Clandestine

I checked the time—nine-twenty-three. The graveyard crew probably came on at midnight. All I could do now was wait.

It was late when I was rewarded. Over three hours of squatting in a darkened corner of the parking lot had put me in a foul mood. I watched as the night shift took off at precisely twelve o'clock, peeling rubber in my face. They seemed happy to be free.

The graveyard crew trickled in over the next half hour, seemingly not as happy. My eyes were glued to the parking space in front of the building, and at 12:49 a well-kept '46 Cadillac pulled in and parked in the foreman's space. A fat blond man got out. From my vantage point, I couldn't tell if he was missing any thumbs.

I waited five minutes and followed him inside. There was an employees' lunchroom at the end of a long, dimly lit corridor. I walked in and looked around. A youth in a duck's-ass haircut gave me a curious look, but none of the other goldbricking workmen seemed to notice me.

The fat blond foreman was sitting at a table, holding a cup of coffee in his right hand. I got a Coke from a machine and took my time drinking it. The foreman had his left hand in his pocket. He kept it there, driving me nuts. Finally, he took it out and scratched his nose. His thumb was missing—more than enough confirmation.

I walked back outside and found a rusty old coat hanger on the ground at the edge of the parking lot. I fashioned a hook device out of it and casually walked over to the foreman's Cadillac. The car was locked, but the wind wing on the driver's side was open. I looked in all directions, then slipped the bent coat hanger through the window and hooked it over the door button. The hanger slipped off once, but the second time it caught and I pulled the button up.

Quickly I got in the car and hunched down in the front seat. I tried the glove compartment. It was locked. I ran a hand over the steering column and found what I wanted: The car registration, attached in a leather holder, fastened on with buckles. I removed it and huddled even lower in the seat.

The plastic-encased official paper read: Henry Robert Hart, 1164¼ Hurlburt Pl., Culver City, Calif

It was all I needed. I fastened the registration back on the steering column, locked Henry Hart's car and ran to my own.

Hurlburt Place was a quiet street of small houses a few blocks from the M.G.M. Studios. Number 1164¼ was a garage apartment. I parked across the street and rummaged in my trunk for some makeshift burglar's tools. A screwdriver and a metal carpenter's rule were all I could come up with.

I walked slowly across the street and into the driveway that led back to the garage. No lights were on in the front house. The wooden steps that led up to Henry Hart's apartment creaked so loudly that they must have been heard all the way downtown, but my own heartbeat seemed to drown them out.

The lock was a joke: working the rule and screwdriver simultaneously snapped it easily.

When the door opened, I stood there hesitantly, wondering if I dared enter. My previous B&Es had been done as a policeman; this time I was a civilian. I took a deep breath and walked in, wrapping my right hand in a handkerchief as I fumbled for a light switch.

Stumbling in the darkness, I crashed into a floor lamp, almost knocking it over. Holding it at waist level, I turned it on, illuminating a dreary bedroom—living room: ratty chairs, ratty Murphy bed, threadbare carpet, and cheap oil prints on the walls—probably all inherited from previous tenants long gone.

Deciding to give myself one minute to toss the room, I stood the lamp up on its stand and rapidly scanned the place, picking out a card table covered with dirty dishes, a pile of laundry on the floor next to the bed, and a stack of lurid paperbacks—held upright by two empty beer bottles—resting against a windowsill, and several empty cigarette packs.

My minute was just about up when I spotted a stack of newspapers sticking out from under the bed. I pulled them out. They were all L.A. papers, and they all contained articles which detailed the killing of Marcella Harris.

There was handwriting along the borders; grief-stricken pleas and prayers: "God, please catch this fiend who killed my Marcella." "Please, please, please, God, make this a dream." "The gas chamber is too good for the scum who killed my Marcella." Next to a photo of the sheriffs detective who was heading the investigation were the words: "This guy is a crumb! He told me to get lost, that the cops don't need no friends of Marcella to help. I told him this is a case for the F.B.I."

I flipped through the rest of the newspapers. They were arranged chronologically, and Henry Hart's grief seemed to be building: the last newspaper accounts were scrawled over illegibly and seemed to be stained by teardrops.

I checked my watch: I had left the light on for eight minutes. With the handkerchief still over my hand I rifled every drawer in the three dressers that lined one wall: empty, empty, empty; dirty clothes, phone books.