Turn on the Heat

Chapter Eight

It was late Saturday afternoon before I dug up the information I wanted in San Francisco — that the woman I wanted had been a hostess at one of the beach night spots. She’d gone under her maiden name, Amelia Sellar, and had lived at the Bickmere Hotel. It was Sunday night when I managed to locate “Let ’em Ride” Ranigan, who had operated the place and who had acquired his nick-name from a tendency to let his bets ride in the crap games.

Ranigan was a genial, age-mellowed soul who had put on a lot of weight, had flowing white hair, and liked nothing better than to smoke a cigar and talk of the “good old days.”

Ranigan sat at a corner table over some champagne that would be listed on Bertha Cool’s expense account as taxi fare, and became reminiscent.

“You’re a young chap,” he said. “You wouldn’t know about it, but I’m telling you in those days San Francisco was the greatest city in the world. None of the European cities could touch it. Paris couldn’t.

“It wasn’t because it was wide open. It was because it was tolerant. That’s the real spirit of San Francisco. People didn’t mind your business because they had business of their own to mind. That was the attitude of the city, the attitude of the people in it. The waterfront was crowded with shipping. There was a big trade with the Orient. No one had time to bother with petty things. It was only the big things that people thought about.

“Nowadays things aren’t like that. San Francisco’s getting petty. You hear sirens screaming and police cars tearing through the streets. You tag along to see if it’s a riot, and find a bunch of cops are picking up a streetwalker for soliciting on the wrong side of the street.

“You go up to one of the big hotels, get in with the bunch that’s in the know, and find a poker game in one of the rooms. They aren’t playing for gold pieces the way they used to. They’re playing for chips, and after you’ve won all the chips, some piker pays off with an I.O.U. You go down to the waterfront, and the old spice, the old tang, the old romance are gone, and—”

I said, “Your glass is empty, Ranigan — here, waiter.”

The waiter filled up the glasses. Ranigan tasted it and said, “Nice stuff.”

“You used to run the old Mermaid’s Roost, didn’t you?” I asked.

“I sure did. Those were the days. What’d you say your name was?”

“Lam. Donald Lam.”

“Oh, yes. Well, I’ll tell you, Lam. If you want to give people the right kind of perspective, give ’em work and give ’em money. Then’s when they work hard and play hard. They try to make their money out of business instead of out of chiselling each other. In those days money was flowing in a steady stream. All a man had to do was to get himself a bucket, throw it in the stream, and drag out a bunch of cash. Nowadays there ain’t anything like that. Money ain’t circulating. You feel there ain’t over a thousand dollars in the whole damn city, and everyone is walking around in circles trying to find the fellow that has that thousand. As soon as they find out who it is, they jump on him and take it away from him. Now I remember back in the Mermaid’s Roost—”

“You have a real memory,” I said. “By the way, someone was telling me about a girl you had working for you who was lucky enough to inherit a million dollars.”

He straightened up with surprise. “A million dollars? Working for me?”

“Uh-huh. She was a hostess, there at the Mermaid’s Roost. Girl by the name of Sellar.”

“Sellar!” he said, squinting his eyebrows together. “Shucks, I had a girl by the name of Sellar who was hostess, but she never fell heir to no million bucks — not that I ever heard tell of. Sellar — Sellar. That’s right. That was Amelia’s last name. That’s who it was. Amelia Sellar.”

“She may have got the money after she left you,” I said.

“Well, she might have,” he said.

“Where is she now? Do you know?”

“Nope.”

“Any idea where I can find out?”

“No. Those girls drift around and get scattered. I had about the best-looking bunch of legs there was in the city. You take it nowadays, and women don’t have pretty legs. They have fashionable legs, but they ain’t what you’d call pretty. They ain’t the kind of legs a man will spend money over. A woman falls for that slender, streamlined stuff, but it takes real legs to start a man on a spending spree, legs that have curves and class. Now I can remember back in—”

“Don’t you keep up with any of your old entertainers?” I asked.

“Shucks, no,” he said. “Mostly they were a wild bunch. They came and they went. I saw one of ’em the other day though, girl by the name of Myrtle. She was with me way back in nineteen-twenty. Just a kid she was then, eighteen or nineteen, and believe me, she doesn’t look a day older now.”

