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“And throw your hooks into the first one you can get?” I asked.

“I’m not that anxious,” she said, “and I’m not that low, but if I find someone who interests me and find that I’m interesting him, I’ll have an opportunity to talk with him, to find out what kind of a chap he is, what he wants out of life. I’ll really get acquainted.

“The way it is now, somebody introduces me to a goodlooking fellow. He wants to take me to dinner. I rush home and take a shower, put on a party dress and war paint. We go out to dinner. He shows what he wants and what he expects inside of the first ten minutes. From then on it’s the same old routine and it turns out he’s a buyer from Los Angeles who has a wife and two kids. He’s crazy about his family but he thinks he’s a wolf, and I’m supposed to ride along.

“I’d like to spend an
afternoon
with a man sometime. I’d like to visit and get acquainted with new people. I’d like to go ashore in Rio de Janeiro and prowl through the shops with some interesting man who wasn’t thinking in terms of making your acquaintance, getting a pass to first base, stealing second, and crossing the home plate, all within two hours.”

I said, “You’ve been reading the steamship ads; some-
body’s handed you a bunch of folders with pictures of a girl and a fellow outlined against a path of moonlight in tropical waters, with pictures of happy couples dancing to the rhythm of romantic music. You—”

“Don’t, Donald,” she said, laughing. “You’re taking all the joy out of it.”

There was a catch in her laugh. I turned to look at her. Her eyes were filled with tears.

I said, “You came here, Millie. You got in with a carefree bunch. Your friends are that type. All right, so you’re tagged. But why not go to a new place, get a job, make new friends?”

“How you talk!” she interrupted. “I’d have to give up everything I’ve worked for. I’d start out on a starvation salary and I’d die of loneliness.

“I need action, Donald. I want to get out and circulate. I want to see people. I crave action and variety. I’m no stick-in-the-mud. I’m no stay-at-home. I want to see good shows, listen to good music, dance at the best night spots. I want luxury.”

“You can’t have all that unless you have the connections — or money.”

“I can if I travel first-class.”

I said, “It’s a swell air castle, Millie, but you can’t get away with it.”

“Don’t tell me I can’t get away with it.”

“You’ll wind up facing a charge of perjury.”

“Don’t throw cold water, Donald. I’ve made a date with fortune. I’m going to keep it. Lots of times in my life I’ve been tempted not to do the things I wanted to do because of things that conceivably could happen. I’ve always found out that lots of things happened, but none of the things I was afraid would happen. If you don’t do something you want to do you very definitely haven’t done it. That’s final and complete and you’ll probably regret it. If you do what
you want to do, you may get into a mess, but getting into the mess and getting out of the mess is better than shutting yourself up in a closet and hiding from life. Donald, I’m going through with it. I’m leaving for Rio.”

“When?” I asked.

She smiled. “The when and the how are secrets I’m not supposed to discuss, but I’m going and you’d be surprised if you knew how soon.”

“Okay,” I told her. “It’s your funeral.”

“Wrong,” she said. “It’s my wedding.”

“Send me an invitation, will you?”

“I sure will, Donald — Donald?”

“What?”

“Are
you
married?”

There was a wistful half-smile on her lips.

“No,” I said, and opened the door.

“I knew that would do it,” she said as I stepped out into the corridor.

I went to the Western Union Office and sent Elsie Brand another wire collect.

DISREGARD ALL CRIMES EXCEPT MURDER. STAKES ARE TOO BIG FOR ANYTHING SMALLER WIRE REPLY RUSH.

I had a bowl of chili and went to the telegraph office.

A wire was waiting for me.

NO MURDERS ACTUALLY COMMITTED BUT ONE THREATENED IN THE OFFICE. YOU HAVE OF COURSE READ ABOUT MAURINE. COULD THIS BE THE ANSWER OR IS THAT TOO SIMPLE? LOVE.

ELSIE.

I was putting the message in my pocket when the operator said, “Wait a minute, Mr. Lam, here’s another one coming in for you. It’s longer.”

I sat around and waited while one of the operators took tape from a Teletype and pasted it on a message.

When they finally handed it to me I saw the clerk looking at me with that type of curiosity the average public reserves for famous criminals, private detectives, and prostitutes.

“Sign here,” she said.

I signed.

