Hit and Run

I

During the afternoon I had a long, lonely session with my thoughts. Hackett’s hint bothered me, but as he didn’t seem ready to make trouble for me, I felt I had to get that out of my mind and concentrate on the main problem, which was the Cadillac. I was sure that if I could think of a way to get the car repaired, I could cope with the rest of my problems.

It wasn’t until late in the evening that I suddenly saw how I could do this in safety. I happened to take from my wallet the certificate Lieutenant West had given me, and on examining it, I suddenly realized he had unwittingly handed me the solution.

In completing the form, he had put down only the licence number and had omitted the make of the car. I saw then that if I put the Pontiac’s number plate on the Cadillac, the certificate would clear me if I were stopped while taking the Cadillac to my local garage to get the damage repaired.

For several seconds I stared at the certificate, scarcely believing the solution could be this simple. There was a risk that if I were stopped by a policeman he might check my licence tag against the number plates. If he did that, I’d be sunk, but I decided I would have to take this risk.

I decided it would be too risky to change the number plates before dark. I had still a couple of hours ahead of me before sunset, and it occurred to me, while I was waiting, to call Lucille and tell her I had found a possible solution. I knew her nerve had been badly shaken by West’s unexpected appearance and I wasn’t going to take the risk of her losing her nerve at the last moment just when it looked as if I had the problem licked.

I crossed over to the telephone and called Aitken’s house.

Lucille herself answered.

‘Ches here,’ I said. ‘Can you talk?’

I heard her catch her breath sharply.

‘Yes. What is it?’

‘I wanted you to know I’ve found a way out,’ I said. ‘I think it’s going to be all right, I think I’ve really got it fixed.’

There was a pause. I could hear her quick breathing.

‘Do you really mean that?’ she asked finally.

‘Yes. It’s going to be all right. We’re both going to be in the clear.’

‘But how?’

‘I can’t talk over an open line. I wanted you to know right away. It’s going to be fixed, and you don’t have to worry any more.’

‘I see.’ Her voice sounded curiously flat, ‘Well, all right.’

‘You can relax now,’ I said. ‘You just take it easy.’

‘All right,’ and the line went dead.

I put down the receiver, frowning. Her reaction puzzled me. I had expected her to have been pleased and relieved. It was almost as if she were disappointed that I had found a solution.

As it was still too light to go out to Seabome’s place, I sat on! my terrace and brooded, waiting impatiently for the sun to go down. It wasn’t until half past eight that I got the darkness I had been waiting for.

I left the bungalow and went down to the Pontiac. Then I drove over to Seaborne’s house.

It took me a little time to get the licence plates off the Pontiac. I had to work by my flashlight and the screws had rusted in, but I got the plates off finally. Then I went up the drive to Seaborne’s garage, unlocked the doors and shut myself in before turning on the overhead light.

The rear number plate on the Cadillac came off easily enough and I put on the Pontiac’s plate. Then I came around to the front of the car. There I found the screws on the front pi were badly rusted in and I had a struggle to shift them.

I was lying on my back, half under the car, struggling with the screws when suddenly I heard a faint noise outside.

I froze, gripping the spanner, while I stared up into the darkness of the Cadillac’s engine. I heard nothing except the faint sound of the sea coming in-shore and die sighing of the wind in the palm trees. I remained motionless, my ears straining, my heart thudding, still sure I had heard a sound outside, but not quite convinced that my imagination was playing me tricks.

As I heard nothing, I finally decided I had imagined the noise and I bent once more to the task of shifting the last of the obstinate screws.

I had just got the screw free when I heard the garage doors creak.

My heart seemed to turn a somersault. From where I lay I could see part of one of the doors: it was opening! I knew it couldn’t be the wind. I had pushed the doors shut. It could mean only that someone was forcing the doors open.

I began to wriggle out from under the car. Before I could get clear of the front bumper, the overhead light in the garage went out. Then I heard the garage doors swing wide open.

It was too early for the moon. The sky I could see through the open doors was inky black with only a few stars. I was in a hell of a panic as I forced myself out from under the car.

Then, just as I was getting to my feet, the Pontiac number plate clutched in my hand, there was a blinding flash of light followed instantly by complete darkness.

For a second or so I crouched motionless, completely witless, then I heard the sound of someone running away, and immediately my mind adjusted itself and I realized what had happened.

