George Roan answered: “Melrose Lock and Key Shop.”
“This is Tommy Dancer, Mr. Roan,” Tommy said. “Are you alone in the shop?”
“Yes, Tommy!” cried Roan. “Have you seen the morning papers?”
“No, but—”
“Your picture’s all over the front pages,” cut in Roan. “I don’t know where they got it.”
“Probably from my apartment. What do the papers say?”
“There’s a police dragnet out. They claim you stole a hundred and sixty thousand dollars and — and murdered a man.” Roan paused. “It — isn’t true, is it, Tommy?”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Tommy replied. “But it’s going to take a bit of working out.”
“Tommy,” exclaimed Roan, “come in and talk it over with me. We’ll get a lawyer, a good one.”
“A lawyer couldn’t help me at this stage. But look, Mr. Roan, has anyone come to see you about me — I mean, anyone aside from the police?”
“No, but there was a telephone call for you last night, about ten o’clock — on the night line. A girl; she said you’d know her. The only name she’d give was Betty...”
Tommy inhaled sharply. “Did she leave any message?”
“No, but she said she’d call again this morning.”
“Tell her to leave a number,” Tommy exclaimed. “I don’t know where to get in touch with her.”
“You... you’ll call again?”
“Yes, I will. And, Mr. Roan... don’t worry about me. I’m all right.”
He hung up before Roan could reply to that. Yes, he was all right. For the moment. But in an hour, a half hour...
He stared at the phone a moment, then became conscious of the sack of silver dollars in his lap. Looking through the glass door of the phone booth, he bent forward and deposited the silver dollars on the floor, under the little seat. Then he opened the briefcase and thrusting in a hand, groped for a packet of hundred dollar bills. He broke the paper band and slipped about a third of the packet into his hand. Removing it from the briefcase he thrust the bills, folding them at the same time, into his trousers pocket.
Then he snapped the briefcase shut again and stepped out of the booth. He closed the door and walked out of the drugstore.
Somebody was going to have a rather nice haul in a little while. He doubted very much whether anyone finding two hundred dollars in silver would take the sack to the police. People are honest, but two hundred-odd dollars in unmarked silver was a strong temptation.
Outside, he walked to Figueroa Street and south into the section inhabited by that strange breed of people peculiar to California, used-car dealers, who shrieked over the radio and advertised in newspapers and on billboards and in the sky their nationalities and dispositions: The Smiling Irishman, the Grinning Greek, the Laughing Laplander, Wild Man Pritchard, Madman Muntz.
The Grinning Greek had a half block lot that contained a couple of hundred cars, ranging from brand-new “used” cars to ancient jalopies of the vintage of ’29. A bevy of salesmen swooped down on Tommy as he entered the lot. A six-foot-two blond with the shoulders of a football player won. He grabbed Tommy’s hand and pumped it heartily.
“Good morning, sir. Could I show you a beautiful late model Buick that we’re practically giving away today?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Tommy said. “But I wasn’t thinking of a very late model. Not too late.”
“A ’39, or ’40, perhaps? There’s a little job over here that we only got in late last night, otherwise it would already be sold. A club coupe, owned by a local doctor, an elderly man who never once drove the car above thirty-five. It’s got the original paint job, a brand-new set of tires and only 18,000 miles on the speedometer...”
“How much was on it before it was turned back?”
The salesman clapped Tommy on the shoulder. “Ha-ha, good joke, eh? That’s what they do up the street, but not here. No, sir, not at the Grinning Greek’s. And we don’t turn the speedometer back to zero and let you guess. No, sir, we leave it right where it is.” He grabbed Tommy’s arm and pointed at a faded maroon coupe. “See that heap over there — it’s got the original mileage right on the speedometer. One hundred and forty-two thousand miles. I’m not trying to sell you that car, no sir, because frankly it isn’t a good buy. I’m just pointing it out to show you the way we do business.” He stopped Tommy at a black coupe. “Here’s the little baby I was telling you about. Eighteen thousand local miles, driven by an elderly doctor...” He kicked the rear bumper, winced as it wobbled and in the same tone of voice, called attention to the defect. “Bolt got a little loose. Needs a turn or two with the wrench.”
“How much?” Tommy asked.
“Eighteen thousand local miles,” enthused the salesman, “the sweetest running motor you ever heard in your life and guess how much we’re asking?”
“How much?”
The salesman looked past Tommy, down the aisle. “Uh, I didn’t see the car you drove up in.”
“I didn’t drive up in any.”
“No? But what about the car you’re trading in?”
“I’m not trading in any car. I just want to buy from scratch, for cash.”
