Lydia suddenly made a dive at me, but the cops grabbed her.
"Get her out of here," the Homicide man said as she began to curse. Even his face registered disgust.
Things quieted down when she had gone. The Homicide man came over to me, asked where I figured in this.
"She's crazy drunk," I said. "I don't figure in it at all. I only grabbed her gun."
"What's this about her car?"
"We had a little accident this morning. There was nothing to it."
He took out his note-book, asked me my name. I told him Jack Cain. My middle name was Jack, anyway. I gave him my address, went into details about the Cadillac, said nothing about the man in the white dinner-jacket trying to mash Clair. I guessed it would come out at the trial, but I wasn't going to help unnecessarily.
"Any idea why she shot the guy?" the Homicide man demanded.
I shook my head. "I wasn't watching them," I lied. "He suddenly punched her, began kicking her. I went to her help; before I could reach the guy, she shot him."
"Okay," he said, eyeing me over. I could see he wasn't entirely satisfied, but he had a lot on his mind. "We'll be needing you again."
I said all right, and could we go now?
He sent a cop out to check the licence tag on the Buick. The cop came back, nodded.
"Okay, you can go," the Homicide man said. "Stick close."
We made our way out of the dining-room. Eyes followed us. It was nice to get into the lobby. The captain of waiters had Clair's wrap ready. He dropped it over her shoulders, said he was sorry our evening was spoilt. He sounded as if he was really sorry.
The cigarette girl was standing on a chair, trying to see into the dining-room. Her nakedness had lost its charm for me. She eyed me curiously.
Clair was white and silent. She stood waiting while the check girl found my hat. The peachbloom pyjamas seemed tawdry, out of place in the tense atmosphere. I cursed Patrolman O'Brien. I decided I must have been crazy to have taken a recommendation from a cop.
"Just a second, sweetheart," I said to Clair, took her chiffon scarf, put it around her head, fixed it so it all but hid her face.
She regarded me with scared eyes. "I don't—–"
"Yes, you do," I said. "The press are lurking outside."
I took her arm and we went down the stairs. It was only days after that I remembered I'd forgotten to ask for a check. The captain of waiters either forgot too or else he felt he couldn't ask payment for such an unsatisfactory evening.
As we stepped into the street, four men came hurrying towards us. I grabbed Clair's arm, rushed her to the alley.
The men hesitated, stopped, stared after us.
"Get in," I said, jerking open the Buick door.
A flash-light exploded in our faces. I shoved Clair into the car, turned.
A little guy was standing near me, a press camera in his hand.
"You're the guy who grabbed the gun?" he asked. "Jack Cain, ain't it?"
"Not me," I said, edging towards him. "Cain's still in there." I grabbed his camera before he could guess what I was at, whipped out the plate, dropped it on the sidewalk, trod on it.
I handed him back the camera.
"You punk!" he exclaimed. "You can't do this to me." He set himself for a swing, but I gave him a quick push, sent him staggering, got into the Buick.
I shot out of the alley.
Clair wanted to know why I had said I was Jack Cain; why
I had smashed the photographer's plate. She sounded very scared.
There was no point in keeping it from her any longer. I told her about Lois Spence telephoning me on the night before we left Paradise Palms. I gave her an idea what Lois had said.
"I'm not kidding myself," I said, watching the road unreel beneath the head-lights. "Those two are dangerous, vicious. That's why I ducked out of sight. Maybe I was a fool. I should have put you somewhere safe and gone after them. Now we're stuck. This case is going to get a hell of a lot of publicity. We'll be in the papers. As soon as Lois knows where we are, she and Bat will start something or my guess is all wrong. That's why I gave a wrong name and smashed that plate. It'll give us a little time to make up our minds what to do."
"I know what I'm going to do," she said in a steady voice, "I'm not giving up our home for them. I'm not scared as long as you're with me."
It was what I hoped she would say, but for all that, I had an uneasy feeling that our spell of peace was coming to an end.
4
We read in the morning's newspaper that Clem Kuntz, the shrewdest criminal lawyer on the Pacific Coast, was handling Lydia Hamilton's defence. I expected he'd call on us. He did.
He arrived as I was going off duty. I thought he was a customer when I saw the big Lincoln roll up the driveway, but I soon found out different.
"I want to talk to you," he said, getting out of the car. "I'm Kuntz. Maybe you've heard of me."
I had heard of him all right, even before he had taken charge of the Gray Howard Slaying, as the newspapers called it. Gray Howard was the name of the man in the white dinner-jacket. He turned out to be a big-shot movie director.
I eyed Kuntz over. He was a squat square man with a mulberry coloured face. He had the hardest eyes I'd ever seen in a man's face, and he gave me the full benefit of them. I stared right back at him, said: "Go ahead. I can give you a couple of minutes, then I want my supper."
He shook his head. "A couple of minutes won't do," he said. "Let's go somewhere where we can talk. You'd better play with me, Cain. I could put you in a hell of a spot if I felt that way."
I hesitated, decided that maybe he could put me in a spot, jerked my head to the house.
"Then you'd better come in."
We went into the house, and I showed him into the front room. He looked round, grunted, took up a position by the window. I sat in the easy chair, yawned, pulled my nose, said, "Shoot."
"You married?" he asked abruptly.
I nodded. "What of it?"
"I'd like to meet your wife."
I shook my head. "Not before you tell me what's on your mind," I said. "I'm particular whom she meets."
His eyes snapped. "Scared to let me see her?" he barked.
I laughed at him. "You're wasting time," I said; "come off your high horse."
The door opened and Clair came in. She was wearing a cute frilly apron over a simple little frock in sky blue. She looked a kid, and a pretty one at that.
"Oh, I'm sorry . . ." she said, backing out.
"Come in," I said. "This is Mr. Clem Kuntz. The Mr. Kuntz." I looked at the mulberry coloured face. "This is my wife. Satisfied?"
He was looking narrowly at Clair. There was an expression of startled dismay in his eyes.
I suddenly got what he was driving at. I grinned.
"Not what you expected?" I said. "I bet your client told you she was hard, brassy, and on the make."