by Al Fray
It took a while to get out of Victorville and on my way to L.A. Busses were out. So was hitching. I went over to a service station catering to truck trade and hung around for a while. I was shot and going on nerves and it would have been nice to hand one of the truck jockeys a five-spot and sleep in the bunk behind the cab of a big rig all the way to. L.A., but I couldn’t afford to come to light so close to Joe Lamb’s car. Then, just after ten, something came along that looked pretty much like what the doctor ordered. It was almost empty, a big flat-bed job with a tarp over something stacked in the first few feet against the front end. I drifted over to the side away from the bright lights of the station, and when the driver went into the men’s room I slipped over into the shadow of the cab, moved back a few feet, pulled myself up onto the bed, and wiggled under the edge of the tarp.
The cargo was about a dozen oil drums, a chain around their middle holding the stack to the forward part of the long truck-bed. I held still and waited, and a few minutes later we rumbled out onto the highway. We thundered along over the pavement, a rough ride, with my rear getting sorer every mile, but the driver was in a hurry and we made the forty miles to San Bernardino in damn good time, considering that we had to go over Cajon Pass. I stayed with him almost into the business district then lifted the canvas on the right side, rolled across the bed, and jumped down. I heard him yell something and knew he’d caught a flash of me in his big rear-view mirror on the right, but I didn’t wait to discuss it. I took off on a dead run for the next corner back, swung left, and was out of sight.
When I got to the bus depot I bought a ticket to Los Angeles and went the rest of the way in style. In the washroom I cleaned up, then bought a ticket as far as Ventura on the next bus leaving for San Francisco.
The run up to Ventura took another hour and a half, and from there I took a cab to Ojai. I had him stop in front of another hotel up the street from mine, and when he headed back toward Ventura I went over one block, came up the back street, picked up the Ford, drove down to my hotel, and slipped in the rear entrance. I was dead for sleep from the nervous exhaustion wearing away at me, and I stripped off my shirt and shoes, then hopped on the bed. Before I could close my eyes there was a light tap on the door. I cracked it open, then swung it wide enough for Carol to slip in.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered. “You want to foul us up completely?”
“Eddie, I can’t sleep, I can’t rest, I can’t—”
I put my arms around her then and held her close for a moment. She closed her eyes and clung to me and I ran my fingers through her long red hair until the tension eased a little. At least I’d had freedom to move—she must have had holy hell sitting here in a hotel room. When she was under control again I tipped her chin up.
“I’m afraid you’d better get back to your room,” I whispered. “We don’t want to blow it. Not now.”
“Where is—is Joe?”
“I found a place near Victorville. So far so good. Now run back to your side of the hall and take a hot shower and—No, it’s four a.m.; don’t run the water this late. Or maybe just enough to sponge off your face. And try to calm down.”
“Eddie, I’m worried.”
“Sure you are. We both are. But the hard part is over; you’re so far from Joe’s car that the few questions they ask you when they call you back to Hollywood will almost be routine.”
“But won’t they know he’s been driven quite a ways?”
“I guess. But they won’t know how far or from where. And don’t forget this: they’ll expect you to be upset. It wouldn’t be natural any other way, your business partner being murdered. So don’t try too hard to be casual about it.”
“All right. I—I feel better now. And thanks.”
“It’s going to be all right,” I said. “You’ll have to handle both sides of your office for a while until you find a new partner, and that’ll help keep you busy. I’ll stop by in a few days. But one thing for sure—don’t tell Nola Norton a thing. Not a damn thing. Do you understand that, Carol?”
“Nothing, Eddie. I’ll remember.”
When I was alone again I flopped across the bed and tried to sleep. But at seven in the morning I was still there, still awake, and still worrying.
I cleaned up and went through the motions once more, but this time I didn’t drive out to my usual place. I got papers and drove off in a different direction, then took the Geiger counter into the hills and walked around. It was noon before I finally dropped down in the shade of a low bush, put my head on the roll of papers, and closed my eyes.
