“You what?”
“Well... he suggested it, and I was afraid not to. And I didn’t want them any more, anyway.”
I ground my teeth together. Right now’ I wasn’t nearly as interested in the jewelry itself as I was in getting the guys who had lifted it, but I should at least have wrapped up that bracelet last night. I was even starting to wonder what could have made me so stupid as to leave the thing loose, when I remembered it was Cannon who’d made me so stupid. It was just another reason to hate him, and maybe before long it wouldn’t make any difference.
I said, “Honey, listen. You shooed Cannon out last night, but do you think he’d jump at the chance to come back? If he has any sense he would.”
“This might sound egotistical, but I’m sure he would. He was practically on his knees when he left. But—”
“What would you say if I asked you to get in touch with him, tell him you’re sorry, that you’d like to see him tonight?”
It took her a while to answer that one, but she said, “All right, Shell. You’re a very strange and thorough detective, aren’t you?”
The same tone was in her voice now that had been there when I’d asked her last night to wear the bracelet. I started to explain everything, then made myself shut up. It wouldn’t be any good that way. And I wondered for a moment if she could possibly be conning me. I said, “You’ll do it then?”
“When am I supposed to see him and where are we going?”
“Never mind where you’re going. But you want to see him around ten.”
“All right. Goodbye.”
“Hey, I called earlier this morning but couldn’t get you. What—”
“Believe it or not, I was buying some rhinestones.”
She hung up. I hung up. By four-fifteen I’d finished all the checking in town I was going to do. It was quite a trio I’d been checking on: The Professor was the brain, the Cowboy was the Houdini, and the Cannon was the muscle and boss. From Hooko, who had long known Cannon well, I’d learned that he should have been called No-Cannon Cannon, because he never carried a gun; Artie and Cowboy Tinkle always kept their arms warm with heaters. I had talked to a man named Sylvester Johnson, who lived next door to the attorney who’d been killed, beaten and shot during a burglary. Sylvester’s story, condensed: “Yes, sir, that night we were sitting out back by the barbecue pit, drinking beer. No, we didn’t see or hear anything till Mr. Drake came home. He parked his car and went inside. About a minute after he turned on the lights we heard a shot. Called the police. No, didn’t see anybody leave. Glad to help.”
I’d checked the dates of all nine reported robberies — and Diane’s — against weather-bureau records. They’d all been pulled off on moonless or overcast nights. All between, roughly, ten and two. If people were going to be out, they’d be gone by ten; and often they were home shortly after the bars closed. A heavy fog was predicted for tonight.
It was solid enough. I called Homicide and got Samson on the phone. After the helloes I said, “Sam, I’m coming down to get my Caddy in half an hour — boys said it would be ready. You’re buddies with Turner in Scientific Investigation. How about having his infra-red flashlight, and the red-lensed goggles that go with it, in the back of my Cad along with all my junk?”
“What? Why in blue hell do you want that stuff?”
“I, uh, lost something in a dark cellar. I want to go look for it. I’d be awful happy if you didn’t ask me any more.”
“Goddammit, Shell, have you got something we need?”
“Nothing that’s any good to anybody but me. And not a thing that’s worth a damn as evidence — yet. That’s straight, Sam. But go along with me and maybe there will be.”
“I’d like to, Shell, but...”
“And, Sam, you saw the papers. Can’t be helped, but I’d sure like some more stories in them tomorrow or the next day. A story that would rub out the smell before it sinks too far in. And besides, you don’t know what I want the stuff for. Maybe I’m going out to Lover’s Lane and spy on the high-school kids.”
“Shell Scott shot in the head would make a nice story. And what the hell am I going to tell Turner? Well...” He was quiet for a few seconds. “I ought to put you in jail for sending me out to get that crazy woman last night.”
“Was she trouble?”
“When I got to the Grove she was singing. Into the bloody microphone. I like to never got her out of there. And when I did — let me tell you.”
I got my first good laugh of the day from his story. Then he said, “Well, hell, look in your trunk when you get down here. I can’t promise anything.”
“Thanks, Sam. See you.”
There was no trouble getting the Cad, and Sam had left what I wanted in the trunk. The goggles looked much like red-lensed glasses, but the light was a big sonovagun, well over a foot wide and long, perhaps four inches thick, with a curved metal handle on its top. I put them both in the front seat and drove to Eighth Street, parked before Porter’s Radio Shop and went inside. This was my second trip today; I’d been here about noon. Porter, a young studious-looking ex-G.I. came out.
“Hi, Shell. I just finished it up. That’s fifty bucks.”
“A hell of a price for one vacuum tube and a dry-cell battery in a beat-up cigar box.”
He grinned. “You’re paying, my friend, for my genius and brilliant know-how.”
“I’d have made it myself if I’d had the time.”
He sneered, then went into the back room and came out with the “squawk box” I’d ordered. He sat it on the counter beside the compact radio receiver complete with loop antenna. I gave Porter his fifty bucks and he frowned. “You know, I ought to have a deposit on that receiver,” he said. “Only one I got with a loop.”
“I’ll bring it back tomorr—” I stopped. “Maybe I’d better leave a deposit at that.”
I gave him some more money, then used his phone to call Lois again. She answered right away.
“Shell, honey. Well?”
“He... I guess I overestimated myself. He... well, he couldn’t make it. He was awfully apologetic, but he said he’d see me tomorrow instead.”
I laughed. I felt like a million. “Baby,” I said. “He won’t see you tomorrow — or the next day, or the next.”
“Shell, I’ve been just sitting here for almost an hour, thinking a lot. You knew he wouldn’t see me tonight didn’t you?”
“I knew he wouldn’t because if he tried I was going to clobber him with a tire iron. But I did have a hunch he wouldn’t try.”
“Shell! Darn you, can’t you let a girl in on anything?”
“I’ll tell you the truth, Sweetheart. I wasn’t sure I could trust you.”
“You sure now?”
“No. But sure enough.”
“Shell, darn you — damn you!”
“Still friends?”
“Oh, I suppose...” Then her voice dropped lower, softened, got like champagne again, and I remembered her at the dice table in her creme-de-menthe gown, the way she’d looked when I’d asked her what she wore with champagne. She said, “No... I don’t think you and I can be friends.” The “friends” was slightly accented. She went on, “Shell, it seems that every time I talk to you or see you, I learn more about you.”
It seemed time to try pressing my luck again. “How much would you like to learn?”
A soft chuckle was her answer. Then, “Will I see you? Later maybe?”
I thought about that. “With any luck, honey, I’ll see you later.”
“Promise?”
“Sure, honey.”
We hung up. I lugged the squawk box and receiver out to my Cad and sat it on the front seat alongside the flash and goggles I’d got from Sam. I was ready to go.
I drove to Artie Payne’s first. During the afternoon I’d learned where The Professor and the other two lived, and where Professor Payne kept his ’5 °Chrysler — which was used on the trio’s jobs. It was dark when I reached his place, and it took me only a couple minutes to tape the small squeal box to his car’s rear axle. I brushed off my clothes and drove three miles to Cannon’s hotel on National Boulevard, went four blocks past it, made a U-turn and parked, lit a cigarette and waited. The big light, red glasses, and radio receiver were on the seat beside me.