Around eight o’clock I drove into Lincoln Beach. At that hour in the morning the streets
were almost deserted. I could tell at a glance this town was a millionaire’s playground. The
shops, buildings, the flowers growing along the sidewalks and the neat-ness all pointed to
money. I found an hotel in one of the side streets.
Two bell-hops and the head porter who looked like an Admiral of the Fleet helped me out
of the car and carried the black pigskin case and two other cases into the reception lobby.
They gave me a room big enough to garage three four-ton trucks, and a bathroom that was so
luxurious I was scared to use it.
I lay on the bed and slept for three hours. After that all-night run I was dead beat. Around
eleven-thirty I took the black pigskin suitcase down to the car. I wasn’t going to be parted
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from that for a moment. I locked it in the boot, then drove to Roosevelt Boulevard, the main
shopping centre.
There were a lot of cars drifting up and down the broad street and quite a crowd of people
on the sidewalks. Most of them were in beach dress; some of the girls were practically naked,
but no one paid them any attention. I parked behind a big Packard and went into a drug store.
There was one thing I had to find out. I shut myself in a phone booth and dialled Lincoln
Beach 4444.I listened to the burr-burr-burr of the ringing tone, and my heart skipped a beat
when a girl’s voice said, “Good morning. This is the Lincoln Beach Casino at your service.”
“Connect me with Nick Reisner,” I said, and my voice croaked.
“What was that again, please?”
“I said connect me with Nick Reisner.”
“Mr. Reisner is no longer with us. Who is that calling?”
I ran a dry tongue over dryer lips.
“I’m a friend of his. I’ve just hit town. Where can I find him?”
“I’m sorry.” She sounded embarrassed. “Mr. Reisner died.”
“He did?” I tried to make my voice surprised. “I didn’t know. When was that?”
“July 30th.”
The day after he had come to the cabin and had taken Della and me away. I was getting the
shakes again.
“What happened to him?”
“Will you hold it a moment, please?”
“Hey! Don’t go off the line …”
There was a long pause. Sweat began to run down my face. Then there was a click, and a
voice asked, “Who is calling?” A voice that came from a fat throat: Ricca’s voice, I didn’t say
anything. I held the receiver against my ear, listening to his heavy breathing, aware of a cold
chill creeping up my spine.
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“Who is that?” he repeated. “Is it you, Johnny?”
I still said nothing. I wanted to put down the receiver, but that heavy breathing and that fat,
oily voice hypnotized me.
Then suddenly another voice chipped in: a harsh, shouting voice.
“This is Police Captain Hame talking. Trace this call, miss!”
I hung up then and walked rapidly out of the store to my car. I had learned little, and I had
risked much. It had been a bad move to have let them know I was in town.
I sat in the car, my hat pulled down over my eyes, my fingers on the gun butt, and waited. I
didn’t have to wait long. Their organization was pretty efficient. I was expecting cops, but it
wasn’t a police car I saw shooting along the boulevard. It was a big, black Cadillac. It pulled
up outside the drug store, within fifty feet of me.
Two short, square-shouldered men got out, crossed the sidewalk and entered the drug store.
