Fifty-eight waited until the other car was more than halfway down the long block, let the clutch in slowly. Kells felt in his pockets until he found the tin box of aspirin tablets, took two. The other car turned left on Third Street. Fifty-eight stepped on it, swung into Third; there were two taillights about a block and a half ahead. He followed the faster one north on Rossmore, got close enough to see that he’d guessed right, fell back.
They turned west again on Beverly, to La Brea.
Kells was sitting sideways on the seat looking through the rear window. He leaned forward suddenly, spoke rapidly to Fifty-eight: “Keep that car in sight — an’ you’ll have to do it by yourself. I’ve got something else to watch. We’re being tailed.
They turned off La Brea, west on Santa Monica Boulevard.
Then Kells was sure they were being followed. The car was a big blue or black coupe — shiny, powerful.
On Santa Monica, a little way beyond Gardner, Fifty-eight said over his shoulder: “They’re stopping.”
“Go on past ’em — slow.”
Kells squeezed back into the corner, saw four men get out of the touring car and start across the street. He thought one of them was Detective Lieutenant Reilly; wasn’t sure. He didn’t recognize any of the others.
Fifty-eight asked: “What’ll I do?”
“Go on — slow.” Kells took the automatic from its shoulder holster, balanced it across his hand. He watched the big coupe come up slowly.