Mallory said: «Anywhere. Back to town. Take it easy.»
The Cadillac turned on to the highway again and began to drop down the long grade. Lights showed in the valley once more, little white lights that moved ever so slowly along the floor of the valley. Headlights.
Atkinson heaved up in the seat, got a handkerchief out and dabbed at his mouth. He peered at Macdonald and said in a composed voice:
«What’s the frame, Mac? Shakedown?»
Macdonald laughed gruffly. Then he hiccoughed. He was a little drunk. He said thickly:
«Hell, no. The boys hung a snatch on the Farr girl tonight. Her friends here don’t like it. But you wouldn’t know anything about it, would you, big shot?» He laughed again, jeeringly.
Atkinson said slowly: «It’s funny… but I wouldn’t.» He lifted his white head higher, went on: «Who are these men?»
Macdonald didn’t answer him. Mallory lit a cigarette, guarding the match flame with cupped hands. He said slowly:
«That’s not important, is it? Either you know where Rhonda Farr was taken, or you can give us a lead. Think it out. There’s lots of time.»
Landrey turned his head and looked back. His face was a pale blur in the dark.
«It’s not much to ask, Mr. Atkinson,» he said gravely. His voice was cool, suave, pleasant. He tapped on the seat-back with his gloved fingers.
Atkinson stared towards him for a while, then put his head back against the upholstery. «Suppose I don’t know anything about it,» he said wearily.
Macdonald lifted his hand and hit him in the face. The lawyer’s head jerked against the cushions. Mallory said in a cold, unpleasant voice:
«A little less of your crap, copper.»
Macdonald swore at him, turned his head away. The car went on.
They were down in the valley now. A three-colored airport beacon swung through the sky not far away. There began to be wooded slopes and little beginnings of valley between dark hills. A train roared down from the Newhall tunnel, gathered speed and went by with a long shattering crash.
Landrey said something to his driver. The Cadillac turned off on to a dirt road. The driver switched the lights off and picked his way by moonlight. The dirt road ended in a spot of dead brown grass with low bushes around it. There were old cans and torn discolored newspapers faintly visible on the ground.
Macdonald got his bottle out, hefted it and gurgled a drink. Atkinson said thickly:
«I’m a bit faint. Give me one.»
Macdonald turned, held the bottle out, then growled: «Aw, go to hell!» and put it away in his coat. Mallory took a flash out of the door pocket, clicked it on, and put the beam on Atkinson’s face. He said:
«Talk, kidnapper.»
Atkinson put his hands on his knees and stared straight at the beacon of the flashlight. His eyes were glassy and there was blood on his chin. He spoke:
«This is a frame by Costello. I don’t know what it’s all about. But if it’s Costello, a man named Slippy Morgan will be in on it. He has a shack on the mesa by Baldwin Hills. They might have taken Rhonda Farr there.»
He closed his eyes, and a tear showed in the glare of the flash. Mallory said slowly:
«Macdonald should know that.»
Atkinson kept his eyes shut, said: «I guess so.» His voice was dull and without any feeling.
Macdonald balled his fist, lurched sidewise and hit him in the face again. The lawyer groaned, sagged to one side. Mallory’s hand jerked; jerked the flash. His voice shook with fury. He said:
«Do that again and I’ll put a slug in your guts, copper. So help me I will.»
Macdonald rolled away, with a foolish laugh. Mallory snapped off the light. He said, more quietly:
«I think you’re telling the truth, Atkinson. We’ll case this shack of Slippy Morgan’s.»
The driver swung and backed the car, picked his way back to the highway again.
FIVE
A WHITE picket fence showed up for a moment before the headlights went off. Behind it on a rise the gaunt shapes of a couple of derricks groped towards the sky. The darkened car went forward slowly, stopped across the street from a small frame house. There were no houses on that side of the street, nothing between the car and the oil field. The house showed no light.
Mallory got to the ground and went across. A gravel driveway led along to a shed without a door. There was a touring car parked under the shed. There was thin worn grass along the driveway and a dull patch of something that had once been a lawn at the back. There was a wire clothes line and a small stoop with a rusted screen door. The moon showed all this.
Beyond the stoop there was a single window with the blind drawn; two thin cracks of light showed along the edges of the blind. Mallory went back to the car, walking on the dry grass and the dirt road surface without sound.
He said: «Let’s go, Atkinson.»
Atkinson got out heavily, stumbled across the street like a man half asleep. Mallory grabbed his arm sharply. The two men went up the wooden steps, crossed the porch quietly. Atkinson fumbled and found the bell. He pressed it. There was a dull buzz inside the house. Mallory flattened himself against the wall, on the side where he would not be blocked by the opening screen door.
Then the house door came open without sound, and a figure loomed behind the screen. There was no light behind the figure. The lawyer said mumblingly:
«It’s Atkinson.»
The screen hook was undone. The screen door came outward.
«What’s the big idea?» said a lisping voice that Mallory had heard before.
Mallory moved, holding his Luger waist high. The man in the doorway whirled at him. Mallory stepped in on him swiftly, making a clucking sound with tongue and teeth, shaking his head reprovingly.
«You wouldn’t have a gun, would you, Slippy,» he said, nudging the Luger forward. «Turn slow and easy, Slippy. When you feel something against your spine go on in, Slippy. We’ll be right with you.»
The lanky man put his hands up and turned. He walked back into the darkness, Mallory’s gun in his back. A small living-room smelled of dust and casual cooking. A door had light under it. The lanky man put one hand down slowly and opened the door.
An unshaded light bulb hung from the middle of the ceiling. A thin woman in a dirty white smock stood under it, limp arms at her sides. Dull colorless eyes brooded under a mop of rusty hair. Her fingers fluttered and twitched in involuntary contractions of the muscles. She made a thin plaintive sound, like a starved cat.
The lanky man went and stood against the wall on the opposite side of the room, pressing the palms of his hands against wallpaper. There was a fixed, meaningless smile on his face.
Landrey’s voice said from behind: «I’ll take care of Atkinson’s pals.»
He came into the room with a big automatic in his gloved hand. «Nice little home,» he added pleasantly.
There was a metal bed in a corner of the room. Rhonda Farr was lying on it, wrapped to the chin in a brown army blanket. Her white wig was partly off her head and damp golden curls showed. Her face was bluish white, a mask in which the rouge and lip-paint glared. She was snoring.
Mallory put his hand under the blanket, felt for her pulse. Then he lifted an eyelid and looked closely at the upturned pupil.
He said: «Doped.»
The thin woman in the smock wet her lips. «A shot of M,» she said in a slack voice. «No harm done, mister.»
Atkinson sat down on a hard chair that had a dirty towel on the back of it. His dress shirt was dazzling under the unshaded light. The lower part of his face was smeared with dry blood. The lanky man looked at him contemptuously, and patted the stained wallpaper with the flat of his hands. Then Macdonald came into the room.