The baggage was neatly stacked on one of the hand trucks and I handed the trunk key to the porter.

  I walked over and held the door open for the girls.

  “We can sit in front,” Vivian said, and promptly started for the middle position in the front seat.

  It was at that moment I heard the yell from the porter.

  I turned around.

  The porter was standing riveted, his eyes big as teacups. He let out another yell, turned and started running as fast as he could pump his legs up and down.

  “Now, what the hell!” Doris said. “What did you do to him, Donald?”

  I walked to the rear of the car.

  I saw something in the trunk, something dark. It looked like a trousers leg.

  I stepped hurriedly to the rear and got a good look.

  The body of Carter J. Holgate was doubled up in a knees-to-chest position inside the trunk.

  It needed only one look at him to know that he was dead.

  I heard Doris Ashley’s scream in my ears and then the sound of a police whistle. After that people were crowding all around, women were screaming and a police officer was holding me by the arm.

  “This your, car, Buddy?” he asked.

  “This is my car,” I said.

  The officer said, “Keep back, you folks. I don’t want anybody around here.”

  He blew a whistle.

  A man in some sort of uniform connected with the airport came hurrying forward, and a moment later I heard a siren, and a radio car came speeding up, then slowed to a crawl as it pushed its way through the crowd.

  Two uniformed officers jumped out, and I found myself bundled into the radio car. Two minutes later I was in an office at the airport with the officers questioning me, and a man in civilian clothes taking notes.

  “What’s your name?” one of the officers asked.

  I told him.

  “Let’s see your driving license.”

  I gave it to him.

  “This your car?”

  “It’s the agency car.”

  “What were you doing out here?”

  “Meeting a girl who was coming in on a plane.”

  “What’s her name?”

  I told him.

  “What was the flight number?”

  I gave him that information.

  “Who’s the man in your trunk?”

  I said, “From the look I had, I think he’s Carter J. Holgate but I can’t be certain.”

  “Who’s Carter Holgate?”

  “A real estate agent, a subdivider.”

  “You know him?”

  “Of course I know him. Otherwise I wouldn’t know who he was.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “Sometime yesterday, late yesterday afternoon.”

  “How did the body get in the trunk of your car?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Anything else?”

  I said, “A lot else. I have been talking with Lorraine Robbins. She—”

  “Who’s she?” the officer interrupted.

  “Carter Holgate’s secretary.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Miramar Apartments, Colinda.”

  “All right, what were you talking with her about?”

  “About Holgate. She was worried about him.”

  “She evidently had good reason to be. What did she say?”

  “He hadn’t been home all night and she was worried.”

  “She living with him?”

  “No. She knew he was missing.”

  “How did she know he was missing?”

  “We tried to locate him last night.”

  “You say, we did?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You were with her?”

  “Part of the time.”

  “And what were you trying to do?”

  “We were trying to locate Carter Holgate.”

  “Why?”

  “Because someone had broken into his office.”

  “What time was that?”

  “You mean when we were looking for him? I don’t know. I didn’t notice the time particularly. I know it was late. Probably after midnight.”

  “How did you know someone had broken into his office?”

  “Because we were in his office.”

  “What were you looking for?”

  “Holgate.”

  “Why?”

  “I had some things I wanted to discuss with him.”

  “What?”

  “An automobile accident.”

  “What about it?”

  “I don’t know whether I care to make a statement about the accident at this time.”

  “Look, Buddy,” the officer said, “you’re in bad. You’re a private detective. You’re smart enough to know the spot you’re in. You’d better come clean.”

  “I’m coming clean.”

  “Not if you hold out about an accident, you aren’t.”

  I said, “What happened to the girls who were in the automobile with me?”

  “Here at the airport?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re being questioned.”

  I said, “One of them, the blonde, was involved in the accident.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Vivian Deshler.”

  “What’s the other’s name?”

  “Doris Ashley.”

  “When did you get in touch with her?”

  “This morning.”

  “What time?”

  “Eight-thirty.”

  “Where?”

  “At her apartment.”

  “What for?”

  “So we could drive out here and meet Miss Deshler.”

  “What about Holgate’s office being broken into?”

  “There was pretty much of a wreck there, as though a fight had taken place in the office.”

  “That was reported to the authorities?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “His secretary thought that it might be better to wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “Wait to see what happened this morning.”

  “Well, it happened this morning all right,” the officer said. “Now, we’ve got some work to do and some things to check. I want you to sit down here at this desk and write out just what you’ve told me. Write everything you know about the case.”

  I said, “Look, do you know Sergeant Frank Sellers?”

  “Sure, we know him.”

  “I know him, too,” I said. “Get hold of Sellers and I’ll talk with him. In the meantime, I’m not going to do any writing.”