Someone had crept up on me with a flashlight camera and had taken a photograph of me as I crouched before the damaged Cadillac, the Pontiac number plate in my hand.

A surge of fear and rage ran through me. I dropped the number plate and ran out of the garage.

Whoever it was who had taken the photograph was now running up the road. I could hear the sound of the footfalls distinctly, and from the sound I knew it must be a man running. No woman could run as fast and as evenly as that.

I went after him. Rage gave me added speed, but the darkness of the moonless night hindered me.

At least I knew the road. I knew a couple of hundred yards or so beyond my bungalow was a big clump of flowering shrubs and palm trees. Beyond this clump was the open road, and it remained open until it reached the highway. On either side of the road were sand dunes that offered no cover. If this man got beyond the clump of shrubs, I must catch him, unless he could run a lot faster than I, and I doubted that.

I hared down the road faster than I’ve ever run before. And then as I drew near the clump of shrubs and palm trees, I pulled up, panting, to listen. I heard nothing, and that told me the man had run off the road and had taken shelter in the shrubs.

I had no doubt that this man was the one who had telephoned Lucille and then me this morning.

This man was set to blackmail me. He had a photograph of me now that could get me a ten-year sentence, and I was determined he wasn’t going to slip through my hands. I’d fix him if it was the last thing I did.

I wished now I had brought my flashlight with me. The darkness pressed in on me, and I could only see the dim outline of the palms against the dark, night sky. Somewhere just ahead of me, this man was hiding. I moved forward, being careful to make no sound as I reached the clump of shrubs. It was then I realized the difficulty that faced me. The shrubs loomed out of the darkness as a big dark mass. I was sure he was in there somewhere, but, without a light, he was going to be difficult to flush.

The noise I made as I moved into the shrubs must have told him I was in there looking for him.

I got half-way into the undergrowth, then I stopped to listen. There was no sound. I was sure he was close by, probably within touching distance, crouching in the darkness, probably as scared as I was and hoping I would pass him.

Without a light, my only chance of finding him would be to walk directly on to him. The dry leaves of the shrubs brushed my face as I moved forward. My groping hands reached out into the darkness and I listened, hoping to hear him start out of his cover.

Then suddenly my foot touched something that yielded under my weight. I heard a quick gasp that could have been made only by a man startled into sudden sound. I reached out into: the darkness and my hands touched a face. I was dimly aware of a shadowy figure that rose up out of the shrubs. I pulled; back my arm, clenching my fist, but I was a shade too late.

I heard a swish of something that came down violently I towards me. I swayed to one side, throwing up my arms in an attempt to protect my head. Something hard smashed down on my shoulder, driving me to my knees. Before I could recover, there was another swishing sound and I received a violent blow on the top of my head. I felt myself falling forward into a lonely vacuum of darkness.

II

Somewhere in the far distance, a clock struck nine. The gentle musical beat-beat-beat of its chimes came to me from a long way off, But it was a familiar sound. I was vaguely surprised to realize I was listening to the chimes of my own clock that stood on the overmantel in my lounge.

I opened my eyes. The lighted white ceiling rushed down at me, then as abruptly, receded. There was a throbbing going on inside my head with the violence of a hammer beat.

I hurriedly shut my eyes and kept them shut until the clock had stopped chiming, and then, more cautiously, I opened them again.

I was lying on my settee. I put my hand to the back of my head and felt a hard lump and a dry knot of blood. As I slowly sat up, I heard myself give a grunting groan, and again I had to shut my eyes. The hammer beat inside my head began to lessen, and after a minute or so, I was able to sit upright and stare around the lounge.

All the lights were on. On the occasional table near by was a bottle of my best whisky and a container of ice. This whisky I had been keeping for a special occasion, and I vaguely noticed that a quarter of it had gone.

I looked slightly to my left. It came as no surprise to see a man sitting in one of my lounging chairs. He sat in the shadows. My eyes weren’t yet in focus and he was just a shadowy figure, but I knew instinctively that this was the man who had telephoned Lucille and me and who had taken my photograph as I was changing the licence plates and who had hit me over the head as I had stumbled on him in the darkness of the shrubs.

Again I shut my eyes, my hands holding my head. I remained motionless for some minutes, then, getting a grip on myself, I looked up and stared at the man seated opposite me.

Slowly he swam into focus.