The message read:

FOR YOUR INFORMATION G.G. WHO TOOK POWDER FROM HOSPITAL IS ABOARD UNITED AIRLINES FLIGHT NUMBER 665 LEAVING LOS ANGELES THREE P.M. ARRIVING SAN FRANCISCO AIRPORT FOURTHIRTY TODAY. HE IS TRAVELING UNDER NAME GEORGE GRANBY AND THINKS HE IS ALL COVERED UP. I GOT IT FROM CONNECTION MENTIONED ON PHONE SO KEEP CONFIDENTIAL. BERTHA BLOWING TOP EVERY THIRTY MINUTES LIKE OLD FAITHFUL GEYSER IN YELLOWSTONE. YOU MUST BE LOW ON MONEY UNABLE CHISEL FROM FIRM BUT AM SENDING YOU LOAN FROM PRIVATE SAVINGS TRY TO MAKE IT LAST AS THERE ISN’T ANY MORE. ALL MY LOVE TO SYLVIA. YOURS.

It was signed,
Elsie.

“Do you,” asked the person behind the counter, “have anything to show your identity? A business card, a driving license, things of that sort?”

I showed her my driving license and my business card as a private investigator.

“Sign here,” she said.

I signed.

She started counting out money. Three hundred and fifty dollars in twenties and tens. It was one of the most welcome sights I had ever seen.

Gabby Garvanza’s plane would already be in, but I made a list of five of the principal hotels and started calling, asking if they had a George Granby registered.

In the third hotel I struck pay dirt. George Granby was registered and was in.

I waited on the line until a voice that sounded sullen and a little resentful said, “Hello.”

I said, “I want to talk to you about the Maurine Auburn case. I’m a private detective from Los Angeles. I’ve been cutting corners and the police have issued a pickup on me. I don’t want to be picked up and I don’t want to be quoted. I want to talk.”

Gabby Garvanza lived up to his reputation of being taciturn.

“Come up,” he said, and slipped the phone back on the receiver.

I took a taxi to the hotel and went up to George Granby’s room without being announced.

“Come in,” a voice called as I knocked on the door.

I hesitated.

“Come on in, the door’s unlocked.”

I opened the door.

The room seemed empty.

I stepped inside and could see no one.

Abruptly the door was kicked shut. The heavy-set gorilla who had been standing behind the door came toward me.

The bathroom door opened and a sallow-looking man, who was evidently Gabby Garvanza, closed in from the other side.

“Up,” the heavy-set man said.

I elevated my hands.

He was a big, burly fellow with a cauliflower ear and a face which showed the ravages of conflict. He gave me a complete and thorough frisking.

“He’s clean,” he said.

Gabby Garvanza said, “Sit down. Tell me who you are and what the hell you want.”

I sat down and said, “I’m interested in finding out what happened to Maurine Auburn.”

“Who isn’t?”

I said, “I’m a private detective. I’m working on a case.”

I handed him a card.

He barely glanced at the card, tossed it to one side, then thought better of it, took it up, looked at it again, gave it thoughtful consideration, and pushed it in his pocket.

“You’ve got a nerve, Lam.”

I said nothing.

“How did you find me?”

“I’m a detective.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything.”

“Think it over and it will.”

“I don’t like to think. You do it — out loud.”

I shook my head.

“I’m supposed to be under cover,” Gabby went on. “If it’s that easy to lift the cover I want to know about it.”

I said, “I’m here. Therefore it’s that easy.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I only know I have connections. They know I’m protecting them.”

He said, “You talk big as hell for a little guy.”

“That makes for a fair average,” I told him.

He laughed at that and said, “I like your guts.”

“Thanks.”

“What’s your problem?” Gabby asked after a minute.

I said, “It involves John Carver Billings the Second, the fellow who said he was with Maurine when she walked out on the party she was with.”

“Go on.”

“That’s all.”

He shook his head.

I said, “I’m interested in finding out where John Carver Billings was that night.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Nothing.”

“Go ahead and find out, then.”

“That’s what I’m doing.”

“You’re not getting very far here.”

I grinned and lit a cigarette.

The bodyguard looked at Gabby, questioning him with a glance whether I should be tossed out of the window or kicked out into the corridor.

