“I’m talking about women in general, so don’t get up your hackles. Elizabeth Targ’s one of a dozen women I know who’ve gone overboard for Faraday. I don’t know whether he’s gotten any money from her. Maybe not, because I hear she hasn’t got much. But anyway, women are Faraday’s business. Sometimes he even marries one.” He paused. “That redhead, Florence Randall, she’s strictly business. Understand? For all I know, Faraday’s gone overboard for the Targ girl, but at the moment Faraday’s broken off with her, because he’s giving Flo Randall a line of his goods. He’s going to get something from her — the number of a certain safety deposit box.”
Tommy recoiled. “It’s
Trent winced a little. “Don’t be so damn crude.” He shook his head. “And it isn’t her box. As a matter of fact, she doesn’t even know she’s going to give Faraday that number.”
“Then how do you know she’s going to do it?”
“That’s Faraday’s job.” Trent’s lips twisted contemptuously. “He’s a slimy rat. But don’t get the wrong idea about him; he’s a bad boy and if you keep crossing him your insurance company’ll be making a payment to your nearest relative.”
“I can take care of myself.”
Trent grunted. “You and Faraday can carve each other into filet mignons — after we split what’s in that safety deposit box. But I’m not going to let either of you spoil this caper. I mean that, Tommy. I’m thinking of that money, first, last and all the time. You’ll take a short grip on that temper of yours.” He made an impatient gesture. “Now, let’s get down to cases. Tomorrow you go to the Hollywood-Highland Bank and rent yourself a safety deposit box...”
The banking boom was about forty by fifty feet in size. On the right were tellers. Across the rear was the insurance and real estate department. The front section of the left was railed in and contained a half dozen desks, at which sat the bank officials, who made loans and talked to the depositors on banking matters. Behind them was a small square, occupied by a couple of men who handled “notes and collections” and beyond them was a little cubbyhole, over which presided a redheaded woman of about forty. Lettering over the wicket, outside this compartment, read “Safety Deposit.”
From this compartment, you could walk directly into the vault containing the safety deposit boxes. A massive, foot-thick door stood open. Access from the bank proper was by means of a low wooden gate, which opened from inside, by pushing an electric button. The custodian of the safety deposit vault, the redheaded woman, operated the electric button.
Tommy Dancer, carrying a large Manila folder, approached the safety deposit window. He had to wait for a moment or two while the woman inside the compartment finished adding up a set of figures on an adding machine.
“Yes?” she said, then.
“I’d like to rent a safety deposit box.”
“Are you a depositor?”
“Is it necessary to be?”
“No.” The woman reached for a card. “Will you fill this out, please?”
It was the usual bank application, requesting name, address, business references, employer, date of birth, name of parents, including maiden name of mother.
Tommy took the card to one of the writing stands and filled it out slowly. He gave his name and address, hesitated over employer and finally wrote: George Roan. “Business references” he left blank but filled out the other spaces. He returned to the safety deposit window.
The woman gave the card a perfunctory scrutiny. “Can you give a business reference?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have any charge accounts at the stores,” Tommy replied. “I always pay cash.”
The woman hesitated. “I guess it’s all right. The regular size boxes are six dollars per year, plus twenty per cent Federal Tax. Seven dollars and twenty cents.”
Tommy took out a ten dollar bill and she gave him change. The attendant searched through a drawer of keys and brought out two, held together with a circular clip.
“Here you are, Mr. Dancer. Box three sixty-five.”
Tommy held up the Manila envelope. “Could I put these things in the box now?”
“Of course. Here...” She slipped over a pad of small blanks, “Fill out one of these.”
The blank merely required Tommy’s signature and box number. He wrote it out and handed it to the woman, who took a key from her desk and pressed the electric button. “If you’ll come in...”
Tommy stepped to the wooden gate and went through. He followed the woman into the vault which was not more than ten by ten feet in size and lined on two sides by safety deposit boxes. The attendant said: “If you’ll give me your keys...”
Tommy handed them to her. She put one of the keys into the lower keyhole of Box 365 and turned it. Tommy shot a quick glance over his shoulder. The woman’s compartment, out in the banking room, was out of eye range from where he stood. Good.
