leaving, a car drove up and Mr. Pangburn and a girl or woman—I didn’t notice her particularly—got out and went inside. I didn’t think anything of it until I saw in the paper last night that he hadn’t been seen since Sunday. So then I thought to myself that—”
“What roadhouse was this?” I cut in, not being interested in his mental processes.
“The White Shack.”
“About what time?”
“Somewhere between eleven-thirty and midnight, I guess.”
“He see you?”
“No. I was already in our car when he drove up. I don’t think he’d know me anyway.”
“What did the woman look like?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see her face, and I can’t remember how she was dressed or even if she was short or tall.”
That was all Fall could tell me.
We shooed him out of the office, and I used Axford’s telephone to call up “Wop” Healey’s dive in North Beach and leave word that when “Porky” Grout came in he was to call up “Jack.” That was a standing arrangement by which I got word to Porky whenever I wanted to see him, without giving anybody a chance to tumble to the connection between us.
“Know the White Shack?” I asked Axford, when I was through phoning.
“I know where it is, but I don’t know anything about it.”