Tommy knew that he had never been closer to death in his entire life than at this moment. He said, doggedly: “An even split, three ways.”
Trent looked down at his little gun. “Twenty-five per cent, Tommy. I worked out this caper and I’m entitled to fifty per cent...”
It was now Faraday’s turn to protest. “Fifty per cent, my eye; not if he cuts in for twenty-five. Without my little contribution there’s no caper at all. Besides...” he paused. “There’ll be two hundred thousand in that box...”
“Two hundred thousand dollars!” exclaimed Tommy Dancer.
“More or less. A hundred thousand at the very least.” Faraday cocked his head to one side. “Forty per cent, Trent. Forty for you, forty for me and twenty for the kid. It’s a good haul for all of us...”
“Twenty per cent of two hundred thousand dollars—” Tommy said slowly.
“Is forty g’s,” Trent said, putting away his gun. “Which is as much money as you can earn in fifteen years, making locks and keys.”
Chapter Seven
A week went by, during which Tommy Dancer lived his normal life. He reported to the little shop of the Melrose Lock and Key shop every morning and he performed whatever duties George Roan gave him. He went out on calls, opened pantry doors, garage doors and he made keys for car owners.
In the evening he bowled at the Melrose Alleys. But not every evening. Three evenings he drove his flivver out to Beverly Hills and rolled slowly up and down Foothill Boulevard. Always he looked at a Georgian Colonial house, a huge two-story affair that contained no less than twelve rooms. There were lights in the house; sometimes every window seemed to be lighted up.
Once... once a Cadillac convertible scooted out of the driveway and turned left toward Santa Monica Boulevard. Tommy kept close behind it until the convertible parked in the only available space in front of a motion picture theatre. Tommy had to circle the block before he could find a parking place and when he walked back to the theatre he discovered that the convertible had disappeared during his absence. Elizabeth Targ had apparently just run into a drug-store instead of going into the movie as Tommy had assumed.
Then at the end of the week she summoned him. Her call and Willis Trent’s were both awaiting him when he returned to the shop from a pantry-lock job.
“Fella name of Trent called while you were gone,” Roan said. “Claims he’s a friend of yours and says he wants you to run up to his place tonight.”
Tommy nodded and then Roan handed him the little slip of paper. “And here’s a car key job just telephoned in. Yellow convertible Cadillac, license 6S-5207. Parked on Las Palmas just south of Sunset.”
Her car.
He took the slip of paper and carrying his tool kit went out to his flivver. He drove to Las Palmas and parked behind the convertible. He walked over and opened the door on the street side. She was slumped down behind the wheel. Her key was in the ignition lock.
“Hello, Tommy Dancer,” she said. “Surprised?”
“No. I remembered your license number.”
“You’ve got a marvelous memory.”
“So have you. You remembered the key shop and... and this street.”
“And you.”
Tommy hestitated. “I’ve just come from the shop; haven’t had time to get cleaned up.”
“So?”
“I’d like to wash up, if...”
Elizabeth leaned forward and removed the key from the ignition. She handed it elaborately to Tommy.
They entered the apartment house together and as luck would have it encountered Mrs. Cox, the manager, on the lower floor. She sized up Elizabeth Targ and then gave Tommy a cool, suspicious look. “Good evening, Mr. Dancer,” she said.
“Good evening, Mrs. Cox.”
On the stairs going to the second floor, Tommy whispered: “My reputation’s ruined — that was the landlady.”
“Shall I wait outside?”
“The damage is done. Besides...” Tommy caught hold of Elizabeth and kissed her, a hard kiss on her bps. For just an instant she was stiff, but then relaxed and even returned the pressure. Only for a moment though before she pushed him away.
She laughed as she evaded his clawing hands. “Plenty of time for that, sonny boy.”
“Sonny boy?”
“Tommy.”
But Tommy remembered who had called him Sonny Boy. Earl Faraday. She had been with Faraday enough to pick up the man’s pet phrases. A coldness seeped through him and he led the way to his apartment. Inside, he nodded to a chair.
“I won’t be long.”
He went to the cracked chest of drawers, got out a clean shirt, socks, linen and headed for the bathroom. He showered quickly, put on the shorts and socks, then discovered that he had forgotten to bring his other suit into the bathroom. He opened the door a couple of inches.
“Close your eyes a minute. I’ve got to come out.”
“Your suit?”
“That’s right — it’s in the closet.”
“I’ll hand it to you.”
He heard her cross the room and open the closet door. There was silence for a moment, then she came to the bathroom door and handed him the suit, which was on a wire hanger, as it had come from the cleaners the day before.
He put it on and re-entered the living room.
“Mmmm,” she said appraisingly, “not bad.”
“Special occasion.” Tommy grinned. “I supposed we’ll eat somewhere.”
She frowned a little. “Later. I thought we might drop in for a few minutes at a party to which I’m invited.”
Suspicion stiffened Tommy. “Not at Willis Trent’s?”
“Of course not,” she replied quickly. “You don’t know this man.”
“Try his name on me.”
“Paul deCamp.”
He shook his head. “No, I’ve never heard of him.” He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “I don’t suppose Earl Faraday will be at this party.”
“Now look, Tommy,” she exclaimed, “you’re not going to start harping on Faraday again, because if you are—”
“All right, I won’t mention his name again. I’ll take the crumbs and enjoy them.”
She came to him and placing her hands on his arms stood up on her toes and kissed him on the mouth. “What do you think of the crumbs?” she asked mockingly and kissed him again.
He tried to grab her but she laughed and eluded his grasp. “Let’s get to the party before everybody leaves.”
Paul deCamp was apparently in the money. He lived in a luxury apartment hotel on Sunset Strip where a Filipino took your car at the door and parked it in the garage under the hotel.
His apartment consisted merely of a living room, dinette, kitchen and bedroom, but the rental was probably as much as for an ordinary ten-room house.
The party was supposed to be in the living room, but it overflowed to the other rooms. There were probably thirty or thirty-five people present when Tommy entered with Elizabeth Targ.
Paul deCamp, the host, was a smooth, soft-spoken man in his early forties. He was tall, dark and handsomer than many a movie star. He greeted Elizabeth by kissing her warmly and then when she introduced Tommy he pumped Tommy’s hand.
“Are you a newcomer to Hollywood, Mr. Dancer?”
“Practically. I’ve only lived here about twelve years.”
“How come I haven’t seen you around?”
“You don’t know everybody, Paul,” Elizabeth interposed.
Paul deCamp put an arm about Elizabeth and squeezed her. “If he knows you, I want to know him,” he said. Then he suddenly looked over Elizabeth’s head in the direction of the bedroom. Tommy’s eyes followed. There were several people in the bedroom, some of whom were in his range. But of those he saw, he recognized none.