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up at Salzer’s sanatorium. He was a small-time gambler before he joined up with Salzer.

Served a five-year stretch for robbery with violence back in 1938. He’s supposed to have

settled down now, but I doubt that.”

“What’s he doing at Salzer’s sanatorium?” Mike shrugged.

“Odd jobs: cleans cars, does a bit of gardening, stuff like that.”

“This is important, Mike. If it is Dwan, he’s up against a murder rap.”

Mike pursed his thick lips in a soundless whistle.

“Well, it sounds like him. I’ve seen him in that hat.”

I went over the description again, in detail and carefully.

“Yeah,” Mike said. “That sounds like him all right. He’s never without a cheroot and his

nose and right ear are flattened. Must be the guy.”

I felt vaguely excited.

“Well, thanks, Mike.”

I went back to the other two who had been watching me from across the room.

“Mike’s identified Big Boy,” I told them. “He’s a guy named Benny Dwan, and guess

what: he works for Salzer.”

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“Isn’t it marvellous how you find things out?” Kerman said, grinning. “So what are you

going to do?”

“Tip Mifflin,” I said. “Wait a second, will you? I’ll call him now.”

They told me at Police Headquarters that Mifflin had gone home. I turned up his home

telephone number in the book and put the call through. After a delay, Mifflin’s voice came

over the line. He sounded sleepy and exasperated.

“This is Malloy,” I told him. “Sorry to wake you up, Tim, but I’m pretty sure I can identify

the guy who rubbed out Eudora Drew.”

“You can?” Mifflin’s voice brightened. “Say, that’s fine. Who is he?”

“Benny Dwan. And get this, Tim. He works for Salzer. If you go out to the sanatorium right

now you might lay your hooks into him.”

There was a long, heavy silence. I waited, grinning, imagining Mifflin’s expression.

“Salzer?” he said at last. His voice sounded as if he had a mouth full of hot potatoes.

“That’s right. Brandon’s little pal.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yeah. Anyway, I’ll identify him for you, and so will Paula. We’d be glad to.”

“You will?” Indecision and agony crept into his voice.

“Sure. Of course, Salzer may be annoyed, but apart from Brandon, who cares about

Salzer?”

“Aw, hell!” Mifflin said in disgust. “I’ll have to have a word with Brandon. I’m not stirring

up that kind of trouble.”

“Go ahead and have a word with him. Be sure to tell him I’m phoning the night editor of

the Herald with this story. I wouldn’t like Dwan to slip through your fingers because Brandon

doesn’t want to upset his little pal.”

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“Don’t do that!” Mifflin yelled. “Listen, Vic, for God’s sake, don’t go monkeying with the

press. That’s something Brandon won’t stand for.”

“Pity, because that’s what I’m going to do. Tell him, and get after Dwan unless you want

the press to get after you. So long, Tim,” and while he was still yelling I hung up.

Paula and Kerman had come over to the phone booth and were listening.

“Got him in an uproar?” Kerman asked, rubbing his hands.

“Just a little hysterical. They don’t seem anxious to annoy Salzer.” I dialled, waited, then,

when a man’s voice announced, “Herald Offices”, I asked to be put through to the night

editor.

It took me about two minutes to give him the story. He accepted it the way a starving man

accepts a five-course lunch.

“Salzer sort of pampers Brandon,” I explained. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t try to

hush this up.”

“It won’t be my fault if he succeeds,” the night editor said with a ghoulish laugh. “Thanks,

Malloy. I’ve been looking for a club to beat that rat with. Leave it to me. I’ll fix him.”

I hung up and moved out of the booth.

“Something tells me I’ve started a little trouble,” I said. “If my bet’s right, Brandon won’t

have pleasant dreams tonight.”

“What a shame,” Kerman said.

III

Drive North along Orchid Boulevard, past the Santa Rosa Estate, and eventually you will

come to a narrow road which leads to the sand dunes and my cabin.

As a place to live in, it’s nothing to get excited about, but at least it’s out of ear-shot of

anyone’s radio, and if I want to yodel in my bath no one cares. It is a four-room bungalow

made of Canadian knotty pine with a garden the size of a pocket handkerchief, kept

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reasonably tidy by Toni, my Filipino boy. A hundred yards from my front door is the blue

Pacific Ocean, and at the back and to the right and left are scrub bushes, sand and a half-circle of blue palmetto trees. It is as lonely and as quiet as a pauper’s grave, but I like it. I

have lived and slept there for more than five years, and I wouldn’t care to live or sleep

anywhere else.

After I had left Finnegan’s bar, I drove along the sandy road, heading for home. The time

was twenty minutes to midnight. There was a big water-melon moon in the sky, and its fierce

white rays lit up the scrub and sand like a searchlight. The sea looked like a black mirror. The

air was hot and still. If there had been a blonde within reach it would have been a romantic

night.

Tomorrow, I told myself as I drove along, would be a busy day. Paula had promised to