Clandestine

An hour later we were embracing again, this time standing in the parking lot on Temple Street. We kissed, alternately soft and hard. A patrol car cruised by, shined its light on us and departed, the cop shaking his head. Lorna and I laughed.

"Do you know him?" she asked.

"No, but I know you."

"All right, you know me, and I'm starting to know you."

"Dinner tomorrow night?" I asked.

"Yes, Fred. Only I don't want to go out, I want to cook for you myself."

"That sounds wonderful."

"My address is 8987 Charleville, in Beverly Hills. Can you remember that?"

"Yes. What time?"

"Seven-thirty?"

"I'll be there. Now kiss me so I can let you go."

We kissed again, this time quickly.

"No protracted farewells," Lorna muttered as she broke from my arms and limped over to her car.

11

We assembled at the Havana Hotel at 8:00 A.M., Wednesday, September 3. Dudley Smith was stern-faced and businesslike as he called for our reports and our conclusions.

Dudley reported first, telling of our questioning of Lawrence Brubaker and Janet Valupeyk. He volunteered his information on the three unsolved strangulation homicides in the West L.A-Venice area, with special emphasis on the woman fround in the alley near the Venice canals in March of '48.

Breuning and Carlisle whistled in awe at these new offshoots of the case. Mike raised his hand and interjected, "Dud, Dick's got absolutely nothing to tie our boy to the Leona Jensen homicide. I've got a pal on the Venice dicks who could give me access to their files. If Engels was living two blocks away at the time of the killing, there could well be something in their files that points to him."

Dudley shook his head patiently. "Mike, lad, we have this fiend cold for the Cadwallader snuff. Cold, lad. I'm thinking now that the Jensen killing was unrelated. Freddy, you discovered the stiff, what do you think?"

"I don't know, Dudley," I said, measuring my words carefully. "Of course, if I hadn't discovered those matches at the death scene we wouldn't be here today. But I'm beginning to think it was just an incredible coincidence, and that Engels didn't snuff Leona Jensen. Engels is a strangler, and although the Jensen woman was strangled, she was also stabbed all over. I've got a picture of Engels as a very competent, fastidious homosexual. Someone who hates women, but abhors blood. I agree with Dudley—forget the Jensen killing; it's the wrong MO."

Dudley laughed. "There's a college boy for you—brains all the way. Mike, you've been tailing handsome Eddie. What have you got?"

Stolid Mike Breuning cleared his throat and gave Dudley Smith a toadying look. "Skipper, I agree with Underhill. Engels is too immaculate. But he's been chasing skirts and taking home a different tomato every night for three nights running. I've been hiding out in the carport next to his bungalow listening for signs of violence. No such luck. The dames all left in the morning, without a mark on them. I tailed all three of them back to their cars. Engels gives them cab fare to get back to their cars, which were all parked next to cocktail bars. I tailed them all to juke joints in Hollywood. I got the license numbers of the cars the dames got into, in case we need them as witnesses."

"Fine work, Mike," Dudley said, reaching over from his straightbacked chair to give Breuning a fatherly pat on the shoulder. "Dick, lad, what have you to say?"

The cold-eyed, bespectacled Carlisle said resolutely, "All I know is that Engels is a cold-blooded killer and a smart son of a bitch. I say we grab him before he gets smart and knocks off another dame."

Dudley surveyed all of us in the tiny hotel room. "I think we all concur on that, don't you, men?" he said. We all nodded. "Are there any questions then, lads?"

"When do we file our reports with the D.A.?" I asked.

Breuning and Carlisle laughed.

"When Eddie Engels confesses, lad," Dudley said.

"What jail are we booking him into, then?"

Dudley looked to his more experienced underlings for support. They looked at me and shook their heads, then looked back to Dudley in awe.

"Lad, there will be no official police sanctions or paperwork until Eddie Engels confesses. Tomorrow morning at five-forty-five A.M., we will rendezvous in front of handsome Eddie's courtyard. I will drive my car. Mike, you will pick up Dick and Freddy. Mike and Dick, you will carry shotguns. Freddy, bring your service revolver. At five minutes of six we will kick in Eddie's door. We will subdue him, and put the fear of God into any colleen or homo who might be sharing his bed, then send them on their way. I have an interrogation place set up, an abandoned motel in Gardena. Freddy, Dick, Engels, and I will travel in my car. Mike will follow in his. This is apt to be a long interrogation, lads, so spend some time with your loved ones tonight and tell them you may not be seeing them for a while. Now, stand up, lads."

We did, in a little semicircle.

"Now all put your hands on top of mine."

We did.