The Lock and the Key

Chapter Seven

A week went by, during which Tommy Dancer lived his normal life. He reported to the little shop of the Melrose Lock and Key shop every morning and he performed whatever duties George Roan gave him. He went out on calls, opened pantry doors, garage doors and he made keys for car owners.

In the evening he bowled at the Melrose Alleys. But not every evening. Three evenings he drove his flivver out to Beverly Hills and rolled slowly up and down Foothill Boulevard. Always he looked at a Georgian Colonial house, a huge two-story affair that contained no less than twelve rooms. There were lights in the house; sometimes every window seemed to be lighted up.

Once... once a Cadillac convertible scooted out of the driveway and turned left toward Santa Monica Boulevard. Tommy kept close behind it until the convertible parked in the only available space in front of a motion picture theatre. Tommy had to circle the block before he could find a parking place and when he walked back to the theatre he discovered that the convertible had disappeared during his absence. Elizabeth Targ had apparently just run into a drug-store instead of going into the movie as Tommy had assumed.

Then at the end of the week she summoned him. Her call and Willis Trent’s were both awaiting him when he returned to the shop from a pantry-lock job.

“Fella name of Trent called while you were gone,” Roan said. “Claims he’s a friend of yours and says he wants you to run up to his place tonight.”

Tommy nodded and then Roan handed him the little slip of paper. “And here’s a car key job just telephoned in. Yellow convertible Cadillac, license 6S-5207. Parked on Las Palmas just south of Sunset.”

Her car.

He took the slip of paper and carrying his tool kit went out to his flivver. He drove to Las Palmas and parked behind the convertible. He walked over and opened the door on the street side. She was slumped down behind the wheel. Her key was in the ignition lock.

“Hello, Tommy Dancer,” she said. “Surprised?”

“No. I remembered your license number.”

“You’ve got a marvelous memory.”

“So have you. You remembered the key shop and... and this street.”

“And you.”

Tommy hestitated. “I’ve just come from the shop; haven’t had time to get cleaned up.”

“So?”

“I’d like to wash up, if...”

Elizabeth leaned forward and removed the key from the ignition. She handed it elaborately to Tommy.

They entered the apartment house together and as luck would have it encountered Mrs. Cox, the manager, on the lower floor. She sized up Elizabeth Targ and then gave Tommy a cool, suspicious look. “Good evening, Mr. Dancer,” she said.

“Good evening, Mrs. Cox.”

On the stairs going to the second floor, Tommy whispered: “My reputation’s ruined — that was the landlady.”

“Shall I wait outside?”

“The damage is done. Besides...” Tommy caught hold of Elizabeth and kissed her, a hard kiss on her bps. For just an instant she was stiff, but then relaxed and even returned the pressure. Only for a moment though before she pushed him away.

She laughed as she evaded his clawing hands. “Plenty of time for that, sonny boy.”

“Sonny boy?”

“Tommy.”

But Tommy remembered who had called him Sonny Boy. Earl Faraday. She had been with Faraday enough to pick up the man’s pet phrases. A coldness seeped through him and he led the way to his apartment. Inside, he nodded to a chair.

“I won’t be long.”

He went to the cracked chest of drawers, got out a clean shirt, socks, linen and headed for the bathroom. He showered quickly, put on the shorts and socks, then discovered that he had forgotten to bring his other suit into the bathroom. He opened the door a couple of inches.

“Close your eyes a minute. I’ve got to come out.”

“Your suit?”

“That’s right — it’s in the closet.”

“I’ll hand it to you.”

He heard her cross the room and open the closet door. There was silence for a moment, then she came to the bathroom door and handed him the suit, which was on a wire hanger, as it had come from the cleaners the day before.

He put it on and re-entered the living room.

“Mmmm,” she said appraisingly, “not bad.”

“Special occasion.” Tommy grinned. “I supposed we’ll eat somewhere.”

She frowned a little. “Later. I thought we might drop in for a few minutes at a party to which I’m invited.”

Suspicion stiffened Tommy. “Not at Willis Trent’s?”

“Of course not,” she replied quickly. “You don’t know this man.”

“Try his name on me.”

“Paul deCamp.”

He shook his head. “No, I’ve never heard of him.” He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “I don’t suppose Earl Faraday will be at this party.”

“Now look, Tommy,” she exclaimed, “you’re not going to start harping on Faraday again, because if you are—”

“All right, I won’t mention his name again. I’ll take the crumbs and enjoy them.”

She came to him and placing her hands on his arms stood up on her toes and kissed him on the mouth. “What do you think of the crumbs?” she asked mockingly and kissed him again.

He tried to grab her but she laughed and eluded his grasp. “Let’s get to the party before everybody leaves.”

Paul deCamp was apparently in the money. He lived in a luxury apartment hotel on Sunset Strip where a Filipino took your car at the door and parked it in the garage under the hotel.

His apartment consisted merely of a living room, dinette, kitchen and bedroom, but the rental was probably as much as for an ordinary ten-room house.

The party was supposed to be in the living room, but it overflowed to the other rooms. There were probably thirty or thirty-five people present when Tommy entered with Elizabeth Targ.

Paul deCamp, the host, was a smooth, soft-spoken man in his early forties. He was tall, dark and handsomer than many a movie star. He greeted Elizabeth by kissing her warmly and then when she introduced Tommy he pumped Tommy’s hand.

“Are you a newcomer to Hollywood, Mr. Dancer?”

“Practically. I’ve only lived here about twelve years.”

“How come I haven’t seen you around?”

“You don’t know everybody, Paul,” Elizabeth interposed.