The evening papers had the story when I got back to the hotel. A couple of dames in the lobby were buzzing like magpies and devouring the front page, and after I’d had my shower I went down town, found a pool hall, and sat down to glance at the news. It hit the headlines.
Hitch-hiker Slays L.A. Man
The body of Joseph Lamb was found in his car this morning a mile south of Victorville. He had apparently been murdered some time before, and…
Carol Taylor was mentioned only in passing. She had been called home from her vacation at Ojai, the article said, to identify the body. The police fixed the time of death at about six o’clock on the night before, which was shooting damn close to the line. They knew that he’d been carted quite a way but here they were slipping a little; their estimate was from just out of San Bernardino to the place of discovery, forty miles instead of the hundred and thirty-six he had really traveled. But they were figuring on Lamb’s going from L.A. to Las Vegas and guessed that he’d given the wrong man a lift. He had been robbed, the paper said, of money, a ring, and watch.
The wallet, it seems, had actually turned up first. I’d guessed wrong on when the paper can would be emptied at the service station; the night man dumped it at midnight, and the police were given the wallet before they actually had the body. No description was yet available; the fact that the wallet was found north of the car indicated that the killer was on his way toward Barstow and, most likely, was going on to Las Vegas.
The wound indicated that the bullet was heavy enough to be a .45. It had been fired at close range, and they surmised that Lamb had thrown up his arm to grab for the gun—the bullet having entered below the armpit on his left side and flattened when it ripped away the spine. They were, of course, trying to locate anyone who might have seen the Plymouth stopped along the highway between San Bernardino and Victorville, in the hope of getting some idea as to the size and appearance of the hitch-hiker.
I put the paper down and went back to the hotel. One more day I spent in the hills, then checked out with no forwarding address and headed for L.A. There was no point in remaining at Ojai; the entire publicity scheme was one big bucket of bubbles, a spot marked X on which they had hoped to nail Eddie Baker. So now only Nola remained, and she was still going to have to pay off.
Chapter 13
I FOUND AN APARTMENT in Venice and as soon as I tossed my suitcase into a corner, I took off for Long Beach. I wanted a gun. A smaller one this time, and within an hour I turned up a short-barreled .38 in a pawn shop on the strand. I counted out the cash, signed the papers as Charles A. Edwards, and listened to the pitch about waiting periods and registration. Neither would worry me; I wasn’t in any hurry and you aren’t fingerprinted when you register a gun. I drove home.
In the morning I checked the papers but there was nothing on Joe Lamb except a small item tucked away in the middle sheets, a statement about burial and that police were still looking for the hitch-hiker murderer, but no progress was reported. On the following day I phoned the office of Lamb and Taylor, but drew a blank. I looked through the Taylors in the phone book, found the one that matched the address I’d written to twice from Ojai, and dialed her number. An elderly lady answered, then called Carol to the phone.
“Eddie Baker,” I said. “I’ve been wondering how you are these days.”
“All right, I guess. Considering.” She sounded tired.
“You—haven’t
heard from Nola?”
“No, but I saw her yesterday at Joe’s—at the services. She was with a friend and we didn’t speak.”
“Oh?” I’d gone about as far as I could over the phone, and yet I wanted to talk more. “Look,” I said, “you’re on edge and depressed and it’s entirely understandable, but this wasn’t—well, wasn’t anything you could help. So how about us taking a drive this afternoon and we’ll see if you can’t get it off of your mind?”
“A drive? Where would we go?”
“No place special. But it will get you out of the house.”
“All right. When will you come by?”
“In an hour.”
I made some other phone calls and drove up to Carol’s address. Her mother let me in. She was red-haired and still slim, only the wrinkles along the corners of the eyes giving away her years, and she smiled warmly as she indicated a chair.
“Carol will be down in a moment. I don’t believe I’ve seen you around, Mr. Baker.”
“That’s right.” I couldn’t say much; there was no way of knowing what Carol had told her mother about Eddie Baker.