He was powerfully built, around twenty-three or four, blond, with a heavy suntan. He had a Grecian nose, green eyes and a pencil-lined moustache. His hair was neatly set about his well-shaped head and needed cutting, although maybe a woman might have thought it cute as it was.

He was wearing a bottle-green sports suit with brown buckskin shoes and around his wrist was a solid gold bracelet that supported a solid gold watch. In his right hand, he held a glass three-quarters full of whisky, clinking with ice, and he regarded me with a tolerant little smile that made me want to jump across the room and plant my fist in his face.

‘Hey, buster,’ he said cheerfully, I was beginning to wonder if I’d hit you too hard.’

My hand cautiously investigated the lump at the back of my head and I winced as the hammer beat started up again.

‘I bet it hurts,’ he went on and his grin widened. ‘Want a drink?’

‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ I growled.

‘I thought I’d better bring you home,’ he said, stretching out his long legs. ‘It’s time we had a little talk. You and I are going to form a beautiful friendship. My name’s Ross. My friends call me Oscar. Do you feel like a cosy little chat, buster?’

‘I feel like shoving your nice white teeth through the back of your head,’ I said, slowly sitting bolt upright.

He laughed. He seemed genuinely amused.

‘I don’t blame you, but I wouldn’t try it if I were you. Bigger guys than you have thought they could take me, but they found out different. Don’t let’s get unfriendly. This is a business deal. I’ve got something to sell that you will want to buy. It’s as simple as that.’

So Lucille had been right. We were going to be blackmailed. I stared across at the man who called himself Ross and I tried to make up my mind just how dangerous he could be. My first move was to find out how much he knew and how much he wanted to keep his mouth shut, then I could decide what to do about him.

‘And what do you imagine you have to sell?’ I asked.

‘There’s a nice strip of beach not far from here,’ he said, ‘where boys and girls go for a little fun. I have a hide-out there and when I want a little extra money, I go down there and wait around. I’m not always lucky, of course, but the other night I was. I saw the wife of a well-known advertising magnate and a member of his staff having a work-out on the sands. It struck me this fella might be willing to part with a few bucks rather than have me call up his boss and tell him what had been going on. You’d be surprised at the number of suckers I catch in the course of a year this way. It helps quite a bit to increase my income.’

I reached for a cigarette and lit it.

‘Not much of a deal,’ I said. ‘It’s your word against mine.’

He nodded.

‘That’s right. Usually, they’re willing to pan with fifty bucks just to keep the whole thing quiet, and I didn’t expect to make more out of you, but then there was this accident. The wife of this advertising magnate resented your advances and she ran away. She took your car and she hit a cop. You’ve probably read about it in the papers. I arrived on the scene two minutes after she had hit him. She didn’t stop and she damaged your car. It was a smart idea of yours to change the number plates, but I have been camping outside your place for more hours than I care to remember with a camera and a flashlight equipment. I now have a picture in the camera that can send you and the girl away for a tenyear stretch. Maybe if you’re unlucky and draw a tough judge, you could go away for fifteen years. It seems to me I could make a nice slice of money out of you if you want to avoid going to jail and if 3’ou want to save her from going to jail too.’

I sat there, staring at him, realizing I was really in trouble.

‘Don’t look so sad, buster,’ he said, grinning at me. ‘After all, money is only money. There are more important things in life than the dollar. Even if you had a million bucks, you couldn’t have any fun if you were in jail. Let’s get down to business. I need money. I’ve got to get out of town. We’ll make a one-payment job of it. Cash down and I don’t tell your boss you’ve been fooling around with his wife and I don’t send the photo to the cops. How’s that?’

‘Then you’ll come back for more.’

He sipped his whisky, his grin widening.

‘Well, of course, that’s a risk you’ll have to take, but for a nice fat payment, I could forget about you.’

I braced myself.

‘How much?’

‘Between the two of you,’ he said, sinking lower in his chair, ‘I should imagine you could scrape up thirty thousand bucks. She must have a few diamonds she could hock, and I bet you’ve salted away a sackful of the stuff. Yeah, let’s settle for thirty thousand. It’s cheap at the price.’

I felt a cold sensation snake up my spine.

‘You’re crazy! I haven’t anything like that. I’ll buy the photograph for five thousand—not a nickel more.’

He finished his whisky and then set the glass down.

‘That’s damn fine Scotch. I’ll give you to the end of the week to collect the dough. I’ll call you and tell you where to deliver it. Thirty thousand in cash.’

