The Lock and the Key

Chapter Eighteen

Louie drove the one long block to Franklin at moderate speed, his eyes on the rear vision mirror. No car appeared in the rear and he turned into Franklin.

“Nobody,” he said. He tooled the car to the curb and shifting into neutral, put on the emergency brakes. “Now, let’s have that look.”

“All right,” said Tommy and raised the Boston bag, which with its load of silver jewelry and silver dollars weighed in excess of twenty pounds.

Louie saw the bag coming and cried out. And then it landed on Louie’s head, with all the weight that Tommy could put behind it in the confined quarters.

Louie collapsed against the far side of the car, blood trickling from his nostrils. Tommy twisted around, caught hold of Louie and jerked him over to the right side of the car. Then he climbed over him and got behind the wheel. He released the emergency brake and, putting his feet on the clutch pedals, looked sidewards at Louie. He was slumped on the seat unconscious, but to be on the safe side, Tommy pushed him down so that his body could not be seen by a passing car.

He drove down Franklin to Gardner, cut back to Hollywood Boulevard and, at a careful speed, proceeded to Laurel Canyon. He took the curves of the canyon at a fast clip and reached Mulholland Drive in good time. On Mulholland he proceeded more slowly until he came to the graveled road that led up to Trent’s house. He went up the steep road in second gear and, reaching the level ground behind the cliff house, suddenly exclaimed.

Trent’s car was gone!

Tommy parked a discreet distance from the house, shut off the motor and bent over Louie. The man was breathing heavily but still unconscious. Blood, trickling from his nose, had soaked his shirt and coat.

Gingerly Tommy peeled back the left coat lapel but found no shoulder holster. As well as he could he searched the unconscious man’s pockets, but Louie apparently carried no gun.

Picking up the heavy Boston bag Tommy got out of the car and headed for the house. He walked swiftly, without looking to the right or left.

He reached the kitchen door and without hesitation opened the door. He stepped into the house, shifted the Boston bag from his left hand to his right and went from the kitchen to the big living room.

He entered boldly and had taken two or three steps before he came to an abrupt halt. The room, at first glance, had appeared empty.

But now he saw someone lying on the floor at the far end of the room.

Earl Faraday... dead.

There was no question about it. His eyes were wide and staring and there was a round hole in the center of his forehead from which only a little blood had trickled.

Tommy set the Boston bag on the couch and crossed to what was left of the man who had made a career of women. In death, Faraday’s face was slack and Tommy wondered what women had ever seen in the man. Yet Betty Targ had believed herself in love with him.

Tommy turned away and a ripple of alarm shot through him. His ears had heard the drumming of a car outside. He ran to the kitchen, and through a window saw Fred Kraft, the private detective, climbing out of his car.

“Damn!” Tommy explained.

This was no time to be stopped. Flight was called for, swift distance-eating flight. He started to turn away from the window, then Kraft’s movements outside stopped him. Instead of heading for the house, Kraft was moving to the beige-colored coupe.

He took but one glance into the car, then whirling, drew a gun. He looked toward the house, seemed to hesitate, then came forward at a run.

Exclaiming, Tommy left the kitchen. In the living room he looked around for a hiding place, saw a closet door, just as the doorknob in the kitchen rattled.

Tommy stepped quickly to the closet door, opened it and entered. He pulled the door shut and stood in the dark, listening.

There was a thick rug on the living room floor, which effectively muffled the private detective’s footsteps, and Tommy cursed himself for his choice of a hiding place.

He strained his ears to listen, but could hear nothing except the pounding of his own heart. Not for a full two minutes or more.

Then a voice said suddenly: “Open the door and come out with your hands up.”

Tommy groaned inwardly but remained silent. The voice outside the door, closer, went on: “I mean you, Tommy Dancer. And I’ve got a gun on the door...”

Tommy groped for the closet door and twisted the knob. He pushed open the door and faced Fred Kraft, who stood in the center of the living room. Tommy raised his hands to shoulder height and stepped out.

“Turn around,” Kraft ordered.

“I’m not armed.”

“I’ll look for myself, if you don’t mind,” Kraft said, quite pleasantly.

Tommy shrugged and turned his back to the private detective. He heard the man’s shoes slither on the deep pile of the rug, then the muzzle of the gun was pressed into the small of his back and a hand patted his hip, his side pockets and finally reached under his armpit and slapped both of his coat lapels. Then the feet retreated and Kraft said:

“You can turn now.”

Tommy obeyed. Kraft reached into a hip pocket and brought out a pair of shiny handcuffs. “Catch,” he said.

He tossed the handcuffs to Tommy. “Put them on,” Kraft continued, “and let me hear them click.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Tommy said.

“Maybe so, but I’d rather be wrong and apologize later, than be right and sorry, so — put them on!”

Tommy put one of the cuffs about his left wrist and clicked it shut. Then he followed with the right. Kraft beamed at him and lowering the gun, stepped forward. He took first one wrist, then the other and examined the cuffs to make sure they were properly fastened. Finally he put away his gun.

“Now, let’s talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Tommy said. “I got here about one minute before you did and found him like that.”

“Then let’s talk about Louie. He’s out in the car, his head bashed in.”

“He isn’t dead.”

