He spotted me too, and some sort of recognition hit him even before I showed him my badge. “Yes, Officer,” he said patiently.
“Just a few questions,” I said. I pointed across the hall to a snack stand that had tables and chairs.
Ralph nodded patiently and led the way. We sat facing each other across a grease-stained metal table; I was brusque, even a little bullying.
“I’m interested in the man you were talking to at the window about a half hour ago. His first name is Eddie.”
“Yeah. Eddie.”
“What’s his last name?”
“Engels. Eddie Engels.”
“What’s his occupation?”
“Gambler. Punk. Wise guy. I don’t think he has a job.”
“I’m interested in the women he runs around with.”
“So am I! Ooh, la Ia!” Ralph started cracking up at his own wit.
“Don’t be funny; it’s not amusing.” I fanned the six photographs on the table in front of him. “Ever see Eddie with any of these women?”
Ralph scrutinized the photos, hesitated a moment, then placed a fat index finger square on the picture of Maggie Cadwallader. My whole body lurched inside and my skin started to tingle.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
“How are you sure?”
“This tomato is a dog compared to some of the babes I seen Eddie with.”
“When did you see them together?”
“I don’t know–I think it was a couple of months ago. Yeah, that’s right, it was the day of the President’s Stakes–in June.”
I gathered up my photos and left Ralph with a stern warning. “You don’t breathe a word of this to Eddie. You got that?”
“Sure, Officer. I always figured Eddie wasn’t quite on the up and–”
I didn’t let him finish. I was out the door, looking frantically for a pay phone.
I called L.A.P.D. R & I, gave them my name and badge number and told them what I wanted. They got back to me within five minutes: there was no Edward, Edwin, or Edmund Engels, white male, approximately thirty years old with a criminal record in Los Angeles. I was about to hang up, then got another idea: I told the clerk to go through the automobile registration files for the last four years. This time he hit pay dirt: Edward Engels, 1911 Horn Drive, West Hollywood, owned two cars: the green ’46 Olds sedan I had tailed him in, and a ’49 Ford convertible–red with white top, license number JY 861. I thanked the clerk, hung up and ran out to my own car.
My next stop was Pasadena, where I looked for Ford and Oldsmobile dealerships. It took a while, but I found them and got what I wanted: advertising stills of their ’46 and ’49 models. Next I drove to a five and dime on Colorado Boulevard and bought a box of kiddie crayons. In the parking lot I went to work on my visual aids, coloring the Olds sedan a pale sea green and the Ford a bright fire engine red with a pristine white top. The results were good.
By this time it was one-forty-five and getting very humid. I needed a shave and a change of clothes. I drove home, showered, shaved, and changed. I got out my diary and destroyed all the pages pertaining to my encounter with Maggie Cadwallader. Then I stretched out on the bed and tried to sleep.
It was no good. My brain wouldn’t stop running with plans, schemes, contingencies, and expectations. Finally I gave up, shooed Night Train out to the backyard, locked up, and drove to the Sunset Strip.
I timed it just right, parking my car in the lot of a gas station on Sunset and Doheny and starting off on foot. The nightclubs were just opening, gearing up for another evening of high-life, and the barmen, waiters, and parking attendants I wanted to talk to were fresh faced and had plenty of time to answer my questions.
I was developing a theory about Eddie Engels; that he was arrogant, cocky to an extreme, loudmouthed, and rather stupid–just stupid enough to bring women he was planning to harm or even kill into his own backyard to wine and dine. It seemed logical. He lived within walking distance of the hottest night spots in the city, and he clearly loved to be seen with women.