Rounding the corner of the next side street, he drifted down to the alley that paralleled Seventh Street and walked down the alley to the rear of the three-story building. He saw no rear stairs, no fire escape. But there was a panel truck parked in the areaway behind the vacant store and above the car the white fringe of a curtain fluttered in the draft from an open window.
When dusk had turned into darkness, O’Hara clambered to the top of the truck. The windowsill was still three inches too high. He jumped, caught the sill and hauled himself upward. A moment later he was inside a darkened room that had the odor of a kitchen. He found a swinging door, passed through it and struck a match. The match flare showed living room furniture, and, on a table by the wall, the shape of a phone. He crossed to it in the dying light of the match, struck another and saw that the number on the phone was the one that Rex Miller had called.
He decided it wouldn’t be smart to turn on lights. So he used a book of matches, prowling the living room and the single bedroom that lay off it. In the bedroom he found a man’s shirt on a rumpled bed, two suits hanging in the closet. The suits bore the label of a Midland City tailor. The name of the customer, inked on the label, was that of Arthur Vickers.
Back in the darkened living room, his hand on the phone, he debated whether to call Braddock first or Lenroot. Because this was it; it could be proved that Miller had called this number and a police stake-out would pick up Vickers here and Mr. Miller’s libel action and his fairy story about being kidnaped would be blown out of the water. O’Hara wished he didn’t have to depend on either Braddock or Lenroot; but he’d gone as far as he could alone.
While he was still undecided which call to make first, there was the distant click of the vestibule door. There were feet on the stairs. O’Hara swore briefly and bitterly and retreated to the bedroom. He heard the apartment door open and then lights sprang on in the living room. He flattened himself in a corner behind the door. He could see a segment of the living room through the tiny crack between the door and its frame.
The fat man — Tiny Waldon — passed down the room, shedding his coat, hitching pants higher on his paunch. He went out of sight, saying: “Boys, we got to do some fast figuring.” His voice was mellow, rolled smoothly up from his belly.
The wiry young man who was Arthur Vickers stopped by a cabinet radio to work a cigarette lighter that stood there. Through a cloud of smoke he said: “You’re not kidding, Tony. I’ve been in jams before but none as form-fitting as this one.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke and went out of O’Hara’s view.
Ernie’s voice was a snarl from somewhere in the room. “If Miller had used his head, we wouldn’t been jammed. Why the hell, Rex, did you pull a dumb caper like identifying us on the kidnaping? I oughta beat your brains out for that.”
There was a little silence and O’Hara waited for Miller’s voice. It didn’t come at once. Miller walked into the portion of the room that O’Hara could see. His face was tight and pale and there was anger in it. He picked the chair by the radio.
He said: “We agreed on the kidnap story and on the escape, didn’t we? And the Tribune had that picture made in 907 and had it identified by Midland City. So what could I do but back up the identification?”
“You coulda claimed you were blindfolded,” Ernie said.
“I had to tell my story before I knew O’Hara’s picture at the mine was a dud.” Miller cleared his throat harshly. “My opinion is that, for a supposedly smart mob, you fellows have acted like morons. If you hadn’t killed the little fellow in the hotel room, there wouldn’t have been any stink.”
Tiny’s voice rolled out placatingly. “Perhaps you don’t understand exactly what happened there, Rex. The little guy picked up Ernie the first night we got in. They got drunk together. He said he was a gun from Chi, he knew the names of a lot of Chicago loogans and things about them you’d ordinarily have to be a gun to know. And he seemed to know angles here. Well, maybe we were too gullible — but we could use a guy that knew local angles. And, first thing we knew, this little guy had learned plenty about us. But he made a mistake that afternoon in 907 — he took off his coat and went into the bathroom to wash. Vick prowled the coat just for the hell of it and found stuff that showed the guy was a Chicago private dick named Hanley. Well, we put the screws to him and he admitted he was working for the Citizens’ Committee. Seems they didn’t quite trust you so they had him working on us under cover and he tailed us to the Coast. We couldn’t let him walk out of that room so I let Ernie operate. We just had to do the best we could under the circumstances.”
Watching Miller’s face, O’Hara thought it turned a little sick. But he didn’t feel sorry for the guy; he couldn’t feel sorry for heels who sold out.
Miller said: “It was still a mistake to have killed him there. And that expedition to the desert was a piece of unnecessary stupidity!”
“Well, Vick wanted a look at that mine he’d bought and got suckered on and we all thought it’d be a good idea to get out of L.A. for a few days. As for dragging you along, we had to keep an eye on you until our deal was complete.”
“To hell with the arguing,” said Ernie’s voice. “We’re jammed. What do we do now?”
Waldon’s tone was still smooth. “We can salvage a lot out of it. Let’s take it point by point. First, I’ve just had word that Rex’s man back in Midland City has handed over the affidavits on the killing there to our man. That breaks the back of that case. This California killing is tougher because of that photograph in 907. But if we get out of the state and back home, they’ll need more proof than the picture to get us extradited with the connections we have. As for the kidnaping, Rex will refuse to sign a complaint.”
Miller said: “You know what that does to me. I’m washed up back home but good, now.”
“My boy,” said Waldon, “you’re getting enough dough out of it so you don’t have to worry about being washed up.”
Miller’s jaw worked and his voice went up, cracked a bit. “But I’ve got to know about—”
“Everything will be O.K. there. But first you get out of the state so we’ll know we’re clear on the snatch rap. Right, Vick?”
“I guess so,” said Vickers’ voice.
Ernie’s voice said: “What the hell’s wrong with you, Vick? Ain’t you interested in all this?”
“Sure, sure. I was just relaxing and I think I need a drink to help. Be with you guys in a minute.”
O’Hara heard footsteps crossing the living room. Vickers walked through his line of vision, started through the doorway, was lost to view. O’Hara flattened himself against the wall; with the door in its present position, he figured he had better than an even chance that Vickers wouldn’t see him.
Lights went on in the bedroom. The door whipped away from the wall and the wiry man was looking at him, smiling a little and holding a gun in line with O’Hara’s belt buckle.
“Hello, O’Hara,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here — still looking for Clancy? Come on out and join the party.”
O’Hara made an upward gesture with his hands, his shoulders, and marched out past Vickers to the living room. Ernie’s dark face was still gaping at this development but Tiny Waldon was chuckling, his belly rippling with every chuckle.
In his mellow voice he said: “Wonderful, Vick. Wonderful! How did you do it — with mirrors?”
The wiry man expanded a little. “I never use matches, I use a cigarette tighter. I saw burned matches in a couple of ashtrays so I figured somebody had been prowling in here since dark — and maybe they were still here. I checked the kitchen while you guys talked. Nothing. That left the bedroom. And after a bit I caught a twinkle of light a couple of times at the crack of the door. It must have been one of O’Hara’s buttons.”