Airedale rose, looked into the crown of his derby, and emitted a bark of pleasure. "Well, look at that," he said, pulling forth a roll of bills. "And just when you'd changed your mind about leaving!"
"Thanks." Toddy pushed back the roll. "It isn't that. I've got money."
"So? What else do you need?"
"Nothing you can help me with."
"I can help you a little," said Airedale. "I can tell you to forget it if you're figuring on copping a plea. Juries don't like these cases where the body is disposed of. It shows bad faith, see what I mean? You try to cover the crime up and then, maybe, when you see you can't get away with it, you ask for a break. They give you one. Up here."
"But-Yeah," said Toddy, dully, "I suppose you're right."
Airedale slammed on his derby and started to turn away. "I don't get it," he snarled. "What are you hanging around for? Why ain't you on your way?"
"I want to find out who killed Elaine."
"Brother," said Airedale, "that does it!"
"If I run," said Toddy, "I've got to keep running. A few hundred or a few grand won't be enough. I've got to be squared for life."
"You've got something good lined up, huh?" said Airedale. "Why didn't you say so in the first place? What-never mind. Can you pull it off by yourself?"
"It's the only way I can do it. But I'll need more time, Airedale. A couple of days, anyway. I really wanted three, but-"
"Two," said Airedale. "I'd figured on twenty-four hours-enough time for me to clear out. But I'll fix the gal for two; I'll pay for that much. She may not get the stuff if I'm not here, but… Oh, hell. I guess it'll be all right."
They shook hands and Airedale left. A drink in his hand, Toddy sat down on the bed and mulled over the situation. Some of his normal fatalism began to assert itself. He grinned philosophically.
He undressed and climbed into bed. Lying back with his eyes open, he stared up into the darkness.
McKinley had promised not to have him tailed. It wouldn't be necessary. Placed at strategic points, a mere handful of men, with the license number and description of a car, could follow its movements even in a city as large as Los Angeles. So there was only one thing to do- rather, two things. Change the license, change the description.
Milt would be stubborn. He'd do nothing unless he was made to-so he'd be made to. There'd be no spot-check, no tails, no T-men to interfere.
24
At nine-thirty the next morning, Toddy finished a leisurely breakfast in his room and called McKinley. The bureau chief sounded annoyed as he told Toddy where to pick up the car.
"You haven't seen Miss Chavez?" he asked.
"Seen her? Why the hell would I? I don't even know where-"
"Good," said McKinley, in a milder tone. "She's been after us to find out what happened to you. Wanted to see you in jail. Wanted to send you a note. I finally told her we'd turned you loose, and you'd left town."
"That's-that's fine," said Toddy.
"Yeah. You've got a job to do, Kent. You've got a wife. And Miss Chavez is as straight as they come."
"And I'm not."
"You're not," agreed McKinley. "You took the words right out of my mouth."
He hung up the phone. Toddy slammed up his receiver, and finished dressing.
He was irritated by the conversation, but more than that, worried. Dolores knew about Elaine's death. She'd be wondering why, after holding him, Toddy, three days, McKinley had suddenly freed him. She'd be sure that instead of merely leaving town, as McKinley had told her he had, he'd try to leave the country. She'd know that he'd need plenty of money to leave on and that he could only get it in one way.
As long as he was in jail, her deal with the government was safe. They wouldn't care, when the news of the murder broke, whether she'd known about it or not. But if he skipped the country and committed another crime in the process of skipping…
No-Toddy shook his head. That wasn't like her. She wouldn't be concerned for herself, but him. She'd want to help him. And that, in a way, was as bad as the other. He couldn't tell her anything. This had to be a one-man show.
Toddy took a final glance around the room, left it, and headed for the elevator.
The car was parked a few blocks away. He almost laughed aloud when he saw it. It was a medium-priced sedan, exactly like thousands of others of the same make to a casual observer. But Toddy was not observing casually, and neither would the T-men.
They'd hardly need to look at the license plates. The gray paint job, the white sidewall tires and the red-glass reflector buttons by which the plates were held would be sufficient identification. They'd be able to spot him two blocks away.
He slid under the wheel, and opened the dashboard compartment. The keys and the gun were there, and-he checked it quickly-the gun was loaded. Everything was as it should be.
He drove north and east, winding back and forth through a maze of side streets, avoiding anything in the nature of an arterial thoroughfare. He didn't think McKinley would have his spot check set up so soon, but he might; and there wasn't any hurry. He had the whole day to kill.
The houses he passed grew shabbier, fewer and farther apart. Many of them stood empty. Most of the streets were unpaved. It was one of those borderline, ambiguous areas common to most cities; an area surrendered to industry but not yet made part of it.
Toddy pulled onto a brick-paved street, and rounded a corner. On the opposite side of the street was an abandoned warehouse. On the right, the side he was on, was an automobile salvage yard, its high board fence set back to allow room for the dingy filling station at the front. A four-wheel truck trailer, all its tires missing, stood between the street and the closed-in grease rack.
Toddy drove into the inside lane of the station. He spoke a few words to a cold-eyed man in greasy coveralls and a skullcap made of an old hat. The man leaned against the gas pump. He looked up and down the street, said "Okay, Mac," and jerked his head. Toddy drove into the greasing tunnel; then, as the rear wall slid up, into the yard beyond.
The job took two men three hours. When it was over Toddy himself, if he had not watched the transformation, would not have believed it was the same car.
A chromium grille disguised the radiator. The white sidewalls were replaced with plain tires. A sunshade sheltered the windshield. The roof and fenders of the car were dark blue; the rest of the body a glossy black. The red reflector buttons were gone, of course, as were the original license plates. The plate holders, with the substitute plates, had been moved to a new position.
Toddy paid over one hundred and fifty dollars, adding a five-dollar tip for each of the workmen. That left him with a little less than ten dollars, but that was more than enough for what he had to do. He wouldn't be paying his hotel bill. He wouldn't be going back to pay it.
He took one of the main streets back toward town, stopping once at a restaurant-bar, where he passed the better part of two hours, and again at a drugstore where he bought faintly tinted sunglasses. The glasses were disguise enough; not really necessary, for that matter. They'd be looking for a car, not a man.