pal, I’ll be seein’ you. Remember now, I ain’t kiddin’. I could make a fighter outa you. I tell you, you got what it takes.”
“I’ll think it over,” I promised, and watched Louie Hazen walk down the long line of slot machines out the front door, his head and neck resting on his shoulders with that unmistakable air of tough competency which characterizes a man who learned the hard way to take it and to dish it out.
I drifted over to the bar. When the bartender moved up and asked, “What’ll it be?” I inquired, “Has Breckenridge come in yet?”
“Yeah. I think he’s upstairs. Want him?”
“I’d like to talk with him.”
“What’s the name?”
“Lam.”
“How do you spell it?”
“L-a-m.”
He turned quickly back toward the mirror, looked at a piece of paper, and asked, “Are you Donald Lam?” I nodded.
“The boss left a note about you. I wasn’t on duty last night. He left word for the day shift. Anything you want in the place is yours. What’ll it be?”
“Nothing right now. I just want to see Breckenridge.”
The bartender caught the eye of a man who might have been an automobile tourist just sauntering around the place, looking the games over. The man’s indolence immediately dissolved into fast-moving energy as he tame over.
“Wants to see the boss,” the bartender said.
Cold eyes stared at me, and the bartender said hastily, “It’s Lam. The boss sent down a memo—”
The cold eyes were cold no longer. A well-cared-for hand with a big diamond on it was out in front of me. The man was pumping my hand up and down. “Glad you came in, Lam. How about taking a stack of chips and trying your luck, or—”
“No, thanks. I’d like to see Mr. Breckenridge.”
“Right away,” he said. “Come on up to the office.”
He took me over to the door which led up the stairs. I noticed there was a screen-protected diaphragm set in flush with the wall. My escort said, “Donald Lam’s here, Harvey. I’m bringing him up—” The door swung silently open, and we walked up the stairs.
Somewhere near the head of the stairs, my escort unobtrusively removed himself to return to the casino, and resume his sauntering supervision. I didn’t know exactly when he left me because Harvey Breckenridge was coming toward me with his hand outstretched, and a smile on his face. He gave the impression of a man who didn’t smile often, and when he did, his thin, tight lips pressed secretively together as though willing to co-operate in the smile only on the condition the cause was kept a strict secret.
“Come in. Sit down.”
I went in and sat down.
“Drink?”
“No, thanks. Everybody in the place has been urging me to have one.”
“That’s good. I looked you up, Lam. I’m awfully sorry about what happened last night. You were damn white about it. You know, you could have put us in quite a spot on that. I appreciated it.”
“I gathered that you did,” I said, motioning my hand in the general direction of the casino.
“Find everything all right?”
“Very much so.”
“Anything you want, just ask for it. Tell the boys who you are, and the place is yours.”
“I didn’t intend to take advantage of you,” I said, “but I have one request.”
“What is it?”
“I may want to borrow one of your men.”
The smile left his face. It was as expressionless as though he had just drawn a pat flush in a poker game. “Which one?”
“Louie Hazen.”
His eyes softened, then he smiled, and, after a moment, laughed outright. “What do you want to do?” he asked. “Assassinate him?”
“No. I might have some use for him. Would it inconvenience you if I harrowed him for a while?”
“Good God, no! Take him with my compliments. I’ll give you a quitclaim deed.”
“I would, of course, pay his wages while he was—”
“Nothing of the sort. I’ll give him a thirty-day layoff from duties and keep him on the payroll. Thirty days be long enough for you?”
“A week should be long enough.”
“Take him for as long as you want. The poor devil. I, hate to fire him, but — well, you know what he is. He’s inoffensive and good-natured enough, but completely punch drunk. I suppose he’ll get me into serious trouble if I keep him on here. I hate to just turn him loose. As a matter of fact, Lam, you’d be doing me a favor if you’d take him off my hands for a while. I’m going to try and find something else for him.”
“You haven’t had him long, have you?”
“Hell, no. I don’t owe him anything. I should throw him out, but I can’t do it. There’s something about him that gets you. He’s like a stray puppy coming around and wagging his tail, being so friendly and eager that you haven’t the heart to kick him back down into the alley where he belongs. He’d be all right out on a ranch somewhere, and it might do him good, but he’s permanently punch drunk. They pounded him enough so they jarred his brains out of plumb, got him so he thinks on the bias. When do you want him?”
“I may want him right away.”
“As soon as he comes in, have him come up here and I’ll tell him. What do you want him for, or is it any of my business?”
I met his inquisitive eyes. “I want him,” I said, “to teach me how to box.”
“He’s yours,” Breckenridge said, but he was no longer smiling, and his eyes were squinted in concentration as I shook hands and walked out of the office.