The Lock and the Key

Chapter Twenty-One

The sun shining into the room awakened Tommy Dancer. He opened his eyes and for a moment stared sightlessly at the cream-colored ceiling of the hotel room.

Then he exclaimed softly and sat up on the bed. A tremor shot through his body and for a moment he felt utterly drained of strength. He had felt that way once, just before stepping out of the troop carrier into the air above a Normandy field.

He got to his feet and went into the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, he needed a shave and his shirt had a couple of spots of blood on it. He undressed and took a shower and then put on his clothes again. In the bedroom he picked up the sack of silver and left the room.

On Van Nuys Boulevard he walked briskly toward the town of Van Nuys. On the outskirts he entered a men’s furnishings store that was just opening and bought a shirt and a dark blue necktie, paying for them with silver dollars.

On the street he walked a half block and came upon a small cafe. He went in and had some ham and eggs and two cups of coffee, then went to the washroom and changed his shirt and tie. The old ones he crumpled up and threw in the used towel receptacle.

When he left the restaurant he found a taxicab standing at the curb and walked up to it.

“Can you drive me to North Hollywood?” he asked the driver.

“Sure thing.”

Tommy got into the cab. “Lankershim and Chandler,” he said and leaned back against the cushion.

Ten minutes later he gave the man two silver dollars, got out of the cab, and walked a half block to the main North Hollywood post office.

There were several people in line at the General Delivery window, but Tommy waited his turn quietly. When the clerk behind the window finally looked at him inquiringly, Tommy said, without a tremor: “Any mail for Wilson Targ?”

The clerk stepped to a battery of pigeonholes, reached up and brought down a stack of letters. He began shuffling through them, went clear through the stack, then went back and found a thin envelope.

He came to the window and handed the letter to Tommy. The latter nodded thanks and stepping out of the line, tore open the envelope. He abstracted the claim check from the Lincoln Hotel and threw the envelope into the wastebasket.

He left the post office and walked back to Lankershim, the main business thoroughfare in North Hollywood. Approaching a taxicab, he assumed a pronounced limp and opened the door of the cab.

He got in and said to the driver: “I want to go to Sixth and Broadway, downtown in Los Angeles, but I have to stop at the Lincoln Hotel in Hollywood to pick up a briefcase.”

“Yes, sir!” exclaimed the cabby, enthusiastically, thinking of the big meter charge involved.

The cab rolled smoothly down Lankershim to Cahuenga, then over the Pass, into Hollywood. As it pulled up before the hotel Tommy took the claim check from his pocket and leaning forward, thrust it into the driver’s compartment. “Do you mind running in and picking up my briefcase from the check room?” He smiled wanly. “My leg, you know.”

“Sure thing.”

“Give them a quarter,” Tommy added. “I’ll add it to the meter.”

The taxi driver got out of the cab and went into the hotel. The doorman sized up the cab and sauntered over, “Going to be here long?” he asked.

“Just a minute,” Tommy replied.

“All right, sir. The reason I asked, I’m supposed to keep this place clear.”

Tommy leaned back and tried to look straight ahead, down Hollywood Boulevard, but the doorman, standing on the curb, kept looking at him and Tommy’s spine began to tingle.

Suddenly he looked at the doorman. “Yes?”

The man cleared his throat. “Excuse me, I was just trying to place you. Your face is familiar, but I can’t seem to remember your name. You’ve stayed here at the hotel?”

“Not lately.”

The doorman nodded. “I thought not. I’m usually very good at remembering the guests. A man stayed here only two days, four years ago, and when he came back last week, I could still call him by name.”

“A good memory’s a fine thing,” Tommy said inanely, and then was spared by the appearance of the cab driver.

He was carrying the briefcase.

He opened the door and handed the case to Tommy. “Here you are.”

“Thanks,” said Tommy. He nodded to the doorman and leaned back against the cushions.

A half hour later the taxi pulled up to the curb in downtown Los Angeles. The meter read $6.85. Tommy reached into the driver’s compartment and handed the cabby nine silver dollars.

“Silver,” remarked the man. “You don’t see that many in this town very often.”

“I was in Las Vegas a couple of days ago,” Tommy said. “Hit a dollar jackpot.”

“The hell you did!” exclaimed the cabby. “I thought those things were fixed so you couldn’t win.”

“It’s the first time I ever hit a jackpot,” said Tommy, as he climbed out of the cab.