  “You’re not going to do what?”

  “Not going to do any writing.”

  “You know what that means, Buddy. You’re leading with your chin.”

  “All right, I’ll lead with my chin. But I’ll talk with Sellers and in the meantime I’m not doing any writing.”

  “Okay, we’ll call Sellers. We’ll probably take you up there.”

  An officer went to the telephone and talked in a low voice for a while. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Then I was left alone in the room for what must have been twenty minutes.

  Then two officers came in, bringing Doris Ashley and Vivian Deshler.

  The officer got right down to business.

  “You girls sit down over here,” he said.

  Doris gave me a reassuring smile.

  Vivian Deshler looked me over speculatively.

  “Now then, Lam,” the officer said, “you saw an automobile accident in Colinda on the thirteenth of August.”

  “What of it?”

  “Describe the accident.”

  “Well, it was just an accident where somebody ran into the rear of the automobile in front.”

  “Who was that somebody?”

  “Carter Holgate.”

  “Who was in the car in front?”

  “Miss Deshler, here.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “Of course, I didn’t know her at the time but now that I’ve seen her I know she’s the one.”

  “All right, describe the accident.”

  “Well, that’s about all there was to it.”

  “Go ahead, describe it. How did it happen?”

  “Well,” I said, “there was a string of cars.”

  “How big a string?”

  “I think there were two ahead of Miss Deshler’s car and then, of course, Holgate’s car was right behind hers.”

  “So that would make four all together?”

  “Right.”

  “All right, what happened?”

  “Well, they approached the intersection.”

  “What intersection?”

  “Seventh and Main in Colinda.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I was on the west side of Main Street.”

  “How far back from the intersection?”

  “Probably seventy-five or a hundred feet.”

  “What happened?”

  “I think Holgate had been trying to speed up to get around the line of automobiles ahead. When he saw he couldn’t make it, he tried to get back in line and he was going pretty fast.”

  “Why couldn’t he make it?”

  “Well, I guess he wanted to get in the left-hand lane so he could pass while the signal was in his favor and—”

  “And he saw he couldn’t make it?”

  “I guess so. I couldn’t read his mind. All I could tell was what happened from the way he drove the car.”

  “The reason he couldn’t make it, then, must have been that the traffic signal was changing.”

  “Could be.”

  “Then he was watching the signal.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “The only other reason would have been that there were cars in front of him on the left.”

  “I don’t remember any cars in front of him on the left.”

  “And what happened when the signal changed?”

  “The car that was approaching the intersection could have gone through on the yellow light but the driver stopped suddenly. So the car behind him stopped very suddenly, almost collided with him. Miss Deshler was driving a lighter car. She brought it to a stop, and Holgate evidently didn’t see she had stopped until right at the last minute. He slammed on his brakes hard just about three feet before he hit, but that didn’t do anything except slow down his car somewhat. He hit the Deshler car a pretty good lick and I could see Miss Deshler’s head snap back.”

  The officer looked at her.

  Vivian Deshler sized me up slowly and thoughtfully and then said, “He’s a liar.”

  “Why is he a liar?” the officer asked.

  “That wasn’t the way the accident happened at all.”

  “How did it happen?” I asked.

  “There were two lanes of automobiles approaching the intersection,” she said. “I was in the left lane. Mr. Holgate had been in the right lane. There were four or five cars in the right lane and only one car ahead of me in the left lane. Mr. Holgate tried to get in the left lane so he could go around the string of cars in the right lane. He was going pretty fast. He swung out to the left, right in behind me, and the signal changed and he hit me.”

  “How many cars ahead of you when you came to the intersection?” the officer asked.

  “None,” she said. “I was the only car on the left. There were five or six cars on the right. That’s why Mr. Holgate tried to get around the string of cars on the right and make a run for it. He must have been speeding up until just before he hit me. I could see him coming in the rearview mirror.”

  “All right, Lam,” the officer said. “You didn’t see the accident. Now why did you say you did?”

  Doris Ashley spoke up. “I’ll tell you why,” she said. “Because Dudley Bedford forced him to make a statement.”

  “What do you mean, he forced him?”

  Doris said, “I could get killed for telling you this.”

  “Nobody’s going to kill you for telling us anything,” the officer said. “What happened?”

  She said, “Donald Lam is a dear. He was in San Quentin. He got out and was trying to get a job where he could go straight and Dudley Bedford, for reasons of his own, forced Donald Lam to make an affidavit that he had seen this accident.”

  The officer looked at her thoughtfully. “Now,” he said, “I’ll tell you something. Donald Lam is a private detective. He’s a member of the partnership of Cool and Lam. He’s taking you all for a ride. He’s never been in San Quentin—yet. He was trying to play on your sympathies. Miss Ashley, and I don’t know what he was trying to do with you, Miss Deshler, but…”

  The door opened and Frank Sellers walked into the room. “Hello, Frank,” I said.