“Where was she?” I asked.

“Taking tickets in a picture show. She certainly is class, Myrtle is. I looked at her a couple of times, and I said, ‘Say, your face is familiar. Ain’t your mother’s name Myrtle?’

“She placed me then and said, ‘I’m Myrtle,’ and I like to fell over backward. She’s married now. Got a kid ten years old, she told me. Of course, they arrange the lights in those little ticket booths so the girls look pretty, but I’m telling you, Mr. — what’d you say your name was?”

“Lam. Donald Lam.”

“That’s right. Well, I’m telling you, Lam, that girl didn’t look a day older than she did when she was working for me, and say, talking about legs — there was the girl that had legs. Say, Mister, if I could get a dozen girls like Myrtle and open up a place — but it wouldn’t do no good. The coin just ain’t in circulation. The business ain’t here. It’s just like I told you. People are putting in all their time trying to get some of the other fellow’s dough away from him. There just ain’t any stream of circulating cash where you can throw in a bucket and pull out the dough.”

“Where did you say this picture show was?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s up on Market Street, four or five doors below the Twin Peaks Hotel.”

“What,” I asked, “does she look like?”

“Pretty as a picture,” he said. “Her hair used to be a lighter shade of red than it is now. She’s got it this kind of a dark brown colour they’re using so much, but she’s got that peaches-and-cream complexion, and her eyes are clear blue. God, how that girl could look innocent! And legs! Say, I’m telling you, Mister — what’d you say your name was?”

“Lam. Donald Lam.”

“That’s right. I keep forgetting. It’s an odd name, too. Somehow I don’t seem to remember names quite as well as I used to. But shucks, you don’t have the personalities to go with them any more. Why, I can remember back here when San Francisco was just full of men who had personality sticking out all over ’em. Why—”

I looked at my watch. “I’ve got a train to catch,” I said. “It was a real pleasure meeting you. You’ll pardon me if I run away — here, waiter. The check please... Don’t let me hurry you, Mr. Ranigan. Just sit and finish that champagne. I’m sorry I have to run, but that’s the way it is, you know.”

“Sure,” he said. “That’s the way things are now. If you want to make a dollar, you’ve got to keep on the run every minute trying to grab it before the other fellow gets it. Things didn’t used to be that way. It used to be there was plenty of money for everybody. Nobody begrudged the other fellow what he was making, and when you made anything, you could put it in your pocket. That ain’t the way things are now what with government agents coming around and snooping over your books trying to gouge the last penny out of you. Say, we had no sales tax, no income tax, no payroll tax — why, it was a pleasure doing business, and if a government man had ever come in the door and said he wanted to look over our books, he’d have gone out on a stretcher. In those days they used to say, ‘What do you think this is? Russia? Get the hell out of here.’ And believe me, buddy, the government kept out. Maybe that was why business was so good. Why, I remember one year—”

I shook hands with him and hurried out. I looked back at the door. He was talking to the waiter, telling him over his fourth glass of champagne how good the city used to be.

It was a slack time at the I pushed a twenty-dollar bill through the arch-shaped opening in the glass and placed my lips as close as possible to the round hole.

The girl who sat on the stool by the change machine put shapely fingers on a series of levers and smiled at me with wide, innocent blue eyes. She looked to be somewhere in the late twenties. “How many please?” she asked. “One?”

I said, “None.”

She started to poke the levers and the smile faded from her eyes. “Did you say one?” she asked.

“I said none.”

She took her fingers away from the levers, looked at me, and said, “Well?”

“I want to buy twenty dollars’ worth of information,” I said.

“What about?”

“About the days when you were working in the Mermaid’s Roost.”

She said, “I never worked there.”

I said, “Just a little information between friends.”

“You’ve been talking with Ranigan,” she said, “and he’s cuckoo. I never worked in his place in my life. He thought I did, and it’s part of my duties to kid the customers along.”

I gently slid the twenty-dollar bill back and forth. “Couldn’t you use twenty bucks?” I asked.

“Of course I could, but — what do you want to know?”

“Nothing that’s going to hurt you,” I said. “There was a hostess, Amelia Sellar. Do you remember her?”