‘I tell you I haven’t got it! Five is my top.’

He leaned forward and took a cigarette from the box on the occasional table and lit it.

‘Be your age, buster. You can sell this bungalow. That’ll bring in fifteen thousand. She can raise some dough too. You want to get organized. This is a one-payment job. I’m not coming back for more.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘I’m not coming back for any more because I’m going to convince myself there won’t be any more to come back for. Now listen, buster, when I throw a hook into a sucker I make certain it goes in deep and it stays in. You’ll either go to jail for fifteen years and take her with you, or you’ll find thirty thousand bucks. You have six days. Think about it. I’ll call you on Thursday to see how you are making out. What you have to decide is whether it is better to pay me the dough or to spend fifteen years in jail: it’s as simple as that.’ He got to his feet. ‘I know what I’d do, but maybe you don’t think the way I think. But don’t let it spoil your dreams, buster. After all what is money?’ He began to move across the room, a little swagger to his shoulders. ‘Sorry I had to hit you, but you did ask for it. We’ll be getting together again so don’t pine for me. So long, and thanks for the drink.’

I watched him walk to the door where he paused to look back at me. I stared at him. My head was beginning to ache again and I felt pretty bad.

‘And no funny business, buster,’ he said. ‘You can kick a little. That’s only natural, and it won’t do any harm, but what you want to get clearly into your head is you are on the hook. You’ll find out fast enough the hook is in good and deep and it’ll stay in.’

He went away, and after a moment or so, I heard a car start up and drive away fast.

I got unsteadily to my feet. I fetched a clean glass from the liquor cabinet and poured myself a stiff whisky. I drank it, then went into the bathroom and ran a basinful of cold water. I shoved my head into it. I felt slightly better by the time I returned to the lounge. I poured another shot of whisky, carried the glass to an armchair, sat down and lit a cigarette.

I stared up at the ceiling and thought: so this is what it is like to be blackmailed. Rosss had said the hook was in and wouldn’t come out. That was what he had said, so I took a look at the hook to see just how deep in it was. After a little thought, I decided it was in pretty deep. It seemed to me whichever way I moved, I was caught. If I went to Aitken and told him the truth, he would throw me out. If I went to the police and told them the truth, they would grab Lucille and Aitken would fix me for giving his wife away. If I somehow managed to scrape up thirty thousands dollars, I would be finished as far as the new job was concerned. As Ross had said, the hook was in. So what was I to do?

I stubbed out my cigarette and then lit another. There is only one thing to do, I said to myself. You are going to get off this hook. You’re not only going to get off it, but you’re going to fix Oscar Ross so he can’t fix you. You have no alternative. You either fix him or you’re sunk.

At least I had six days’ grace before I had to cope with him. My first move was to make the Cadillac safe.

The time was now half past nine. I went to the telephone and called Sam Lowther, who ran the garage that handled my repairs.

‘Sam,’ I said when he came on the line, ‘I’m sorry to call you so late but I’ve had a hell of a pile-up with the Caddy. I rammed it into a tree. I want a quick repair job done. How are you fixed?’

‘I can take her in right away, Mr. Scott,’ he said, ‘if that suits you. I have a couple of men here who haven’t anything much to do and they can get on with it as soon as you bring it in. If it’s not all that bad I can let you have it back Wednesday, but I’d like to see the extent of the damage before making a promise.’

‘Thanks a lot, Sam,’ I said. Although my head was throbbing now like mad, I was determined to get the Cadillac into his hands this night. ‘I’ll bring it around in half an hour.’

‘Okay, Mr. Scott, but there’s just one thing. You’ll have to report the damage to the police. It’s this hit-and-run case. I’ve had instructions not to take in any damaged car without a clearance certificate. I expect you’ve read about the business the papers. Can you get a certificate?’

‘I’ve already got it. As soon as I had the pile-up I reported to the police and they fixed it.’

‘That’s fine, Mr. Scott, then you bring her in and I’ll get my boys working on her.’

I thanked him and hung up.

There was a slight chance he would spot the changed number plates, but I decided I would have to take that risk. He had dozens of cars through his hands during a working week, and it wasn’t likely he would spot I had changed the plates. By going to him rather than a garage that didn’t know me, I was much less likely to run into a barrage of awkward questions.

