Gibbs studied the photographs with a magnifying glass, memorizing each detail. The position of the bodies indicated that Stearne had been shot first. Right, in falling, had slumped over Stearne’s legs. There was, Gibbs noticed, a typewriter on a little stand near Stearne’s body. He wondered if perhaps Stearne had been trying to type something when the bullet had struck him. Or perhaps Stearne had just finished typing something. Details of the typewriter were obscure. Flashlights had been used for the photographs, and the shadow of a desk had in each instance fallen on the typewriter, but Gibbs was able to see it was a portable of the same make as the one he used in making out his reports.
Having found out all the authorities knew, Gibbs started a search for Nita Moline.
It was no trick at all to learn that Joan Harpler had given Miss Moline dry clothes, and to get a description of those clothes.
Gibbs had a description of the car and its license number. A check-up on the public garages in Santa Delbarra revealed that the car was not stored in any of them. Calls to the hotels disclosed that no woman was registered under the name of Nita Moline. Gibbs retired to an all-night restaurant where he gave the matter considerable thought. He was, he realized, getting precisely nowhere, and, as Mr. Hazlit had pointed out, a man in his profession was paid to secure results. His next step was to ascertain if Miss Moline had registered in one of the hotels under another name.
Realizing that he had at least an all-night job on his hands, and feeling the need of some place where he could establish a headquarters, Gibbs decided to get a room in one of the commercial hotels. Appraising the situation with the eye of a hard-bitten traveler, he picked the Balboa as the hotel most suited to his needs.
He registered, had his baggage taken up to his room, and casually leaned up against the desk.
“Something else I can do for you?” the clerk asked.
“I don’t know,” Gibbs said. “I’m trying to locate a party — an attractive girl with golden blond hair, dressed in a blouse, a red sport coat with wide lapels, white sailor slacks, driving a big cream-colored sport coupe, license number 8P3036. She may be registered here in the hotel, or...”
“No, she isn’t registered,” the clerk interrupted. “I haven’t seen her since around eleven o’clock this morning.”
Gibbs was careful not to show too much anxiety in following up his lead. “You on duty at eleven o’clock this morning?” he asked.
“This is my long shift,” the clerk explained. “I come on at ten and stay until one o’clock the following morning. I get these long shifts twice a month, and then...”
“Then tomorrow you go on day duty?”
The clerk smiled and shook his head. “No, tomorrow I go on at night.”
“I see. So you haven’t seen this party since this morning?”
“That’s right.”
“And she isn’t registered here?”
“No.”
“Just visiting someone in the hotel?”
“No. She stopped to pick up a chap who’s staying here in the hotel, a Theodore Shale, in room three-sixteen. Something queer about Shale — but I guess I shouldn’t talk about that.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, we’re not supposed to talk about guests.”
“Oh, bosh,” Gibbs said. “After all, you’re among friends. Shale, wasn’t he the one who did the rescue act this morning?”
The clerk’s eyes lit with interest. “I hadn’t heard about it. What was it?”
Gibbs was purposely vague. “I don’t know. He jumped overboard after some woman who fell off a yacht.”
“That’s the one all right,” the clerk said. “He came in soaking wet, and he didn’t offer a single word of explanation.”
“So this woman went up to Shale’s room?”
“No, not up to his room. He came down to wait for her. They went away together.”
“Don’t know where they went, do you?”
“No. Shale hasn’t returned.”
“He should be hack by this time, if he’s going to get any good out of his room.”
The clerk grinned. “If that baby had stopped by for me in that buzzbuggy, I wouldn’t be back either.”
“I think I’ve met this man, Shale,” Gibbs said. “He’s blondish, isn’t he, with stooped shoulders and...”
“Not this one. He’s dark, wavy black hair, and a good pair of shoulders, athletic-looking fellow. He evidently only has the one suit of clothes. He put on some slacks and a sport shirt with his business coat, telephoned back about noon to have the trousers sent out to be pressed.”
Gibbs said, “Guess that isn’t the Shale I knew. What’s he doing, do you know?”
“Yes. He got a commercial rate. Wait a minute. I have his card somewhere. Let me take a look. Oh, yes, here it is. Freelander Pasteboard Products Company.”
Gibbs said, “No. This fellow I knew was in the insurance business. Well, guess I’ll go out and take a little stroll. I have trouble sleeping. Some nights I can’t get to sleep before three or four o’clock in the morning.”
“I know just how you feel,” the clerk said. “When I change shifts, I have a lot of trouble sleeping for a day or two.”
Gibbs strolled out through the lobby, stood on the curb, hesitating as though trying to decide whether to turn up the street or down, then turned to the left, and sauntered toward the place where his car was parked.
Gibbs had something definite to work on now. He knew that the district attorney had ordered Ted Shale to remain in Santa Delbarra. It was hardly possible that he would violate the district attorney’s instructions and run the risk of being incarcerated. He was, moreover, evidently with Nita Moline. This meant that Gibbs had a problem which was greatly simplified. In place of looking for a young woman who might be anywhere, Gibbs could now look for a couple, strikingly dressed, and either in Santa Delbarra or at some place reasonably close.
There were three night spots in Santa Delbarra. Gibbs covered them all without result. He learned there were some four or five road houses which, being beyond the city limits, made a practice of staying open until three and four o’clock in the morning. It would, he estimated, take him approximately an hour and a half to cover these road houses.
The methodical part of Gibbs’ mind suggested that this was the proper thing to do, but his instinct as a detective made him feel vaguely uneasy at the prospect. If it should prove to be a blind lead, an hour and a half would have been wasted, and that time was doubly precious.
Gibbs sat back behind the steering wheel of his automobile, closed his eyes, and took inventory of the situation. It was obvious that Nita Moline had not as yet registered at any hotel, at least under her own name; that Ted Shale, who was already registered and who had been ordered by the district attorney to remain available, had not returned to his hotel room.
Gibbs felt certain the two were together, that since their meeting had been fortuitous, the possibilities of a longer and more intimate friendship could be eliminated. They must be in some public place — and yet Miss Moline’s clothes...
Suddenly Gibbs asked himself how he knew that she was still in the same clothes. His investigation earlier in the evening had unearthed the information that the young woman who had owned the Albatross had offered to loan Miss Moline dry clothes. It was well within the bounds of possibility that by this time Miss Moline had her own clothes back. Gibbs hadn’t asked for a description of those clothes, and he bitterly regretted the oversight. It would be rather difficult to get the young woman who owned the Albatross up out of bed at this time, but then, as Hazlit had so aptly told him, he was being paid to get results.