On the other side was a dry-cleaning establishment. In between the two was The Green Door, a plain, unpretentious place which had its door painted a distinctive shade of green.
I cruised around and looked the place over.
Apparently patrons had been requested to park their cars half a block away. Taxicabs could pull up in front of the door, but three big, high-powered automobile jobs I saw scattered around the neighborhood were parked in unostentatious places. The street in front of The Green Door and on the other side had a few broken-down automobiles quite evidently belonging to the tenants who lived in the district.
The two stories of flats above The Green Door were just like any other flats in the neighborhood. One of them had a For Rent sign in the window, but the name of the real estate agency on that sign had been defunct for ten years. The others had various types of lace curtains, window shades, some of them with flowers in the window, but all giving the general outward impression of flats that were tenanted by people with different individualities and temperaments, having in common a low income and a desire for cheap rents.
This appearance, of course, was only a stage setting, a false front which was presented to the street. It was an artistic job.
Usually places running with police protection don’t have to bother about an elaborate camouflage, just something that will be a sop to the public, a camouflage for the payoff which permits it to operate — just enough to keep the amateur detective from being able to spot the place in case he happens to live in the neighborhood.
In the case of The Green Door it looked as though a pretty clever attempt had been made at covering up, which might or might not indicate an absence of police protection.
The stores on each side of The Green Door were, of course, places that enjoyed a remarkably low rental. It therefore stood to reason that the managers had been given to understand that the one great virtue which a small businessman could hope to attain was to learn to mind his own damn business.
We parked the car where we could see The Green Door and settled down to wait.
It was a long wait.
Danby asked questions at first. I let him think that the person I wanted to case would be coming to the grocery store.
Fog came drifting in over the hills. The white streamers were pushed along by a smart sea breeze. I felt the peculiar tang of fresh stimulation which is so characteristic of San Francisco air, particularly when the fog comes rolling in.
A taxicab pulled up in front of The Green Door; two men got out, pushed the door open, and went in.
There seemed to be no guard of any sort and the door apparently was kept unlocked.
“Know either one of them?” I asked Danby.
“Never saw them before, neither one of them. They didn’t go to the grocery store. They went up in the apartments.”
“So they did,” I agreed.
We waited.
An expensive car containing a man and a woman swung around the corner, found a parking-place, and the man and woman came strolling back.
I left Danby sitting there, walked down to a hot-dog stand at the corner, and got a couple of sandwiches.
Danby was getting impatient.
“How long is this apt to last?” he inquired.
“Until midnight.”
“Now wait a minute! I hadn’t bargained for anything like that.”
I said, “You did plenty of bargaining.”
“I know, but I hadn’t thought it was going to be like this.”
“What did you think you’d be doing?”
“Well, I thought I’d have a chance to walk around and—”
“Get out and walk,” I invited.
He didn’t like the idea of that, either.
“You mean keep walking up and down the street until midnight?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“I’ll sit right here.”
We didn’t say anything more for a while. Another taxi drove up; then a group of four men, who had evidently left their car parked on another street, came walking casually along, one of them looked rather sharply inside the car at the two of us sitting there; then they crossed over the street to The Green Door.
I didn’t like that. Whoever was operating The Green Door had probably spotted us by this time and sent a delegation to look us over.
I looked over at Danby and wondered what he’d say if he realized that his fee might also include compensation for a damned good working-over.
He was a grouchy guy who had taken my money and then wished he hadn’t assumed any obligation.
“This is going to be bad,” he said. “If the club finds out, I’ll have a hard time explaining—”
“So what?” I asked. “Where is the club going to find someone else who has your experience, someone else who knows all of the people and all of the ropes? And what if it does? When it finds out what he wants in the line of wages it’ll get a terrific jolt. I’ll bet it doesn’t know how wages have gone up. It’s probably keeping you on at the same old wages.”
“No, the club has given me a couple of raises.”
“How much?”
“One fifteen percent and one ten percent.”
“Over how long a time?”
“Five years.”
I made my laugh mirthless and sarcastic. Danby began to meditate on whether he was underpaid and abused. I saw he liked the thought. I liked it, too. It kept his mind occupied.
I looked at my wrist watch. It was nine-fifteen.
A car drove up and parked. It was a club coupe, about three years old, but a good make and it looked well cared for. The man, who didn’t seem to give a damn whether he left the car parked right in front of The Green Door or not, jumped out and looked up and down the street, then entered through the green door.
Danby said, “That’s Horace B. Catlin. If he sees me here he—”
“You drive a car?” I interrupted.
“Sure.”
“This fellow is a member of the yacht club?”
“That’s right.”
I said, “Wait here for an hour. If I’m not back inside of an hour, drive the car to this address, ask for the man in charge, and tell him the entire story of what we’ve been doing this evening.”
He took the card which had the address and looked at it curiously.
“Let’s see,” he said, “that’s down there. Let me see—
I’m trying to get the cross street.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I told him. “Put the card in your pocket. Be sure to ask for the man who’s in charge and then tell him the story. It’s a quarter past nine. If I’m not out of here by ten-fifteen go tell your story.”
I slid out of the car, tossed my hat over on the seat, walked bareheaded across the street, and, just before I got to the entrance to The Green Door, looked over my shoulder.
Danby was sitting there studying the card.
I hoped he wouldn’t realize that the address was that of police headquarters until he got there.
I turned the knob and pushed the green door open.
It swung back on well-oiled hinges and I stepped into a little hallway. A flight of worn board stairs, uncarpeted, echoing and splintered, stretched up to another door.
I started to raise my hand to knock on the door, then realized it wasn’t necessary. I’d gone through a beam of invisible light and a little shutter slid open in the door. A pair of eyes regarded me through a small window of plate glass which must have been an inch thick.
“Got a card?” a voice asked, which evidently came through a microphone and wires.