Stepping into a booth he dialed the number of the Melrose Lock and Key Shop.
George Roan answered: “Melrose Lock and Key Shop.”
“This is Tommy Dancer, Mr. Roan,” Tommy said. “Are you alone in the shop?”
“Yes, Tommy!” cried Roan. “Have you seen the morning papers?”
“No, but—”
“Your picture’s all over the front pages,” cut in Roan. “I don’t know where they got it.”
“Probably from my apartment. What do the papers say?”
“There’s a police dragnet out. They claim you stole a hundred and sixty thousand dollars and — and murdered a man.” Roan paused. “It — isn’t true, is it, Tommy?”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Tommy replied. “But it’s going to take a bit of working out.”
“Tommy,” exclaimed Roan, “come in and talk it over with me. We’ll get a lawyer, a good one.”
“A lawyer couldn’t help me at this stage. But look, Mr. Roan, has anyone come to see you about me — I mean, anyone aside from the police?”
“No, but there was a telephone call for you last night, about ten o’clock — on the night line. A girl; she said you’d know her. The only name she’d give was Betty...”
Tommy inhaled sharply. “Did she leave any message?”
“No, but she said she’d call again this morning.”
“Tell her to leave a number,” Tommy exclaimed. “I don’t know where to get in touch with her.”
“You... you’ll call again?”
“Yes, I will. And, Mr. Roan... don’t worry about me. I’m all right.”
He hung up before Roan could reply to that. Yes, he was all right. For the moment. But in an hour, a half hour...
He stared at the phone a moment, then became conscious of the sack of silver dollars in his lap. Looking through the glass door of the phone booth, he bent forward and deposited the silver dollars on the floor, under the little seat. Then he opened the briefcase and thrusting in a hand, groped for a packet of hundred dollar bills. He broke the paper band and slipped about a third of the packet into his hand. Removing it from the briefcase he thrust the bills, folding them at the same time, into his trousers pocket.
Then he snapped the briefcase shut again and stepped out of the booth. He closed the door and walked out of the drugstore.
Somebody was going to have a rather nice haul in a little while. He doubted very much whether anyone finding two hundred dollars in silver would take the sack to the police. People are honest, but two hundred-odd dollars in unmarked silver was a strong temptation.
Outside, he walked to Figueroa Street and south into the section inhabited by that strange breed of people peculiar to California, used-car dealers, who shrieked over the radio and advertised in newspapers and on billboards and in the sky their nationalities and dispositions: The Smiling Irishman, the Grinning Greek, the Laughing Laplander, Wild Man Pritchard, Madman Muntz.
The Grinning Greek had a half block lot that contained a couple of hundred cars, ranging from brand-new “used” cars to ancient jalopies of the vintage of ’29. A bevy of salesmen swooped down on Tommy as he entered the lot. A six-foot-two blond with the shoulders of a football player won. He grabbed Tommy’s hand and pumped it heartily.
“Good morning, sir. Could I show you a beautiful late model Buick that we’re practically giving away today?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Tommy said. “But I wasn’t thinking of a very late model. Not too late.”
“A ’39, or ’40, perhaps? There’s a little job over here that we only got in late last night, otherwise it would already be sold. A club coupe, owned by a local doctor, an elderly man who never once drove the car above thirty-five. It’s got the original paint job, a brand-new set of tires and only 18,000 miles on the speedometer...”
“How much was on it before it was turned back?”
The salesman clapped Tommy on the shoulder. “Ha-ha, good joke, eh? That’s what they do up the street, but not here. No, sir, not at the Grinning Greek’s. And we don’t turn the speedometer back to zero and let you guess. No, sir, we leave it right where it is.” He grabbed Tommy’s arm and pointed at a faded maroon coupe. “See that heap over there — it’s got the original mileage right on the speedometer. One hundred and forty-two thousand miles. I’m not trying to sell you that car, no sir, because frankly it isn’t a good buy. I’m just pointing it out to show you the way we do business.” He stopped Tommy at a black coupe. “Here’s the little baby I was telling you about. Eighteen thousand local miles, driven by an elderly doctor...” He kicked the rear bumper, winced as it wobbled and in the same tone of voice, called attention to the defect. “Bolt got a little loose. Needs a turn or two with the wrench.”
“How much?” Tommy asked.
“Eighteen thousand local miles,” enthused the salesman, “the sweetest running motor you ever heard in your life and guess how much we’re asking?”
“How much?”
The salesman looked past Tommy, down the aisle. “Uh, I didn’t see the car you drove up in.”
“I didn’t drive up in any.”
“No? But what about the car you’re trading in?”
“I’m not trading in any car. I just want to buy from scratch, for cash.”
“Of course, sir, but were awfully short of cars, you know. If we sell a car, we have to take one in on trade. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have any stock after awhile, would we?”
“You buy cars right along.”
“Certainly. And we sell cars, too. We’re the largest used-car dealers in this block. But we like a trade-in.”
“Look,” said Tommy, “do you want to sell this car... without a trade-in, for cash? C-a-s-h, cash.” He thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out the sheaf of hundred dollar bills. “A quick sale, no arguing, no haggling.”
The salesman’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll pay $1895 for this car as she stands? Cash?”
“Make out your bill of sale.”
The salesman held up an index finger. “This way, please.”
He led Tommy to a small wooden office in which sat a secretary and a chunky, swarthy man. “Mr. Petrakis,” the salesman said, “no trade-in; the black Buick club coupe, cash, $1895...”
“The ’36, you mean?”
“No, sir, the ’40. The one we, uh, took in only yesterday. The eighteen thousand—”
The Grinning Greek sprang to his feet. “Are you crazy, man? Eighteen ninety-five, without a trade-in? Why, that’s one of the best, the best buy for the money. We’ve got to have a good trade-in, to let that car go for such a price. Mr. Sandstrom, you had no right to accept such an offer.”
Tommy took the money from his pocket and began counting out one hundred dollar bills. The Greek’s eyes took in the money and he suddenly stopped his tirade and beamed at Tommy. “Mister, you’re getting the biggest bargain of your life. You’re stealing that wonderful job.”
The secretary whisked duplicate invoices into her typewriter. “Name, please?” she said in a monotone.
“James Robertson.”
“Address?”
“4531 Mariota, North Hollywood.”
Ten minutes later, Tommy climbed into the 18,000-local-mile car and drove from the used-car lot. He headed up Figueroa, passed through the heavy traffic section and came out on the parkway, which took him without a stop through South Pasadena, into Arcadia. He picked up Highway No. 66 and rolled along through Monrovia, Glendora, and finally into Upland, well in the heart of the orange country.
Here he parked his new car on a side street and walked two blocks to a drugstore. He bought a package of cigarettes and got two dollars’ worth of small change from the cashier. Holding it in his hand, he went to a phone booth at the rear of the store, dropped in a coin and dialed the Long Distance operator.