Clandestine

It was almost dusk. I drove toward the freeway, stopping a few blocks from the on-ramp to check the letter. It was just an overdue dentist's bill, and I threw it out the window, but it fit in: Marcella Harris lived a fast life and neglected small commitments. I wondered what kind of nurse she had been. I headed back toward Santa Monica to see if I could find out.

The freeways that night were surreal; seemingly endless red and white glowing jet streams carrying travelers to home and hearth, work and play, lovers' rendezvous and unknown destinations. This was not my Los Angeles I was passing over, and the dead nurse was none of my business, but as the eastern suburbs turned into good old familiar downtown L.A., old instincts clicked into place and the excitement of being out there and on the track of the immutable yet ever-changing took me over. There was nothing happening in my life, and looking for a killer was as good a way as any to fill the void.

I willed myself to form the nude image of Maggie Cadwallader. For the first time in years I didn't gasp reflexively.

The Packard-Bell Electronics plant was on Olympic Boulevard in the heart of the Santa Monica industrial district.

There was a drive-in movie theater around the corner on Bundy, and when I parked my car I could see that they were screening a Big Sid horror extravaganza. That depressed me, but the anticipation of pursuit quashed the depression fast.

The plant was a one-story red brick building that seemed to run off in several directions. Adjacent to a shipping and receiving area were two parking lots, separated by a low chain-link fence. The closer lot, situated next to the front entrance, was empty. It was well lighted and bordered by evenly spaced little shrubby plants. The other lot was larger, and strewn with cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and newspapers. It had to be the lower-echelon employees' lot.

I hopped the fence to give it a closer look. The cars that were parked diagonally across it were for the most part old and beat-up. Little metal signs on poles marked the parking assignments, which were set up according to prestige: the maintenance men parked the furthest from the entrance. Closer in were "shippers"; closer still were "assembly crew."

I found what I was looking for flush up against the poorly lighted shipping entrance: a single parking slot with "foreman" stenciled in white paint on the cement.

I checked the time—nine-twenty-three. The graveyard crew probably came on at midnight. All I could do now was wait.

It was late when I was rewarded. Over three hours of squatting in a darkened corner of the parking lot had put me in a foul mood. I watched as the night shift took off at precisely twelve o'clock, peeling rubber in my face. They seemed happy to be free.

The graveyard crew trickled in over the next half hour, seemingly not as happy. My eyes were glued to the parking space in front of the building, and at 12:49 a well-kept '46 Cadillac pulled in and parked in the foreman's space. A fat blond man got out. From my vantage point, I couldn't tell if he was missing any thumbs.

I waited five minutes and followed him inside. There was an employees' lunchroom at the end of a long, dimly lit corridor. I walked in and looked around. A youth in a duck's-ass haircut gave me a curious look, but none of the other goldbricking workmen seemed to notice me.

The fat blond foreman was sitting at a table, holding a cup of coffee in his right hand. I got a Coke from a machine and took my time drinking it. The foreman had his left hand in his pocket. He kept it there, driving me nuts. Finally, he took it out and scratched his nose. His thumb was missing—more than enough confirmation.

I walked back outside and found a rusty old coat hanger on the ground at the edge of the parking lot. I fashioned a hook device out of it and casually walked over to the foreman's Cadillac. The car was locked, but the wind wing on the driver's side was open. I looked in all directions, then slipped the bent coat hanger through the window and hooked it over the door button. The hanger slipped off once, but the second time it caught and I pulled the button up.

Quickly I got in the car and hunched down in the front seat. I tried the glove compartment. It was locked. I ran a hand over the steering column and found what I wanted: The car registration, attached in a leather holder, fastened on with buckles. I removed it and huddled even lower in the seat.

The plastic-encased official paper read: Henry Robert Hart, 1164¼ Hurlburt Pl., Culver City, Calif

It was all I needed. I fastened the registration back on the steering column, locked Henry Hart's car and ran to my own.

Hurlburt Place was a quiet street of small houses a few blocks from the M.G.M. Studios. Number 1164¼ was a garage apartment. I parked across the street and rummaged in my trunk for some makeshift burglar's tools. A screwdriver and a metal carpenter's rule were all I could come up with.