The Lock and the Key

Chapter Twenty-Four

Coggeshall bustled off to the stove, examined his stew and shut off the flame under it. He got dishes from a cupboard and set the table. Tommy, meanwhile, seated himself on a straight-backed chair and watched the caretaker.

Finally the food was on the table and Coggeshall brought up a stool. “Shall we eat?” he asked.

Tommy threw his briefcase onto Coggeshall’s bed and pulled up his chair. Coggeshall handed him the bowl of stew. “Help yourself. I’m not hungry myself. Don’t move around enough to work up an appetite. Bet you haven’t eaten all day.”

“I haven’t,” said Tommy and helped himself to a generous portion of the stew.

He ate it while Coggeshall toyed with one-fourth the amount and then urged Tommy to eat what was left in the bowl. When they were finished eating, the caretaker filled a pipe and pushed back his chair.

“Seven-thirty,” he said. “Time for my chess game.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t play the game.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean with you.” Coggeshall pointed his pipestem at the radio. “I play with a sheepherder up in Montana, every Saturday night... that’s a short wave radio.”

“An amateur sending and receiving set?”

Coggeshall nodded. “A rather good one, too. I built it myself, when I first came up here in ’42. Don’t know what I’d have done without it.” He tapped his chest. “The old ticker’s bad, you know. That’s why I’ve taken this job up here. No work, no excitement.” He smiled. “Only the radio — and that’s excitement enough.”

Tommy stared at the radio set. “Do you listen to commercial broadcasts with that set?”

“Oh, yes. As a matter of fact, I had the seven o’clock news on when Beowulf started barking at you.” He puffed rapidly on his pipe for a moment, then took it from his mouth. “You’re Tommy Dancer I imagine.”

“Who?” Tommy asked, shocked.

“Tommy Dancer. There was quite a lot about you on the radio. Your description... the briefcase. You’ve got the money in there, I suppose.”

Tommy took Kraft’s revolver from his pocket. Coggeshall looked at it and shook his head. “You won’t need that — not here. I’ve got six months to live, perhaps a year, if I don’t have any excitement. My wants are all supplied and a thousand dollars reward money doesn’t interest me. Nor, for that matter, does what you have in that briefcase.”

“Yet you listened pretty carefully to what they said on the radio about — about me.”

“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 I killed him?”

“They, ah, seem quite certain about it.”

Tommy looked steadily into the elderly caretaker’s eyes. “What do you think?”

“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 his wave length. But what’s to prevent you from going off your wave length...?”

“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 some call letters.”

“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.”

“That’s great. Thanks a million.”

“No trouble at all. By the way, your signal is coming in very strong. I’d like to talk to you sometime.”

“Good, perhaps later in the evening. Thanks again.”

Coggeshall made a slight manipulation with a dial, then spoke into his microphone. “WF32W calling WC33L, in Burbank, California. Can you hear me?”

A new voice came over the loudspeaker. “Hello, WF32W, this is WC33L. I can hear you fine.”

“Hello, WC33L, how are you? I talked to you several months ago and I believe you told me then that you had a telephone connection hooked to your radio.”

“That’s right. Would you like me to call somebody for you?”

“Yes, I would. It’s, ah, rather an urgent call I’d like to make and I don’t have a telephone myself. The number is...” Coggeshall looked inquiringly at Tommy.

“Granite 2-5911.”

“Granite 2-5911,” Coggeshall said into the microphone. “It’s a Hollywood number, I think.”

“Yes, it is. I can dial it. Hold a minute.”

The dialing came distinctly over the loudspeaker and then a voice that Tommy knew spoke: “Melrose Lock and Key Shop.”

Tommy stepped forward and took the microphone from Coggeshall’s hand. “Mr. Roan, you know who this is...”

Roan’s voice was startled: “Yes, of course. I... I’ve been expecting your call all day.”

“Is the party I talked to this morning in the shop?”

“No, but...”

Then Betty Targ’s voice came over the radio, clear and sparkling. “Tommy, this is Betty.”

Tommy exclaimed. “What are you doing there, Betty?”

“I’ve been here for hours and hours, waiting for your call, Tommy.”

“You’re all right?”

“Of course I am.”

“What about — you know who?”

“That’s why I’m here. He... he let me go, so I could tell you myself it was all right.”

“He isn’t there with you?”

“No. Tommy, listen — where are you?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not? It’s all right, I tell you. He wants the, well, the money, more than anything.”

“Betty,” said Tommy, “it isn’t as simple as that. Believe me. All right, he isn’t there with you, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t nearby... if you know what I mean. Outside. You... you know about W.T.?”

There was a slight pause, then Betty’s voice, sounding worried, came on again. “Yes, I know, but... well, I can’t tell you about that, not over the phone. But everything’s going to be all right, and Tommy — I want to come to you. No matter where you are, no matter”... Her voice caught for an instant — “No matter what.”

Tommy said in a low tone, “There’s nothing in the world I’d like more, Betty, but it won’t work.”

“I think it will, Tommy. I’m sure. He... he won’t press that about the... the money.”

“I wasn’t thinking about the money,” Tommy said. “It’s the other...”

“But you had nothing to do with that. I know. I... I can even help you prove that. We can work it out. I know, Tommy. I know.”

Of course she knew. She had been at the Mulholland Drive place when Faraday had got it. Her word was as good as Paul deCamp’s. And there was Louie. Louie had been with Tommy at the time. Louie was Trent’s man and now that Trent was gone, Louie could be made to tell the truth.

Yes, but there was Trent. They were accusing him of that. Still, if it could be proven that Tommy had had nothing to do with Faraday’s death, it would be in his favor — and against deCamp. But in a case like that, deCamp would use the money charge against him — for spite.

But he had stolen the money. And for that he had to pay.

Tommy said into the microphone: “All right, Betty, I’ll come in.”

“No, no, you mustn’t!” Betty cried. “I mean, I want you to — to give up, but you mustn’t come in. You know why. They’re looking for you and I... I’m afraid of what would happen. I’ll come to you, Tommy. No matter where you are. I’ll come to you. But you mustn’t show yourself now. Stay where you are.”

Tommy looked at Coggeshall. “Just where is this place?”

“Eight miles from Palmdale. It’s about six miles out on the Littleneck road. There’s a wooden sign there, on the left side of the road — Four Square Mine, 2 miles. The road isn’t very good, but you can’t miss it.”

“Did you hear that, Betty?”

“Yes, Four Square Mine. I’ll be there, Tommy. My car’s outside and I’m leaving right away. Don’t do anything, Tommy. Just wait for me.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Tommy said. He reached over to the panel and flicked off a switch.

Coggeshall sprang forward. “You shouldn’t have turned it off. I wanted to thank WC33L.”

“Thank him some other time.”

Coggeshall frowned, but shrugged and turned off the other switches. “So, it’s going to be all right?”

“It’ll have to be all right. I didn’t kill anyone.”

“But you have got the money in that briefcase?”

“Yes,” said Tommy, “I’ve got the money. I stole it from Paul deCamp’s safety deposit box at the Hollywood-Highland Bank.”

Coggeshall nodded thoughtfully. “This deCamp fellow, from what I heard on the radio, he’s a sort of mystery man, isn’t he?”

“Maybe, he’s mysterious to some people,” Tommy said savagely, “but not to the police. They know him. And so do a lot of other people in Los Angeles and points west. They know him only too well. But it was his money; how he got it isn’t important, at least not in this case.”

“No, I guess not,” agreed Coggeshall. “Still, if you ask me, I’d say this Paul deCamp is just a lowdown, doggone crook.”

Tommy stared at him.