I said to Pellingham, “If you have this gun with you, perhaps I can identify it. If I can, it might be a good idea for me to scratch my initials on it.”
Pellingham said, “That’s an excellent idea. And when you get on the witness stand, you won’t need to tell anyone when those initials were scratched on it. Do you get me?”
“I’m not certain that I do.”
“The district attorney will simply say, ‘Mr. Lam, I show you a gun which has scratched on it the initials D.L. I’ll ask you who scratched those initials on there, if you know.’ Then you’ll say, ‘I did.’ Then the district attorney will say, ‘Why?’ and you’ll say, ‘So I could identify it.’ Then the district attorney will ask you, ‘Is this the revolver which you first saw in a desk in an apartment in New Orleans?’ and so on, and so on.”
I said “I see.”
“That’s splendid,” Hale said. “We’ll both scratch our initials on there.”
Pellingham took us over to a comer of the waiting-room. “We’ll do it right here,” he said, “because I’m going to rush right up to police headquarters, fire some test bullets, and compare them with the fatal bullet which killed young Craig.”
We watched him while he placed a light Gladstone bag on his lap, opened it, took out a small wooden box. He slid the cover back on this wooden box. Tied to the bottom by strings which went through holes bored in the wood was the .38 caliber revolver the agency had furnished me months earlier.
Hale pounced on it. “That’s the one,” he said emphatically. “That’s the one that was in there. And I’m betting ten to one it was the gun that killed this man Craig.”
“Scratch your initials on it,” Pellingham said and handed him a knife.
Hale scratched his initials on the rubber butt plate of the revolver.
Pellingham handed the gun to me.
I looked at it carefully. “I think it’s the same gun. Of course, I didn’t take down the serial number. But as nearly as I can tell—”
Hale said, “Why, Lam! Of course it’s the gun. You know that.”
“I think — well, it looks—”
Pellingham said, “Here, put your initials on it.” He handed me his knife.
Bertha was looking from the gun to me. Her face was a study. Hale was beaming.
Pellingham said, “Now you’ve identified that gun. Don’t go back on that identification, and don’t let any shyster lawyer mix you up when he comes to the cross-examination.”
The loud-speaker blared, “Telegram for Lieutenant Pellingham of New Orleans police force. Inquire at the ticket office. Lieutenant, please.”
Pellingham said, “Excuse me,” and closed the Gladstone. He went to the ticket window.
Hale said, “I’m glad you identified that gun. Lam. We should have taken the serial number when we first found it.”
Bertha said, “I’m surprised you didn’t think of that, Donald.”
Hale laughed. “He’s a wise owl all right, Mrs. Cool, but even an owl blinks once in a while. This is the one slip he’s made, and—”
Bertha interrupted, looking hard at me, “Owls don’t blink.”
Pellingham came hurrying toward us, a telegram in his hand, his lips tight. “Lam, did you take a plane from Fort Worth Saturday night?”
“Why?” I asked,
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Lam. I’m going to ask you to go to headquarters with me — at once.”
I said, “I’m sorry. I’ve got other things to do. They’re important.”
“I don’t give a damn what you’ve got to do. You’re coming with me.”
“Got any authority for that?”
Pellingham’s hand dropped down to his side trousers pocket. I thought he was going to come out with a star. Instead he brought out a nickel.
“See that?” he asked. “That’s my authority.”
“Five cents’ worth?”
“No. When I drop that nickel into the coin box of a pay telephone and call police headquarters, I’ll have all the authority I need to back up anything I want to do.”
I felt Hale’s eyes burning into mine, saw Bertha’s glittering stare of intense concentration, and the fixed, cold-blooded determination of Pellingham’s gray eyes.
“Are you going to come with me now?” Pellingham asked.
I said, “Go ahead and drop your nickel,” and started for the door.
Bertha Cool and Emory Hale stood completely petrified, looking at me as though I’d dropped a mask and turned out to be a stranger.
Pellingham took it all as a matter of course. He might have been expecting that particular development in that particular way, from the minute he had opened the interview. He marched calmly and without hurry toward a telephone booth.
The agency car was outside. I jumped in it and made time. I had to make a detour to be safe, up through Burbank to Van Nuys, then down to Ventura Boulevard, then through Sepulveda to Wilshire Boulevard, and into Los Angeles that way. I knew that Pellingham would have the other roads blocked by officers and a description of the agency car out.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I didn’t have time to bury the agency car. I simply drove it into a parking lot near the Palm View Hotel and left it.
I went into the hotel, found the bell captain, and pulled a couple of dollars from my pocket.
“Something I can do for you?” he asked.
“I want about two dollars’ worth of information.”
“Shoot.”
“Sometime early this afternoon a woman who was registered here as Edna Cutler checked out.”
“Lots of women check out.”
“You’ll remember this one because she’s brunette and has a figure.”
“I seem to remember her checking in. I don’t remember her checking out.”
“She wouldn’t have had much baggage. There was another girl with her, a brunette with hazel eyes. She wore a black dress with a red belt, a red hat, and—”
“I get you now. They got Jeb Miller’s cab.”
“Know where I could find him?”
“He should be outside now. He has a regular stand here.”
I handed the bellboy the two dollars. He said, “Come on, and I’ll introduce you to Miller.”
Jeb Miller listened to what I had to say. He squinted his eyes in an attempt to cudgel his memory into line. “Yeah, I remember the two dames,” he said. “I’m trying to remember where I took them. It was a little apartment house somewhere out on Thirty-fifth Street. I can’t remember the number. I could take you out there and—”
I had the cab door open before he realized he was getting a passenger.
“Don’t pay any attention to speed limits,” I told him.
“Says who?” he asked. “An officer?”
I pulled out my wallet. “Says the bankroll.”
“Okay.”
We started with a jerk. The signal at the corner changed as we got into motion, but Miller managed to skid around the corner just in advance of the oncoming avalanche of cross-street traffic. We had a run of three blocks before another signal changed against us, and Miller made a screaming turn to the right, caught an open signal at the next block, turned to the left, and gave it the gas.
Once he had to stop for a closed signal and a stream of traffic pouring against him. The rest of the time it was nonstop.
He pulled up in front of a little apartment house, an unpretentious, two-storied affair only some fifty feet in width, but running the length of a deep lot — the usual type of brick building with a half-hearted attempt made at freshening up the front by the use of white stucco and red tile.
“This is the joint,” Miller said.
I handed him a five-dollar bill.
“Want me to wait?”
“No. It won’t be necessary.”