“I didn’t introduce him to your daughter, Mr. Ladugo. Whoever told you that, lied.”
“My daughter told me that. Could I have your version of how they happened to meet?”
I told him about Zuky’s and the short conversation I’d had with Jean Hartley. And I asked, “Do you happen to know what kind of car Mr. Hartley drives?”
“It’s red, I know that. Fairly big car. Why?”
I told him about the Buick that had followed us from Santa Monica. That had been a red car.
“I see,” he said, and there was a long silence. Finally, “Are you busy now?”
“I’ll be through with my present assignment at four o’clock. I’ll be free after that.” I was through right then, but I didn’t want the carriage trade to think I might possibly be hungry.
“I’d like you to keep an eye on her,” he said. “Have you enough help to do that around the clock?”
“I can arrange for it. Why don’t I just go to this Jean Hartley and lean on him a little?”
“Are you — qualified to do that?”
“Not legally,” I answered. “But physically, I am.”
“No,” he said, “nothing like that. I can’t — afford anything like that. Angela’s shopping now, but she should be home by five.”
I phoned Barney Allison and he wasn’t busy. I told him it would be the sleep watch for him; I could probably handle the rest of the day.
“It’s your client,” he said. “I figured to get the dirty end of the stick.”
“If you don’t need the business, Barney—”
“I do, I do.” he said. “Command me.”
Then I looked for Jean Hartley in the phone book, but he wasn’t in it. He undoubtedly had an unlisted number. I phoned Sam Heller of the bunko squad, but Sam had no recent address of Jean’s.
At four-thirty, I was parked on Sunset, about a block from the Ladugo driveway. At four-fifty, a Lincoln Continental turned in and it looked like Angela was behind the wheel.
I’d brought a couple sandwiches and a vacuum bottle of coffee; at six, I ate. At six-thirty, I was enjoying a cigarette and a disk jockey when a Beverly Hills prowl car pulled up behind my flivver.
The one who came around to my side of the car was young and healthy and looked pugnacious. He asked cheerfully if I was having car trouble.
I told him I wasn’t.
“Noticed you first almost two hours ago,” he went on. “You live in the neighborhood, do you?”
“About seven miles from here.” I pulled out the photostat of my license to show him.
He frowned and looked at the other cop, who was standing on the curb. “Private man.”
The other man said nothing nor did his expression change. It was a bored expression.
“Waiting for someone?” the younger one asked me.
I nodded. “If you’re worried about me, boys, you could go up to the house and talk to Mr. Ladugo. But don’t let his daughter see you. She’s the one I’m waiting for and Mr. Ladugo is paying me to wait.”
“Ladugo,” the young man said. “Oh, yes. Ladugo. Well, good luck, Mr. Puma.”
They went away.
Even in Beverly Hills, that name meant something. Puma, now, there was a name you had to look up, but not Ladugo. Why was that? I gave it some thought while I waited and decided it was because he was older, and therefore richer. But he wasn’t as old as my dad, and my dad had just finished paying the mortgage on a seven thousand dollar home. He’d been paying on it for twenty years. I must learn to save my money, cut down on cigarettes, or something. Or get into another line of work, like Jean Hartley.
At seven-thirty, the Continental came gliding out of the Ladugo driveway, making all the Cadillacs on Sunset look like 1927 Flints. I gave her a couple of blocks and followed in the Continental’s little sister.
There was a guilty knowledge gnawing at me. If we hadn’t gone to Zuky’s, she wouldn’t have met Jean Hartley. And I wouldn’t have been hired to follow her.
At a road leading off to the right, just beyond the UCLA campus, the Continental turned and began climbing into the hills. It was a private road, serving a quartette of estates, and I didn’t follow immediately. If it dead-ended up above, Angela and I would eventually come nose to nose.
I waited on Sunset for five minutes and then turned in the road. The houses were above the road and four mailboxes were set into a field-stone pillar at the first driveway. Atop the pillar were four names cut out of wrought iron and one of the names was Ladugo. Her trip seemed innocent enough; I drove out again to wait on Sunset.
It was dark, now, and the headlights of the heavy traffic heading toward town came barreling around the curve in a steady stream of light. My radio gave me the day’s news and some comments on the news and then a succession of platters.
A little before ten o’clock, the Continental came out on Sunset again and headed west. I gave it a three block lead.
It went through Santa Monica at a speed that invited arrest, but she was lucky, tonight. On Lincoln Avenue, she swung toward Venice.
Not back to Bugsy’s, I thought. Not back to that rendezvous of the literate and the witty, that charming salon of the sophisticated. A block from Windward, she parked. I was parking a half block behind that when she went through the doorway.
I got out and walked across the street before going down that way. When I came abreast of the bar, I could see her sitting next to a man whose back was to me. I walked down another half block and saw the red Buick four-door Riviera. The registration slip on the steering column informed me that this was the car of Jean Hartley. His address was there, too, and I copied it.
Then I went back to wait.
I didn’t have long. In about ten minutes, both of them came out of Bugsy’s. For a few moments, they talked and then separated and headed for their cars.
I followed Angela’s, though the Buick seemed to be going to the same place. Both of them turned right on Wilshire and headed back toward Westwood.
Westwood was the address on Jean Hartley’s steering column. And that’s where they finally stopped, in front of a sixteen unit apartment building of fieldstone and cerise stucco, built around a sixty foot swimming pool.
I waited until they had walked out of sight and then came back to the flood-lighted patio next to the pool. A list of the tenants was on a board here and one of the tenants was Hartley Associates.
Some associates he’d have. With numbers under their pictures. But who could guess that by looking at him? I went sniffing around until I found his door.
There was an el in the hallway at this point, undoubtedly formed by the fireplace in the apartment. It afforded me enough cover.
Hartley Associates. What could that mean? Phoney stock? I heard music and I heard laughter. The music was Chopin’s and the laughter was Angela’s. Even in the better California apartment houses, the walls are thin.
Some boys certainly do make out.
I heard a thud that sounded like a refrigerator door closing.
I wanted to smoke, but smoke would reveal me to others who might pass along the hall. Chopin changed to Debussy and I thought I heard the tinkle of ice in glasses. Light music, cool drinks and a dark night — while I stood in the hall, hating them both.
Time dragged along on its belly.
And then, right after eleven o’clock, I though I heard a whimper. There had been silence for minutes and this whimper was of the complaining type. I was moving toward the door, where I could hear better, when I heard the scream.
I tried the knob and the door was locked. I stepped back and put a foot into the panel next to the knob and the door came open on the second kick.
Light from the hall poured into the dark apartment and I could see Angela Ladugo, up against a wall, the palms of her hands pressed against the wall, her staring eyes frightened.