“What have you been doing since your accident, Mr. Baker?”
“A little of this and some of that. Uranium prospecting this last couple of weeks. How’s the weather been here in L.A.?”
“Fine.” She didn’t pursue the subject of my whereabouts. Instead, she lowered her voice and glanced toward the stairs. “Carol has been awfully upset these last few days. Even before Mr. Lamb’s death, I think, and I’m worried about her. It’s very nice of you to help her get her mind off of her troubles.”
I mumbled something unimportant and she leaned closer. “Please see if you can’t cheer her up a little. Carol’s usually so gay and—” She stopped as high heels clicked down the white Diato stairway, and I got to my feet.
“You look lovely,” I said, and held her coat.
“Well, thank you, sir,” Carol said, “even if it is a lie.” She kissed her mother lightly on the cheek, then linked her arm through mine. A few minutes later we were in my car and heading west.
“It’s been rough, I guess.”
“Yes, but you said the questions would be pretty much routine, and they were. I doubt if they even checked with the hotel at Ojai to see how long I was there or when I left.”
“Maybe yes; maybe no. Did you look up the word on Hank Sawyer?”
“Yes. Mom has several feet of paper waiting for the Boy Scout paper drive to come along and I found the editions covering him. And you were right, Eddie. If this mess broke, if you hadn’t—hadn’t taken care of Joe—I would have been in up to my neck.”
“I think you probably would have.”
“I’m sure of it. They’d have started with my helping Nola and Joe stage the fake rescue and there wouldn’t have been any way to prove I had no part in Hank’s death.” Carol moved a little closer, and one hand covered mine on the wheel. “You were pretty cool when it counted most, Eddie.”
I grinned at her and tooled the Ford through late afternoon traffic along the boulevard. When we hit the coast highway, I wheeled right and later we wound up into Malibu Hills, found a parking area overlooking the Pacific, and stopped. I turned on the radio and dialed in some soft music. Carol looked toward the expanse of ocean below us.
“And where do we go from here?” she asked softly.
“Well, we can’t stay in sack cloth and ashes forever. I thought we might drive north a ways, have a nice dinner along about—”
“I don’t mean that, Eddie. What will you do?”
“I want my dough.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to take what you already have and keep clear of Nola?”
“It would be easier. But it would leave a taste in my mouth. I’m not forgetting that little Nola set me up to be knocked off—courtesy of Joe Lamb. I’m damned if I’ll hold still for it!”
“You’re going to Catalina to see her?”
“If she’s not home, I’ll go to Catalina. She’s going to have to pay the bill; I can’t see it any other way. Now what about you?”
“I’m selling the agency.”
“Any special reason?”
“A lot of reasons. For one thing, I want off the Hollywood merry-go-round. I know I sound like a bad song, but I would like to find some happiness.”
“So what will make you happy?”
“What will make any girl happy?”
“I hear they’re all different.”
“Only on the surface.”
“I don’t think you’re right. Take Nola, for example. She knows exactly what she wants and it isn’t a husband and three kids. She’ll get it too, but not unless she pays Eddie Baker’s bill.”
“Nola? She’s different, I guess. And smart as they come. Actually, very little of the planning was done by Joe. Nola—well, all right, she’s an exception to the rule.” Carol looked out toward the water and asked, “If you get all that money, Eddie, what then?”
“A swim school,” I said. “You’ve seen a dozen of them spring up in and around L.A. recently, and they’re a good thing. The one I want will cost an even thirty thousand to build and the lot will cost another ten. Put it at forty G’s all together. And it’ll be work I can loaf at. Make a living in your bathing trunks—you can’t beat it.”
“You could buy it now. With the money you’ve already taken from Nola, you could make a down payment and get a construction loan. Then—”
“Nothing doing,” I said. “When I build it, I’ll own it.”
“Or you’ll wind up like Sawyer. Can’t you see by now how dangerous she is?”