I locked up the bungalow, then walked the three-quarters of a mile to Seaborne’s house. I found the Pontiac parked outside as I had left it. I was feeling pretty bad, my head aching as I; walked up the drive to the garage.

Everything was as I had left it when giving chase to Ross. I shut myself in and completed fixing the front number plate. Then I went around to the rear of the car and took a look at the dried blood on the fender and the tyre. I had to get rid of it. I couldn’t risk Sam seeing it. I had a feeling that I was destroying evidence that might react in my favour if ever I came up for trial, but I just couldn’t leave the bloodstains there. I fetched a bucket of water and washed the bloodstains off. Then I drove the Cadillac out on to the road and put the Pontiac into the garage. When the job was done I locked the garage and drove the Cadillac fast along the beach road to the highway.

I had no alternative but to drive with one light. It so happened the highway was practically deserted. The few cars that passed me appeared to take no notice of the single headlight, and I arrived at Sam’s garage without meeting a patrol officer.

As I drove into the big, dimly lit shed, I saw Sam in his office, talking to two of his mechanics.

He came out and shook hands with me: a big, powerfully built man with a fleshy sunburned face and humorous eyes.

‘Evening, Mr. Scott,’ he said and looked at the Cadillac.

‘Phew! You’ve certainly given her a knock.’

‘Yeah. I guess that comes of having an arm around a girl and driving too fast,’ I said, sure this sort of explanation would be right for him.

He grinned.

‘I know. You don’t have to tell me. I’ve done it myself. Women can be hell at times. Well, this isn’t anything that can’t be fixed, but I don’t think I can get it done before the end of the week.’

The mechanics came over and stared gloomily at the car.

‘These two scratches have gone deep,’ Sam went on, examining the side panel. ‘You boys had getter get busy. Get the door off and fix that first.’ He turned to me. ‘Got the police certificate, Mr. Scott?’

As I put my hand in my pocket to get out my wallet, I heard the sound of an approaching motorcycle, and looking around, I saw a patrol cop pull up outside the garage.

My heart stood still for a second and then began to race. Somehow I managed to keep my face expressionless as the cop stalked into the garage.

‘Just a second,’ Sam said to me and went across to meet the cop whom he appeared to know. ‘Hey, Tim. What do you want?’ he asked the cop.

‘Got a damaged car here?’ the cop growled.

‘Why, sure. Mr. Scott has just brought in his Caddy. He’s had a pile-up against a tree.’

The cop shot me a hard stare, then stalked over to the Cadillac. He looked at the smashed headlamp.

By now I had pulled myself together and had got the certificate out of my wallet.

I walked over to him.

‘I have a certificate for the damage, officer,’ I said. ‘Lieutenant West gave it to me.’

The cop turned slowly and deliberately and held out his hand, while his small, hard eyes moved over my face. It needed an effort of will to meet those probing eyes, but I did it.

He studied the certificate.

If he checked the licence tag with the number plates I was sunk. There was nothing I could do but stand there and wait, and the next few minutes were about the worst I have lived through.

He looked at the number plates, then again at the certificate, then he pushed his cap to the back of his head and blew out his cheeks.

‘When did you see the Lieutenant?’ he demanded.

‘He was out at Mr. Aitken’s place. I work for Mr. Aitken,’ I said. ‘The Lieutenant cleared Mr. Aitken’s cars and mine.’ I was aware my voice didn’t sound too steady. ‘Sam knows me. He’s handled my car often enough.’

‘How did you do this?’

‘I rammed it into a tree.’

Sam joined us.

‘Mr. Scott was cuddling a girl,’ he said, his face one vast expansive grin. ‘Done it myself when I was his age, but I went clean through a shop window.’

The cop didn’t seem amused. He shoved the certificate at me.

‘I have a mind to take you in,’ he growled, glaring at me.

‘You might have killed someone.’

‘I know. That’s what the Lieutenant said.’ I tried to sound humble. ‘I told him I wouldn’t do it again.’

The cop hesitated. I could see he wanted badly to make something of this, but I felt sure that by mentioning West’s name I would block him off and I was right.

‘You’d better not do it again,’ he said, then turning his back to me he went on to Sam: ‘I thought I’d caught up with that joker who killed O’Brien. I had a report from a driver who had seen this car. Well, okay. I’ll get on,’ and he stalked out of the garage.

When he had driven away, Sam winked at me.

‘You were smart to mention Lieutenant West, otherwise that big-head would have run you in. He’s a guy who looks for trouble.’