She reached out with long, tapering fingers, and placed coral-tinted nails on one edge of the twenty-dollar bill. She said, “Yes.”

“How well?”

“I knew her quite well.”

“Where did she live?”

“At the Bickmere Hotel. She and Flo Mortinson roomed together. Flo was contact girl for a bootlegging ring. She and Amelia were great friends.”

“Where’s Amelia now?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her for a long time.”

“Did Amelia ever tell you anything about her past?” She nodded.

“What was it?”

“A small-town background somewhere. She was too fast for the burg. Her husband caught up with her and sued for divorce. She outsmarted him, got all the property, and headed for the bright lights. She had a wad of dough with her. Some man got it.”

“Were they married?” I asked.

“I doubt it.”

“And you don’t know where she is now?”

“No.”

“How about Flo Mortinson? Have you heard from her?”

She said, “I saw Flo about three years ago, ran into her on the street — in Los Angeles.”

“What was she doing?”

“Hostess in some night spot.”

“Did you ask her anything about Amelia?”

“No.”

“Know anything else that might help me to locate Amelia Sellar? She’s come into a bunch of money — if she can furnish proof that she was never divorced from her first husband.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t think she ever was divorced,” she said. “There was a divorce action filed somewhere, but she walked out on it. Her husband ran away with his mistress. I guess he was entitled to, from what Amelia told me. She certainly wasn’t overlooking anything. It was a hick town, but it didn’t cramp her style — much.”

“Did she ever say anything about where her husband was located or what he was doing?”

“No. I don’t think she knew, I think her husband went away.”

I said, “Okay. Thanks a lot,” and released my hold on the twenty-dollar bill.

She said, “Listen. This is under your hat. I’ve been married twelve years, and my husband thinks I was just out of kindergarten when he married me.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s okay by me.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Listen, you’re a regular guy, and this just between you and me. If a spotter saw me going south with this twenty, he’d think I was embezzling company funds. Stand up close to the ticket window, will you? Put your arms up on the shelf there.”

I did. My shoulders pretty much blocked the window. She raised up her skirts and put the twenty-dollar bill down her stocking. “Thanks,” she said.

I said, “I know what Ranigan meant now.”

“What?”

“He said if he had Myrtle’s legs back, he’d clean up a fortune.”

I saw her flush, but she laughed and was pleased. She started to say something, then changed her mind, and, as a customer came up, her face became a smiling mask, with innocent, wide blue eyes, looking up past my shoulder I stepped away from the window.

From my hotel I called the clerk at the Palace Hotel in Oakview. “How about those glasses that were ordered for Mrs. Lintig?” I said. “What happened to them? You were going to send them to me.”

“Gosh, Mr. Lam,” he said. “I don’t know. They never showed up. I guess she must have picked them up herself.”

I said, “Thanks. That’s what I wanted to know,” and hung up.

In the morning I hired a girl to call up every oculist, every optometrist, and every lens supply house in San Francisco to find out what doctor had sent a pair of lenses to Mrs. J. C. Lintig at the Palace Hotel in Oakview or had a client by the name of Amelia Sellar. I told her to wire me the information at the agency as soon as she had it. I climbed aboard a night bus and caught up on some of my sleep all the way to Santa Carlotta.

I’d left the agency car in an all-night garage that was within two blocks of the bus depot. I walked to the garage and handed my storage ticket to the attendant. He looked it over, then went to the office.

“When did you leave this car?” he asked.

I told him.

“It’ll take a minute or two,” he said.

I saw him go behind a glass partition and dial a number on the telephone. When he came out, I said, “Listen, buddy, if it’s all the same to you, I’m in a hurry.”

“Coming right now,” he said. He glanced at my ticket and went off on the run. I sat up in front and waited.

A minute or two later he came back and said, “I seem to have some trouble getting your car started. Did you know the battery was run down?”

I said, “No. I didn’t know the battery was run down, and if it is, it’s because someone here left the ignition switch on.”

He said, “Just a moment. We’re fully responsible. If there’s any trouble like that, we’ll give you a rent battery and charge yours up, but you’ll have to write out a claim.”

I said, “Better give me a new battery because I’m not coming back, and I’m not writing out any claims.”

He said, “just a minute,” and ran back towards the rear of the garage. I followed him.

