Confidential Investigations. 212 Senger Building, 1924 North Wilcox Avenue, Hollywood. A Glenview telephone number. In the upper left hand corner there was an open eye with an eyebrow arched in surprise and very long eyelashes.
“You can’t do that,” I said, pointing to the eye. “That’s the Pinkertons’. You’ll be stealing their business.”
“Oh hell,” he said, “what little I get wouldn’t bother them.”
I snapped the card on my fingernail and bit down hard on my teeth and slipped the card into my pocket.
“You want one of mine—or have you completed your file on me?”
“Oh, I know all about you,” he said. “I was a deputy at Ventura the time you were working on the Gregson case.”
Gregson was a con man from Oklahoma City who was followed all over the United States for two years by one of his victims until he got so jittery that he shot up a service station attendant who mistook him for an acquaintance. It seemed a long time ago to me.
I said: “Go on from there.”
“I remembered your name when I saw it on your registration this A.M. So when I lost you on the way into town I just looked you up. I was going to come in and talk, but it would have been a violation of confidence. This way I kind of can’t help myself.”
Another screwball. That made three in one day, not counting Mrs. Murdock, who might turn out to be a screwball too.
I waited while he took his dark glasses off and polished them and put them on again and gave the neighborhood the once over again. Then he said:
“I figured we could maybe make a deal. Pool our resources, as they say. I saw the guy go into your office, so I figured he had hired you.”
“You knew who he was?”
“I’m working on him,” he said, and his voice sounded flat and discouraged. “And where I am getting is no place at all.”
“What did he do to you?”
“Well, I’m working for his wife.”
“Divorce?”
He looked all around him carefully and said in a small voice: “So she says. But I wonder.”
“They both want one,” I said. “Each trying to get something on the other. Comical, isn’t it?”
“My end I don’t like so well. A guy is tailing me around some of the time. A very tall guy with a funny eye. I shake him but after a while I see him again. A very tall guy. Like a lamppost.”
A very tall man with a funny eye. I smoked thoughtfully.
“Anything to do with you?” the blond man asked me a little anxiously.
I shook my head and threw my cigarette into the sand jar. “Never saw him that I know of.” I looked at my strap watch. “We better get together and talk this thing over properly, but I can’t do it now. I have an appointment.”
“I’d like to,” he said. “Very much.”
“Let’s then. My office, my apartment, or your office, or where?”
He scratched his badly shaved chin with a well-chewed thumbnail.
“My apartment,” he said at last. “It’s not in the phone book. Give me that card a minute.”
He turned it over on his palm when I gave it to him and wrote slowly with a small metal pencil, moving his tongue along his lips. He was getting younger every minute. He didn’t seem much more than twenty by now, but he had to be, because the Gregson case had been six years back.
He put his pencil away and handed me back the card. The address he had written on it was 204 Florence Apartments, 128 Court Street.
I looked at him curiously. “Court Street on Bunker Hill?”
He nodded, flushing all over his blond skin. “Not too good,” he said quickly. “I haven’t been in the chips lately. Do you mind?”
“No, why would I?”
I stood up and held a hand out. He shook it and dropped it and I pushed it down into my hip pocket and rubbed the palm against the handkerchief I had there. Looking at his face more closely I saw that there was a line of moisture across his upper lip and more of it along the side of his nose. It was not as hot as all that.
I started to move off and then I turned back
“You can’t do that,” I said, pointing to the eye. “That’s the Pinkertons’. You’ll be stealing their business.”
“Oh hell,” he said, “what little I get wouldn’t bother them.”
I snapped the card on my fingernail and bit down hard on my teeth and slipped the card into my pocket.
“You want one of mine—or have you completed your file on me?”
“Oh, I know all about you,” he said. “I was a deputy at Ventura the time you were working on the Gregson case.”
Gregson was a con man from Oklahoma City who was followed all over the United States for two years by one of his victims until he got so jittery that he shot up a service station attendant who mistook him for an acquaintance. It seemed a long time ago to me.
I said: “Go on from there.”
“I remembered your name when I saw it on your registration this A.M. So when I lost you on the way into town I just looked you up. I was going to come in and talk, but it would have been a violation of confidence. This way I kind of can’t help myself.”
Another screwball. That made three in one day, not counting Mrs. Murdock, who might turn out to be a screwball too.
I waited while he took his dark glasses off and polished them and put them on again and gave the neighborhood the once over again. Then he said:
“I figured we could maybe make a deal. Pool our resources, as they say. I saw the guy go into your office, so I figured he had hired you.”
“You knew who he was?”
“I’m working on him,” he said, and his voice sounded flat and discouraged. “And where I am getting is no place at all.”
“What did he do to you?”
“Well, I’m working for his wife.”
“Divorce?”
He looked all around him carefully and said in a small voice: “So she says. But I wonder.”
“They both want one,” I said. “Each trying to get something on the other. Comical, isn’t it?”
“My end I don’t like so well. A guy is tailing me around some of the time. A very tall guy with a funny eye. I shake him but after a while I see him again. A very tall guy. Like a lamppost.”
A very tall man with a funny eye. I smoked thoughtfully.
“Anything to do with you?” the blond man asked me a little anxiously.
I shook my head and threw my cigarette into the sand jar. “Never saw him that I know of.” I looked at my strap watch. “We better get together and talk this thing over properly, but I can’t do it now. I have an appointment.”
“I’d like to,” he said. “Very much.”
“Let’s then. My office, my apartment, or your office, or where?”
He scratched his badly shaved chin with a well-chewed thumbnail.
“My apartment,” he said at last. “It’s not in the phone book. Give me that card a minute.”
He turned it over on his palm when I gave it to him and wrote slowly with a small metal pencil, moving his tongue along his lips. He was getting younger every minute. He didn’t seem much more than twenty by now, but he had to be, because the Gregson case had been six years back.
He put his pencil away and handed me back the card. The address he had written on it was 204 Florence Apartments, 128 Court Street.
I looked at him curiously. “Court Street on Bunker Hill?”
He nodded, flushing all over his blond skin. “Not too good,” he said quickly. “I haven’t been in the chips lately. Do you mind?”
“No, why would I?”
I stood up and held a hand out. He shook it and dropped it and I pushed it down into my hip pocket and rubbed the palm against the handkerchief I had there. Looking at his face more closely I saw that there was a line of moisture across his upper lip and more of it along the side of his nose. It was not as hot as all that.
I started to move off and then I turned back
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