Then Hammett would subpoena his records from the phone company.
Epstein got his hat and coat from the rack and went out. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes, Jenny, if you don’t mind waiting.’
‘I’ve got two more revisions to type on the Wilcox brief anyway, Mr Epstein.’
Epstein went down the narrow stairway to emerge into Powell Street with the Pig’n Whistle on his right and the Edison Theatre on his left. His eyes darted and probed. No Hammett. The Turpin Hotel a few doors down, the cigar store next to that? The Pig’n Whistle itself, maybe?
No, all too risky, too exposed.
He turned abruptly up Powell toward Ellis with quick, nervous strides that his small stature made almost strutting. He went by Gene Compton’s and the United Cigar store on the corner without pausing, although both had pay phones, and right across Ellis. He’d made up his mind.
On the far corner he darted across Powell and started back down the even-numbered side. No Hammett. The tall, hawk-faced detective would be too conspicuous even in a crowd to be missed.
At Market he ducked abruptly into the Owl Drug’s brightly lighted, cavernous interior. Beside the front entrance was a pair of pay phones with green metal trays holding the current directories. Epstein spilled silver across one of the trays, dialed the long-distance operator and asked for a three-digit Marin County number. He completed the call, fed in the required coins, and talked for a scant thirty seconds.
He hung up with a complacent look on his face. ‘What I thought,’ he muttered aloud. ‘Faking it.’
Three minutes after he had disappeared across Powell toward his office, Hammett lowered the newspaper that had been shielding him from view at the lunch counter. He hissed out a cigarette in his coffee cup, left a dime for the waitress, and sauntered over to the pay phones.
He thumbed a nickel into the slot of the phone Epstein had used. His face felt flushed. Goddamn, to play the percentages that way and have your number come up! It had just felt right that of all the pay phones available on the block, Epstein would choose the crowded, bustling Owl as the place he’d be least conspicuous while calling.
‘This is your long-distance operator. May I help you?’
Hammett drawled, ‘Inspector O’Gar. Homicide, Central Station. Five minutes ago a long-distance call was placed from this number. SUtter eight-seven-three-seven.’
‘Homicide?’ Excitement vibrated in her voice. ‘What… how can I help you, Inspector?’
‘Number called. Name of party called. Location of that phone.’
‘Ah… the number is two-three-two Mill Valley, Inspector. That is registered to a Mr George F. Biltmore on Corte Madera Street-’
‘I’ll be dammed!’ exclaimed Hammett.
‘I beg your pardon!’
‘Oh. Yeah. Sorry.’ He got back into his imaginary O’Gar’s skin. ‘Who’d he ask for?’
‘Mrs Biltmore.’
Hammett hung up in her ear without thanking her; it was what she would expect from a real cop.
George F. Biltmore!
Who would expect madam Molly Farr to be stashed in the Marin County estate of San Francisco’s Commissioner of Shipping? Biltmore was a power on the Street, a wealthy man who had started out as a sea captain and now had one of the city’s largest ship brokerage firms. Did Biltmore know who he was hiding up there in the redwoods? Or had Epstein lied to him about a secret witness or an endangered client or
…
Tomorrow for Biltmore. He thought he had a way to get to him. But meanwhile, he had other things to find out.
He dialed Fingers LeGrand’s number, TUxedo 8273, but he got no response. From the operator he got the phone number for 22 Prescott Court, the flat directly below LeGrand’s. He was in luck. He recognized the sultry voice that responded.
‘This is the man with the blisters,’ he said.
There was silence for a moment, then a low laugh as the whore remembered their brief encounter on her back porch.
‘Hi, big boy.’
‘My weakness is still liquor, sweetheart, but maybe you can help me. I’m trying to get in touch right away with Fingers…’
16
Above the pounding shoes, strong ankles swelled into muscular calves. The girl on the table held up her skirts so her petticoats swirled about her plump dimpled knees as she danced. Work-thickened hands clapped time to the accordion, and voices shouted encouragement through the din and smoke.
Hammett and Goodie paused in the doorway, squinting. Goodie said, in an exhausted voice, ‘Oh, Sam, it smells so good! Can’t we eat now? Please? We’ve been to six places already-’
‘Now we eat,’ said Hammett. Through the smoke he had glimpsed the dolorous features of Fingers LeGrand at one of the gingham-covered tables in the rear. The whore had said Fingers always ate supper in one of a dozen little family-style Italian cafes around Broadway and upper Grant.
‘Hey!’ Hammett exclaimed in great surprise. ‘Fingers!’
‘Hello, Dash.’ The skinny gambler stood up. The table was scattered with fragments of brown Italian crust; a demolished antipasto was shoved to one side. He bowed to the golden-haired girl. ‘Good evening, ma’am. Out for a night on the town?’
‘Just trying to get fed before I collapse of hunger.’
Hammett, who had eaten only half a Chinese lunch, realized he too was ravenous. They sat down. The air was rich with the mingled fragrances of tomato and mushroom sauces, pastas, steamed clams, roasting chicken, and veal. A vast woman bustled over to their table and clopped down a bottle of illegal wine.
‘The first pint’s free,’ explained Fingers. ‘After that it’s a dime a bottle.’
‘You eat here a lot?’
‘We’re trying to fatten him up,’ shouted the fat Italian lady over the din. She laughed hugely and dug a porcine elbow into Hammett’s ribs. Somehow it was not at all like Heloise Kuhn’s elbow. ‘You’re even worse than he is, you boys must be undertakers.’ She roared with laughter and winked at Goodie. ‘You’ll eat?’
The stockings of the girl dancing on the front table fell down and she was helped, suddenly red-faced and embarrassed, to the floor.
As the racket momentarily ebbed, Hammett said, ‘Soup to start. Ravioli. Salad after. Then we’ll order.’
Over huge flat bowls of rich brown steaming minestrone, thick with beans and mostaccioli, Hammett asked offhandedly, ‘Who came out big winner at the game the other night?’
‘Who do you think?’
‘The fat German.’
‘Right you are.’ Fingers started a toothpick toward his mouth, realized that Goodie was watching, and morosely returned the pick to his vest pocket.
‘I went down forty,’ admitted Hammett. ‘I guess that Irishman was big loser. Funny, I keep thinking I’ve seen him around, but…’
‘Joey Lonergan.’ Fingers took out a cigar instead. ‘Came out here from back east a year or so ago. Owns a repair garage in the six-hundred block of Turk Street. Takes the night calls himself, but must be coming up in the world — just bought himself a second tow truck.’
‘In solid with the cops, then, I guess,’ said Hammett idly.
‘They call him right from the scene of the accident, so he’ll beat the other towers to it. He kicks back a percentage, of course. Carries the nickname of Dead Rabbit, I don’t know why.’
It seemed to have some meaning to Hammett. He raised questioning eyebrows. ‘Lonergan a tough boy?’
‘He says he is.’