I blew out the match and said, “Young Billings
says
he picked up Maurine and then went out to a nitery and she went into the powder room and never came out.”

“Sound reasonable to you?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Keep talking,” he invited.

I said, “The way I size it up, Maurine Auburn was out with fellows that know their way around. They were giving her protection. Young Billings tells a nice story about drifting in and picking her up and taking her away from the party she was with, just as though she’d been some secretary out with a couple of filing clerks and accountants from the office. I don’t think it would have happened that way.”

“Keep on thinking — out loud.”

“So,” I said, “I hate to see young Billings getting in bad over something he didn’t do, something he couldn’t have done. And I wondered if perhaps you came up here to question him.”

Gabby Garvanza laughed.

I quit talking.

“Go on,” Garvanza said.

“That’s all there is.”

“There’s the door.”

I shook my head and said, “I want to know whether you’re going to question young Billings, whether you’re going to check up on him, whether that’s why you came up here, whether—”

“Go peddle your papers,” the bodyguard said.

I sat still.

Gabby Garvanza nodded his head. The bodyguard came toward me.

I said, “I might be in a position to do you a favor sometime.”

“Hold it,” Gabby said to the bodyguard.

“Not now,” I told him. “Later.”

“How much later?”

“When I find out why a man should jump into the frying pan.”

“Well, why did he?”

“There’s only one possible reason — to get out of the fire.”

“What fire?”

“That’s what I’m looking for.”

“When and if you find it, you could get the hell burned out of your fingers.”

“They’ve been burned before. I’m wearing gloves.”

“I don’t see ‘em.”

“I had to take them off to come here.”

“I’ll say you did.”

Gabby Garvanza thought things over, then said, “You haven’t any idea how uninterested I am in this Billings guy.”

“His story indicates you should be interested.”

“His story stinks.”

“You don’t believe it?”

Gabby said, “You’re a credulous guy. A Hollywood sport in plus fours comes in and tells you about how he walked into a lion’s den, grabbed a chunk of horse meat away from a lion, slapped his face, and walked out, and so you go to ask the lion if it’s true.”

“Are you the lion?”

Gabby met my eyes and said, “You ask too many questions, but your nerve interests me. I’ve told you all I’m telling. Now get the hell out of here.”

The bodyguard jerked the door open.

I went out.

Going down in the elevator I did a lot of thinking. John Carver Billings the Second must have picked a murder case that he thought he could beat because he was afraid that otherwise he might get mixed up in a murder case he couldn’t beat.

There wasn’t any murder recorded in San Francisco on that date, but I felt certain I’d been overlooking a bet. I decided to check the list of missing persons. There was just a chance I might find someone who had disappeared on Tuesday night.

I called our San Francisco correspondent, told him I was under cover, to check the list of missing persons, with special reference to Tuesday night, and bill the Los Angeles office. I told him I’d call later for the information.

The evening newspapers saved me the trouble of asking my correspondent for a report. I read those papers and had the answer — or thought I did. It was the only answer I could find.

One George Bishop, a wealthy mining man, had left San Francisco Tuesday night to go to his mine in northern California.

He had never arrived.

Early today, the papers reported, his Cadillac automobile had been found where it had been driven off the road above Petaluma. There were blood spatters on the lefthand side of the front seat, and definite blood spatters on the
inside
of the windshield.

From the indications on the ground officers decided the automobile had been there for at least five days, perhaps longer. Putting two and two together, it looked as though Bishop had been waylaid late Tuesday night, probably by hitchhikers whom he had picked up and who had killed and robbed their benefactor.

It was known Bishop was in the habit of carrying large sums of cash with him on his business trips. On this trip he had expected to drive nearly all night in order to reach his mine in Siskiyou County early Wednesday morning.

In the trunk of the car police found a suitcase and leather handbag, both of the most expensive design, and filled with George Bishop’s personal wearing-apparel and toilet articles. Bishop’s wife had made a positive identification.

Police were now making an intensive search for Bishop’s body in the vicinity of the automobile. Judging from the position of the bloodstains it was assumed he had been killed by bullets fired by someone sitting in the back seat of his car. This led police to believe Bishop had picked up more than one hitchhiker. They reasoned that a lone hitchhiker would have been sitting in the front seat beside Bishop. If there had been two or three, however, the back seat would have been occupied.