me, I ran back to the cover of the sand dunes.
I lay against the sand bank and watched the bungalow. It wasn’t until after four o’clock that they came out and got into the Pontiac. When they had driven away I got to my feet.
Well, at least I had the gun. I knew now that Vasari wasn’t in on Rima’s blackmail racket. It was a safe bet that no one else shared her information about me. I knew Wilbur was out of jail and hunting for her.
My problems were becoming simplified. If I could find Wilbur and tell him where Rima was he would wipe her out for me.
There were still difficulties. If she found the gun had vanished, would she get into a panic and leave the bungalow and go into hiding? I decided there was a reasonable chance that she wouldn’t discover that I had taken the gun. How long did she intend staying in the bungalow? That was something I had to find out. It might take me some time to find Wilbur. I had to be sure she would still be in the bungalow when I found him.
I returned to my hotel. I called the biggest real estate agent in town and told him I was interested in renting the bungalow on East Shore. Did he know when it would be vacant? He said it was let for the next six months. I thanked him, and said I would look in next time I was passing to see if he had anything else to offer. Then I hung up.
If Rima didn’t discover the loss of the gun she would obviously remain in the bungalow for as long as was necessary. I now had to find Wilbur.
I called the sanatorium and asked after Sarita. The nurse said she was still making progress and there was no need for me to be anxious. I told her I had to go to San Francisco, and would let her know where to contact me, then I settled my account with the hotel, returned the Studebaker to the garage and took a train to San Francisco.
I hadn’t much to go on: a woman’s first name, her address and the knowledge that Wilbur had been seen in this city.
That was all, but if I had any luck it could be enough.
I told a taxi driver to take me to a hotel near Ashby Avenue.
He said there were three hotels on Ashby Avenue itself, and his choice, for what it was worth, would be the Roosevelt. I told him to take me there.
When I had booked in and had had my suitcase taken up to my room, I left the hotel and walked past the Castle Arms.
This turned out to be a big apartment block that had seen better days. Now its ornate brasswork was tarnished and its paintwork dilapidated.
I caught a glimpse of the janitor as he aired himself at the main entrance. He was a little man in a shabby uniform, and he had forgotten to shave this day. The kind of man who could use a dollar without asking questions.
I tramped the streets for the next half-hour until I came upon one of those printing-while-you-wait establishments. I asked the clerk in charge to print me some cards. I wrote down what I wanted:
H. Masters. Insurance and Credit Investigator.
City Agency, San Francisco.
He said he would have the cards ready within an hour. I went over to a nearby cafe and read the evening paper and drank two cups of coffee.
Then I collected the cards, and a little before nine o’clock I walked into the lobby of the Castle Arms.
There was no one behind the reception desk nor anyone to take care of the elevator. A small sign with an arrow pointing to the basement stairs told me where I could find the janitor.
I went down and knocked on a door at the foot of the stairs. The door opened and the shabby little man I had seen airing himself looked suspiciously at me.
I poked my card at him.
‘Can I buy a few minutes of your time?’ I said.
He took the card, stared at it, then gave it back to me.
‘What was that?’
‘I want some information. Can I buy it from you?’
I had a five dollar bill in my hand. I let him see it before returning it to my pocket.
He suddenly became friendly and eager.
‘Sure, come on in, friend,’ he said. ‘What do you want to know?’
I entered the tiny room that served as an office. He sat down on the only chair. After pushing aside a couple of brooms and lifting a pail on to the floor, I found a seat on an empty wooden crate.
‘Information about a woman staying here,’ I said. I took out the five dollar bill and folded it, keeping it before him. He stared hungrily at it. ‘She’s in apartment 234.’
‘You mean Clare Sims?’
‘That’s the one. Who is she? What does she do for a living?’
I gave him the bill which he hurriedly pushed into his hip pocket.
‘She’s a stripper at the Gatsby Club on MacArthur Boulevard,’ he told me. ‘We have plenty of trouble with her. It’s my guess she’s a junky. The way she behaves sometimes, you’d imagine she was crazy. The management has warned her if she doesn’t quit making trouble she’ll have to leave.’
‘Not a good credit bet?’
‘The worst I’d say,’ he said shrugging. ‘If you’re thinking of talking to her, watch out. She’s a toughie.’
‘I don’t want to talk to her,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘If she’s like that, I don’t want to have anything to do with her.’
I shook hands with him, thanked him for his help and left. I returned to my hotel, changed, then took a taxi to the Gatsby Club.
There was nothing special about it. You can find a club like the Gatsby in any big town. It is always in a cellar. It always has an ex-pug as a doorman-cum-bouncer. It always has dim lighting and a small bar just inside the lobby. There are always hard-faced, bosomy girls hanging around the bar waiting for an invitation to a drink and who will go to bed with you later for three dollars if they can’t get more.
I paid the five dollars’ entrance fee, signed the book in the name of Masters and went into the restaurant.
A slim girl, wearing a tight-fitting evening dress that hinted she hadn’t anything else on under it, her black hair falling to her shoulders and her grey-blue eyes full of silent and worldly invitation, came over to me and asked me if she could share my table.
I said not right now, but later I would buy her a drink.
She smiled sadly at me and went away, shaking her head at the other five unattached girls who were looking hungrily at me.
I had an indifferent dinner and watched a still more indifferent cabaret show.
Clare Sims did her strip act.
She was a big, generously built blonde with an over-developed bust and hip line that made the customers stare. There was nothing to her act except the revealing of a lot of flesh.
A little after midnight, just when I was thinking I had been wasting my time, there was a slight commotion at the door and a small dark-haired man came into the restaurant.
He was wearing a shabby tuxedo and heavy horn-rimmed spectacles.
He stood in the doorway, snapping his fingers and jerking his body in time with the music: a compact figure of evil.
He was gaunt and his hair was turning grey at the temples. His face was the colour of tallow. His lips were bloodless. The degeneracy in his face told its own story.
I didn’t have to look twice.
It was Wilbur.