Paul deCamp put an arm about Elizabeth and squeezed her. “If he knows you, I want to know him,” he said. Then he suddenly looked over Elizabeth’s head in the direction of the bedroom. Tommy’s eyes followed. There were several people in the bedroom, some of whom were in his range. But of those he saw, he recognized none.

“Tommy,” Elizabeth said, “get me a drink.”

“Sure,” he replied, knowing she wanted to talk to Paul deCamp. He started for the kitchen, but before he reached it, he detoured and, bypassing Elizabeth and deCamp on his return, headed for the bedroom. He was on the verge of entering when a girl came out, almost colliding with him.

It was Florence Randall. She stopped. “Hello, are you going to all the parties now?”

Tommy grinned easily. “I heard you were here, so I crashed.”

“Well, crash right out again. This is the lion’s den.”

“Paul deCamp?”

“Get wise, handsome, get wise.”

She slipped past Tommy. He hesitated a moment, then entered the bedroom. Earl Faraday stood near the heavy draperies of the windows, talking to a fat, balding man. He saw Tommy at once and his face hardened. “Excuse me,” he said to the fat man, and came toward Tommy.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Tommy retorted.

Faraday said in a low, tense voice, “Get out of here as quick as you can. I mean that.”

He walked abruptly away from Tommy, heading for the living room. Tommy looked at the heavy velvet window drapes, the old ivory lacquered chiffonier and chest of drawers and then at the twin beds with silk bed covers. This was exactly the kind of apartment he was going to have himself in the very near future. And maybe he’d throw a party in it, but if he did, the bedroom would be barred.

“Tommy,” said a voice behind him. “I’m ready to go.”

He turned and looked at Elizabeth, standing in the doorway.

“I forgot your drink.”

“I don’t want one.”

“I’ll get one from the kitchen.”

“No — I want to go now.”

She took Tommy’s arm, exerted pressure and they walked out to the living room. Faraday stood near the hall door, his face a mask of cold rage.

“Leaving already?” he said to Elizabeth.

“We just stopped in for a minute,” Elizabeth replied coolly, “on our way to dinner.”

They went out. In the hall, Tommy rang for the elevator and when it came he and Elizabeth rode down to the lobby floor. Outside, the doorman went to the house phone and called for Elizabeth’s car. They were in the car, driving away, before Tommy spoke.

“You can drop me anywhere.”

“What for? We’re having dinner.”

“It isn’t necessary, now, is it?”

Elizabeth exclaimed. “Damn you, Tommy.”

“You showed Faraday that you didn’t give a damn about him, so I’ve served my purpose, haven’t I?” He uttered a forced, mirthless chuckle. “And boy, was he burned!”

Elizabeth swung the car to the curb and applied the brakes. “Get out!”

Tommy swung open the door and slid to the edge of the seat. “Faraday’s no good,” he said tonelessly. “The worst thing in the world would be for you to get him.”

“I said, get out!”

Tommy stepped out to the curb and the car shot away so quickly that the door was slammed shut by the force of its momentum.

Looking about, Tommy discovered that he was on Sunset, near Fairfax, a good stiff walk from his apartment on Las Palmas and an even longer one to Willis Trent’s place. He decided, however, that the walk would cool him off and struck off down Sunset.

Trent himself opened the door in response to Tommy’s ring. “What took you so long to get around?” he demanded.

“I had a date.”

Trent closed the door and went to his favorite armchair. But instead of seating himself he turned and studied Tommy with a cold eye. “So I heard. Stepping out of your class a little, aren’t you?”

“What’s my class?”

“The Targ dame isn’t.”

“Did she tell you?”

“Earl Faraday called a few minutes ago. You sap, haven’t you figured out yet that she’s his?”

“How many does he rate? The other night he was rushing a redhead.”

Trent exhaled heavily and seated himself. “Sit down, Dancer. Sit down and let me give you a small lesson in arithmetic.”

“I’m not in the mood for lessons tonight.”

“This one’ll be short and sweet and I think you need it. Women are Faraday’s business. I don’t know why, but they like his kind. He treats them like I wouldn’t treat a dog and they like it. He slaps them in the teeth and they buy him two hundred dollar suits and wrist watches and platinum cigarette cases...”

“Are you talking about Elizabeth Targ?” Tommy asked, ominously.

“I’m talking about women in general, so don’t get up your hackles. Elizabeth Targ’s one of a dozen women I know who’ve gone overboard for Faraday. I don’t know whether he’s gotten any money from her. Maybe not, because I hear she hasn’t got much. But anyway, women are Faraday’s business. Sometimes he even marries one.” He paused. “That redhead, Florence Randall, she’s strictly business. Understand? For all I know, Faraday’s gone overboard for the Targ girl, but at the moment Faraday’s broken off with her, because he’s giving Flo Randall a line of his goods. He’s going to get something from her — the number of a certain safety deposit box.”

Tommy recoiled. “It’s her box we’re going to rob?”

Trent winced a little. “Don’t be so damn crude.” He shook his head. “And it isn’t her box. As a matter of fact, she doesn’t even know she’s going to give Faraday that number.”

“Then how do you know she’s going to do it?”

“That’s Faraday’s job.” Trent’s lips twisted contemptuously. “He’s a slimy rat. But don’t get the wrong idea about him; he’s a bad boy and if you keep crossing him your insurance company’ll be making a payment to your nearest relative.”

“I can take care of myself.”

Trent grunted. “You and Faraday can carve each other into filet mignons — after we split what’s in that safety deposit box. But I’m not going to let either of you spoil this caper. I mean that, Tommy. I’m thinking of that money, first, last and all the time. You’ll take a short grip on that temper of yours.” He made an impatient gesture. “Now, let’s get down to cases. Tomorrow you go to the Hollywood-Highland Bank and rent yourself a safety deposit box...”