The Ivory Grin by Ross MacDonald

and vaulted over in a single fluid motion. His Ford coupé was parked on the shoulder of the highway.
    I got over the fence and fell on the other side. A gun went off behind me. Alex was in his car, kicking the starter. A bullet struck the hood of the Ford with the plop of a heavy raindrop, leaving a hole. As if stung, the Ford jumped forward, its rear wheels churning the gravel. I ran for it and got one arm hooked through the open right window.
    Alex didn’t turn his head over the wheel, but he braked suddenly, swerved, and accelerated. I lost my precarious grip on the door. When I hit the ground, I rolled. The colored world spun into gray monochrome and blacked outfor a second. The young traffic-cop with the gun hauled me to my feet. The Ford was out of sight.
    “Listen, you.” He cursed me unimaginatively a few times. “I could of pinked him, if you hadn’t been in the way. What you trying to pull?” The revolver in his right hand seemed to be threatening me. His left hand was automatically brushing gravel off the back of my jacket.
    “You wanted him alive. If you shot him you’d be in the soup. He wasn’t under arrest.”
    His face went white under the tan, as if I had turned a valve on its blood supply. Almost furtively, he put the revolver away.
    Brake came out through the gate of the court, running swiftly and cumbrously like a bear on its hind legs. He had grasped the situation before he reached us:
    “You’re wasting time, Trencher. Take after him. Use the other car. I’ll get on the radio. What’s his number?”
    “I didn’t get it, lieutenant.”
    “You’re doing great work, Trencher.” Brake waved him away.
    I gave him the license number. Moving with alert impatience, Brake went back to the patrol-car and shut himself in to radio his headquarters. I waited for him beside it:
    “What’s the story, lieutenant?”
    “General alarm. Roadblocks.” He started for Lucy’s room.
    The crowd of trailer people, men and women and children, blocked his path. One of the men spoke up: “The boy get away from you, captain?”
    “We’ll get him back. Incidentally, I want all you people to stay home tonight. We’ll talk to you later.”
    “Is it murder?” The question fell into a hush, which was broken by a sparrowlike twittering from women and children.
    “I’ll guarantee this:” Brake said, “she didn’t cut herself shaving. Now break it up. You people go back to your houses.”
    The crowd drew back muttering. Advised by his glance to come along, I followed Brake to the door of number seven. Inside, the identification officer was taking measurements and photographs. Lucy lay under his ministrations with the bored expression of a hostess whose guests’ antics were getting out of hand.
    “Come in,” Brake said. “Shut the door.”
    One of the suitcases was open on the bed, and he returned to his examination of it. I stayed by the door, watching his large practiced hands go through the white uniforms.
    “Trained nurse, apparently.” He added very casually: “How did you happen to find her?”
    “I knocked on the door and she didn’t answer. The door wasn’t locked. I looked in.”
    “Why do that?”
    “I’m in the room next door.”
    His narrow gray gaze came up to my face. “You know her?”
    “Never met her.”
    “Hear any noise? See anybody?”
    “No.” I made a quick decision: “I’m a private detective from Los Angeles. I’ve been tailing her since noon.”
    “Well.” The gray eyes clouded. “That makes it interesting. Why were you doing that?”
    The identification man, who was dusting the second suitcase for fingerprints, turned his head to give me a sharp-faced look.
    “I was hired to.”
    Brake straightened up and faced me. “I didn’t think youwere doing it for fun. Let’s see your identification.”
    I showed him my photostat.
    “Who hired you?”
    “I don’t have to answer that.”
    “You weren’t hired to kill her, by any chance?”
    “You’ll have to