“Sounds good to me,” he said. “How about you, Betty?”
“Fine. I’ll go up and change.”
“Care for a beer while we’re waiting?” Conway asked as Betty went into the house.
“Don’t mind if I do.” The detective headed for the kitchen with no further urging.
“What’s been happening? Anything new?”
“Nah.” Bauer reached into the icebox, removed a bottle of beer, and unerringly opened the drawer in which the opener was kept. A memory like an elephant, Conway reflected. Not to mention a skin. “I been using up energy and gasoline and getting nowhere.”
“How about Taylor? Have you found him?”
“We’ve found sixteen Harry Taylors in the phone book, but none of ’em is the Harry Taylor who knew you. Like I told you, I don’t think it makes any difference if we find him or not — it only makes me mad that we ain’t been able to.”
The sergeant had found one of the good glasses and was pouring his beer as Conway finished making his own drink. “How did you make out with the girl? You must have done all right.”
“What girl?”
“What was her name — Elsie Daniels? The one who first reported the car. Remember, you told me you had to see her, and fix Ramsden’s saying the police had found the car? I notice she hasn’t said anything to the papers.”
“Oh, her.” The sergeant’s voice expressed his scorn for Miss Daniels and his own achievement. “She’s so dumb I don’t think she can read. All she saw in the papers was the pictures of her and this crumb she’s so nuts about. I talked to the two of ’em together. So help me, if Greta ever behaved like that in front of anybody, I’d walk out on her. Disgusting.”
“What do you mean? From the pictures she looked like a nice, simple, attractive girl.”
“Simple is right. And what can you tell from them newspaper pictures? Look at the ones of me.” The recollection depressed Bauer to such an extent that he finished his beer and took another bottle from the icebox.
“At any rate, you kept her from spoiling Ramsden’s story to the papers.”
“Yeah, but I thought I might be able to get a little more information if I saw ’em both together. It’s a good thing I talked to ’em separately first, or I’d never of got anything. All they could do was hold hands and paw each other and giggle. Like when I said, ‘It was a few minutes after ten when you saw the car park, right?’ she says, ‘Oh, it don’t seem like it could of been as late as that, does it, hon?’ and she giggles, and he giggles, and she nuzzles herself into his neck, and I wished I could slap a pair of bracelets on ’em with a ten-foot pole in between.”
“So you got nothing new out of them?”
“Nah. It’s lucky a political speech happened to come on the radio. Otherwise they wouldn’t of known if it was ten o’clock or Tuesday.”
Conway thought of the importance he had placed on having witnesses to the time the car was parked, and realized how dangerously close he had come to having nothing of the sort. He had, of course, made sure there were witnesses when he parked. He had not expected the time to be established as accurately as it had been, but, if the detective was right, his fate had rested in the laps of two lovesick morons. He gave a silent vote of thanks to Senator Taft.
“I’d better get cleaned up myself,” he said. “Be with you in a minute.” The sergeant was moving toward the refrigerator. “Have another beer,” Conway said as he went through the door.
Chapter nine
Bauer drove into the parking lot behind a National drugstore on Beverly Boulevard. They got out of the car, and Bauer led the way into the store. Conway expected him to head for the cigar counter or the telephones, but the detective led the way to an unoccupied booth, motioned Conway and Betty to be seated, and handed them menus. Becoming aware of Conway’s expression, he laughed.
“Surprised, eh? Bet you didn’t even know about the food here. Well, you’re in for a real surprise when you taste that pot roast. Of course, they got other things too, if you don’t like pot roast. But order pot roast for me.” He started sliding out of the seat. “Got to phone and check in.”
Conway watched the detective disappear into a phone booth. He looked around at the chromium splendor and neon garishness; he heard the orders being called at the counter and smelled the unappetizing blend of food, cosmetics and pharmaceuticals. The place was hot, crowded, noisy, and even more resplendent than its sister emporium in which Helen and he had had coffee before going to the movie; his one desire was to get out as quickly as possible. He motioned to a waitress who passed the booth several times, but she, in common with most of her kind, had more important things to do and stared straight through him. He thought of the steaks reposing in the refrigerator at home and asked himself why he had allowed himself to be inveigled into coming to this pavilion of indigestion. Then his annoyance gave way to concern as another idea struck him: Why had Bauer wanted to inveigle him into coming here? He glanced at Betty, but she was surveying the establishment as though it were a moderately interesting anthill.
A waitress finally came to the table. “Pot roast for you, Betty?” Conway asked.
“Chocolate milkshake,” she said. “No — on second thought, I’ll have a lemon phosphate. I don’t want to spoil my dinner.”
Conway ordered for himself and Bauer, and he and Betty sat in the silence which had come to be habitual between them at meals. From where he sat he could see the detective in the phone booth; was it, he wondered, a routine checking in, or was it part of some devious scheme? He saw Bauer emerge from the booth, walk around the cosmetics counter, and speak to the waitress whose attention he had earlier tried to attract. He could see only a bit of her profile, but there was something vaguely familiar about her. As Bauer left her, Conway picked up the menu and studied it; he was pleased to discover that the machinations of the detective no longer upset or disturbed him. He had only to be patient for a little while: he knew that Bauer would tip his hand very quickly. He had no doubt as to his ability to cope with the mental gyrations of the sergeant. It was Betty he had to worry about.
“Order yet?” Bauer asked as he slid into the booth.
Conway’s eyes came up from the menu; he had apparently been unaware of the detective’s approach. He nodded. “Prices are certainly reasonable,” he said as he put the menu aside.
The waitress brought two large plates, covered with food, which might have been titled “Study in Monochrome.” The meat was gray, the potatoes were gray, the vegetables were gray. Different shades of gray, to be sure, but still gray. Conway made a mental note to remember this dish if ever he began to gain weight: it could be counted on to overcome any temptation to overeat.
“Wait’ll you try that,” Bauer said as he attacked the contents of his plate. Then he noticed the glass in front of Betty. “That all you’re having?” he demanded.
She favored him with an oversweet smile. “Every once in a while I go on a diet,” she said. “Just whenever I get the idea — and feel strong enough to resist food. This is the first time I’ve had enough will power in quite a while.”
Conway took a small bite of the meat; it was quite as bad as he had anticipated, and he looked at Bauer. The detective was struggling manfully.
“Not quite as good as usual,” he said. “But just the same, it’s okay, isn’t it? I mean, for the price?”
“The prices are certainly reasonable,” was the best Conway could manage. He wondered how much of this fodder he would have to choke down in order not to offend the detective.
“That’s the only thing Greta and me ever fight about,” Bauer said.
“What is?” Conway asked. He welcomed conversation; it might take his mind off the food.