He headed for the drugstore, entered and went to the single telephone booth at the rear of the store.
He dropped his nickel in the slot and dialed Sunset 3-1127. A gruff voice answered immediately. “Mariota Pharmacy.”
Tommy blinked at the phone. “I’m calling for Paul deCamp,” he said.
“Who?”
“Paul deCamp.”
“Sorry,” said the voice at the other end of the wire. “I don’t believe I know anyone by that name...”
“You know, all right,” Tommy said quickly. “Flo Randall spoke to you just a few minutes ago.”
There was a pause then the voice on the phone said: “You must have the wrong number. This is the Mariota Pharmacy on Riverside.”
Tommy slipped the receiver back on the hook, stepped out of the booth and caught up the phone directory that hung from a chain suspended to the booth. He turned the pages to the M’s and found the Mariota Pharmacy. The number was Sunset 3-1127.
He let the book fall from his hands and strode quickly to the door. Whipping it open he sprang out to the sidewalk.
Flo Randall was nowhere in sight — but red headlights were just turning into Fountain from La Brea. Gasping in shock, Tommy whirled and shot down the side street. A police siren split the night air, giving wings to Tommy’s feet.
He ran a hundred feet faster than he had ever run in his life, then made a sudden swerve and sprang up a short flight of steps that led to a two-story apartment house. He tore open the door, almost knocked an elderly woman off her feet and bounded down a narrow corridor to the rear of the building. A door, leading to the backyard, stood ajar and he tore it open and ran out into a paved courtyard. There was a six-foot board fence at the rear. With a running start Tommy got to the top of the fence in a single leap and plunged over into an adjoining yard. It was pitch dark here and he knocked over a garbage can or two in his flight, but he found a gate that opened onto a narrow walk and in turn brought him out on La Brea Street.
Cars were zooming along the boulevard, but he dodged in and out and reached the east side of the street safely. He did not stop there. He repeated the maneuver of the other street, entering an apartment house, clambering over a rear fence and going through to the next street. On the almost deserted street he walked and ran to Santa Monica and there was fortunate enough to catch a streetcar.
A few minutes later he dropped off on Cahuenga and walked quickly southward until he saw his car, still at the curb where he had parked it — was it only that morning?
The car was hot. If they knew about him, they knew the license number of the car and it would be only a matter of time before a cruising police car or motorcycle policeman spotted it. But at the moment it represented transportation and Tommy got in.
He found the car keys under the seat where he had deposited them and, starting the car, headed for Melrose Avenue. He turned left on the boulevard and drove to Van Ness. On Van Ness he turned right and made another turn at the first street, Clinton, virtually deserted of parked cars. There were one or two however and Tommy pulled up to the curb, at a safe distance from the nearest. He waited a moment, then climbed out and approached the car.
Making sure there was no one in the machine, he walked around to the front bumper and taking the nail file that he had purchased in Beverly Hills from his pocket, he quickly loosened the little bolts that held the license plate to its holder.
With the plate in his hand he went to the rear of the car and removed the second plate.
Three minutes later, his own plates were off the car and he was putting on the stolen ones. The task completed without interruption he got into the car and drove to Rossmore and from there to Melrose. On the latter street he cut back to Cahuenga and drove through the main part of Hollywood, over Cahuenga Pass, into San Fernando Valley.
In Sherman Oaks he found a dead end street and a block from Ventura deserted the flivver.
He walked back to Ventura and Van Nuys and there boarded a bus that dropped him ten minutes later, three miles east of the town of Van Nuys, a sparsely populated district of homes, ranchettes and motels.
He turned into one of the larger motels and registering under the name of Richard Dyer — and paying four silver dollars in advance — finally found himself in a comfortably furnished room.
He locked the door on the inside and, groaning in relief, dropped on the bed. Two minutes later he was asleep.
The sun shining into the room awakened Tommy Dancer. He opened his eyes and for a moment stared sightlessly at the cream-colored ceiling of the hotel room.
Then he exclaimed softly and sat up on the bed. A tremor shot through his body and for a moment he felt utterly drained of strength. He had felt that way once, just before stepping out of the troop carrier into the air above a Normandy field.
