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  Beyond the bungalow were sand dunes. After driving a few hundred yards further up the beach road I left the car behind a screen of shrubs and walked back towards the bungalow.

  Within a hundred yards of the place was a line of dunes that offered excellent cover. From behind them I could watch the bungalow without being seen.

  I had brought with me a pair of powerful field glasses I had been lucky enough to borrow from the owner of my hotel.

  I made myself comfortable. By scooping away some of the sand, I was able to lie down against the face of the dune and rest the field glasses on top of it.

  I watched the bungalow for more than an hour without seeing any sign of life.

  At twenty minutes to nine, a battered old car came churning up the road and pulled up outside the bungalow. A woman got out. She walked up the path. I examined her through the glasses. They were so powerful I could see the smudges of powder on her face where she had put the powder on too thickly.

  I guessed she was the maid, coming to clean up, and through the glasses I saw her dip two fingers into the mail box slot and then fish out a long string at the end of which was a key. She unlocked the front door with the key and entered the bungalow.

  The long wait had paid off. I now knew how to get into the bungalow if I wanted to get in.

  From time to time, through the big window, I caught sight of the woman moving about in the lounge.

  She was pushing an electric cleaner. After some minutes, she disconnected the cleaner and went away out of sight.

  Time crawled by.

  A little after eleven thirty the front door opened and Vasari came out. He stood on the step staring up at the sky, flexing his muscles and breathing in the fresh morning air. The sun was hot after the night’s rain. He was wearing blue cotton slacks and a sweater shirt. He looked very massive. As a bodyguard he was impressive.

  He went over to the Pontiac and checked the oil and water, then he returned to the bungalow.

  It wasn’t until midday that I saw Rima. She came to the front door and looked up at the sky. It was startling to put the field glasses on her face. She looked pale, and there were smudges under her eyes, and the rouge she had put on made her face look like a painted mask. Her expression was sullen. She got into the Pontiac and slammed the door viciously.

  Vasari came out, carrying bathing wraps and towels. The cleaning woman came to the door. He said something to her and she nodded, then he got into the car and drove away.

  I followed the car through the field glasses. It headed in the direction of the West side of the town where the swank beach clubs were.

  A few minutes later the woman came out, locked the front door, dropped the key through the mail slot, got in her car and drove away.

  I didn’t hesitate.

  This was an opportunity too good to miss. There was a chance that Rima kept the gun that had killed the guard in the bungalow. If I could get it, the case against me would be considerably weakened.

  Before moving from my hiding place I examined the road and the beach carefully. There was no one in sight. I came out from behind the sand dunes and walked fast to the bungalow.

  I opened the gate and walked up the drive-in. To be on the safe side, I rang the bell, although I knew there was no one in the place. After waiting a few minutes I fished up the key and opened the door. I stepped into the small hall and paused to listen. There was no sound except the busy ticking of a clock somewhere in the bungalow and the drip-drip-drip of a faulty tap in the kitchen.

  The lounge was to my right. A short passage to my left led to the bedrooms.

  I walked down the passage, opened a door and glanced into a room. This would be Vasari’s dressing-room. A pair of slacks were neatly folded on a chair and an electric shaver lay on the dressing-table. I didn’t go in, but moved to the next door, opened it and stepped inside.

  There was a double bed by the window and the dressing-table was loaded with cosmetics. A green silk wrap hung behind the door.

  This was the room I wanted. I half closed the door, then went over to the chest of drawers and began going through the contents quickly, being careful not to disturb anything.

  Rima had been on a buying spree with my money. The drawers were crammed with nylon underwear, scarves, handkerchiefs, stockings and so on. I didn’t find the gun.

  I turned my attention to the closet. A dozen or so dresses hung on hangers, and on the floor of the closet was a number of pairs of shoes. On the top shelf I saw a cardboard box tied with string. I took it down, slid off the string and opened the box. It contained letters and a number of photographs, most of them of Rima with her silver hair, taken at the film studios.

  A letter on the top of the pile caught my attention. It was dated three days ago. I picked it from the box and read it.

  234 Castle Arms,

  Ashby Avenue,

  San Francisco.

  Dear Rima,

  Last night I ran into Wilbur. He is out on parole and he is looking for you. He is on the stuff again and he is dangerous. He told me if he finds you he’ll kill you. So watch out. I told him I thought you were in New York. He is still here, but I am hoping he will go off to New York. If he does so, I’ll let you know.

  Anyway, you keep clear of here. He gives me the creeps and he means what he says about fixing you.

  In a rush to catch the mail.

  Clare.

  I had completely forgotten Wilbur’s existence.

  My mind flashed back to Rusty’s bar. I saw again the door slamming open and the sudden appearance of the small nightmare figure. Dangerous? An understatement. Then he had been as deadly as a rattlesnake as he had moved to where Rima had been crouching, the flick knife in his hand.