  “Hello, Pint Size,” Sellers said. “What the hell have you been doing this time?”

  “Trying to make a living,” I said.

  “You should leave murder out of it,” he said.

  He turned to the officer. “What’s going on here?”

  The officer said, “We just caught him in a lie, Sergeant.”

  “That’s nothing,” Sellers said. “You can catch him in a dozen of them and then the little bastard will squirm right out of them. And, if you’re not careful, leave you holding the sack.”

  “Any time I left you holding the sack,” I told Sellers, “there was something in it that you wanted.”

  “We won’t go into that,” Sellers said. He nodded to the officer. “Come on, let’s get these girls out of here. We’ll talk for a minute and you can give me the lowdown. Then I’ll come back and question this guy.”

  They all left the room.

  It was a good twenty minutes before Sellers came back alone.

  He was chewing the soggy butt of a cold cigar and he looked at me thoughtfully.

  “You do do the damnedest things, Lam,” he said.

  “I have the damnedest things done to me,” I told him.

  “Did you see that automobile accident?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you say you did?”

  “Because this man, Bedford, was forcing me to make an affidavit.”

  “How did he force you?”

  “He knocked me over, for one thing.”

  “And then what?”

  “Well, he had the idea I’d been in San Quentin and I rode along with the gag.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to see what his interest was in the deal.”

  “All right, there was another fellow, a man by the name of Chris Maxton, Carter Holgate’s partner. You made a statement to him about seeing the accident and got paid two hundred and fifty bucks for it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And why did you do that?”

  “I wanted to see why they were offering two hundred and fifty bucks for witnesses and who was paying the money.”

  Sellers shook his head and said, “I’m surprised at a smart guy like you taking the two hundred and fifty bucks, Donald. That makes it obtaining money under false pretenses.”

  “And that makes me guilty of murder?” I asked.

  “No,” Sellers said, “other things make you guilty of murder.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Such as being in Holgate’s office, jumping out the window, running to your car, which already had Holgate’s body stuffed in the trunk, and making a getaway.”

  “Who says so?”

  “Your fingerprints say so.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Talking about the fingerprints you left in Holgate’s place of business,” Sellers said. “This Lorraine Robbins tried her best to cover up for you. She said she went out there with you and that was when you first discovered what had happened, but your fingerprints say you were lying to her.”

  “What do you mean, my fingerprints?”

  Sellers grinned and said, “It was a slick stunt, Donald. You went back the second time and pretended to discover what had happened. You were being very, very helpful with Lorraine and you got your fingers all over everything so that the fingerprints you’d left the first time wouldn’t be significant. But you overlooked one thing.”

  “What?”

  “The woman’s shoe.”

  “What about it?”

  “When that papier-mâché model of the subdivision fell off the table, it hit the shoe. You can see the mark on the leather where the shoe was halfway under it.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” I said.

  “And,” Sellers said, “you lifted up the papier-mâché model in order to pull the shoe out and look at it.”

  I shook my head.

  “And,” Sellers said, “when you did, you left the print of your middle finger outlined in the powder you had got on your finger from the broken compact on the underside of the papier-mâché model. An investigation started out there at nine this morning.”

  Sellers quit talking and shifted the cold cigar butt around in his mouth.

  “Now let’s see you talk your way out of that one, Pint Size.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Well?” Sellers asked at length.

  I said, “You’re getting way out on a limb, Sergeant. I could have got my fingerprint on the underside of that papier-mâché at any time.”

  “No, you couldn’t,” he said. “After the shoe was taken out and that papier-mâché model got down flat on the floor, there was no place to get your finger under it. You couldn’t even pick it up unless you used the blade of a screwdriver or a chisel or something of that sort to slide under it and lift it up. The thing weighs over a hundred pounds. We couldn’t lift it and you couldn’t.”

  “I see,” I said. “I’m guilty as hell, is that right?”

  “We don’t know. We’re investigating.”

  I said, “You’re a hell of an investigator. You find my fingerprint on the underside of a papier-mâché subdivision model weighing a hundred pounds, so you immediately come to the conclusion that I broke into Holgate’s office, licked Holgate, clubbed him into unconsciousness, pulled him out of the window, dragged him across the lawn, put him in the trunk of my automobile and then went back for something. What did I go back for, another body?”

  “Perhaps you wanted that affidavit you’d signed after you found out it was cockeyed,” Sellers said.

  “And if I couldn’t move one side of a papier-mâché model, just how did I pick up the two-hundred-and-twenty-five-pound Holgate in my arms, jump out of the window with him, carry him across to the car and put him in the trunk?”