“I began wondering then,” he continued. “The inside of the candy I delivered to Otham looked like sugar, but that was just a comparison. It wasn’t sugar, was more powdery, and what was it doing scaled in transparent paper? I was thinking it was white as snow under the wrapper, and then I had it: heroin. It seems unbelievable that all these years I’ve been transporting heroin in candy boxes for that silly boob Booker, but there’s no other solution.”
“If that was pure heroin,” I said. “Something less than two pounds in each of the two boxes is worth more than ten thousand dollars wholesale in the foreign market. Here, properly cut with sugar of milk, ten times that. Four deliveries come close to a potential million bucks.”
Donaldson got up and left the room. He returned with a bottle of Scotch and two water glasses. He poured two fingers in each glass and handed me one.
“What happened after Ukiah?” I asked.
“Well, I was scared and I pushed the Plymouth as fast as it would move. I was in San Rafael before I could think straight. I realized I wasn’t being followed and had better make some plans. San Francisco was out, I knew. They’d be waiting for me on the other side of the bridge. I thought of Doris and I was sure she’d take me in. At Marin City I parked the car and took a bus up here. I haven’t stepped outside the door since.”
“Have you told Doris?”
“Part of it.”
We sipped the drinks. The Scotch was warm and powerful. I took out the picture of Donaldson in his corporal’s uniform and handed it to him. “Ever see this?”
He stared at it and said, “Damned if I have.”
“It’s you.”
He nodded, concentrating on the snapshot.
“The alleged Mrs. Anne Donaldson gave it to me,” I said. I described my client, but he denied any knowledge of her. I asked, “Were you ever in San Francisco in uniform?”
“When we were at Stoneman before going overseas,” he remembered. “I had one forty-eight hour pass.” He added, “Come to think, I’d just got the stripes.”
“This could have been taken then.”
“Yes, but you know how it is. They’re forever taking your picture in those gin mills in the city. You’re a cheap tool to the girl you’re with if you don’t buy her one. It happens in any city, anywhere. You forget the picture, the bar, the night club, the girl. It’s something you do on leave, that’s all.”
“True, but this is a fairly fresh photograph, must have been developed recently from a negative in the files of some night club. Try and remember where you spent that leave.”
“Mason, Powell, Turk, Eddy, Ellis, O’Farrell streets,” Donaldson recalled, smiling. “Joints I wouldn’t be caught in now.”
“How about a place you were in during leave and after the war both?”
Donaldson studied the snapshot soberly. “The Green Slipper,” he said. “That’s it, The Green Slipper on Broadway. Eve and I have been there. I recognize the upholstery now. Whoever the girl was, she’s been cut out of the picture.”
We finished our drinks and Donaldson poured more Scotch in the glasses. He sat back, relaxed. “I feel good, telling you this, getting it off my chest.” He grinned. “I’m glad I didn’t shoot you.”
“Why didn’t you call a cop in the first place?”
“How could I?” He waved his arm in the air. “The candy’s gone, and I can’t prove anyone tried to kill me.”
“Does Miss O’Rourke have a car?”
“Yes.”
“Phone and get her out here,” I told him. “The two of you get in her car and get the hell away from here. You know Max Wendell’s farm in Moraga?”
“The fight camp? Yes, but...”
“Tell Max I sent you. He’ll put you up.”
“What about Doris? She has her job.”
“Get serious, Donaldson. I found this place and whoever wants to find you isn’t far behind. If they miss you, they’ll go to work on your girl friend.”
Donaldson swallowed a big chunk of nothing and went to the phone. When he was through talking to the Rio Cabana he asked, “What’re you going to do?”
I grinned at him. “Do you want to hire a private detective?”
He rubbed his chin reflectively, said, “All right.” His lips worked into the reckless smile of his snapshot and he added, “You can’t collect from a dead man.”
I finished my drink and stood up. “You’ll be safe with Max,” I said. “Take the gun with you.” We shook hands. He left the lights on as he let me out.
Parked in the shadows up the road I watched Doris O’Rourke arrive. Donaldson had evidently packed a bag for her, since they didn’t waste any time leaving the cottage. I followed them to the main highway, then drove back to Casper’s Cozy Corner and hit the sack.
Six
It was cool and foggy when I left the auto court early next morning. I drove to San Francisco with the windows up and the headlights on, arrived at my office shortly after ten o’clock. Hilda and Jack Holland were waiting.
“A Miss Bustamente phoned,” Hilda informed me. “She wants you to call her.”
“Good.” I sat behind the desk. Jack was planked on the edge of it.
“I told you about the Plymouth already,” Jack said. “Last night I checked with the department. They have no record of a missing Robert Donaldson. No one has inquried about him at all, and they’ve never heard of Mrs. Donaldson.”
“Donaldson hasn’t either.” I grabbed the phone and called the Westshire. Mrs. Donaldson checked out half an hour ago, they told me. No, there was no forwarding address.
“The phantom client,” Jack scowled. He pulled an Optimo out of his lapel pocket and unravelled it. As he lit the cigar, Hilda reached behind me and lifted the window to the limit.
“I talked to Donaldson last night,” I related. “We’re on his side now, for the moment anyhow.” Jack sat cross legged, puffing his cigar, and Hilda stood attentively, leaning her elbow on the filing cabinet, while I briefed them.
“A dope ring,” Jack slapped his thigh vehemently. “Man, how I’d like to put the kibosh on those skunks.”
Hilda asked, “Why use a man like Donaldson in an operation like this? He could blow up the whole thing, without knowing it.”
“That’s the beauty of it, from their standpoint,” I reasoned. “Donaldson not only cuts down the overhead, he won’t shoot off his mouth because he doesn’t know what he’s doing. And he’s a legitimate salesman with a compatible income, not a man with a record who might draw suspicion making deliveries.”
“My. They are clever,” Hilda commented.
“He must have been carrying virgin horse,” Jack suggested. “They pack it in some special paper, pour chocolate over it and freeze it so it looks like the McCoy. In Tasco and Eureka they cut the stuff and whatever they don’t peddle directly they can ship over through Nevada, or up the coast to Portland, and points North.”
“Pennant Shirt Shops has outlets either way.”
We chewed it over. They agreed that Eureka Investigations was apparently the pivotal point in a sucker play.
“You drop by the Westshire and get a line on Mrs. Donaldson, Jack,” I said. “I’ll see Miss Bustamente. We’ll meet here, or phone Hilda if we get anything hot.”
The fog had lifted. It was warm and brilliant as I drove out Van Ness avenue. Eve Bustamente, in a cerise towel housecoat, was hopping mad when she admitted me to her apartment.