As I was flinging open the door of my car, Eddie hung a tire-screeching turn north onto Sweetzer, heading up the steep hill to the Strip. I peeled rubber in pursuit and finally caught up with him as he was signaling a left-hand turn onto Sunset. I stayed right behind him for about a half mile until he turned right on a little street called Horn Drive and parked almost immediately. I continued on and parked some fifty yards in front of him, getting out of my car just in time to see him cross the street and enter the court of a group of Spanish-style bungalows.
I ran across the street, hoping to catch Eddie as he entered one of the units, but was out of luck. The cement courtyard was empty. I checked the bank of mailboxes on the front lawn, looking for Edward, Edwin, Edmund, or at least the initial "E." No luck—the tenants of the fifteen bungalows were all designated by their last names only.
I went back to my car and pulled over to the other side of the street, directly in front of the entrance of the court, deciding to wait Eddie out. My curiosity about him was peaking; he was a volatile night owl and might well be leaving soon on another run.
I was wrong. I waited, and waited, and waited, almost dozing off several times, until nine-thirty the next morning. When Eddie finally emerged, immaculately dressed in a fresh Hawaiian shirt, light blue cotton slacks, and sandals, I felt my enervation drop like a rock. I studied his face and body movements as he walked to his car, searching for clues to his sexual makeup. There was a selfconscious disdainfulness about him that wasn't quite right, but I put it out of my mind.
Eddie drove fast and aggressively, deftly weaving through traffic. I stayed close behind, letting a few cars get between us. We drove this way all the way downtown to the Pasadena Freeway, out that tortuous expressway to South Pasadena, then east to Santa Anita racetrack in Arcadia.
Entering the racetrack's enormous parking lot, I felt relieved and hopeful. It was a brilliantly clear day, not too hot, and the parking lot was already filled with cars and plenty of people to hide me as I tailed my suspect. And I remembered what an old Vice cop had once told me: racetracks were good places to brace people for information—they felt sinful and somehow guilty about being there, and cowered fast when confronted with a badge.
I parked and sprinted to the entrance turnstiles. I paid my admission, then lounged, eyes downcast, next to a souvenir stand and waited for Eddie to show up. He did, a good ten minutes later, flashing a pass at the ticket-taker and getting a big smile in return. As he passed me, consulting his racing form, I turned my back.
The giant entranceway and passages leading up to the grandstand were filling up fast, so I let a solid throng of horseplayers get between us as we maneuvered toward the escalators that led to the betting windows. Eddie was going first-class: the fifty-dollar window. He was the only one in line there. He got a warm welcome from the man in the cage, and I could hear him plainly as I stood by the ten-dollar window a few yards away.
"Howsa boy, Eddie?" the guy said.
"Not bad, Ralph. How's the action? You got any hot ones for me?" Eddie's voice seemed strained under the ritualistic overtones.
"Naw, you know me, Eddie. I like 'em all. That's why I'm working here and not bettin' here. I love 'em all, too much."
Eddie laughed. "I hear you. I got the system though, and I feel lucky today." He handed the man a sheet of paper and a roll of bills. "Here, Ralph, that's for the first four races. Let's take care of it all now. I want to check out the scenery."
The man in the cage scooped up the scratch sheet and money and whistled. He detached a row of tickets and handed them to Eddie. He shook his head. "You might be takin' a bath today, kid."
"Never, pal. Seen any lookers around? You know my type."
"Hang out at the Turf Club, kid. That's where the class dames go."
"Too ritzy for me. I can't breathe in there. I'll be back for my money at the end of the day, Ralph. Have it ready for me."
Ralph laughed. "You bet, kid."
I followed Eddie to his seat in one of the better sections of the grandstand. He bought a beer and peanuts from a vendor and settled in, reading his racing form and fiddling with a pair of binoculars in a leather case.
I was wondering what to do next when an idea struck me. I waited for the first race to start, and when the passageways cleared and the crowd started to yell, I made my way back down to the souvenir stand, where I bought the current issues of three magazines: Life, Collier's, and Ladies' Home Journal.
I took them into the men's room, locked myself into a stall and thumbed through them, finding what I wanted almost immediately—five black-and-white photographs of rather ordinary women, taken from the neck up. I tore them out, left the rest of the magazines on the floor and placed the blowup photo of Maggie Cadwallader in the middle of the tear-outs.
Then I went looking for Ralph, the man at the fifty-dollar window. He wasn't in his cage, so I strolled aimlessly through the nowdeserted passageways until I spotted him walking out of the radio broadcasters' booth, smoking a cigar and holding a cup of coffee.
He spotted me too, and some sort of recognition hit him even before I showed him my badge. "Yes, Officer," he said patiently.
"Just a few questions," I said. I pointed across the hall to a snack stand that had tables and chairs.
Ralph nodded patiently and led the way. We sat facing each other across a grease-stained metal table; I was brusque, even a little bullying.
"I'm interested in the man you were talking to at the window about a half hour ago. His first name is Eddie."
"Yeah. Eddie."
"What's his last name?"
"Engels. Eddie Engels."
"What's his occupation?"
"Gambler. Punk. Wise guy. I don't think he has a job."
"I'm interested in the women he runs around with."
"So am I! Ooh, la la!" Ralph started cracking up at his own wit.
"Don't be funny; it's not amusing." I fanned the six photographs on the table in front of him. "Ever see Eddie with any of these women?"
Ralph scrutinized the photos, hesitated a moment, then placed a fat index finger square on the picture of Maggie Cadwallader. My whole body lurched inside and my skin started to tingle.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said.
"How are you sure?"
"This tomato is a dog compared to some of the babes I seen Eddie with."
"When did you see them together?"
"I don't know—I think it was a couple of months ago. Yeah, that's right, it was the day of the President's Stakes—in June."
I gathered up my photos and left Ralph with a stern warning. "You don't breathe a word of this to Eddie. You got that?"
"Sure, Officer. I always figured Eddie wasn't quite on the up and—"
I didn't let him finish. I was out the door, looking frantically for a pay phone.
I called L.A.P.D. R&I, gave them my name and badge number and told them what I wanted. They got back to me within five minutes: there was no Edward, Edwin, or Edmund Engels, white male, approximately thirty years old with a criminal record in Los Angeles. I was about to hang up, then got another idea: I told the clerk to go through the automobile registration files for the last four years. This time he hit pay dirt: Edward Engels, 1911 Horn Drive, West Hollywood, owned two cars: the green '46 Olds sedan I had tailed him in, and a '49 Ford convertible—red with white top, license number JY 861. I thanked the clerk, hung up and ran out to my own car.