“I’ll sign the paper,” I said.

  “That’s better,” he told me. “Stick your name on there.”

  I signed the paper.

  He folded it and put it in his pocket. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you where you were standing when you saw the accident.”

  3

  Bedford guided me down to Main Street, then walked on until we came to the clock between Seventh and Eighth. He said, “The accident took place at the intersection just ahead.”

  I paused a moment to look at the intersection.

  “No, no,” Bedford warned, “take it in your stride. Keep right on walking, Lam. We’ll go to the corner, then turn right, cross the corner, then turn left, and keep walking toward Sixth Street. We’ll pause to look in a store window at something, then turn around and go back to the corner of Seventh and Main, turn right, then turn left, and walk on down to the Perkins Hotel. That’ll give you a chance to see everything.

  “Now remember, there were two or three cars ahead of the car that was hit. You can’t remember just how many, but you know that the one that was hit wasn’t the one that was right up against the intersection traffic signal.

  “You’d noticed this car driven by Holgate, although of course you didn’t know who he was at the time, but he was evidently impatient and he’d swung out to the left to try and get ahead of the string of traffic. He was making a run for it when something caused him to change his mind. He evidently saw he couldn’t make it—you don’t know what it was—so Holgate swerved his car back to the right into the line of traffic next to the curb, but he was going pretty fast. The light at the intersection changed to red, the whole string of traffic came to a stop and—”

  “As I remember it,” I interrupted, “the light changed to amber first. The car that was in the lead could have got through the crossing before the red light came on, but the driver chose to slam on the brakes.”

  Bedford put a hand on my shoulder and patted me approvingly, as a trainer might pat a smart dog. “Donald,” he said, “you’re all right! You’re a wonder. Now go ahead and tell me what happened after that.”

  “Well,” I said, “everybody had to stop rather fast but this Buick that was driven by a man whose name I now understand was Holgate just didn’t stop at all. It kept right on going until it was within maybe three to four feet of the car ahead and then, apparently for the first time, he realized the traffic ahead had come to a dead stop. He slammed on the brakes so hard that I heard the rubber scream for just a tenth of a second and then there was the sound of the impact.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “The other cars went on through the crossing but these two cars stopped, and the girl who was in the sports car that had been rammed, got out and kept feeling the back of her neck with her hand. She seemed just a little dazed. She started to walk toward the front of the car, then turned and walked toward the back where Holgate was coming up. They stopped for a minute and exchanged names and addresses from driving licenses, and then the girl got in her car and drove off.

  “Holgate walked around to look at the front of his car, which was leaking water from a punctured radiator, shook his head, got in his car, seemed rather surprised when it started to run, and then he drove off.

  “The whole episode didn’t take over a minute, I guess—not more than the length of time required for a traffic signal to change maybe once, maybe twice.”

  We reached the corner and waited for the signal.

  “That’s fine,” Dudd said. “Now, if the accident took place between the third and fourth cars back from the intersection, that would put the car that was struck—”

  “Right in front of the theater entrance,” I said. “That’s the way I remember it.”

  “And the other car?”

  “Well, the other car would naturally have been about fifteen feet farther back, just a car’s length.”

  “You heard the noise of the impact?”

  “I heard the noise but there were traffic noises and it was surprisingly quiet for an accident. I suppose that was because it wasn’t a head-on collision but one car rammed the tail of another.”

  “Did it attract a lot of attention?”

  “A few people looked but they kept on going about their business.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Well, I stopped until I saw the man getting ready to drive away.”

  “Why?”

  “Why did he drive away?”

  “No, why did you stop?”

  “I don’t know, just natural curiosity, I guess. And the girl was most attractive. I wondered if she was all right because I saw her head shoot back when the car hit. Evidently her neck was relaxed at the time because her head just snapped back.”

  We crossed the street to the right. Dudley Bedford said, “Hell, Lam, you don’t need to walk around the corner with me. Start back on this side of the street. Stop when you get to the theater and we’ll look to see what’s playing.”

  I walked across the street with him, then we turned to the right and started back down on the other side of Main Street. We paused at the entrance to the movie theater, looked at the announcements of what was playing, and Bedford said in a quiet voice, “You’ve got the scene of the accident all fixed?”

  “Sure,” I told him. “I saw it. It was the afternoon of August thirteenth—about three-thirty.”

  Again he clapped me on the back. “Donald,” he said, “you’re a regular guy! All right, we’ll walk down here to the Perkins Hotel, that’s a block and a half. It’s about the best we have in this town.…Now, you’ll be getting a call inside of an hour so be available.”

  “And after that?” I asked.

  “After you get the call,” he said, “you’ll want to go talk with this man.”

  “Who’ll be calling? Some insurance company?” I asked innocently. “Or an attorney, or—”

  “No,” Bedford said, “you may as well know it now as later. The man who is going to call you will be Carter J. Holgate. He’s a real-estate subdivider and he has a partner by the name of Chris Maxton. They have lots of irons in the fire. Holgate and Maxton.”

