“Keep the change,” he said and got out of the cab.
He crossed the street and entered the drugstore adjoining the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. At the cigar counter he saw a display of nail files and, stopping, bought one. He paid for it with a silver dollar. The price was 30 cents and he asked for four nickels in the change.
Carrying the nickels he walked back to the phone booths and entered one. He dialed the number of Trent’s apartment. The Filipino answered:
“Meestair Tr-rent’s apar-rtment.”
“Mr. Trent, please.”
“He iss not here, sarr. Who iss calling?”
Tommy hung up, scowled at the phone a moment, then dropped another nickel into the slot. A moment later George Roan’s voice said: “Melrose Lock and Key Shop.”
“Mr. Roan,” Tommy began, “this is Tommy Dancer.”
George Roan’s voice said sharply: “Yes? What seems to be the trouble?”
“There’s someone in the shop?” Tommy asked.
“Yes,” was Roan’s reply.
“Police?”
“Yes, that’s right, I fix locks, but I’m afraid I can’t take care of you right now.”
“Look,” said Tommy, “will it be all right if I call you later?”
“I think so,” came Roan’s reply. “I can’t leave the shop right now, but if you can’t get anyone else to open the door for you, you might try me again in an hour.”
Tommy hung up the receiver, left the booth, then on an impulse stepped back to a high table on which reposed several telephone directories. He opened the main Los Angeles directory and turned to the R’s. There were Randalls, more than two columns of them, but no Florence Randall, although there were several “F” Randalls with middle initials. Tommy was pretty sure that none of them would turn out to be Florence Randall.
He closed the book and opened the yellow classified directory. Under apartment hotels he found the building in which Paul deCamp lived, entered the booth, and dialed the number.
The apartment operator answered, giving the name of the apartment hotel. “Mr. deCamp’s apartment, please,” Tommy said, softly.
“Who’s calling?”
“Mr. Faraday.”
“Just a moment, please.”
The connection was broken for a moment, then a woman’s voice said sharply: “I told you never to call me here.”
“It’s all right, Flo,” Tommy said, “this isn’t Faraday.” He heard her gasp at the other end of the wire. Tommy said: “Is Paul there?”
Then Flo Randall recovered. “Who is this?”
“Listen,” said Tommy, “in a few minutes you’re going to get some news that’s going to knock you for a loop. In fact, I’ll give it to you now, so grab hold of the bed, or whatever you’re near — Earl Faraday’s dead...” He stopped. There was no response. He said: “Are you listening?”
“Who is this?” Flo Randall cried.
“That’s not important, but this is, so listen. DeCamp knows...”
Her voice, interrupting, was suddenly shrill, bordering on hysteria. “I don’t know what you’re talking about and if this is a game...”
Tommy said harshly: “You know about deCamp’s safety deposit box being robbed — all right, Faraday got the number of deCamp’s box from you...”
“That’s a He!” screamed Flo Randall.
“You didn’t let me finish,” Tommy said. “Maybe you didn’t give him the number, but he got it as a result of you. How, you can figure out yourself. Anyway, deCamp knows about you and Faraday...”
“I know who you are now,” Flo cut in. “You’re Willis Trent...”
“Guess again. Only not now. I haven’t got time. I’m just going to say one thing more. Get out of that apartment — now. And be at the southwest corner of La Brea and Sunset, at seven o’clock sharp.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort.”
“Suit yourself, but if you change your mind between now and then, I’ll meet you there. Alone!”
Tommy returned the receiver to the hook and left the phone booth and the drugstore.
On Wilshire he walked swiftly eastward until he came to a motion picture theatre. He spent another of his silver dollars for a ticket, receiving thirty-five cents in change.
The movie was a good second-run picture, but Tommy was in no mood to enjoy it. However, he remained in the theatre for two hours and when he emerged at a quarter to six, it was dark outside.
He brought a late afternoon paper on the corner and grimaced at the headlines: ONE SLAIN IN $160,000 DARING BANK ROBBERY.
The inverted subhead gave the gist of the story:
The phrases “it is alleged,” “police claim,” were used several times in the body of the story. There was no positive statement about anything, according to the account. Paul deCamp, the “local sportsman” went to his safety deposit box at the Hollywood-Highland Bank at eleven o’clock that morning and immediately informed the bank officials that his box had been robbed of $160,000 in one-hundred dollar bills.
Acting upon a tip, police raided a Mulholland Drive home and there found the murdered body of a well-known man-about-town, Earl Faraday. The police claimed that there was a connection between Earl Faraday and Paul deCamp and were questioning the latter. Two other Hollywood figures were being sought, one a prominent sportsman and the other, according to the police innuendo, a man whose fingerprints they had found on the empty safety deposit box of Paul deCamp and who was believed to have performed the actual theft.
Tommy Dancer folded the newspaper and stared moodily at the traffic on Wilshire Boulevard. He had handled the safety deposit box of Paul deCamp with extreme care, touching only the edges, but it was possible that enough of a fingerprint had been affixed to the box. If so, it was a simple matter to identify the thief. His fingerprints were on record in Washington.
Well it didn’t matter. Tommy had gone into this with his eyes open He had double-crossed Willis Trent and Earl Faraday as they would most certainly have double-crossed him. And now Faraday was dead.
And Tommy Dancer...?
Flight.
Chapter Twenty
An eastbound bus was coming along Wilshire. Tommy stepped off the curb and signaled. He boarded it and found a seat near the rear.
At La Brea he got off the bus, crossed the street, and climbed aboard a northbound bus.
He alighted at Fountain and strolled to Sunset, walking on the east side of the street. At Sunset he crossed to a drive-in and, sitting on a stool at the counter, had a sandwich and cup of coffee. When he finished eating he looked at the wall clock and saw that it was ten minutes to seven.
He recrossed to the east side of the street and looked diagonally across the street to the southwest corner. Two or three people were standing at the curb, waiting for a bus, but none was a redheaded girl.
Tommy went across Sunset with the lights, walked a hundred yards or so down La Brea, then dodged a few cars and crossed to the west side of the street.
A girl was coming toward him, headed for Sunset. Flo Randall.
Tommy stopped in front of her. “Hello,” he said.
“I beg your...” Flo Randall began, then recognized him. “You’re the man was at Paul’s party, with Faraday’s girl...!”
“I was also at Willis Trent’s place. We had a few words.”
A sudden frown creased Flo’s forehead. She looked past Tommy, toward Sunset Boulevard. He shook his head.
“I’m the man you were going to meet.”
“I don’t know why I’m here,” Flo Randall said angrily. “If that dizzy blonde, Betty Targ, or whatever her name is, told you—”