The agency car was back in a corner. The attendant hopped in and started grinding away on the starter.

I said, “Just a minute, buddy. That doesn’t sound to me as though the battery was run down. But if you keep on working that starter, it will be.”

“The motor doesn’t seem to take hold.”

I said, “Tell me how much the storage is, and I’ll start it. You might try turning on the ignition. That always helps.”

He grinned sheepishly, turned on the ignition, and stepped on the starter again. The agency car rattled into life.

I said, “Never mind the stalling. Tell me how much storage I owe, and I’ll pay it.”

“I’ll have to take a look at the books,” he said.

“The books be damned,” I told him. “Here’s two dollars. That’ll cover storage. You can fix up the books any way you please. I’m on my way.”

He pulled a rag from his pocket and started polishing off the steering-wheel. “Your windshield needs a little attention,” he said.

I said, “Never mind the windshield. just get out from behind that wheel and let me get started.”

He fumbled around with the choke for a minute, and looked back towards the door. I said, “Do you want this two bucks or not?”

“Of course I want it. Just a minute, and I’ll give you a receipt.”

“I don’t want the receipt. I want the car, and I want to get going.”

He got out from behind the steering-wheel and stood by the car, looking at the door. I said, “If you’ll get away from that car door so I can get in, I’ll drive out.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, but didn’t move.

A car, travelling at high speed, skidded into the entrance. I saw a look of relief on the attendant’s face. He said, “Okay,” and moved to one side.

The car came in the door, ran back the length of the garage, blocking the way out. I saw it was a police car. The door opened and John Harbet got out and came pounding over towards the car in a businesslike way. The attendant said, “I’ll get you a receipt,” and started to walk away.

Harbet came over to me and said, “So you have to stick your nose into this, eh?”

I said to the attendant, “You stick around. I’m going to want a witness to this.”

The attendant said, “I’m sorry. I can’t leave the front of the place — the cash register and everything.”

He walked away from us and didn’t look back.

Harbet walked over towards me, and I stepped back into a corner behind the car. “You asked for this,” he said.

I slid my right hand towards the left lapel of my coat.

He stopped coming towards me and said, “What are you reaching for?”

“A notebook,” I said, “and a fountain pen.”

“I told you about your health once,” he said. “You didn’t listen to me.”

“Ever hear about a law covering kidnapping?” I asked.

He laughed and said, “Sure, I’ve heard about it. I’ve heard about a lot of other laws, too. How would you like to get thrown in the can, wise guy?”

I said, “Throw me in, and I’ll bounce right out, and when I do, you know what will happen to you.”

He said, “Oh, you think you’ll bounce right out, do your?”

“I know it,” I said. “Don’t think I came into your territory without making plans in advance.”

He kept sizing me up and sliding his hand over towards his right hip. He said, “In the first place, I think that’s a stolen car. In the second place, a man was killed on the highway a couple of nights ago by a hit-and-run driver. I think this is the car that hit him.”

“Try again,” I. said.

“A man about your build has been annoying women on the streets.”

He kept edging closer. Suddenly he jerked out his gun. I took my hand away from the lapel of my coat. He laughed and said, “I’ll just take your rod so you won’t get into trouble with it.”

He moved up another step and patted the side of my coat, then he laughed and said, “Just running a blazer, eh?”

He spun me around, made certain I had no gun, put his own gun away, and grabbed me by the necktie. “Do you know what we do with wise guys in this city?” he asked.

“Put them on the Vice Squad,” I said, “and let them push people around, then something happens, and they get called up in front of the grand jury.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” he said. “I’m not getting called up in front of any grand jury.”

He pushed the heel of his right hand against my nose, holding my tie with his left hand. He said, “I have a witness who saw that hit-and-run car making a getaway. The description fits this car. What are you going to do about it?” He was holding his hand up against my face, pushing my neck back.

I said, “Get your hand out of my face.” My voice sounded thick and muffled.

He laughed and pushed a little harder.

I swung my right. My arms were a good two inches shorter than his. The swing missed by just that much. He let go of my tie then, and cuffed me with his left. I tried to dodge, and he cuffed me with his right. Then he grabbed me by the coat collar and spun me around.

