So I theorized, and walked east, showing my photograph of Maggie Cadwallader to parking lot attendants, doormen, maitre d’s, and waiters. I hit every nightclub and juke joint on both sides of Sunset from Doheny to La Cienega–with no luck. I was about to admit defeat when I decided to start checking out restaurants, as well.
At my third one, I got my first confirmation. It was an Italian place and the garrulous old waiter nodded in recognition as I showed him the photo. He remembered Maggie from several weeks before, and was about to embark on a long discourse about the food she ate when I hissed at him, “_Did she have an escort?_”
Startled, the old guy smiled, said “sure,” and described Eddie Engels. He went on to tell me of all the “nicea-looking bambinas” the “nicea-looking young man” brought to eat there. It was enough confirmation, but I wanted proof. I wanted it covered thoroughly from every angle, so that when I presented my case to my superiors it wouldn’t leak an ounce of water.
I hit four more restaurants, all within five blocks of Eddie Engels’s apartment on Horn Drive, and got three more positive identifications from waiters who recalled Eddie as an extravagant tipper who talked loudly of his racetrack winnings. They remembered Maggie Cadwallader as being quiet, clinging to Eddie and drinking a lot of rum and Cokes.
I took down the names and home addresses and phone numbers of all my witnesses and ran back to my car. It was eight-thirty, which gave me, I figured, about two hours before most people would be in bed.
I drove to Hollywood and started knocking on doors. The people I spoke to weren’t surprised: other officers had been around the week before asking questions. When I showed them my colored photos of the two cars, they were surprised. The other cops hadn’t asked anything about that–just about “strange things,” “funny stuff” that they might have seen or heard on the night of the murder. One after another they shook their heads. No one had noticed the ’46 Olds or ’49 Ford ragtop. I covered all of Harold Way and turned onto De Longpre, getting discouraged. Lights were starting to go off, people were going to bed.
On the corner of De Longpre and Wilton, I ran into three high school boys playing catch by the light of a streetlamp. I played it very palsy with them, even letting them look at my gun. With their confidence gained, I showed them my pictures.
“Hey!” the biggest of the three kids exclaimed. “What a sharp drop-top! Man, oh, man!”
One of his pals grabbed the photo and scrutinized it silently. “I seen a car like that. Right here. Just down the street,” he said.
“When?” I asked quietly.
The kid thought, then looked to the big kid for support. “Larry,” he said, “you remember last week, I snuck out and came over. Remember?”
“Yeah, I remember. It was Monday night. I had to go to–”
I interrupted, keeping my voice stern and fatherly, “And the car was red and white like the one in this picture?”
“Yeah,” the kid said, “Exactly. It had a foxtail on the antenna, real sharp.”
I was ecstatic. I took down their names and phone numbers and told them they were on their way to becoming heroes. The kids were somber with the gravity of their heroism. I solemnly shook hands with all three of them, then took off.
I found a pay phone on Hollywood Boulevard and got Eddie Engels’s telephone number from Information. I dialed it, and let it ring fifteen times. No answer. Night owl Eddie was on the prowl.
I drove back to the Strip, turned north on Horn Drive and parked across the street from his bungalow court. I dug around in my trunk for some makeshift burglar tools and found some old college drafting stuff–including a metal T-square with thin edges that looked as if it could snap a locking mechanism. Equipped with this and a flashlight, I walked toward the darkened courtyard.
This time I knew to look for “Engels” on Number 11. It was three bungalows down, on the left-hand side. All the lights were off. I pulled open a flimsy screen door, looked in both directions, then covertly flashed my light on the inner door and studied the mechanism. It was a simple snap-bolt job, so I got out my T-square, transferred the flashlight to the crook of my left arm, wedged the metal edge between lock and doorjamb and pushed. It was hard, but I persisted, almost snapping the blade of the T-square. Finally, there was a loud metallic _ka-thack_, and the door opened.