I was a little inclined toward grouchiness as I turned the roadster west, driving out through Golden Gate Park to the Ocean Boulevard. The job wasn’t getting along as snappily as I wanted it to.
I let the roadster slide down the boulevard at a good clip, and the salt air blew some of my kinks away.
A bony-faced man with pinkish mustache opened the door when I rang Lillian Shan’s bell. I knew him—Tucker, a deputy sheriff.
“Hullo,” he said. “What d’you want?”
“I’m hunting for her too.”
“Keep on hunting,” he grinned. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“Not here, huh?”
“Nope. The Swede woman that works for her says she was in and out half an hour before I got here, and I’ve been here about ten minutes now.”
“Got a warrant for her?” I asked.
“You bet you! Her chauffeur squawked.”
“Yes, I heard him,” I said. “I’m the bright boy who gathered him in.”
I spent five or ten minutes more talking to Tucker and then climbed in the roadster again.
“Will you give the agency a ring when you nab her?” I asked as I closed the door.
“You bet you.”
I pointed the roadster at San Francisco again.