streetlamp. I played it very palsy with them, even letting them look at my gun. With their confidence gained, I showed them my pictures.
'Hey!' the biggest of the three kids exclaimed. 'What a sharp drop-top! Man, oh, man!'
One of his pals grabbed the photo and scrutinized it silently. 'I seen a car like that. Right here. Just down the street,' he said.
'When?' I asked quietly.
The kid thought, then looked to the big kid for support. 'Larry,' he said, 'you remember last week, I snuck out and came over. Remember?'
'Yeah, I remember. It was Monday night. I had to go to—'
I interrupted, keeping my voice stern and fatherly, 'And the car was red and white like the one in this picture?'
'Yeah,' the kid said, 'Exactly. It had a foxtail on the antenna, real sharp.'
I was ecstatic. I took down their names and phone numbers and told them they were on their way to becoming heroes. The kids were somber with the gravity of their heroism. I solemnly shook hands with all three of them, then took off.
I found a pay phone on Hollywood Boulevard and got Eddie Engels's telephone number from Information. I dialed it, and let it ring fifteen times. No answer. Night owl Eddie was on the prowl.
I drove back to the Strip, turned north on Horn Drive and parked across the street from his bungalow court. I dug around in my trunk for some makeshift burglar tools and found some old college drafting stuff—including a metal T-square with thin edges that looked as if it could snap a locking mechanism. Equipped with this and a flashlight, I walked toward the darkened courtyard.
This time I knew to look for 'Engels' on Number 11. It was three bungalows down, on the left-hand side. All the lights were off. I pulled open a flimsy screen door, looked in both directions, then covertly flashed my light on the inner door and studied the mechanism. It was a simple snap-bolt job, so I got out my T-square, transferred the flashlight to the crook of my left arm, wedged the metal edge between lock and doorjamb and pushed. It was hard, but I persisted, almost snapping the blade of the T-square. Finally, there was a loud metallic
I walked in quickly, and closed the door behind me. I ran the flashlight along the walls looking for a light switch, found one, and flipped it on, momentarily illuminating a living room tastefully furnished with Persian carpets, modern blond bentwood furniture, and, on all four walls, oil paintings of horses in racing colors.
I turned the light off, and headed for the hallway. I switched on another light and almost knocked over a telephone stand. The stand had three drawers, and I went through them hoping to find some kind of personal phone book. There was nothing—the three drawers were empty.
I flipped off the light and maneuvered my way into the bedroom. My eyes were getting accustomed to the darkness, so it was easy to pick out objects in the room—bed, dresser, bookshelves. The window was covered by heavy velvet curtains, so I decided to risk leaving a light on while I did my searching. I turned on a table lamp, lighting up a room that was strangely sedate—just a simple bed with a plaid bedspread, a bookshelf crammed with picture books on horse racing, and bullfight posters and framed prints of a beautiful palomino on the walls. There was a deep walk-in closet behind the bed, crammed with clothes. At least fifty sport coats on hangers, thirty or forty pairs of slacks, scores of dress shirts and sport shirts. The floor of the closet was lined with shoes, from somber wingtips to sporty loafers, all shined and arranged neatly. Eddie the dude. It wasn't enough. I wanted evidence pointing to Eddie the degenerate—Eddie the killer.
I went through the dresser drawers, four of them, very thoroughly and very carefully, looking for phone books, journals, photographs, anything to link Eddie Engels to Maggie Cadwallader or Leona Jensen. There was nothing. Just gold silk underwear, but that was not enough to hang a man on.
I went back into the big closet and felt inside the jacket pockets. Nothing. Finished with the bedroom, I turned out the light and went back to the living room, shining my flashlight in corners, into bookshelves, under chairs and sofas. Nothing. Nothing personal. Nothing to indicate that Eddie Engels was anything but a spiffy dresser who loved horses.
There was a liquor cabinet with one bottle each of Scotch, bourbon, gin, and brandy. There were no photographs of family or loved ones. It was a maddeningly impersonal habitat, the home of a phantom.
I went into the kitchen. It was as I expected, compact and very tidy; a breakfast nook, a sink that held no dishes, a refrigerator with nothing but a cold-water bottle inside, and a 1950 calendar tacked to the wall with no notations on any of its pages.
Which left the bathroom. Maybe old Eddie cut loose in there. Maybe the bathtub would be filled with mermaids or alligators. No such luck—the bathroom was pink tile, spotless, with a giant mirror above the sink, and a full-length mirror on the inside of the door. Eddie, the narcissist.
Above the toilet was a medicine cabinet. I opened it, expecting to find toothpaste and shaving gear, but found instead a half-dozen tiny shelves holding rolled-up neckties. Eddie, the sartorially splendid, used the full- length mirror to ensure a perfect Windsor knot. I ran a hand over the collection of silk, arranged according to color and style. What a mania for order; what a mania for small perfections. Then I noticed what seemed like a strange anomaly—one silk tie, a green one, was sticking out further than the others. I poked at it with a finger, and felt something solid inside. I pulled the tie out carefully and unrolled it. Maggie Cadwallader's diamond brooch fell into my hand.
I stared at it for long moments, shocked. After a minute or so, my calm flew out the window and my mind started churning with plans. I rolled the brooch back into the tie and replaced it in the little cabinet exactly as I had found it. I turned the bathroom light off and walked through the dark apartment to the front door. I locked it behind me, checking the jamb for signs of entry. There were none.
All the lights in the courtyard were off. I stood there a few moments, savoring the wonder of the night and what I had just discovered, then walked behind the bungalows. There was a corrugated overhang that sheltered the tenants' cars. The car on the end, shiny in the moonlight, was a bright red '49 Ford with a white ragtop. A foxtail dangled from the radio antenna. I flicked it with my finger.
'You killed Maggie Cadwallader and God knows who else, you degenerate son of a bitch,' I said, 'and I'm going to see that you pay.'
9
My case. My suspect. My revenge? My collar? My glory and gravy train? All these thoughts went through my head the following day as I walked my beat on sun-beaten Central Avenue.
A decision was due, and I would have to act either rationally or quixotically. I gave my options more thought, and as my tour ended I made a decision—a humbling, but safe one. I changed back into my civvies and knocked on Captain Jurgensen's door.
'Enter,' he called through it. I walked in and saluted. Jurgensen dog-eared his paperback
'Sir,' I said, 'I know who killed that woman who was found strangled in Hollywood last week. He may have killed others. I can't make the collar myself. I need to turn my evidence over to someone who can formalize an investigation, so I came to you.'
'Perdition, catch my soul,' Jurgensen said, then sighed and drew a pipe and pouch from his desk drawer. I stood at parade rest while he took his time packing the pipe and lighting it. He seemed to have forgotten I was there. I was about to clear my throat when he said, 'For Christ's sake, Underhill, sit down and tell me about it.'
It took me twenty minutes, by the electric clock on the captain's wall.
I covered everything, except my coupling with Maggie Cadwallader. I told him of the similarities between the two killings. I told him of my noticing the matches in Leona Jensen's apartment last February, and how that was the link that drew me to the Silver Star. I omitted my knowledge of the diamond brooch.
During the course of telling my story, I watched Jurgensen's normally stoic expression veer between curiosity, anger, and some kind of bitter amusement. When I finished he stared at me in silence. I stared back, sensing that phony contrition for the liberties I had taken wouldn't be believed. We stared at each other some more.
