“You might have done a very good sales job on Flo Randall,” Trent said, “so good that you didn’t figure you needed to split with anyone else.”
“You’re crazy! Even if I’d been able to get deCamp’s key from Flo what good would that do me? I couldn’t go down to the bank and ask them to let me into deCamp’s box.”
“The box could be in the names of both deCamp and Randall,” Trent suggested.
Faraday snorted. “Paul deCamp wouldn’t trust any woman with two hundred thousand cents.”
Trent hesitated a moment, then nodded. “I think you’re right.”
He suddenly shifted to Tommy Dancer. “That leaves you, Tommy.”
“Oh, does it?”
Outside, a motor, laboring, could be heard. Then it stopped and a car door slammed. Trent, his eyes narrowing, said to Tommy: “Sit tight.”
A door opened and closed and feet pounded in the kitchen. Louie, Tommy’s late shadow, plunged into the room. He came to an abrupt halt when he saw Trent in command of the situation.
“Oh, hello, boss,” he said. “I was afraid from the way you sounded—”
“It’s all right,” Trent said. “I just wanted to ask you some questions.”
“Now see here, Trent,” Faraday interrupted. “If you’re going to let him in on this—”
“Shut up, Faraday!” Trent snapped. “I’m running this show.”
“Who said you were?” Faraday blustered. But a glance from Trent’s steely eyes silenced him.
“Louis,” Trent said softly, “when did I put you on Tommy Dancer’s tail?”
“Day before yesterday. In the morning.”
“All right, give us a report on his movements — like you gave me last night.”
Louie took a notebook from his pocket and turning a page translated from his notes: “Left the Melrose Lock and Key Shop at eleven-thirty; drove to Melrose and Highland Avenue and started to make a right turn. I pulled up behind him and he suddenly went off to the left, in front of cars in the left lane. I couldn’t make the turn and—” looked up and scowled at Tommy — “I lost him.”
“That was when you spotted him, wasn’t it, Tommy?” Trent asked, pleasantly.
Tommy shook his head. “No. I remember the incident. I meant to make a left turn and was daydreaming and then all of a sudden I found myself in the right-turn lane.” He shrugged. “So I made a left turn.”
Trent nodded. “Skip yesterday’s, Louie. Just tell about last night.”
“You mean from before I followed him to your place?”
“No, after he left.”
“Okay. Like you know, he got me into the building and called you on the telephone. Said you were going to pull me off — only you didn’t — so I followed...”
Tommy cursed under his breath.
“...He picked up this babe in Beverly Hills, right at the end of the Strip, then went back into Beverly Hills and headed out over Coldwater Canyon. I had a hard time following them because that Cadillac sure covered the ground—”
“You were out with Betty Targ!” snarled Earl Faraday. He took a step forward, but Trent waved him back with the gun.
“Go ahead, Louie.”
“Sure. They stopped in a restaurant on Ventura, just off Coldwater. They had dinner there, for about an hour or so, then they came out and went to Pete Moy’s Place and from there to Mickey Cobbler’s Supper Club and then to the Black Chrysanthemum and then they headed back to town and hit a couple of places on the Strip. The Bull Dog and Whistle, and the Aurora Club and then they went home.” He coughed. “I mean the babe took him up to the Strip where he’d left his car. And then they... well, after awhile she went off in her own car — the Cadillac — and he got into his heap and went back to his place on Las Palmas. It was after two o’clock then and when he went inside I figured he was calling it a night so I went home myself.”
Louie closed his little book and smirked at Tommy Dancer. “No hard feelings, pal?”
“No,” said Tommy, “none that a good punch in the nose can’t cure.”
“Dinner,” Willis Trent said, “in an expensive restaurant and six night clubs afterwards. Pretty steep for a man who makes about fifty dollars a week.”
“I saved my money.”
“And blew it all in one night?” Trent fingered the stack of bills in his hand. “Where’d you get this two-fifty?”
“I told you. From Paul deCamp’s—”
“Shut up!” cried Earl Faraday, leaping to his feet. “You want to tell one more and then another and pretty soon everybody in town’ll know.”
“Louie’s all right,” said Trent. “He works for me.”
“So you told him,” snarled Faraday. “Who else?”
A door buzzer whirred so suddenly and unexpectedly that Faraday gave a violent start. But Trent merely nodded to Louie. “Let him in.”
Chapter Fifteen
Louie trotted off in the direction of the kitchen. Faraday, making an effort to control himself, said: “Another one?”
“Yes,” replied Trent. “I told you I wasn’t taking any chances.”
A shifty-eyed little man of five feet six or seven came into the room with Louie. “Hello, Mr. Trent,” he said. “I came right away.”
Trent nodded. “Fine; you know Mr. Faraday...”
“By sight.”
“Mr. Kraft,” Trent explained, “is what you might call a shamus: a private detective...”
“Investigator,” offered Kraft, “and you can call me Fred.”
“All right, Fred. Did you bring your report along with you?”
“Yes, I thought you might want it.” Kraft reached into his breast pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper. He went toward Trent to hand it to him, but Trent waved it away.
“Read it.”
“Out loud?”
“Yes.”
Kraft shrugged and unfolding the paper began to read: “ ‘Picked up subject at his apartment on South Reeve, in—’ ”
“That’s me,” cried Faraday.
“That’s right, Mr. Faraday,” Kraft said.
“You had me shadowed?” Faraday stormed.
“Yes,” snapped Trent. “Now, be quiet so we can all hear this.”
His face red with rage, Faraday retreated to the mohair armchair and plopped himself down on it.
“ ‘...at ten-thirty, in the A.M.,’ ” Kraft pursued. “ ‘Subject came out of the garage in a convertible roadster, and drove to Packs’ Park Avenue Store on Wilshire, where he picked up a young lady. A redhead’ — I, uh, a titian-haired young lady.” He smirked. “Very beautiful. ‘They drove down Wilshire to Santa Monica and parked on the ocean front, where they sat in the car for about an hour, watching the sad sea waves, you might say. After which time they returned down Wilshire and went to subject’s apartment on South Reeve. They were inside for about two hours, you might say—’ ”
“A matinee,” suggested Tommy Dancer.
Kraft beamed at Tommy. “Very good. I, uh, didn’t catch your name...?”
“Tommy Dancer,” offered Trent.
“...In case you have to shadow me, you might say.”
The private detective chuckled. “A pleasure, Mr. Dancer.” He cleared his throat and read again: “ ‘At three-twenty, subject came out of apartment with the, ah, titian-haired young lady and returned her to Pack’s Park Avenue Store, after which he drove across Beverly Hills to Foothill Boulevard. Very odd. He drove up Foothill and down Foothill, four times—’ ”
“Three!” snarled Faraday.
“Four,” Kraft insisted firmly. “I am never wrong on something like that...” He consulted his schedule once more. “ ‘It was now five minutes to four and he drove to Sunset Boulevard and all the way down to Vine. He parked in a parking lot near the Brown Derby and crossed to Mike Lyman’s Place, where he had three bourbons and water’ — I had two, which you will find on the expense account — ‘and then he drove to Russo Cobb’s restaurant on Hollywood Boulevard and had four bourbons and bought two for a young lady, with whom he later had dinner. At ten minutes after six he suddenly left the young lady, with the dessert — although he paid the bill, and rushing out, drove to the Lehigh Apartments on North Whitley...’ to see you, I imagine, Mr. Trent.”