“Oh, yes. You see, they told about your encounter with the police down at Palmdale.” Coggeshall gave Tommy an odd expression. “You know, of course, that Palmdale is the nearest town to this place.”
“No,” said Tommy, “I hadn’t known. How far is it from here?”
“Eight miles.”
“Eight miles!” cried Tommy. “I must have driven fifty.”
“In a roundabout sort of way, no doubt. The side roads in these hills are deceptive. I understand you had trouble with the water pump at Littleneck, so you probably abandoned the car somewhere.”
Tommy nodded. He got up and walked to the radio.
“Is there any news on at seven-thirty?”
“Why, yes, I imagine so, although it’s almost ten minutes past the half hour now and they’re probably through with, ah, the news about you. They’ve been talking about you at the beginning of the newscasts.” He cleared his throat. “Is there anything special you wanted to know?”
“I want to know how much they know.”
“Quite a lot. You left a trail of silver dollars in Los Angeles and you bought a Buick car. You stopped at the scene of an accident near Palmdale and the police became suspicious and tried to question you. You got away from them and—”
“That’s enough,” snapped Tommy. He scowled at the radio. “They’re positive I killed Earl Faraday?”
“...And a man named Willis Trent!”
Gasping, Tommy whirled. “Trent! He’s dead?”
“The Los Angeles police found his body in the Hollywood Hills.”
“And they think
“They, ah, seem quite certain about it.”
Tommy looked steadily into the elderly caretaker’s eyes. “What do
“I’m not a policeman.”
“I wish you had a telephone,” said Tommy. “I’d let you know who killed Faraday — and Trent.”
“You want to call the police?”
“No, I want to call the murderer... a man named Paul deCamp.”
“Oh, the man whose money...” Coggeshall’s eyes went to the briefcase on the bed. He frowned. “If you think calling him on the phone would help you in any way, I might be able to put through a call...”
“How? I don’t see any phone here.”
“There isn’t, but I think I could put through a phone call with the radio.”
“How?”
“By contacting an amateur in Los Angeles who has a telephone hookup.”
Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “You call someone on this radio who has a phone and he connects his phone to the radio, is that the idea?”
“Yes. He would get your party on the phone and you could carry on a conversation with him. The only bad feature is that it would not be a private conversation.”
“I don’t care about that, because any amateur listening in, wouldn’t know where the call came from.”
“Oh, but they would. You see, it’s necessary to give your call letters — and there’s your kilocycle band, of course.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Tommy. “I know a little about amateur radio, from the army, but I’m not an expert. You broadcast on a certain wave length and the party you contact broadcasts on
“Because that would be illegal...” Coggeshall, looking at Tommy’s face, suddenly bit his lip. “I see what you mean.”
“Turn on your radio,” said Tommy. “Get an amateur in Hollywood, but get him on a wave length that isn’t your own and don’t give your call letters...”
“I’ve got to give
“Well, give them, just as long as they aren’t your own.”
“Very well.” Coggeshall crossed to the radio and flicked on a couple of switches. “Of course I’m doing this under duress. You, ah, have a gun in your hand and I am quite unarmed.”
“Fine,” said Tommy, putting the gun back into his pocket. “Remember that.”
While the radio tubes warmed up, Coggeshall manipulated some dials on the panel of his sending outfit. He pointed to some white letters on the panel. “There’s my call letters — KF16W.” He pointed to a little scratch on a dial. “And there’s my wave band. I’ll go off it thirty or forty kilocycles.”
He picked up a small microphone, flicked another switch and spoke into the microphone. “WF32W, calling WC44M.” Then he grimaced and put down the microphone. “No, that won’t do. WC44M knows my voice. He’d know who was talking.”
He picked up a book on which was printed “Log Book.” “I talked to a man about six months ago who told me he had a telephone hookup. I wrote down his call letters in this log book. I’m sure he wouldn’t remember me, especially if I use different call letters... Yes, here he is, WC33L. Mmmm, he lives in Burbank, but that’s close enough.”
He took up the microphone again and began announcing the call letters of the Burbank radio amateur. He repeated them perhaps a dozen times, then reached over to the far end of the radio set and flicked another switch.
A voice came from the loudspeaker. “Hello, WF32W, this is WL-98L in Glendale. Would you like me to telephone WC33L in Burbank and tell him you’re calling him?”
“Yes,” replied Coggeshall, “I’d appreciate it very much.”
There was silence on the radio for a minute or two, then the voice of WL98L came on again. “Hello, WF32W, I got WC33L for you and he’s tuning in on your wave band.”
