Brutally, Tommy stooped and turning him over, ripped the gun from the detective’s hip pocket. He straightened and started for the kitchen, the bag of dollars in his left hand, Kraft’s gun in his right.
He stepped into the kitchen from the living room as Louie came in from the yard through the rear door. Louie stopped, his face a mass of dried blood, his eyes wide and staring.
“You,” he said thickly.
“Step aside,” Louie, Tommy said tonelessly. “I’m coming through if I have to kill you.”
Louie shuffled forward. Tommy came toward him, took one step sidewards and went around Louie. He kept the gun between them and Louie, aware of it, made no move toward him.
Tommy pushed open the door, leading to the yard. “Nothing personal, pal,” he said and stepped through.
In the yard he ran for the two cars that were parked within a few yards of each other. He reached the first, Kraft’s, and shot a quick look at the dashboard. The ignition keys were missing. Exclaiming in annoyance, he ran around the car to Louie’s.
The keys were in the ignition and he tore open the door and slipped in behind the wheel. The motor caught instantly and Tommy made a quick turn and started for the steep road that led to Mulholland Drive below.
He went down in high gear, scarcely braking, and once or twice he thought the wheels would slip out over the edge of the graveled road. But he made the descent safely and turned right on Mulholland Drive.
He was perhaps a hundred yards from the graveled road when the wail of a siren from the rear reached his ears. The police. Two minutes later and he would have been caught.
He sent the car hurtling around the turn and kept his foot down on the gas pedal. He made the curves with tires screeching.
At Coldwater Canyon he turned left and kept the car going downhill at a speed far from safe. Two blocks from Sunset Boulevard, in Beverly Hills, he pulled the car to the curb, shut off the ignition and, picking up the sack of silver dollars, got out.
He walked briskly to Sunset Boulevard where he turned right for one block to the taxicab stand in front of the Beverly Hills Hotel. There were two taxis in the line and Tommy got into the first one he came to.
“Wilshire and Rodeo,” he told the cab driver.
The man nodded and starting up the taxi turned left into Beverly Drive and scooted across town to Wilshire. Reaching Wilshire and only one block to go over to Rodeo, Tommy thrust his hand into his pocket and discovered that he had no money. Trent had failed to return the small change Louie had taken from his pockets.
He opened the bag of silver dollars and took one out. When the cab drew up at the next corner, Tommy leaned across and handed the driver the silver dollar.
“Keep the change,” he said and got out of the cab.
He crossed the street and entered the drugstore adjoining the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. At the cigar counter he saw a display of nail files and, stopping, bought one. He paid for it with a silver dollar. The price was 30 cents and he asked for four nickels in the change.
Carrying the nickels he walked back to the phone booths and entered one. He dialed the number of Trent’s apartment. The Filipino answered:
“Meestair Tr-rent’s apar-rtment.”
“Mr. Trent, please.”
“He iss not here, sarr. Who iss calling?”
Tommy hung up, scowled at the phone a moment, then dropped another nickel into the slot. A moment later George Roan’s voice said: “Melrose Lock and Key Shop.”
“Mr. Roan,” Tommy began, “this is Tommy Dancer.”
George Roan’s voice said sharply: “Yes? What seems to be the trouble?”
“There’s someone in the shop?” Tommy asked.
“Yes,” was Roan’s reply.
“Police?”
“Yes, that’s right, I fix locks, but I’m afraid I can’t take care of you right now.”
“Look,” said Tommy, “will it be all right if I call you later?”
“I think so,” came Roan’s reply. “I can’t leave the shop right now, but if you can’t get anyone else to open the door for you, you might try me again in an hour.”
Tommy hung up the receiver, left the booth, then on an impulse stepped back to a high table on which reposed several telephone directories. He opened the main Los Angeles directory and turned to the R’s. There were Randalls, more than two columns of them, but no Florence Randall, although there were several “F” Randalls with middle initials. Tommy was pretty sure that none of them would turn out to be Florence Randall.
He closed the book and opened the yellow classified directory. Under apartment hotels he found the building in which Paul deCamp lived, entered the booth, and dialed the number.
The apartment operator answered, giving the name of the apartment hotel. “Mr. deCamp’s apartment, please,” Tommy said, softly.
“Who’s calling?”
“Mr. Faraday.”
“Just a moment, please.”
The connection was broken for a moment, then a woman’s voice said sharply: “I told you never to call me here.”
“It’s all right, Flo,” Tommy said, “this isn’t Faraday.” He heard her gasp at the other end of the wire. Tommy said: “Is Paul there?”
Then Flo Randall recovered. “Who is this?”
