sight of this building. This would add up to the fact that the Kid was watching someone in this building, and did not want them to be watching him.
He had now gone calling through the back door. That wasn’t difficult to explain. The front door was locked, but the back door—as in most large buildings—probably was open all day. Unless the Kid ran into a janitor or someone of the sort, he could get in with no trouble. The Kid’s call was furtive, whether his host was at home or not.
I didn’t know what it was all about, but that didn’t bother me especially. My immediate problem was to get to the best place from which to pick up the Kid when he came out.
If he left by the back door, the next block of Redwood Street—between Franklin and Gough—was the place for me and my coupe. But he hadn’t promised me he would leave that way. It was more likely that he would use the front door. He would attract less attention walking boldly out the front of the building than sneaking out the back. My best bet was the corner of McAllister and Van Ness. From there I could watch the front door as well as one end of Redwood Street.
I slid the coupe down to that corner and waited.
Half an hour passed. Three quarters.
The Whosis Kid came down the front steps and walked toward me, buttoning his overcoat and turning up the collar as he walked, his head bent against the slant of the rain.
A curtained black Cadillac touring car came from behind me, a car I thought had been parked down near the City Hall when I took my plant here.
It curved around my coupe, slid with chainless recklessness in to the curb, skidded out again, picking up speed somehow on the wet paving.