  “Why,” I said, “I’ve seen their name a lot. It’s—”

  “Sure. They’re subdividers,” Bedford said. “There’s one of their trucks now. They carry their own lumber, buy it in carload lots.”

  I watched as the big truck with the name painted on the side, HOLGATE & MAXTON, rumbled on past.

  “They have activities near here?”

  “Right now they’re putting on a subdivision about three miles out of Colinda,” Bedford said, putting his hand on my elbow and gently guiding me down the street. “We don’t want to be seen loafing around here, Donald,” he explained.

  I walked along with him, taking about a step and a half to his one.

  “I’m sorry about that sock in the puss,” he said. “I lost my temper.”

  “Forget it.”

  “I hope I didn’t hit you too hard.”

  “Not too hard,” I said. “I guess I was out for fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  “Hell, you weren’t out for more than a minute and a half or two minutes,” Bedford said, “but I sure am sorry about it.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “I’ll make it up to you some way.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Now about Doris. I lost my temper but that doesn’t mean I’m building a fence around her. I want you and Doris to be friends. You’re lonely and—well, you just go ahead as soon as you get this chore done. You see all you want of Doris. I’m probably going to be out of town for a few days.”

  “How long do I stay at the Perkins Hotel?”

  “You stay there until you get a call from Holgate.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then go out and see him. Talk with him. Tell him about the accident.”

  “Is he the one who offered the reward for the witness?”

  “Now look, Donald, you’re asking lots of questions. You’re not supposed to ask questions. You’re supposed to tell the facts.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Then you can stay at the hotel tonight and tomorrow—Well, why don’t you run out and see Doris? She likes you and she’s a good kid. She’ll tell you what I want you to do after that—mainly I want you to keep in touch with me—and of course I’m not loaded with dough; but we’ll try and see if we can’t get you something that you can do.”

  “That’ll be just dandy,” I told him.

  We walked on down the street until we came to the Perkins Hotel.

  Bedford handed me a hundred dollars. “All right, Lam,” he said, “you’re on your own. This is some more expense money. You get a hundred more when you finish up. I like you.”

  He gave me another pat on the back and swung off down the street.

  The hotel clerk looked me over appraisingly. I said, “Good afternoon. My name’s Lam. I came up here on a business deal and it’s taking longer than I anticipated. In fact, I can’t even see my man for a little while. I want a good room with bath. I want to be sure I get any telephone calls that come in, and I haven’t any baggage.”

  I pulled some bills out of my pocket.

  “Quite all right, Mr. Lam,” he said after a moment’s thoughtful appraisal. “Just sign the register here, please.”

  We had an affiliate in San Francisco with whom we exchanged courtesies, so I wrote my name and gave the address of the San Francisco agency. I was shown up to a room, tipped the bellboy, took off my shoes, stretched out on the bed and relaxed.

  Within an hour the phone rang.

  I answered it.

  A man’s voice said, “Mr. Lam?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Carter Holgate of Holgate and Maxton.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Holgate.”

  “I understand you saw an accident at Seventh and Main Streets on the afternoon of August thirteenth.”

  “Why, that’s right, Mr. Holgate. I did, yes, but I don’t know how you found out about—”

  “I’d like to talk with you.”

  “Well, I’ll be here—”

  “Look, Mr. Lam, I can’t get away at the present time, but I’ll send a car in for you. You can come out here for a few minutes and then I’ll deliver you back to your hotel. How’s that?”

  “That’ll be fine,” I said.

  “All right. A car will be there within twenty minutes, perhaps fifteen.”

  “I’ll be waiting in the lobby,” I said. “Can you describe the man who’ll be driving it?”

  “It won’t be a man, it’ll be a woman, my secretary,” Holgate said. “Her name’s Lorraine Robbins. She’s a redhead about… well, I’d better not say anything about age because she’s sitting across the desk from me.”

  I looked at my watch and said, “In exactly fifteen minutes I’ll be standing in front of the door of the hotel on Main Street. I’ll stay there until she comes.”

  “That’s fine,” he said. “Remember the name. Lorraine Robbins.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  I freshened up, waited ten minutes, took the elevator down to the lobby, nodded to the clerk, walked out and started briskly down the street. Then, when it had registered in the clerk’s mind that I was going somewhere in a hurry, I turned and sauntered back to stand by the door of the hotel, just to one side of the revolving door so that the clerk couldn’t see me.

  She came within the next two minutes, driving a big, shiny Cadillac which she handled as though it had been a baby buggy.

  She swung it into the curb with a deft flick of the wrist and the aid of power steering. She braked to a stop, slid across the seat, opened the door and then paused as she saw me standing there.

  She was a dish.

  Poised there on the edge of the seat, just ready to get out, her skirt well up, her face alert and intelligent, she caught my eye, smiled and moved over as I crossed the sidewalk to the car.

  “Well. What a show!” she said. “These modern skirts just won’t behave in these low cars.…Now, wait a minute. We’d better get things straight first. You’re Donald Lam?”

  “I’m Donald Lam.”

