“You’ll do well to lay off him,” she advised me, not answering my question.
Then she slid her knife back in its hiding place under her skirt and twisted around to face me.
“Now what’s all this about Ed being in trouble?”
“You read about the killing in the papers?”
“Yes.”
“You oughtn’t need a map, then,” I said. “Ed’s only out is to put the job on you. But I doubt if he can get away with that. If he can’t, he’s nailed.”
“You’re crazy!” she exclaimed. “You weren’t too drunk to know that both of us were here with you when the killing was done.”
“I’m not crazy enough to think that proves anything,” I corrected her. “But I am crazy enough to expect to go back to San Francisco wearing the killer on my wrist.”
She laughed at me. I laughed back and stood up.
“See you some more,” I said as I strolled toward the door.
I returned to San Diego and sent a wire to Los Angeles, asking for another operative. Then I got something to eat and spent the evening lying across the bed in my hotel room smoking and scheming and waiting for Gorman.
It was late when he arrived, and he smelled of mescal from San Diego to St. Louis and back, but his head seemed level enough.
“Looked like I was going to have to shoot you loose from the place for a moment,” he grinned. “Between the twist flashing the pick and the big guy loosening a sap in his pocket, it looked like action was coming.”