can’t have soreheads stirring up trouble. But I did it myself. Rudy didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“I think I’ll do a little checking,” said Holt, putting the list in his pocket. “I don’t have so many leads that I can afford to overlook any.”
Pitzer rose with him. “Well, lots of luck, Mr. Holt. I hope this thing gets wound up soon.” He indicated the adjoining door with Mr. Linneker lettered on it. “As long as that office is empty, we’re sort of marking time here.”
“We’re doing our best.” Holt didn’t tell Pitzer that if his hunch was borne out the adjoining office would have a new occupant, although the name on the door would probably be changed to Shayon. He didn’t know what the veteran lumberman would think of that eventuality.
Holt went back to his office in the Civic Centre half hoping that there would be a message from Van Dusen. There was nothing on his desk but the usual routine of paper work. He disposed of it and went to lunch. The noon edition of the newspapers contained no new developments of which he was not aware. McCoy was keeping the dynamite story to himself for the present.
In the middle of the afternoon, when Van Dusen had still not reported in, Holt decided to wait no longer and went off himself to check on the two names that Pitzer had given him. But it apparently wasn’t his day for learning anything concrete. James O’Hara was no longer a resident of the city; he had, according to his former landlady, left for San Francisco shortly after being fired. Ernest Farnum was also among the missing; he had vacated his furnished room two weeks before by request due to a chronic slowness in paying the rent. He had left no forwarding address, possibly to dodge bill collectors.
This brought the sum total of Holt’s day to zero and when quitting time came with no word from Van Dusen, he went home in a disgruntled mood. He was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t making a fool of himself unnecessarily. “I’m out of my depth,” he told Connie bitterly. “I swore I wasn’t going to play cop and that’s all I’ve been doing since yesterday. I ought to have my head examined.”
“Don’t fret so. I know you’re on the right track.”
“If I’m so blasted right, why doesn’t Van call me? The answer is he didn’t find anything.” All the same, Holt spurned his wife’s suggestion that they go to a movie to relax, and spent the evening pretending to read but listening for the telephone. It didn’t ring once.
In the morning, he stopped by the restaurant opposite the Civic Centre where Van Dusen usually had coffee. But the waitress hadn’t seen him and Holt began to wonder if the chubby investigator had dropped off the face of the earth. Muttering to himself, he reached the glassed-in cubicle that served as his office and was startled to find it already occupied. Van Dusen sat on his desk, his heels thrumming impatiently against its side.
“Where the devil have you been?” Holt asked, rather uncivilly.
“Waiting for you. I wanted you to see me do this.” Solemnly, Van Dusen removed his hat and began to chew on the brim.
Excitement kindled in Holt’s stomach. “You found something?”
“I should hope to kiss a duck.” Van Dusen put down his hat, grinning. “Mitch, I got to hand it to you. You called it right down the line.”
“Then why didn’t you phone me? I’ve been sweating blood.”
“Buddy boy. I had a lot of checking to do. You’ll thank me before I get through, though nobody else will. Sit down and I’ll tell you all about it.” Holt did so and Van Dusen swung around on the desk to face him. “I started checking out the motels in the Naranja Beach section — remember Shayon’s list of street names, all in that area? I got a ping on the third one, the Rancho Del Mar Motel, a big swanky layout north of town. Shayon and the Linneker girl registered there about seven o’clock on the night her father got blasted. They registered as
“I think I’ll do a little checking,” said Holt, putting the list in his pocket. “I don’t have so many leads that I can afford to overlook any.”
Pitzer rose with him. “Well, lots of luck, Mr. Holt. I hope this thing gets wound up soon.” He indicated the adjoining door with Mr. Linneker lettered on it. “As long as that office is empty, we’re sort of marking time here.”
“We’re doing our best.” Holt didn’t tell Pitzer that if his hunch was borne out the adjoining office would have a new occupant, although the name on the door would probably be changed to Shayon. He didn’t know what the veteran lumberman would think of that eventuality.
Holt went back to his office in the Civic Centre half hoping that there would be a message from Van Dusen. There was nothing on his desk but the usual routine of paper work. He disposed of it and went to lunch. The noon edition of the newspapers contained no new developments of which he was not aware. McCoy was keeping the dynamite story to himself for the present.
In the middle of the afternoon, when Van Dusen had still not reported in, Holt decided to wait no longer and went off himself to check on the two names that Pitzer had given him. But it apparently wasn’t his day for learning anything concrete. James O’Hara was no longer a resident of the city; he had, according to his former landlady, left for San Francisco shortly after being fired. Ernest Farnum was also among the missing; he had vacated his furnished room two weeks before by request due to a chronic slowness in paying the rent. He had left no forwarding address, possibly to dodge bill collectors.
This brought the sum total of Holt’s day to zero and when quitting time came with no word from Van Dusen, he went home in a disgruntled mood. He was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t making a fool of himself unnecessarily. “I’m out of my depth,” he told Connie bitterly. “I swore I wasn’t going to play cop and that’s all I’ve been doing since yesterday. I ought to have my head examined.”
“Don’t fret so. I know you’re on the right track.”
“If I’m so blasted right, why doesn’t Van call me? The answer is he didn’t find anything.” All the same, Holt spurned his wife’s suggestion that they go to a movie to relax, and spent the evening pretending to read but listening for the telephone. It didn’t ring once.
In the morning, he stopped by the restaurant opposite the Civic Centre where Van Dusen usually had coffee. But the waitress hadn’t seen him and Holt began to wonder if the chubby investigator had dropped off the face of the earth. Muttering to himself, he reached the glassed-in cubicle that served as his office and was startled to find it already occupied. Van Dusen sat on his desk, his heels thrumming impatiently against its side.
“Where the devil have you been?” Holt asked, rather uncivilly.
“Waiting for you. I wanted you to see me do this.” Solemnly, Van Dusen removed his hat and began to chew on the brim.
Excitement kindled in Holt’s stomach. “You found something?”
“I should hope to kiss a duck.” Van Dusen put down his hat, grinning. “Mitch, I got to hand it to you. You called it right down the line.”
“Then why didn’t you phone me? I’ve been sweating blood.”
“Buddy boy. I had a lot of checking to do. You’ll thank me before I get through, though nobody else will. Sit down and I’ll tell you all about it.” Holt did so and Van Dusen swung around on the desk to face him. “I started checking out the motels in the Naranja Beach section — remember Shayon’s list of street names, all in that area? I got a ping on the third one, the Rancho Del Mar Motel, a big swanky layout north of town. Shayon and the Linneker girl registered there about seven o’clock on the night her father got blasted. They registered as
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