Agency
had second-floor offices in a narrow, stucco building above a loan company. I found a parking place across the street and made my way through the evening flow of traffic. The cars were fleeing wildly across the twilight, as if there had been simultaneous disasters at both ends of the boulevard.Lights were being lit like tiny watchfires all along the hills.
I walked up to the second floor and found, as I expected, that the Acme offices were locked and silent. There was a telephone booth which smelled of stale cigar-smoke in the corridor. A skylight above it filtered a dusty gray light. I used the phone to call the J. Thomas Richards home in Westwood. The maid informed me that Mr. and Mrs. Richards were still out on the golf course. Would I try the Bel Air clubhouse? Yes, they were expected home for dinner.
The telephone directory chained to the wall of the booth listed an alternative number for the Acme agency, to be called in case of emergency. I dialed it and got a man’s voice, rapid and edged:
“Bourke speaking. Is that you, Carol?”
“I’m Howard Cross, probation officer in Pacific Point—”
“Do I know you?”
“It looks as if you’re going to. We’ve had a murder and a kidnapping—”
“Not for me, thanks very much. I leave that stuff to the police. Who did you say you were—a probation officer?”
“You didn’t let me finish. You run the Acme agency, don’t you?”
“It runs me,” he said, “ragged.”
“One of your employees is involved.”
“Simmie? Not Simmie Thatcher?”
“We don’t know the name.”
“Won’t he talk?”
“He can’t. He’s been dead for eight hours.”
He didn’t speak for about five seconds. Somewhere behind the wall of the corridor, perhaps in the Acme offices, I heard a telephone ringing remotely, unanswered.
“What makes you think he works—he worked for me?”
“He was passing out your business cards.”
“Describe him.”
“A big old man, close to six feet, I’d say in his late fifties. Bald-headed, and he wears a brown toupee.”
There was another waiting silence on the line.
“Do you know him, Bourke?”
“I know him,” he said wearily. “What happened to him?”
“He was murdered.”
“I see.”
“Who is he?”
“The name’s Art Lemp. He worked for me last year for a while. I fired him.”
“I need all you have on him. Where can we get together?”
“Now?” he said in some dismay. “I’m expecting a call from my wife, I can’t—”
I overbore him: “Listen. This Lemp snatched a four-year-old boy this morning. Lemp’s dead. The boy’s still missing. You’re the only lead we’ve got.”
“I see. Well. Maybe she isn’t going to call me anyway. Where are you?”
“In the telephone booth outside your office.”
“I’m just three blocks away. Be there in five minutes.”
Before I had finished a cigarette he mounted the stairs, a man of about my age, broad-shouldered and short-legged, with quick suspicious Hollywood eyes set on ball bearings in an anxious face. While we exchanged a perfunctory handshake his eyes were all over me, estimating my height, age, weight, probable income, and Intelligence Quotient. There were Martinis on his breath.
He stabbed his office door with a small brass key. “Did I keep you waiting? Mind if I see your credentials?”
“I don’t carry any. Phone the sheriff at Pacific Point if you like. He’s probably been trying to get in touch with you, anyway.”
He snapped a switch inside the door. The awkward shadows of waiting-room furniture, settee, reed chairs, ash-stand, took on color and substance.
“Why bother?” he said with forced lightness. “You have an honest face. What did you say your name was?”
“Howard Cross.”
“Come on into the sanctum, Howard. I’ll do you for what I can. Joke.”
I followed him into his private office, a small room decently furnished in oak veneer. He sat on the edge of the desk and swung one highly polished
had second-floor offices in a narrow, stucco building above a loan company. I found a parking place across the street and made my way through the evening flow of traffic. The cars were fleeing wildly across the twilight, as if there had been simultaneous disasters at both ends of the boulevard.Lights were being lit like tiny watchfires all along the hills.
I walked up to the second floor and found, as I expected, that the Acme offices were locked and silent. There was a telephone booth which smelled of stale cigar-smoke in the corridor. A skylight above it filtered a dusty gray light. I used the phone to call the J. Thomas Richards home in Westwood. The maid informed me that Mr. and Mrs. Richards were still out on the golf course. Would I try the Bel Air clubhouse? Yes, they were expected home for dinner.
The telephone directory chained to the wall of the booth listed an alternative number for the Acme agency, to be called in case of emergency. I dialed it and got a man’s voice, rapid and edged:
“Bourke speaking. Is that you, Carol?”
“I’m Howard Cross, probation officer in Pacific Point—”
“Do I know you?”
“It looks as if you’re going to. We’ve had a murder and a kidnapping—”
“Not for me, thanks very much. I leave that stuff to the police. Who did you say you were—a probation officer?”
“You didn’t let me finish. You run the Acme agency, don’t you?”
“It runs me,” he said, “ragged.”
“One of your employees is involved.”
“Simmie? Not Simmie Thatcher?”
“We don’t know the name.”
“Won’t he talk?”
“He can’t. He’s been dead for eight hours.”
He didn’t speak for about five seconds. Somewhere behind the wall of the corridor, perhaps in the Acme offices, I heard a telephone ringing remotely, unanswered.
“What makes you think he works—he worked for me?”
“He was passing out your business cards.”
“Describe him.”
“A big old man, close to six feet, I’d say in his late fifties. Bald-headed, and he wears a brown toupee.”
There was another waiting silence on the line.
“Do you know him, Bourke?”
“I know him,” he said wearily. “What happened to him?”
“He was murdered.”
“I see.”
“Who is he?”
“The name’s Art Lemp. He worked for me last year for a while. I fired him.”
“I need all you have on him. Where can we get together?”
“Now?” he said in some dismay. “I’m expecting a call from my wife, I can’t—”
I overbore him: “Listen. This Lemp snatched a four-year-old boy this morning. Lemp’s dead. The boy’s still missing. You’re the only lead we’ve got.”
“I see. Well. Maybe she isn’t going to call me anyway. Where are you?”
“In the telephone booth outside your office.”
“I’m just three blocks away. Be there in five minutes.”
Before I had finished a cigarette he mounted the stairs, a man of about my age, broad-shouldered and short-legged, with quick suspicious Hollywood eyes set on ball bearings in an anxious face. While we exchanged a perfunctory handshake his eyes were all over me, estimating my height, age, weight, probable income, and Intelligence Quotient. There were Martinis on his breath.
He stabbed his office door with a small brass key. “Did I keep you waiting? Mind if I see your credentials?”
“I don’t carry any. Phone the sheriff at Pacific Point if you like. He’s probably been trying to get in touch with you, anyway.”
He snapped a switch inside the door. The awkward shadows of waiting-room furniture, settee, reed chairs, ash-stand, took on color and substance.
“Why bother?” he said with forced lightness. “You have an honest face. What did you say your name was?”
“Howard Cross.”
“Come on into the sanctum, Howard. I’ll do you for what I can. Joke.”
I followed him into his private office, a small room decently furnished in oak veneer. He sat on the edge of the desk and swung one highly polished
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