He said, “Get in that car and drive ahead of me to the police station. Don’t try to make any funny moves, or I’ll drill you. You’re under arrest.”

I said, “All right. We’ll go to headquarters. Now listen to this. The hotel porter in Oakview saw you carrying me down the corridor. Don’t think I’m so dumb. Before I left Oakview, I called the Federal Bureau of Investigation. They took fingerprints from the inside of my doorknob and the steering-wheel of the car. They don’t know yet who those prints belong to. I can tell them.”

I saw that I’d jolted him. He stood stock-still. He let go of my collar, and his eyes bored into mine. “You run a damn good bluff,” he said. “You made a nice one about having a gun. You’re lucky it didn’t get you killed.”

I said, “That wasn’t a bluff. That was a psychological experiment. I thought you were yellow. I wanted to find out. You are.”

His face darkened, and he doubled his fist, but thought better of it as I stood my ground. He said, “I’m going to give you one more chance. You’re out of your jurisdiction. Keep on your own dunghill and you won’t have any trouble. Start messing around in Santa Carlotta and you’ll be just a number in a great big house doing a longtime stretch.”

I said, “Not by the time I get done telling my story, I won’t.”

He shoved me into the agency car. “Go on, wise guy,” he said. “Get started. Right back towards Los Angeles. The next time you come within the city limits, I’ll throw the book at you. Savvy?”

“All done?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, and turned around to swagger back to the police car. He backed out, swung the car in a turn in the middle of the block when he hit the street, and drove away.

I blew blood out of my nose on to my handkerchief, drove up even with the office where the attendant was making a great show of being busy. I adjusted my tie and said, “On second thought, I think I’ll take that receipt.”

He looked nervous. “You won’t need a receipt,” he said. “It’s all right.”

“I want one.”

He hesitated a moment, then scribbled out a receipt. I looked at it, folded it, put it in my pocket. “Thanks,” I said. “I just wanted your signature. You may hear from me some day. That’s all.”

I got back in the car and rattled out of town, taking good care to keep the speedometer needle under fifteen miles an hour until after I’d passed the city limits.

Bertha Cool was in the office when I reached Los Angeles. She said, “Well for Pete’s sake, where have you been?”

“Working.”

“Don’t ever do that again.”

“What?”

“Get away where I can’t reach you.”

“I was busy. I didn’t want to be reached. What’s the matter?”

She said, “Hell’s breaking loose, and I don’t know how to stop it. What’s happened to your nose? It’s swollen.”

I said, “A guy pushed it.”

She said, “I’ve been talking with Marian.”

“Well?”

“She’s been having daily conferences with the deputy district attorney.”

“They haven’t said anything about her in the papers yet.”

“No, they’re not ready for that — but I think they’re getting ready for it.”

“What’s new?”

“They’ve been talking with her until now she’s absolutely convinced that she saw this man coming out of Evaline Harris’s apartment.”

“Well, he did come out of it, didn’t he?” I asked.

“There you go, sticking up for her. You know as well as I do, Donald, that she didn’t see him come out of that apartment. She saw him in the corridor. She doesn’t know what apartment he came out of.”

“She does now, doesn’t she?”

Bertha Cool said, “Yes. She thinks she does.”

“Is that all?” I asked.

“No. While Marian was talking with the deputy district attorney, a long-distance telephone call came through. It was police headquarters at Santa Carlotta. Evidently they said they thought the case might have a local angle. The D.A. arranged for a conference.”

I lit a cigarette and Bertha Cool sat behind the desk looking at me. She said, “You know what that means, Donald. They’re getting ready to push our man out in front. Marian will identify him, and then the fat’s in the fire. It’s too late to do a damn thing. We’ve got to move fast.”

“I’ve been moving fast,” I said.

“What have you learned?”

“Nothing much. Any letters or telegrams for me?”

“Yes. There’s a telegram here from someone in San Francisco. It says that no eye doctor or lens supply house in San Francisco had any orders to be sent to Oakview during the period under investigation. I suppose you know what that’s all about.”

“I do,” I said.

“Well, what is it?”

I said, “It’s just another figure in the column I’m trying to add up. I haven’t the total yet.”

“What’s it all about?”