I gave him the certificate.

‘You’ll want this.’

‘That’s right.’ Sam put the certificate in his pocket. ‘Can I lend you a car, Mr. Scott?’

‘I’d be glad if you would.’

‘Take the Buick over there. I’ll get the Caddy fixed by Friday. You bring the Buick on your way home and the Caddy’ll be ready for you.’

I thanked him, got in the Buick and drove out on to the highway.

I didn’t feel like returning to my bungalow. The time now was twenty minutes to eleven. I was still feeling pretty shaky from my encounter with the patrol cop and the thought of sitting in my lonely lounge with so much on my mind was something I just couldn’t face up to. So I drove into town.

I parked the Buick and went into a little bar Joe and I used sometimes when we felt a drink might help us get a few new ideas.

The barman, an elderly, fat humorist we called Slim, nodded to me as I came up to the bar.

‘A double Scotch,’ I said, climbing up on the stool.

There were only four men in the bar and they were at the far end, shooting crap.

‘Right away, Mr. Scott,’ Slim said. ‘You’re late tonight.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘still, tomorrow’s Sunday.’

‘That’s a fact: my favourite day.’ He poured the Scotch, dropped ice into the glass and placed it before me. ‘Heard the latest on the hit-and-run case?’

The muscles in my stomach suddenly cramped up.

‘No. What’s new?’

‘On the radio: ten minutes ago. A man and woman were seen driving off the highway and going down the beach road where the cop was killed about the time of the accident. The police are asking them to come forward. They seem to think they might have seen the car that killed O’Brien or maybe they did it themselves.’

I took a long pull at my whisky.

‘Is that right?’ I said, not looking at him.

‘I bet they don’t come forward. A man and woman don’t go down that kind of road to admire the view.’ He winked at me. ‘I bet those two aren’t going to get themselves on the front pages of the papers.’

‘That’s a fact. Well, they’re certainly making an effort to catch the guy who did it,’ I said, trying hard to sound casual.

‘Yeah. Seems a lot of fuss to me. People get killed every second of the day, but when it’s a cop, it’s got to be special.’

I sat and listened to views about the police for several minutes, then I asked him suddenly: ‘Would you know a guy who calls himself Oscar Ross?’

Slim looked surprised.

‘Why, sure. He’s a barman at the Little Tavern nightclub out at Mount Cresta. You know him, Mr. Scott?’

‘No, but someone was saying he was the best barman in town.’ I was careful to keep my face expressionless although this unexpected information had me seething with excitement. ‘I just wondered what was so special about him.’

‘I bet a lady told you that,’ Slim said, his face registering contempt. ‘The best barman in town! That’s rich. Why, he’s just an amateur. The martinis he throws together would make a cat puke. I tell you what he’s got: he’s got looks. I’ll say that for him. The dames go for him in a big way. He really gives them the works when they come into the bar: you know the stuff: the steady stare, looks up and down them, strokes their behinds when he helps them up on the stools. They love it, but he hasn’t any talent as a barman. I wouldn’t have him in this bar, not if he offered to work here for nothing.’

‘The Little Tavern? Isn’t that where Dolores Lane sings?’

‘That’s the joint.’ Slim picked up a cloth and began to polish the bar. ‘You ain’t missed a thing by not going there. She’s nothing to lose sleep over either.’

‘Wasn’t she supposed to be engaged to this cop who was killed?’

Slim scratched the back of his neck and stared blankly at me.

‘Yeah, I believe you’re right, but maybe it’s just a newspaper story. What would a nightclub singer want to marry a cop for?’

I finished my whisky.

‘You’re right. I only believe half of what I read in the newspapers,’ I said as I slid off the stool. ‘Well, I’ve got to be getting home. So long, Slim.’

‘Always glad to have you in here, Mr. Scott. Have a nice weekend.’

I went out to the Buick. Getting in, I lit a cigarette.

By the merest chance I had picked up a piece of information that had to be important. So Ross and Dolores Lane worked at the same nightclub. Dolores had told me she was going to marry O’Brien. As Slim had said why should a nightclub singer hook up with a cop? It didn’t make sense. It certainly deserved to be investigated.

On the spur of the moment, I decided to take a look at the Little Tavern nightclub.

I thumbed the starter, moved the Buick into the evening traffic, and headed out to Mount Cresta.