  So he was out of jail after thirteen years, and he was looking for Rima.

  When he found her he would kill her.

  A tremendous surge of relief ran through me. This might be my way out: the solution to my problem.

  I copied the woman Clare’s address into my pocket diary and replaced the letter in the box and the box in the cupboard.

  Then I continued my search for the gun, my mind busy.

  It was by chance I found the gun. It was hanging by a string inside one of Rima’s dresses. It was only because I impatiently pushed aside the row of dresses to look behind them that I felt it.

  I untied the string and lifted the gun clear.

  It was a .38 Police Special, and it was loaded. I slid the gun into my hip pocket, shut the cupboard and looked around the room to make sure I had left no signs of my search, then satisfied, I crossed the room to the door.

  As I opened the door I heard a car pull up outside the bungalow.

  I jumped to the window, my heart beginning to thump. I was in time to see Rima getting out of the Pontiac. She ran up the drive-in and I heard her fumbling for the key.

  As the key grated in the lock I moved silently and swiftly out of the bedroom. I paused for a split second in the passage, then stepped into Vasari’s dressing-room. I pushed the door to as the front door opened.

  Rima walked quickly past the dressing-room and into her bedroom.

  I stood against the wall so that if Vasari opened the door it would conceal me as it swung back. I was tense and scared, and my heart was pounding.

  I heard Vasari come heavily into the hall. There was a pause, then I heard him walk into the lounge.

  After a few minutes Rima left her bedroom and joined him in the lounge.

  ‘Look, baby,’ he said in a complaining voice, ‘can’t you lay off the stuff? For the love of Mike? We no sooner go somewhere when you have to come rushing back for a shot.’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ Rima’s voice sounded vicious and harsh. ‘I do what I like here and don’t you forget it!’

  ‘Oh, sure, but why the hell don’t you carry the stuff around with you if you’ve got to have it? You’ve balled up the whole day now.’

  ‘I told you to shut up, didn’t I?’

  ‘I heard you
. You’re always telling me to shut up. I’m getting sick of it.’

  She laughed.

  ‘That’s a joke! What are you going to do about it, then?’

  There was a long pause, then he said, ‘Who’s this guy you’re getting money from? He worries me.

  What’s he to you?’

  ‘He’s nothing to me. He owes me money and he pays me. Will you shut up about him?’

  ‘How comes he owes you money, baby?’

  ‘Look, if you don’t stop this you can get out. You hear me?’

  ‘Now, wait a minute.’ His voice hardened. ‘I’m in enough trouble as it is. I tel you this guy worries me. I think you’re blackmailing him, and that’s something I don’t go for.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Her voice was sneering. ‘But you don’t mind stealing, do you? You don’t mind knocking some old guy on the head and taking his roll, do you?’

  ‘Cut that out! If they caught me I’d go away for a year, but blackmail… hell! They give you ten years for that!’

  ‘Who says anything about blackmail? I told you: he owes me money.’

  ‘If I thought you were blackmailing him, baby, I’d leave you.’

  ‘You? Leave me? That’s a laugh. You watch your step, Ed. Two can make threats. What’s to stop me telephoning the cops and telling them where you are? Oh, no, you won’t leave me.’

  There was a long pause.

  In the silence I could hear the clock ticking.

  Then Vasari said uneasily, ‘You always talk crazy after a shot. Forget it. So long as you know what you are doing. You wouldn’t touch blackmail, baby, would you?’

  ‘I’m not talking crazy!’ she snapped. ‘If you don’t like the way I live, you can get out! I can get on without you, but I’m damn sure that you can’t get on without me!’

  ‘This guy has me worried, Rima.’ His voice was now hesitant. ‘He’s giving you plenty, isn’t he? How comes he owes you all this dough?’

  ‘Shut up about him! You heard what I said: do you want to get out or do you want to stay?’

  ‘I don’t want to get out, baby, I love you. Just so long as I know you’re not cooking trouble for us, I don’t mind.’

  ‘There’s going to be no trouble. Come here and kiss me.’

  ‘You’re sure about the trouble? This guy wouldn’t…’

  ‘Come here and kiss me.’

  I opened the door silently and stepped into the passage. I heard Rima moan softly as I moved down the passage and into the kitchen. I unlocked the door that led out onto the veranda, and then shutting it silently behind 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 café 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 a
lways 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.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I

  The dark girl in the skin-tight dress who had spoken to me moved with a hip-swinging walk towards Wilbur, a professional smile on her red lips. She paused near him, her slim fingers touching her hair, her black pencil lined eyebrows lifted in invitation.

  Wilbur continued to snap his fingers and weave his thin body in time with the music, but his owl-like eyes, glittering behind his glasses, shifted to the girl and his bloodless lips lifted off his teeth in a grimacing smile that meant nothing. Then, still snapping his fingers, he moved towards her and she too began to strut and stamp in time with the music.