Kept Women Can’t Quit

After that, I dropped quite a ways behind and didn’t crowd him until we got into traffic heavy enough so that he wouldn’t notice I was following.

He drove to the Union Depot, parked the car long enough to get a porter to unload the trunk, then drove on to a parking space. I parked my car, drove back and saw him buy a ticket on the Lark to San Francisco. He came out, picked up the porter, went to the baggage room and checked the trunk.

I drove back to the apartment house, opened the garage padlock with my key, backed the agency car in and picked up the trunk I had moved back into the dark corner of the garage. I made time down to the Union Station, bought a ticket on the Lark to San Francisco and checked the trunk. Then I parked my car in the depot garage and called the apartment.

Elsie answered. Her voice sounded thin and a little frightened.

“What’s new?” I asked.

“Oh, Donald,” she said. “I’m so glad you called. I’m scared.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Some man called. He didn’t ask who I was or anything. He simply said, ‘Tell Standley he has until tomorrow morning to get me that ten grand. Otherwise, it’s just too bad.’

“I tried to ask who was talking but the party at the other end of the line just hung up.”

I said, “Now look, Elsie, don’t get frightened. You’re all right. Sit tight. Answer the telephone. Don’t tell anybody that you’re Evelyn Ellis. Simply say that you will try to get a message to Miss Ellis. If anyone starts pinning you down, tell them that you are the party that moved into the apartment after Evelyn Ellis moved out, but that you have reason to believe she’s coming back to pick up messages. If they ask what your name is, act as if they’re trying to flirt and tell them that that isn’t important. Don’t tell anyone any more that you’re a friend of Evelyn Ellis or that you know her. Get what information you can, but if it comes to a showdown, simply say that you’re the new tenant. And if anybody gets rough, tell them that they’d better talk with Mrs. Charlotte, the manager.”

“Donald, are you coming back out here?” she asked.

“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I’m going to be out for a while.”

“How long?”

“All night.”

“Donald!”

“Did you want me there... all night?”

“No... I’m... I don’t want to be alone.”

“All married people have to make adjustments,” I said.

“This is one hell of a honeymoon,” she said and hung up.

I went to a drugstore, bought a light nylon handbag, bought shaving things, toothbrush and a few toilet articles, then went out to Olvera Street and had a nice Mexican dinner. After that, I strolled down to the Union Depot, got aboard the Lark, took care not to go through either the club car or the diner to avoid being seen, entered my bedroom, closed the door and went to sleep.

I didn’t go in for breakfast because I didn’t want to be trapped in the dining car. When the train got into San Francisco I tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. I carried my own light overnight bag and didn’t go near the baggage wagons where the red-cap porters distribute the baggage.

I grabbed a cab, went to the Golden Gateway Hotel and registered under my own name, then told the clerk, “I expect to be joined by George Biggs Gridley. He isn’t here yet, but I want him near me. I’ll register him in and pay for the adjoining room. You can give me the key and I’ll turn it over to Gridley when he comes in. I’ll pay for the first day in cash. Later on, if we stay more than one day, we can make credit arrangements.”

I took out my billfold.

The clerk was all smiles.

He gave me two adjoining rooms.

I looked up a drive-yourself car agency, rented a station wagon, drove back down to Third and Townsend, turned in my baggage check and got the trunk.

It was a reasonably heavy trunk and there was something about the balance that bothered me. It seemed to have the weight all in the bottom.

I drove up to the hotel, unloaded the car, drove into a parking place, came back and had the trunk taken to the room I’d rented under the name of George Biggs Gridley. I thought that was a nice name.

I called the bell captain, said, “I’m in a hell of a jam. I’ve lost the key to my trunk. I’ve got to get it open.”

He said, “The porter keeps a whole bunch of keys. He can probably handle it. I’ll send him up.”

I waited about five minutes and the porter came in with a key ring that looked as though it had a hundred keys on it of assorted shapes and sizes.

It took the porter less than thirty seconds to find a key that clicked back the lock on the trunk.

He took the two dollars I handed him and grinned. “It’s a cinch,” he said. “These locks depend mostly on the shape of the key. They don’t put anything very elaborate in them in the way of tumblers. It’s just a question of finding something that fits.”

When he had left I opened the trunk.

It was filled to the brim with woolen blankets. In the bottom of the trunk, wedged in by blankets so they wouldn’t jiggle around, were some cards and books that were full of cabalistic figures.