Her face was a face from a photograph—Myra Banbrock’s face.
Dick made her with me.
“Our Baby!” he cried, bouncing to his feet.
“Wait,” I said. “She’s going into the joint on the edge of the hill. Let her go. We’ll go after her when she’s inside. That’s our excuse for frisking the joint.”
I went into the next room, where our telephone was, and called Pat Reddy’s number.
“She didn’t go in,” Dick called from the window. “She went past the path.”
“After her!” I ordered. “There’s no sense to that! What’s the matter with her?” I felt sort of indignant about it. “She’s got to go in! Tail her. I’ll find you after I get Pat.”
Dick went.
Pat’s wife answered the telephone. I told her who I was.
“Will you shake Pat out of the covers and send him up here? He knows where I am. Tell him I want him in a hurry.”
“I will,” she promised. “I’ll have him there in ten minutes—wherever it is.”
Outdoors, I went up the road, hunting for Dick and Myra Banbrock. Neither was in sight. Passing the bushes that masked the yellow house, I went on, circling down a stony path to the left. No sign of either.
I turned back in time to see Dick going into our flat. I followed.
“She’s in,” he said when I joined him. “She went up the road, cut across through some bushes, came back to the edge of the cliff, and slid feet-first through a cellar window.”
That was nice. The crazier the people you are sleuthing act, as a rule, the nearer you are to an ending of your troubles.
Reddy arrived within a minute or two of the time his wife had promised. He came in buttoning his clothes.
“What the hell did you tell Althea?” he growled at me. “She gave me an overcoat to put over my pajamas, dumped the rest of my clothes in the car, and I had to get in them on the way over.”
“I’ll cry with you after awhile,” I dismissed his troubles. “Myra Banbrock just went into the joint through a cellar window. Elwood has been there an hour. Let’s knock it off.”
Pat is deliberate.
“We ought to have papers, even at that,” he stalled.
“Sure,” I agreed, “but you can get them fixed up afterward. That’s what you’re here for. Contra Costa county wants her—maybe to try her for murder. That’s all the excuse we need to get into the joint. We go there for her. If we happen to run into anything else—well and good.”
Pat finished buttoning his vest.
“Oh, all right!” he said sourly. “Have it your way. But if you get me smashed for searching a house without authority, you’ll have to give me a job with your law-breaking agency.”
“I will.” I turned to Foley. “You’ll have to stay outside, Dick. Keep your eye on the getaway. Don’t bother anybody else, but if the Banbrock girl gets out, stay behind her.”
“I expected it,” Dick howled. “Any time there’s any fun I can count on being stuck off somewhere on a street corner!”
VIII
Pat Reddy and I went straight up the bush-hidden path to the yellow house’s front door, and rang the bell.
A big black man in a red fez, red silk jacket over red-striped silk shirt, red zouave pants and red slippers, opened the door. He filled the opening, framed in the black of the hall behind him.
“Is Mr. Maxwell home?” I asked.
The black man shook his head and said words in a language I don’t know.
“Mr. Elwood, then?”
Another shaking of the head. More strange language.
“Let’s see whoever is home then,” I insisted.
Out of the jumble of words that meant nothing to me, I picked three in garbled English, which I thought were “master,” “not,” and “home.”
The door began to close. I put a foot against it.
Pat flashed his buzzer.
Though the black man had poor English, he had knowledge of police badges.
One of his feet stamped on the floor behind him. A gong boomed deafeningly in the rear of the house.
The black man bent his weight to the door.
My weight on the foot that blocked the door, I leaned sidewise, swaying to the Negro.
Slamming from the hip, I put my fist in the middle of him.
Reddy hit the door and we went into the hall.
“ ’Fore God, Fat Shorty,” the black man gasped in good black Virginian, “you done hurt me!”
Reddy and I went by him, down the hall whose bounds were lost in darkness.
The bottom of a flight of steps stopped my feet.
A gun went off upstairs. It seemed to point at us. We didn’t get the bullets.
A babel of voices—women screaming, men shouting—came and went upstairs; came and went as if a door was being opened and shut.
“Up, my boy!” Reddy yelped in my ear.
We went up the stairs. We didn’t find the man who had shot at us.
At the head of the stairs, a door was locked. Reddy’s bulk forced it.
We came into a bluish light. A large room, all purple and gold. Confusion of overturned furniture and rumpled rugs. A gray slipper lay near a far door. A green silk gown was in the center of the floor. No person was there.
I raced Pat to the curtained door beyond the slipper. The door was not locked. Reddy yanked it wide.
A room with three girls and a man crouching in a corner, fear in their faces. Neither of them was Myra Banbrock, or Raymond Elwood, or anyone we knew.
Our glances went away from them after the first quick look.
The open door across the room grabbed our attention.
The door gave to a small room.
The room was chaos.
A small room, packed and tangled with bodies. Live bodies, seething, writhing. The room was a funnel into
