Louie jammed his foot down on the gas pedal and the speedometer shot up to fifty, within a block. Louie raised it to sixty in the next couple of blocks, then suddenly braking, whipped the car around a corner, into a side street, on which there wasn’t a single moving car, although two or three were parked at either curb.
Louie drove the one long block to Franklin at moderate speed, his eyes on the rear vision mirror. No car appeared in the rear and he turned into Franklin.
“Nobody,” he said. He tooled the car to the curb and shifting into neutral, put on the emergency brakes. “Now, let’s have that look.”
“All right,” said Tommy and raised the Boston bag, which with its load of silver jewelry and silver dollars weighed in excess of twenty pounds.
Louie saw the bag coming and cried out. And then it landed on Louie’s head, with all the weight that Tommy could put behind it in the confined quarters.
Louie collapsed against the far side of the car, blood trickling from his nostrils. Tommy twisted around, caught hold of Louie and jerked him over to the right side of the car. Then he climbed over him and got behind the wheel. He released the emergency brake and, putting his feet on the clutch pedals, looked sidewards at Louie. He was slumped on the seat unconscious, but to be on the safe side, Tommy pushed him down so that his body could not be seen by a passing car.
He drove down Franklin to Gardner, cut back to Hollywood Boulevard and, at a careful speed, proceeded to Laurel Canyon. He took the curves of the canyon at a fast clip and reached Mulholland Drive in good time. On Mulholland he proceeded more slowly until he came to the graveled road that led up to Trent’s house. He went up the steep road in second gear and, reaching the level ground behind the cliff house, suddenly exclaimed.
Trent’s car was gone!
Tommy parked a discreet distance from the house, shut off the motor and bent over Louie. The man was breathing heavily but still unconscious. Blood, trickling from his nose, had soaked his shirt and coat.
Gingerly Tommy peeled back the left coat lapel but found no shoulder holster. As well as he could he searched the unconscious man’s pockets, but Louie apparently carried no gun.
Picking up the heavy Boston bag Tommy got out of the car and headed for the house. He walked swiftly, without looking to the right or left.
He reached the kitchen door and without hesitation opened the door. He stepped into the house, shifted the Boston bag from his left hand to his right and went from the kitchen to the big living room.
He entered boldly and had taken two or three steps before he came to an abrupt halt. The room, at first glance, had appeared empty.
But now he saw someone lying on the floor at the far end of the room.
Earl Faraday... dead.
There was no question about it. His eyes were wide and staring and there was a round hole in the center of his forehead from which only a little blood had trickled.
Tommy set the Boston bag on the couch and crossed to what was left of the man who had made a career of women. In death, Faraday’s face was slack and Tommy wondered what women had ever seen in the man. Yet Betty Targ had believed herself in love with him.
Tommy turned away and a ripple of alarm shot through him. His ears had heard the drumming of a car outside. He ran to the kitchen, and through a window saw Fred Kraft, the private detective, climbing out of his car.
“Damn!” Tommy explained.
This was no time to be stopped. Flight was called for, swift distance-eating flight. He started to turn away from the window, then Kraft’s movements outside stopped him. Instead of heading for the house, Kraft was moving to the beige-colored coupe.
He took but one glance into the car, then whirling, drew a gun. He looked toward the house, seemed to hesitate, then came forward at a run.
Exclaiming, Tommy left the kitchen. In the living room he looked around for a hiding place, saw a closet door, just as the doorknob in the kitchen rattled.
Tommy stepped quickly to the closet door, opened it and entered. He pulled the door shut and stood in the dark, listening.
There was a thick rug on the living room floor, which effectively muffled the private detective’s footsteps, and Tommy cursed himself for his choice of a hiding place.
He strained his ears to listen, but could hear nothing except the pounding of his own heart. Not for a full two minutes or more.
Then a voice said suddenly: “Open the door and come out with your hands up.”
Tommy groaned inwardly but remained silent. The voice outside the door, closer, went on: “I mean you, Tommy Dancer. And I’ve got a gun on the door...”
Tommy groped for the closet door and twisted the knob. He pushed open the door and faced Fred Kraft, who stood in the center of the living room. Tommy raised his hands to shoulder height and stepped out.
“Turn around,” Kraft ordered.
“I’m not armed.”
“I’ll look for myself, if you don’t mind,” Kraft said, quite pleasantly.