  “I’m Lorraine Robbins. If you’re ready, let’s go.”

  “I’m ready,” I said, sliding into the car and pulling the door shut.

  She gave a quick glance to the rearview mirror, put the signal light on a left turn, gave one second glance to make sure, shot out to the left and into traffic.

  She threaded her way through the afternoon traffic and across the Seventh Street intersection. “Live here?” she asked.

  “Not permanently,” I said. “I’m here back and forth.”

  “So you saw the accident?”

  “That’s right.”

  She said, “Mr. Holgate is going to want me to take down what you say in shorthand.”

  “Now?” I asked.

  “Heavens, no. I’m driving the car now. Later on, when you talk with him.”

  “Okay by me.”

  “What do you do, Mr. Lam?”

  “Almost anything,” I said.

  She laughed and said, “I didn’t mean it that way. I mean what’s your occupation?”

  “I’m sort of between jobs at the moment.”

  “Oh.”

  She flicked the directional signal over to right, glided around a right turn on First Street, then speeded up.

  She handled the car with such skill that she never seemed to have to use the brakes, simply picking the potential openings in traffic before the opening itself had materialized. Then, by the time she got there, the opening had developed and she was able to glide through with a touch of the throttle.

  It was a swell job of driving.

  “You’re Mr. Holgate’s secretary?”

  “His, and Mr. Maxton’s. It’s a partnership. Real estate, subdivisions.”

  “Lots of correspondence?” I asked.

  “Correspondence,” she said, “telephone calls, contracts, options, receipts, figuring interest, keeping a tickler system for time payments, running errands, making a sales pitch once in a while.”

  “How big’s the subdivision here?” I asked.

  “Quite a project,” she said. “Right at the moment it’s taking just about full time for everyone, but that’s the way things go in this business. You’re working at high speed to full capacity one day and the next you’re carrying a fifty percent overload and the next you’re working twice as hard—and I like it.”

  “You seem to be good at it.”

  She flashed me a glance and said, “I try to be good at everything I do. I think a girl owes that much to herself—and to her employers. This is a competitive world. You can’t get anywhere if you aren’t good. If you’re going to do anything, do it so you make an outstanding performance. That’s my motto.”

  “It’s a pretty good philosophy,” I told her.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I like it.”

  She swung the wheel to the left, then to the right into a semicircular driveway, came to a stop in front of a typical real estate subdivision building and said, “Here we are.”

  A big sign said HOLGATE & MAXTON, SUBDIVIDERS and then underneath in large red letters outlined with a green border: BREEZEMORE TERRACE ESTATES.

  I got out of the car and stood for a moment, ostensibly taking in the surroundings with an air of deep approval. Actually I was looking around to see if there was any sign of the person who had been shadowing me.

  I couldn’t see anyone.

  Down at the place marked Parking there were half a dozen cars and in a couple of places salesmen were showing potential customers blueprints of the subdivision. A couple of hundred yards farther up the hill I could see three or four parties standing on the curving driveways inspecting lots.

  The real estate office consisted of typical freakish high-peaked portable structures which had evidently been trucked out to the location separately and then joined together.

  Lorraine Robbins got out of the car on the left, walked around to where I was standing, said, “What do you think of it?”

  “Sure looks good,” I said. “It’s a beautiful site.”

  “The best suburban homesite in the country,” she said. “It’s a shame somebody didn’t open this up sooner because there’s a tremendous population pressure in this area. Believe it or not, the horny-handed son of toil who owned this place had been operating it for fifty years as a dairy.”

  “You mean no one approached him to—”

  “Sure, they approached him,” she said, “but he wouldn’t listen. He’d got this place as a dairy and, by gum, it was going to keep right on being a dairy! Gosh all tarnation, what do you think I am, anyway?”

  Lorraine’s flexible voice changed so that she gave a perfect mimicry of an obstinate old man.

  “So,” I said, “he died.”

  “He died, and when the heirs saw the appraisal of the land on the basis of inheritance tax, they fell all over themselves getting in touch with Holgate and Maxton. Actually they got in touch with three different subdividers. We made them the best offer.

  “Want to go in?”

  “It’s so beautiful out here that—”

  “Mr. Holgate is expecting you. He’s held his time open.”

  I grinned at her and said, “Let’s go.”

  She led the way into a reception room where the walls were plastered with photographs and maps. There were half a dozen desks in here and at three of the desks salesmen were evidently closing deals, giving receipts and taking checks.

  To the right was an office door with a sign, CHRISTOPHER MAXTON, and to the left one that said, CARTER J. HOLGATE.

  The back part of the reception room had three typewriter desks, some telephones and filing cases. A good-looking brunette was hammering away on a typewriter. “My assistant,” Lorraine said over her shoulder as we turned toward Holgate’s office.

  The assistant looked up with big, romantic dark eyes and smiled directly at us, vivid red lips parting over pearly teeth.

  She got up and came toward us.

  She was a long-legged, graceful, statuesque girl who could have won first prize in a bathing-beauty contest hands down.