“Perhaps not, but where’s the money?” Kraft gestured toward the Boston bag, which stood open on the couch. “There’s just some gewgaws in there.”

“That’s all there is,” Tommy said, “what I had in my box at the bank.”

“Uh-uh,” Kraft said. “I talked to Trent on the phone, before you got to the bank. He said you were coming there to pick up one hundred and sixty thousand dollars.”

“It wasn’t in my box.”

“Why not?”

“Because it wasn’t.”

“What did you do with it?”

Tommy exhaled wearily. “Trent couldn’t make me tell that and I don’t think you can.”

Kraft nodded agreement. “No, I don’t think so. Well, it was a good try.” He sighed. “I thought this was the chance I’ve been waiting for all my life — to get rich quick, but it seems to have blown up in my face... as usual.” He sighed again and crossing to the telephone, picked it up. He dialed the operator and after a moment said:

“Police Department.”

Tommy exclaimed, “You’re not...!”

Kraft covered the mouthpiece with one hand. “What else can I do? I’ve got to mend my fences.” He took his hand off the mouthpiece and said:

“Hello, this is Fred Kraft... yes, the private investigator.” He swallowed hard. “I want to report a murder... No — Mulholland Drive.” He nodded emphatically. “I’ve got the man right here. Caught him red-handed — practically. Fine.” He hung up.

“I didn’t kill him,” Tommy raged. “He was alive when I left here with Louie. Trent killed him, or you... you were gone from the bank when I came out.”

“The point is,” said Kraft mildly, “you stole the money from deCamp’s safety deposit box. You’re a lock and key expert. The police will like that.” His tongue came out and licked his lips. “Faraday fingered the job. You had a fight over the split and you killed him.”

“That’s what you’ll tell the police... and how will you explain your being here?”

“Oh, that isn’t important. Maybe I got wind of it accidentally. A stool pigeon.” Kraft smirked. “I’ve got connections.” He tugged at an old-fashioned watch fob that dangled from his right hip and drew out a large ninety-eight watch. “The police’ll be here in a few minutes. Shall we make ourselves comfortable?”

He sat down in one of the armchairs. Tommy crossed to the couch and dropped heavily. His eyes went to the cushion beside him and a little ripple of hope shot through him. A hairpin lay there. Dropped by Betty Targ, no doubt, during the manhandling to which she had been subjected.

Tommy pretended to shift his position and picked up the hairpin surreptitiously. Clasping and unclasping his manacled hands he began manipulating the hairpin, squeezing the two ends together, bending them about an eighth of an inch.

A faint shout came from outside the house. Kraft sprang to his feet. “Louie!”

“He’s waking up,” said Tommy and thrust the bent ends of the hairpin into the lock of the left cuff. He twisted and the lock turned.

Kraft started across the room toward the kitchen, but, halfway to it, turned back. “Let him come in here...” He stopped, his mouth falling agape.

Tommy was coming to his feet, the handcuffs dangling from his right wrist, the sack of silver dollars, abstracted from the Boston bag, in his hand.

Kraft clawed frantically for his hip pocket, where he had stowed away his revolver in the belief that Tommy was safely shackled.

Tommy sprang toward Kraft. The little private detective backed away. “Don’t!” he cried, as Tommy raised the bag of silver dollars.

Then the bag struck Kraft in the face. He was going away at the time and Tommy had not exerted his full weight behind the blow, otherwise there would have been very little left of Kraft’s face. As it was, he collapsed to the floor, moaning and clawing at his bleeding face.

Brutally, Tommy stooped and turning him over, ripped the gun from the detective’s hip pocket. He straightened and started for the kitchen, the bag of dollars in his left hand, Kraft’s gun in his right.

He stepped into the kitchen from the living room as Louie came in from the yard through the rear door. Louie stopped, his face a mass of dried blood, his eyes wide and staring.

“You,” he said thickly.

“Step aside,” Louie, Tommy said tonelessly. “I’m coming through if I have to kill you.”

Louie shuffled forward. Tommy came toward him, took one step sidewards and went around Louie. He kept the gun between them and Louie, aware of it, made no move toward him.

Tommy pushed open the door, leading to the yard. “Nothing personal, pal,” he said and stepped through.

In the yard he ran for the two cars that were parked within a few yards of each other. He reached the first, Kraft’s, and shot a quick look at the dashboard. The ignition keys were missing. Exclaiming in annoyance, he ran around the car to Louie’s.

The keys were in the ignition and he tore open the door and slipped in behind the wheel. The motor caught instantly and Tommy made a quick turn and started for the steep road that led to Mulholland Drive below.

He went down in high gear, scarcely braking, and once or twice he thought the wheels would slip out over the edge of the graveled road. But he made the descent safely and turned right on Mulholland Drive.

He was perhaps a hundred yards from the graveled road when the wail of a siren from the rear reached his ears. The police. Two minutes later and he would have been caught.

He sent the car hurtling around the turn and kept his foot down on the gas pedal. He made the curves with tires screeching.

At Coldwater Canyon he turned left and kept the car going downhill at a speed far from safe. Two blocks from Sunset Boulevard, in Beverly Hills, he pulled the car to the curb, shut off the ignition and, picking up the sack of silver dollars, got out.