I started the car. “Who should know better?” I said. “But to hell with it for now. Let’s take a nice relaxing drive up to about Santa Barbara, have a dinner at some good restaurant, and come home in the moonlight.”
It was late when we got back to the house. A light burned in the living room window. I walked Carol up to the porch and we stood in the shadow cast by an acacia tree. Memories of a night in Ojai went through me, and I slipped my arms around her, but the heat wouldn’t build. Not on her side of the fence.
“I’m worried about you, Eddie,” she whispered.
“Forget it. I know what I’m doing. Relax.” I kissed her, but somehow it didn’t come off right.
“Please, Eddie. Couldn’t we talk about—about what you’re going to do next? Isn’t it even open to discussion?”
“No. Not if you mean what I think you do. It’s all settled; we’ll have to go on from there.”
“I don’t think I want to go on from there. But if you’d be reasonable and talk it over and—”
“Are you trying to bargain with me?” I asked softly.
She turned her head away. “I guess I am.”
“It’s been a nice evening,” I said, “but there’s work to be done tomorrow. I’ll be seeing you around.” And then I went down the walk and out to my car and drove away.
The lights were out in Nola’s apartment when I walked past the door. I loafed around the swimming pool inside the enclosed patio of the big apartment building for a while, but she didn’t show. I went back to my own place in Venice, kicked away a little time, and phoned her. Nothing doing. I stalled away a couple of hours in a corner bar and dialed Nola again. Still no answer, so I hit the sack.
In the morning I called once more, and when she didn’t answer I decided that the lover boy with a boat was doing all right and that she was probably playing out the few days before shooting on his scow in Catalina waters. I drove down to the pawn shop, picked up my .38, and registered it.
“Just a house gun,” I told the sergeant at the desk, “protection for the home.”
He gave me a short lecture about how I couldn’t carry it concealed and all the rest, but ten minutes after I left the station I stopped off at a hardware store, picked up some shells, loaded the gun, shoved it into my belt inside my shirt, and drove over to the Wilmington Docks. I bought a ticket on the steamer, and when she
slipped her moorings and nosed into the twenty-four miles of channel water, I was aboard.
It was a gay crossing, smooth, with flying fishes skipping out of the water as we neared the island. But I wasn’t exactly on a vacation tour, and when the steamer began to ease into her mooring space beside the dock at Avalon, I went to an upper deck and looked over the collection of small craft anchored around the bay. Sirocco was the name of his boat, I’d read, but it wasn’t here.
A small band played Avalon as the gangplank went over and eager vacationers swept ashore for their day on the island wonderland. I touched my shirt-front lightly, felt the encouraging outline of the short-nosed .38, and went across the street to a taxi stand.
“How much to the Isthmus?” I asked. He glanced up, gave me the charge, and I got into his cab.
An hour later I strolled along the wooden pier and looked over the boats out in the bay. Sirocco rode on the gentle swells, moored to a floating barrel not too far to the left of the pier. She was a trim boat, all right, and rigged with fishing gear. Her hull was white, the deck natural wood that looked clean and bleached in the morning sunlight. A fifty-footer, I guessed. The newly painted black anchor peeked out of a small hawse pipe at the bow, and behind it a bright, black chain stretched tautly across two feet of deck, circled a small windlass, and disappeared through the deck. She carried a short dinghy slung from miniature davits. Her bright-work was newly polished and glittered invitingly.
I was still admiring her lines when a head poked out of the cabin, and then the boss came on deck. It had to be him, short-cropped mustache, a weatherbeaten dark blue yachting cap pulled over one side of his head, a mug of coffee in his hand. Conrad somebody. Conrad Masters, if I remembered the gossip column right from that day his picture had appeared with Nola and the Sirocco. And while the boat was exactly the same, there was a slight difference in her owner. He’d sucked in a lot of tummy when they made that shot. He was tan of face and his dungarees were strictly from salt, and now, as he leaned on the cabin roof and looked around, he saw me standing on the end of the pier.
