“Tommy,” Elizabeth said, “get me a drink.”
“Sure,” he replied, knowing she wanted to talk to Paul deCamp. He started for the kitchen, but before he reached it, he detoured and, bypassing Elizabeth and deCamp on his return, headed for the bedroom. He was on the verge of entering when a girl came out, almost colliding with him.
It was Florence Randall. She stopped. “Hello, are you going to all the parties now?”
Tommy grinned easily. “I heard you were here, so I crashed.”
“Well, crash right out again. This is the lion’s den.”
“Paul deCamp?”
“Get wise, handsome, get wise.”
She slipped past Tommy. He hesitated a moment, then entered the bedroom. Earl Faraday stood near the heavy draperies of the windows, talking to a fat, balding man. He saw Tommy at once and his face hardened. “Excuse me,” he said to the fat man, and came toward Tommy.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Tommy retorted.
Faraday said in a low, tense voice, “Get out of here as quick as you can. I mean that.”
He walked abruptly away from Tommy, heading for the living room. Tommy looked at the heavy velvet window drapes, the old ivory lacquered chiffonier and chest of drawers and then at the twin beds with silk bed covers. This was exactly the kind of apartment he was going to have himself in the very near future. And maybe he’d throw a party in it, but if he did, the bedroom would be barred.
“Tommy,” said a voice behind him. “I’m ready to go.”
He turned and looked at Elizabeth, standing in the doorway.
“I forgot your drink.”
“I don’t want one.”
“I’ll get one from the kitchen.”
“No — I want to go now.”
She took Tommy’s arm, exerted pressure and they walked out to the living room. Faraday stood near the hall door, his face a mask of cold rage.
“Leaving already?” he said to Elizabeth.
“We just stopped in for a minute,” Elizabeth replied coolly, “on our way to dinner.”
They went out. In the hall, Tommy rang for the elevator and when it came he and Elizabeth rode down to the lobby floor. Outside, the doorman went to the house phone and called for Elizabeth’s car. They were in the car, driving away, before Tommy spoke.
“You can drop me anywhere.”
“What for? We’re having dinner.”
“It isn’t necessary, now, is it?”
Elizabeth exclaimed. “Damn you, Tommy.”
“You showed Faraday that you didn’t give a damn about him, so I’ve served my purpose, haven’t I?” He uttered a forced, mirthless chuckle. “And boy, was he burned!”
Elizabeth swung the car to the curb and applied the brakes. “Get out!”
Tommy swung open the door and slid to the edge of the seat. “Faraday’s no good,” he said tonelessly. “The worst thing in the world would be for you to get him.”
“I said, get out!”
Tommy stepped out to the curb and the car shot away so quickly that the door was slammed shut by the force of its momentum.
Looking about, Tommy discovered that he was on Sunset, near Fairfax, a good stiff walk from his apartment on Las Palmas and an even longer one to Willis Trent’s place. He decided, however, that the walk would cool him off and struck off down Sunset.
Trent himself opened the door in response to Tommy’s ring. “What took you so long to get around?” he demanded.
“I had a date.”
Trent closed the door and went to his favorite armchair. But instead of seating himself he turned and studied Tommy with a cold eye. “So I heard. Stepping out of your class a little, aren’t you?”
“What’s my class?”
“The Targ dame isn’t.”
“Did she tell you?”
“Earl Faraday called a few minutes ago. You sap, haven’t you figured out yet that she’s his?”
“How many does he rate? The other night he was rushing a redhead.”
Trent exhaled heavily and seated himself. “Sit down, Dancer. Sit down and let me give you a small lesson in arithmetic.”
“I’m not in the mood for lessons tonight.”
“This one’ll be short and sweet and I think you need it. Women are Faraday’s business. I don’t know why, but they like his kind. He treats them like I wouldn’t treat a dog and they like it. He slaps them in the teeth and they buy him two hundred dollar suits and wrist watches and platinum cigarette cases...”
“Are you talking about Elizabeth Targ?” Tommy asked, ominously.
“I’m talking about women in general, so don’t get up your hackles. Elizabeth Targ’s one of a dozen women I know who’ve gone overboard for Faraday. I don’t know whether he’s gotten any money from her. Maybe not, because I hear she hasn’t got much. But anyway, women are Faraday’s business. Sometimes he even marries one.” He paused. “That redhead, Florence Randall, she’s strictly business. Understand? For all I know, Faraday’s gone overboard for the Targ girl, but at the moment Faraday’s broken off with her, because he’s giving Flo Randall a line of his goods. He’s going to get something from her — the number of a certain safety deposit box.”
Tommy recoiled. “It’s her box we’re going to rob?”
Trent winced a little. “Don’t be so damn crude.” He shook his head. “And it isn’t her box. As a matter of fact, she doesn’t even know she’s going to give Faraday that number.”
“Then how do you know she’s going to do it?”
“That’s Faraday’s job.” Trent’s lips twisted contemptuously. “He’s a slimy rat. But don’t get the wrong idea about him; he’s a bad boy and if you keep crossing him your insurance company’ll be making a payment to your nearest relative.”
“I can take care of myself.”
Trent grunted. “You and Faraday can carve each other into filet mignons — after we split what’s in that safety deposit box. But I’m not going to let either of you spoil this caper. I mean that, Tommy. I’m thinking of that money, first, last and all the time. You’ll take a short grip on that temper of yours.” He made an impatient gesture. “Now, let’s get down to cases. Tomorrow you go to the Hollywood-Highland Bank and rent yourself a safety deposit box...”
Chapter Eight
The banking boom was about forty by fifty feet in size. On the right were tellers. Across the rear was the insurance and real estate department. The front section of the left was railed in and contained a half dozen desks, at which sat the bank officials, who made loans and talked to the depositors on banking matters. Behind them was a small square, occupied by a couple of men who handled “notes and collections” and beyond them was a little cubbyhole, over which presided a redheaded woman of about forty. Lettering over the wicket, outside this compartment, read “Safety Deposit.”
From this compartment, you could walk directly into the vault containing the safety deposit boxes. A massive, foot-thick door stood open. Access from the bank proper was by means of a low wooden gate, which opened from inside, by pushing an electric button. The custodian of the safety deposit vault, the redheaded woman, operated the electric button.
Tommy Dancer, carrying a large Manila folder, approached the safety deposit window. He had to wait for a moment or two while the woman inside the compartment finished adding up a set of figures on an adding machine.
“Yes?” she said, then.
“I’d like to rent a safety deposit box.”
“Are you a depositor?”
“Is it necessary to be?”
“No.” The woman reached for a card. “Will you fill this out, please?”
It was the usual bank application, requesting name, address, business references, employer, date of birth, name of parents, including maiden name of mother.