I drew in a long, deep breath. She had got rid of the gun!
I stared into space, thinking.
Another long, lonely night stretched ahead of me.
I had just finished drinking coffee when I saw the newsboy on his bicycle toss the California Times on my stoop. I collected the paper and had to hunt for the account of Gordy’s murder. I found it tucked away on page 3.
It merely stated that the manager of the Welcome Self-service had been found by his close friend, Miss Freda Hawes, shot to death. Lieutenant Abe Goldstein was in charge of the investigation. He said the shooting had taken place between 20.30 and 21.00 and appeared to be without a motive.
Obviously the California Times was little interested in the murder of Jesse Gordy.
Freda Hawes? A close friend?
How close and did she know Gordy was a blackmailer?
I looked at my watch. The time was 08.15. Time for me to get down to the police and report the loss of my gun. I paused long enough to go through, in my mind, the story I was to tell the police, then locking up, I got the car from the garage and drove into the city. I stopped on the way to buy cigarettes. I always got my cigarettes from the newsstand at the Imperial hotel as there was no parking problem. I was able to leave the car in the forecourt, go into the hotel, get my cigarettes without worrying about a ticket.
The fat good-natured woman who was in charge of the newsstand produced three packs of Winston as soon as she saw me.
‘Morning, Mr. Manson,’ she said. ‘I see you have some excitement up at Eastlake.’
‘That’s right.’ I paid for the cigarettes. ‘This is a world of violence.’
‘You can say that again.’ She shook her head. ‘Are you going to write about this murder in your magazine?’
‘I don’t think so. There doesn’t seem much information as yet.’
‘The afternoon editions will have something more. I like an interesting murder case.’
In case the police checked my movements, I deliberately stood chatting to her, then abruptly broke off.
‘Hey! I have work to do. We’ve been yakking for ten minutes!’
‘So we have.’ She laughed. ‘See you, Mr. Manson.’
I drove down to my office block.
Joey Small, the night man, was just leaving. Seeing me, he came over.
‘Morning, Mr. Manson. See you have trouble up at Eastlake.’
‘Yes.’ I reached over the seat for my briefcase. ‘Always trouble for someone these days.’
‘That’s right.’
He yawned.
‘Will you be working late tonight, Mr. Manson?’
‘Could do.’
‘I’ll be seeing you then,’ and he walked away.
I watched him out of sight, then I backed out of the parking bay and drove down to police headquarters.
The desk sergeant, Jack Franklin, was making motions with a yellow form and looking bored. He was a thickset, middle-aged man who, before his promotion and when he had been a traffic cop, had tried to nail me for dangerous driving. The charge had been thrown out and he had been reprimanded. He was no friend of mine.
When he saw me, his face hardened.
‘Morning, Sergeant,’ I said, coming to rest at his desk.
‘You want something?’
‘I’m reporting a gun stolen.’ I took out my pistol permit and gave it to him. Pushing the end of a pencil into his left ear and twiddling it, he examined the permit, then looked at me.
‘So?’
‘I put the gun in my glove compartment when I left for home last night. I got to my office this morning, opened the glove compartment... no gun.’
He took the pencil from his ear, examined it, flicked off a little wax and drew a form towards him.
‘Name and address?’
As soon as I said Eastlake, he stiffened.
‘You live at Eastlake?’
‘That’s what I’m telling you.’
‘You’re reporting the loss of a .38 automatic?’
‘That’s correct.’
He pointed a thick finger at a bench against the far wall.
‘Sit over there.’
‘I’m busy,’ I said. ‘I’m reporting the gun as stolen. That’s all I need do, isn’t it?’
‘You think so?’ He snorted. ‘Sit over there!’
I didn’t move. After glaring at me, he flicked down a switch on his intercom.
‘Lieutenant? I have a man here who lives at Eastlake, reporting a .38 automatic stolen.’
A mild voice said, ‘Send him up please, Sergeant.’
Franklin pointed to a door.
‘First floor: second door.’
I walked up concrete steps to a door. I knocked, turned the handle and walked in.
Lieutenant Abe Goldstein sat behind a small shabby desk in a small, shabbier room.
From time to time Linda and I had run into him at the Country club. He was one of the top-class bridge players there. He was a bachelor, and it was whispered that he was a queer, but those who knew him well said he had only two interests; police work and bridge. He was a man a little over forty years of age with steely grey eyes, a big, hooked nose and jet black hair, cut short. He had earned a reputation of being a shrewd, clever police officer without whom Chief of Police Schultz would have long been retired.
‘Hello, Mr. Manson,’ he said. ‘Is it you reporting a gun lost?’
‘Hello, Lieutenant.’ I advanced to his desk as he stood up. He waved me to a chair. We settled ourselves.
‘How is Mrs. Manson?’
‘She’s okay. Look, Lieutenant, I should be at my desk right now so can we make this fast? I’m reporting the loss of a gun.’ I gave him my pistol permit. While he was looking at it, I went on, ‘After Mitford had been attacked, Mr. Chandler thought I should carry a gun. It was delivered yesterday evening. When I left for home, I put the gun in the glove compartment of my car. I thought nothing more of it. Reaching my office this morning, I found it gone.’
He pulled a scratch pad towards him and picked up a pen. ‘Could we get this straight, Mr. Manson? What time did you leave your office last night?’
‘Around 19.30.’
‘You drove straight home?’
‘No. I went to the Eat’s bar across the street for a quick supper, then I drove home.’
‘Don’t you usually go home for supper?’ He looked up, his pen hovering.
‘Yes, but last night my wife was with a friend.’
‘Your car was locked?’
‘It wasn’t. It was careless of me. I put the gun in the glove compartment, then walked over to the bar. I wanted to get home fast as I had work to do.’
‘After the meal, you drove straight home?’
‘That’s right. I picked up some mail and drove over to Miss Bower’s place where my wife was. I gave my wife her mail and talked. She and Miss Bower were driving to Dallas because my wife’s mother is unwell. I then returned home.’
‘You left your car outside Miss Bower’s place?’
‘Yes.’
‘Unlocked?’
‘Yes.’
‘You got home at what time?’
‘Just before nine, I think. I put the car in the garage, and then settled to work. This morning I drove to the Imperial hotel to get cigarettes. I left my car...’
‘Unlocked?’ Goldstein broke in.
‘Yes. I arrived at my office, found the gun missing, so here I am.’
Goldstein examined his notes.
‘So from the moment you put the gun in your glove compartment you left the car unlocked?’
‘Yes. Stupid of me, Lieutenant, but I have lots of things on my mind and locking a car isn’t one of them.’
He nodded.
‘I can understand that. Your magazine is quite something. Well, let’s just look at it. While you were having supper, the gun could have been stolen. While you were talking to your wife at Miss Bower’s place, it could have been stolen. While you were buying cigarettes at the Imperial hotel, it could have been stolen.’ He looked up. ‘Am I right?’