He nodded pleasantly and started to turn away, then swiveled his head and shot a look back. The cab driver was staring at him, puzzled, but even as Tommy looked his face broke in astonishment.

Tommy turned the corner, stepped into the arcade of an office building and, crossing through, emerged on the side street. He walked swiftly for three or four blocks, circling, cutting across streets, going through building arcades and finally entered a drugstore.

He walked to a battery of telephone booths, went through the change in his pocket and found a nickel.

Stepping into a booth he dialed the number of the Melrose Lock and Key Shop.

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.”

“Of course, sir, but were awfully short of cars, you know. If we sell a car, we have to take one in on trade. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have any stock after awhile, would we?”

“You buy cars right along.”

“Certainly. And we sell cars, too. We’re the largest used-car dealers in this block. But we like a trade-in.”

“Look,” said Tommy, “do you want to sell this car... without a trade-in, for cash? C-a-s-h, cash.” He thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out the sheaf of hundred dollar bills. “A quick sale, no arguing, no haggling.”

The salesman’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll pay $1895 for this car as she stands? Cash?”

“Make out your bill of sale.”

The salesman held up an index finger. “This way, please.”

He led Tommy to a small wooden office in which sat a secretary and a chunky, swarthy man. “Mr. Petrakis,” the salesman said, “no trade-in; the black Buick club coupe, cash, $1895...”

“The ’36, you mean?”

“No, sir, the ’40. The one we, uh, took in only yesterday. The eighteen thousand—”

The Grinning Greek sprang to his feet. “Are you crazy, man? Eighteen ninety-five, without a trade-in? Why, that’s one of the best, the best buy for the money. We’ve got to have a good trade-in, to let that car go for such a price. Mr. Sandstrom, you had no right to accept such an offer.”

Tommy took the money from his pocket and began counting out one hundred dollar bills. The Greek’s eyes took in the money and he suddenly stopped his tirade and beamed at Tommy. “Mister, you’re getting the biggest bargain of your life. You’re stealing that wonderful job.”

The secretary whisked duplicate invoices into her typewriter. “Name, please?” she said in a monotone.

“James Robertson.”

“Address?”

“4531 Mariota, North Hollywood.”

Ten minutes later, Tommy climbed into the 18,000-local-mile car and drove from the used-car lot. He headed up Figueroa, passed through the heavy traffic section and came out on the parkway, which took him without a stop through South Pasadena, into Arcadia. He picked up Highway No. 66 and rolled along through Monrovia, Glendora, and finally into Upland, well in the heart of the orange country.

Here he parked his new car on a side street and walked two blocks to a drugstore. He bought a package of cigarettes and got two dollars’ worth of small change from the cashier. Holding it in his hand, he went to a phone booth at the rear of the store, dropped in a coin and dialed the Long Distance operator.

He gave her the number of the Melrose Lock and Key Shop in Hollywood and dropped some coins into the slot. The operator made a couple of connections, then said: “Upland calling,” which caused Tommy to grimace at the phone.

“Mr. Roan,” Tommy said into the phone, “you know who this is. Did she call?”

“Yes,” Roan replied, then pausing briefly, “I don’t know if I can help you or not...”

“Somebody’s with you!” Tommy exclaimed softly.

A sudden grunt came over the wire, then a harsh voice came on: “You’re damned right someone’s with him and listen here, Dancer—”

“I’m listening,” Tommy said savagely.

“...If you think you can get away with this, you’ve got another guess coming. The cops are looking for you and they’ll shoot you on sight. And if they don’t get you—”

“You will,” said Tommy. “But there’s a hundred and sixty thousand dollars you’ll never get. And guess how much the bank will give you, if, as and when...”

“You’ll never spend a nickel of that money,” shouted the man in George Roan’s shop.

“Wrong,” said Tommy. “I’ve already spent two thousand of it.” Then he could have bitten his tongue for letting that slip. “Do you want the money or not?” he snapped.

“I want it, all right.”

“Then listen to me. You can have the money, what’s left of it, if you let Betty Targ go.”

There was a slight pause, then the voice said: “I thought so. All right, bring me the dough and you can have her.”

Tommy laughed harshly. “You must think I’ve got holes in my head... or that I want one, like Earl Faraday got.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, no? Well, I’m not going into it now. In fact, I think I’ve talked enough. I know damn well you’d just as soon the police did your dirty work for you. I’ll call you later. What’s your number — your private number...?”

“You can call me here.”

Tommy hesitated a moment, then said: “All right,” and hung up.