I got the number of Raines’ real estate office from the telephone book and took a cab and went down and looked it over. I didn’t go in. Then I told the driver to take me to the Selwyn Apartments on Beverly Boulevard. That was the place the telephone book had listed as Raines’ residence.
It took a half hour of jabbering about spark plugs with the Bohunk in the Selwyn garage to find out that Mister Raines had gone out about ten o’clock with another gentleman, and what Mister Raines looked like and what kind of a car he drove. The gentleman who had been with him was tall — or maybe he was short. Or maybe it had been a lady. The Bohunk wasn’t sure.
I jockeyed the cab around to a good spot in the cross street and went into the drug store on the opposite corner and drank Coca-Colas. Along about the fifth Coca-Cola the car I was looking for pulled up in front of the Selwyn. A medium-sized middle-aged man who I figured to be the brother got out of the driver’s seat and went into the apartment house. The other man in the car moved over into the driver’s seat and started west on Beverly. By that time I was back in the cab and after him.
Of course I couldn’t be sure it was Raines. It looked like a little man. I had to take that chance.
We followed the car out Beverly to Western, up Western. I wondered what had become of the blue Chrysler. Then we drew up close behind Raines’ car at an intersection and I nearly fell out the window. The man in the car ahead turned around and looked back; we looked smack at one another for five seconds.
I’d seen him before! I’d seen him the night before in Miss Mackay’s room at the Pine Hotel in Caliente! He’d been one of the raft of people who’d busted in with the Sheriff and stood around ah-ing and oh-ing. The man had guts. He’d come in while Healey and the girl were still warm to see what a neat job he’d done.
The traffic bell rang and I knew he’d recognized me, too. He went across that intersection like a bat out of hell, up Western to Fountain. He lost us on Fountain.
I talked to my driver like a father. I got down on my knees and begged him to keep that car in sight. I called him all the Portuguese pet names I could think of and made up a few new ones, but Raines ran away from us on Fountain.
On the way back to the hotel I stopped at the Hollywood Branch of the Automobile Club and had a friend of mine look up the license number of the car. Of course it was the brother’s car, in the brother’s name. That didn’t get me anywhere. I was pretty sure Raines wouldn’t go back to his brother’s place now that he knew I’d spotted him; and it was a cinch he wouldn’t use that car very long.
He didn’t know what I wanted. He might figure me for a dick and scram out of LA — out of the country. I sat in my room at the hotel and thought soft thoughts about what a chump I’d been not to go to him directly when he’d stopped with his brother in front of the Selwyn, and the speed of taxicabs as compared to automobiles — things like that. It looked like the Healey case was all washed up as far as I was concerned.
I went out about five o’clock and walked. I walked down one side of Hollywood Boulevard to Bronson and back up the other side to Vine and went into the U Drive joint and rented the car again. I was nervous and jumpy and disgusted, and the best way for me to get over feeling that way is to drive it off.
I drove out through Cahuenga Pass a ways and then I had an idea and drove back to the Selwyn Apartments. The idea wasn’t any good. William Raines told the clerk to send me up and he asked me what he could do for me and smiled and offered me a drink.
I said I wanted to get in touch with his brother on a deal that would do us both a lot of good. He said his brother was in Chicago and that he hadn’t seen him for two years. I didn’t tell him he was a liar. It wouldn’t have done any good. I thanked him and went back down to the car.
I drove down to LA and had dinner in a Chinese place. Then I went back by the Santa Fe and found out about trains — I figured on going back to New York the next day.
On the way back to Hollywood I drove by the Garden Court. Not for any particular reason — I thought about Mrs Healey and it wasn’t much out of the way.
The blue Chrysler was sitting squarely across the street from the entrance.
I parked up the street a little way and got out and went back to be sure. I lit a match and looked at the card on the steering column; the car was registered to another U Drive place, downtown, on South Hope.
I went across the street and walked by the desk with my nose in the air. The Spick elevator boy didn’t even look at the folded bill I slipped him; he grinned self-consciously and said that a little red-haired man had gone up to four just a couple minutes ago. Mrs Healey was on four and there were only three apartments on a floor.
I listened at the door but could only hear a confused buzz that sounded like fast conversation. I turned the knob very slowly and put a little weight against the door. It was locked. I went down to the end of the hall and went out as quietly as possible through a double door to a fire escape platform. By standing outside the railing and holding on with one hand and leaning far out I could see into the dining room of Mrs Healey’s apartment, could see a couple inches of the door that led, as well as I could remember, into the drawing room. It was closed.
There is nothing that makes you feel quite so simple as hanging on a fire escape, trying to look into a window. Particularly when you can’t see anything through the window. After a few minutes I gave it up and climbed back over the railing.
I half sat on the railing and tried to figure things out. What business would the guy who shot Healey have with Mrs Healey? Did the blackmail angle that Raines and Mackay had hold over Healey cover Mrs Healey, too? Was Raines milking his lowdown for all it was worth? It was too deep for me.
I went back into the hall and listened at the door again. They were a little louder but not loud enough to do me any good. I went around a bend in the hall to what I figured to be the kitchen door and gave it the slow turn and it opened. I mentally kicked myself for wasting time on the fire escape, tiptoed into the dark kitchen and closed the door.
It suddenly occurred to me that I was in a quaint spot if somebody should come in. What the hell business did I have there! I fixed that, to myself, with some kind of vague slant about protecting Mrs Healey and edged over to the door, through to the room I’d been looking into from the fire escape.
The door into the drawing room was one of those pasteboard arrangements that might just as well not be there. The first thing I heard was a small, suppressed scream like somebody had smacked a hand over somebody else’s mouth, and then something like a piece of furniture being tipped over. It was a cinch someone was fighting in there, quietly — or as quietly as possible.
There wasn’t much time to think about whether I was doing the right thing or not. If I’d thought about it I’d probably have been wrong, anyway. I turned the knob, swung the door open.
Mrs Healey was standing against the far wall. She was standing flat against the wall with one hand up to her mouth. Her eyes were very wide.
There were two men locked together on the floor near the central table and as I came in they rolled over a turn or so and one broke away and scrambled to his feet. It was Raines. He dived after a nickel-plated revolver that was lying on the floor on the far side of the table, and the other man, who had risen to his knees, dived after it, too. The other man was Gard.
He beat Raines by a hair but Raines was on his feet; he kicked the gun out of Gard’s hand, halfway across the room. Gard grabbed his leg and pulled him down and they went round and round again. They fought very quietly; all you could hear was the sound of heavy breathing and an occasional bump. I went over and picked up the gun and stooped over the mess of arms and legs and picked out Raines’ red head and took hold of the barrel of the gun. I took dead aim and let Raines have it back of the ear. He relaxed.