“Hey!” he exclaimed.
“Let me go!” she cried, struggling furiously.
It was the most natural thing in the world for Johnny to kiss her. She tried to hit him again and Johnny kissed her again. She stopped struggling.
After a moment Johnny released her.
“Okay?” he asked.
Her color was fourteen shades pinker. “I’ve got to go,” she murmured.
Johnny slipped the book out from under her arm. “When will I see you again?”
“Call me — this evening.”
He nodded and opened the door for her. After she had gone he stood for a moment, a thoughtful gleam in his eyes. Then he sighed, locked the door and went back to his chair. He opened the book and tried to find his place.
The panels of the door resounded to the rapping of knuckles.
“Open up, Fletcher!” cried the harsh voice of Tim O’Hanlon.
“Sold!” exclaimed Johnny, under his breath. “Sold by a dame.” Aloud he exclaimed: “I’m not interested in making any horse bets.”
“Still clowning, eh? Well, there’s a man here’ll do some clowning with you. He’s from the police department...”
“Open up,” a new voice.
Johnny groaned. He looked at the windows. It was ten feet across space to the room of Dan Tompkins. He was trapped. He got up and going to the door, unlocked it.
Tim O’Hanlon pushed into the room. He was followed by a heavy-set man of about forty.
“Lieutenant Meeker of the cops,” O’Hanlon chortled.
Lieutenant Meeker took a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He consulted it.
“You’re the owner of a 1932 Ford Sedan, License No. 07A834?”
“No,” said Johnny.
The detective frowned. “We’ll go into that later. The night before last you stopped at a motel in San Bernardino...”
Johnny shook his head. “Wrong again.”
“I can prove that,” Meeker snapped.
“Go ahead.”
Lieutenant Meeker stepped to the door of the bedroom, looked in, then turned back. “You have a friend named Sam Gragg...”
“Bingo!” exclaimed Johnny. “That time you win.”
“All right, wise guy,” said Meeker, showing his teeth. “We’ll continue this down at the station...”
“You have a warrant?”
“I don’t need a warrant for a murder charge.”
Johnny held up his right hand, palm to the detective. “Now, wa-ait a minute; fun’s fun, but you can carry even fun too far. What’s this about murder?”
“We’ll talk about it at the station. The sheriff of San Bernardino County’s on his way here.”
“Still feel like clowning, Fletcher?” asked the house detective, who was enjoying himself immensely.
“Let’s see,” said Johnny, “you’re in on this, too. Fine. I’ll make you a co-defendant in my suit for false arrest.”
“Okay,” said O’Hanlon. “I’ll give you something to really sue about.” He walked up to Johnny, grinned wickedly and suddenly hit Johnny on the jaw.
Johnny went back, then recovered and started for O’Hanlon. Meeker caught hold of him. “Hold it!” the detective cried.
“Lemme at him, the big stiff!” Johnny yelled. “I’ll pin his ears down for him.”
Still struggling with Johnny, Lieutenant Meeker looked over his shoulder at O’Hanlon. “You had no call to do that O’Hanlon.”
“He’s been asking for it,” O’Hanlon retorted.
Johnny suddenly relaxed and the lieutenant let go of him. Johnny seated himself in the Morris chair. “All right,” he said, “let’s get this straight. Who’m I supposed to have murdered?”
“A man named Kitchen,” grunted Meeker. “But we’ll go into it down at the station...”
“What about a lawyer?”
“You can call one after we book you... if we book you.”
“Why can’t I call one now?”
“Because it’s against the rules.” Meeker gestured impatiently. “Come on, let’s get going...”
“He’s stalling,” exclaimed O’Hanlon. “He’s expecting that fat friend of his.”
Meeker scowled. “On your feet, Fletcher.”
Johnny sighed wearily, and put Tombstone Days under his arm. “All right, fellows, I guess you’ve got me.”
Meeker took his arm. “I could use cuffs...”
“Never mind, I’ll go quietly.”
They left the room and went to the elevator, where O’Hanlon pushed a button. The indicator showed that a car was already coming up. It stopped on the fifth floor and the door opened.
Sam Cragg was the sole occupant of the elevator. He blinked as he saw Johnny between the two detectives.
“Cops!” cried Johnny.
“That’s his pal!” yelled O’Hanlon.
Chapter Nine
Johnny Fletcher promptly dropped to his knees between the two detectives. Sam Cragg lunged forward, his powerful arms held out. They swept the two detectives together, cracking their heads. Then Sam slammed them back violently. Both men hit the wall on the far side of the hall. Johnny, meanwhile, scuttled into the elevator. “Come on, Sam!” he cried.
Sam leaped back into the elevator. Lieutenant Meeker was struggling to get out his gun.
“Down!” yelled Johnny to the elevator operator. The boy, however, was paralyzed with fright and Johnny shoved him aside. He slammed the lever forward, as far it would go. The car plummeted downwards. Johnny kept the lever depressed until they reached the first floor, then began to ease up on it. Even so the car overshot the basement by a few inches and he had to bring it back.
“Let’s go,” he shouted to Sam and led the way into the basement. Sam followed willingly enough and they skidded past the boiler room toward a metal-sheathed door at the far end. Johnny had a little trouble getting it open, but then they were outside, in the alley behind the hotel.
Without pausing in his stride, Johnny hit a stone wall across the alley, clambered up, then turned to help Sam, who wasn’t too good at the climbing stuff.
“Alley oop!”
Sam gained the top of the wall, fell over into the yard beyond. Johnny dropped down and they rushed at top speed through a small yard, down a narrow walk and to the street beyond. A stout woman shaking out a rug on the pack porch looked at them in astonishment.
“Well!” she gasped.
“It ain’t well at all, lady,” Johnny replied.
“Take it easy, Johnny,” Sam panted as they reached the street.
“They don’t hang you in California,” Johnny retorted. “They gas you.”
They started across the street, entered another yard, cut through and came out on a street that was two blocks from the front of the hotel. Only then did they slow to a fast walk.
A bus was just pulling up at the corner. Johnny nodded to Sam and they made it by sprinting the last few yards.
Ten minutes later they got off the bus at La Brea and Wilshire.
Sam Cragg surveyed the busy intersection with an air of bewildered helplessness. “All right,” he finally said, “we lost the cops, but how long can we keep away from them? Night’s coming on; we can’t walk the streets and we dassn’t go to a hotel.”
“Somebody snitched,” said Johnny. “Somebody snitched to the flatfoot and I’m going to find out who it was.”
Sam grabbed Johnny’s arm. “What difference does it make, Johnny? I’ve been thinking — I don’t think I like gas. Let’s get out of town. I’ve changed my mind about California. I don’t like it.”
“I’m beginning to like it less every minute, myself, Sam. But we’re behind the eight-ball. I don’t even know if we can leave town... You and your astrology.”