“Mrs. Lintig broke her glasses — that is, a bellboy broke them for her. She made a squawk to the hotel. The hotel was going to replace them. She wired for new lenses.”

“Well?”

“She left very suddenly before the lenses arrived. I told the clerk to forward the glasses to me as soon as they showed up, that we’d pay the bill.”

“Pay the bill!”

“Yes.”

“Why did you do that, lover?”

“Because I wanted to see what oculist she patronized. An oculist would have her name and address. Remember, she didn’t have the prescription. She simply wired her oculist to send her new glasses.” Bertha Cool stared steadily at me. Her eyes narrowed. She said, “I’m wondering if you’re thinking of the same thing I am, Donald.”

“What?”

“That perhaps that wire didn’t go to San Francisco at all, but went to Dr. Alftmont in Santa Carlotta?”

I said, “I thought of that a long time ago. That’s one of the reasons I was so anxious to get the shipment in the original package.”

Bertha Cool said admiringly, “You are a brainy little bastard, Donald. You don’t overlook many bets. The glasses didn’t show up, eh?”

“No.”

Bertha Cool said, “That means just one thing, lover. The person to whom she wired for the glasses knew that she wasn’t going to be there to receive the shipment, and, therefore, didn’t send them.”

I said, “Where’s Marian?”

“We have her fixed up in a nice little apartment. They’ve found out quite a bit about the case, and Marian’s testimony is most important. She remembers that when she opened the door the morning paper was lying on the floor where it had been pushed through the crack under the door. It was still there when the police arrived. That means the murderer found her in bed.”

“What else?” I asked.

“It was a man who killed her. The ash-tray by the bed held two cigarette stubs. There was lipstick on only one of them, so the police figure the man sat on the edge of the bed and talked for a while before he killed her. They figure this man had a business matter to discuss. When it didn’t go to suit him, he killed her.”

“Anything else?” I asked.

“A picture was missing from where it had been stuck in her dresser mirror. The police think it may have been a picture of a tall, dark young man with a black moustache. The maid described the photograph as best she could.”

“Why was it taken?”

“Probably because the murderer wanted it. I’ve been trying to put forward the theory, very quietly, of course, that it was a picture of the murderer himself. That would start them looking for a tall, dark young man.”

“The D.A. knows where Marian is?”

“Oh, sure. He was keeping her under surveillance. Now he’s pretty well satisfied she’s on the up and up.”

“How often does she go to see him?”

“She’s been going once a day.”

“I want to talk with her.”

“She wants to talk with you. Cod knows what it is you do to women, Donald, but they fall for you — and you fall for them. You want to be careful with this girl, Donald. She’s dynamite.”

“What do you mean, she’s dynamite?”

“She’s all tied up with that deputy district attorney. If he ever turned the heat on her, she d talk.”

“You mean about us?”

“Yes.”

“I think she’d be loyal to us.”

“Not to us, lover, to you. And you’ve got to be careful that young deputy doesn’t make her fall for him.”

I said, “I want to talk with Marian. Where is she?”

Bertha Cool handed me a slip of paper with the address of an apartment house. “Our client is awfully worried, Donald, but he has a lot of confidence in you. I’m glad you had that talk with him.”

I said, “So am I. I’m going to see Marian.”

“Want me to go with you?”

“That,” I said, “is just what I don’t want, and you’d better get some new tyres for the agency car — or else get a new car for the agency tyres — and then throw the tyres away.”

She said, “I’ll do that, Donald, but don’t ever go away again where Bertha doesn’t know where you are. I’ve had an awful job trying to hold this thing in line. Our client seems to have more confidence in you than he has in me.”

I got up and ground out my cigarette in an ash-tray. “While I’m gone, try to find out if a Flo Mortinson was a hostess at the Blue Cave. Locate her, find out about her trunks — if any. Get a room near her.”

“All right. Will you give me a ring as soon as you’ve seen Marian, Donald?”

“It depends. I’m doing everything I can on this case.”

“I know, lover, but time’s getting short. The thing is going to break any minute now, and when it does, Smith is on the skids for a one-way ride.”

“Are you,” I asked, “telling me?” and walked out.

Elsie Brand looked up from her typing long enough to ask, “What happened to your nose, Donald?”

“I went to a plastic surgeon,” I said, “and he was rough.”