“Okay.”

“In fact, why don’t you spill that to Vance at the first opportunity; don’t wait for him to hear about it from somebody else. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t have gone out with me, after all.”

“I guess not. So why didn’t you leave for New York when I thought you did? I’d better have a reason.”

“Say that I said I had some personal business to take care of, and I said I was leaving L.A. today.”

“Suppose he calls you in New York, and you’re not there?”

“That won’t be your fault. I think I’d better move into a hotel today; it can’t be good for you to have me staying here, now that we’ve been seen together. Can you recommend someplace quiet?”

“There’s a place in West Hollywood called Le Parc, a suite hotel. It’s the kind of place where the studio puts visiting writers. Neither Vance nor any of his friends would ever be seen there.” She looked up the address in the phone book and wrote it down for him.

“I’ll use the name Jack Smith, if you need to reach me.”

“Why Jack Smith?”

“My cop friend, Rick Grant, suggested it.”

“Okay. Can I reach you tonight?”

“Let’s skip a night. See if anybody follows you to or from work. If the coast seems clear, then we can get together tomorrow, for the weekend.”

“Okay, my sweet. Hang onto the key to my house, just in case you need a bolthole.”

“I’ll do that.”

She gave him a big kiss and left.

Stone got up, laid out his clothes for the day, and packed everything else, then shaved and got into a shower. He had just turned off the water and stepped out when he heard the front door of the house open and someone enter. More than one, he thought, and male. He could hear their voices. It was one thing, he thought, to be followed on well-lit city streets, but it was another to be caught alone in this house. He started grabbing at clothes.

Stone quickly got some clothes on, rearranged the bed to make it look as though only one person had slept in it, and grabbed his bags. He looked out the window, but he was on the second story, and it was a straight drop. He could hear the voices downstairs better now; they seemed to be coming from Betty’s study.

Carrying his bags, he looked out into the upstairs hallway; a dozen feet down the hall was a pair of slatted bifold doors. He tiptoed down the carpet, set down his suitcases, and very slowly opened the doors. He was greeted with the sight of a washer and dryer, which took up almost the whole of the closet. Carefully, taking care to make no noise, he set his cases on top of the washer, then hoisted himself into a sitting position on the dryer and slowly closed the doors. He could hear footsteps coming up the stairs now, and he looked around the closet, dimly lit by light coming through the slatted doors, and found an iron. He held it at shoulder height and waited to be discovered. At least one of them was going to get his forehead ironed, he swore to himself.

“I don’t give a shit,” one of the intruders was saying as he walked from the stairs toward the bedroom.

“What are we looking for?”

“Barrington.”

“But he didn’t come here after we lost him; his car was nowhere to be seen around here.”

“All right, then look for something that might tell us where the fuck he is. Oney was pretty pissed off when I talked to him this morning.”

“Oh, right.”

They went into the bedroom, and their voices became less distinguishable. A couple of minutes later they came out and he could understand them again.

“What’s down there?”

“I’ll see.” The voice was coming down the hall.

A shadow passed the linen closet, and Stone cocked the iron.

“Another two bedrooms; real neat, like they haven’t been used.” The shadow passed again, going the other way. “What now?”

“Let’s drive around a little and see if we see his car.”

“Aw, come on, he’s long gone by now.”

“You want to explain that to Oney?”

“All right, all right.” They started down the stairs.

Stone put the iron back onto the shelf and carefully opened the bifold doors. He hopped off the dryer and tiptoed to the top of the stairs, anxious to get a good look at both men for future reference. He caught sight of their backs as they walked out the front door. Stone ran down the stairs and, keeping near the wall, peeked out the venetian blinds of the front windows. This time he got a better look at them as they got into the silver Lincoln. They were beefy, tanned, and fairly conservatively dressed, for California. He waited until they drove away, then went back upstairs, glancing at his watch. He’d give them half an hour.

Ten minutes later, impatient, he set his bags down in the front hall, stuck his head out the door, and looked both ways; there was no sign of the Lincoln. He had thought about going out the back way and picking his way through the back yards, but that could get him arrested. Instead, he left the house and walked steadily but not hurriedly up the street, toward Wilshire Boulevard. At the Beverly Wilshire he entered the hotel through the front door, took the elevator down to the garage, paid for his parking, and drove out into the street, still looking for the Lincoln. He drove slowly and watchfully back to Betty’s house, parked the car, retrieved his luggage, and drove away.

Shortly he was back at the Beverly Hills car rental company. “Hi,” he said to the young man behind the desk, “I’m bringing back the SL500; I’d like another car, please.”

“Something wrong with the Mercedes?”

“I’d like something a little less conspicuous.”

“In Beverly Hills, there’s nothing less conspicuous than an SL50O.”

“Good point, but what about a nice sedan?”

“Let’s take a look,” the young man said, leading the way to a row of glittering cars.

“That,” Stone said, pointing. It was a Mercedes, the E-class sedan, metallic green, a nice neutral color.

“The E430? Great car; it has the V8 engine.”

“That will do nicely.”

Stone signed the new paperwork and transferred his luggage to the new car, then noticed the name of the rental agency next to his license plate. He dug a hundred-dollar bill from his stash and approached the desk again. “It’s just possible that somebody might come around asking about me,” he said, pushing the bill across the counter. “If that happens, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell them that I turned in the car this morning and that you drove me to the airport.”

“You bet,” the young man said, pocketing the hundred. “Which airline?”

“What flies to New York?”

“United; there’s a flight leaving about now.”

“Tell them I took that, okay?”

“Absolutely. When are you bringing the E430 back?”

“A few days.”

“And where are you staying?”

“With friends; I’m not sure which ones yet.”

“Anything you say, Mr. Barrington; enjoy the car.”

Stone consulted his map and drove to Le Parc, the hotel Betty had recommended. At the front desk he asked for a suite.

“For how long, Sir?”

“Two or three days, maybe longer.”

“We can do that. Your name?”

“Jack Smith.”

“May I have a credit card, Mr. Smith?”

“How about if I leave a cash deposit?”

“That will be fine; we’ll need fifteen hundred dollars.”

Stone counted out the money, in hundreds.

The desk clerk rang for a bellman, and shortly Stone was in a comfortable suite, complete with kitchenette. It wasn’t the Bel-Air, but it was nice. He unpacked, then phoned police headquarters.

“Lieutenant Grant,” Rick’s voice said.

“It’s Jack Smith,” Stone replied.

“Hi, Jack; what can I do for you?”

“I need the office and home addresses and phone numbers of Louis Regenstein, David Sturmack, and Onofrio Ippolito.”

“Can I call you back?”

“Yeah, I’m at a hotel called Le Parc, in West Hollywood, registered as the unforgettable Jack Smith, and keep it to yourself.” He gave him the address and number.