“Donald, are you coming back out here?” she asked.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I’m going to be out for a while.”
“How long?”
“All night.”
“Donald!”
“Did you want me there... all night?”
“No... I’m... I don’t want to be alone.”
“All married people have to make adjustments,” I said.
“This is one hell of a honeymoon,” she said and hung up.
I went to a drugstore, bought a light nylon handbag, bought shaving things, toothbrush and a few toilet articles, then went out to Olvera Street and had a nice Mexican dinner. After that, I strolled down to the Union Depot, got aboard the Lark, took care not to go through either the club car or the diner to avoid being seen, entered my bedroom, closed the door and went to sleep.
I didn’t go in for breakfast because I didn’t want to be trapped in the dining car. When the train got into San Francisco I tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. I carried my own light overnight bag and didn’t go near the baggage wagons where the red-cap porters distribute the baggage.
I grabbed a cab, went to the Golden Gateway Hotel and registered under my own name, then told the clerk, “I expect to be joined by George Biggs Gridley. He isn’t here yet, but I want him near me. I’ll register him in and pay for the adjoining room. You can give me the key and I’ll turn it over to Gridley when he comes in. I’ll pay for the first day in cash. Later on, if we stay more than one day, we can make credit arrangements.”
I took out my billfold.
The clerk was all smiles.
He gave me two adjoining rooms.
I looked up a drive-yourself car agency, rented a station wagon, drove back down to Third and Townsend, turned in my baggage check and got the trunk.
It was a reasonably heavy trunk and there was something about the balance that bothered me. It seemed to have the weight all in the bottom.
I drove up to the hotel, unloaded the car, drove into a parking place, came back and had the trunk taken to the room I’d rented under the name of George Biggs Gridley. I thought that was a nice name.
I called the bell captain, said, “I’m in a hell of a jam. I’ve lost the key to my trunk. I’ve got to get it open.”
He said, “The porter keeps a whole bunch of keys. He can probably handle it. I’ll send him up.”
I waited about five minutes and the porter came in with a key ring that looked as though it had a hundred keys on it of assorted shapes and sizes.
It took the porter less than thirty seconds to find a key that clicked back the lock on the trunk.
He took the two dollars I handed him and grinned. “It’s a cinch,” he said. “These locks depend mostly on the shape of the key. They don’t put anything very elaborate in them in the way of tumblers. It’s just a question of finding something that fits.”
When he had left I opened the trunk.
It was filled to the brim with woolen blankets. In the bottom of the trunk, wedged in by blankets so they wouldn’t jiggle around, were some cards and books that were full of cabalistic figures.
I sat on the floor and studied the cards and the books. I couldn’t make heads or tails of them. All I knew for sure was that they dealt in large sums of money, but there were no names, no words of any sort; just combinations of figures. Over in the right-hand column there would be figures: 20-50-IC-2C-5C-7C-2G-1G-.
Apparently the C’s represented hundreds and the G’s thousands — that much I felt I could use as a starter.
Then there were cards. These cards each contained a number at the top and a series of notations.
I selected one at random. It read 0051 364. Below these numbers was 4-5-59-10-1-; 8-5-59-4-1+.
I studied several of the cards. The number at the top quite frequently ended 364. The numbers on the lower part of the cards were always separated by minus signs but the end would sometimes be plus, sometimes minus.
I pulled everything out of the trunk and started looking it over.
It was quite a while before I found the false-bottom compartment.
I wouldn’t have found it then if I hadn’t turned the thing up and tapped around with my knuckles.
A movable board was held in place by concealed screws. This board slid out after I had removed those small screws, so carefully concealed that it was almost impossible to find them. The heads had been covered with cloth of exactly the same pattern as the lining of the trunk.
The compartment below was filled with thousand-dollar bills.
I counted them. There were exactly fifty-two one-thousand-dollar bills. I counted twice to make sure, then I took out fifty of the bills, carefully replaced the remaining two in the secret compartment, slid the board back into place and replaced the screws.
Then I carefully replaced the blankets in the trunk. I ran a handkerchief over the things I had touched to be sure I left no fingerprints on the inside of the trunk.
I went down to the cashier’s office. “I’m Mr. Lam,” I said. “I have to check out. My bill is paid.”
She looked it up, said, “But you checked in only a short time ago, Mr. Lam.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I had to change my plans.”
She frowned. “Did you wish a refund?”
“Heavens, no. I’ve used the room. That’s all right. I just wanted to have the records straight.”
She gave me a receipt and a smile.
“All right. You’re checked out. I’m sorry you couldn’t stay longer.”
“So am I. I’ll be back, however.”
I walked over to the mail desk.
“A message for George Biggs Gridley?” I asked, showing the key to Gridley’s room.
“No messages, Mr. Gridley.”
I frowned. “Please check again.”
She did. There were no messages. That bothered me a lot. By right Gridley’s phone should have been hot by this time.
I went back to the trunk, took out the books and cards, put them in a heavy pasteboard carton, sent them by express to myself in Los Angeles, then drove to the Happy Daze Camera Company.
I went inside. It was run by a Japanese. He came to meet me, bowing and scraping.
“I want to see a good used camera,” I said. “And I want a box of double-weight five by seven enlarging paper.”
He got the paper first.
I opened the box of paper while he was getting out the cameras to show me. I slipped out about fifteen sheets of photographic paper, kicked these sheets under the counter and slipped the fifty one-thousand-dollar bills in where the photographic paper had been.
The man who was waiting on me was evidently the manager of the place. There was another Japanese who was older and who had been watching me curiously, but an attractive woman came in and occupied his attention up at the new camera counter at the front end of the store.
I noticed her out of the corner of my eye but kept my attention on the manager, who was scurrying around trying to clinch the sale.
I picked out one of the cameras he brought over. “How about a case for this?” I asked.
He bowed and smiled and scurried away again.