“Yes, Matt. I did the best I could. But I want to know—”
“So do I. But I don’t want to wait to find out. Something’s screwy. That photographer the dame had with her is still hanging around the front of the building.”
“What’s the matter? Did—”
“Talk later. All I know is there’s going to be some kind of beef. So we’re blowing. Put the pictures and the cash in a bag and come down the fire escape. The car’s in the alley. We’ll meet you there.”
“I’ve got clothes to pack.”
“I’m not taking any raps for your wardrobe. I’ve got a hunch about this. You can get more clothes in San Francisco, but you can’t in Tehachapi. We’ll give you ten minutes.”
Luella Joyson heard the click as he hung up, and wasted some good expletives on an unresponsive microphone.
Then, with a shrug of her comely shoulders, she went to a closet in the bedroom and dragged out a large suitcase and opened it. It contained several bulky envelopes of uniform size, but even after the addition of a dozen thick stacks of medium-denomination currency which she retrieved from various hiding places in the apartment, there was still room for a small armful of her most expensive clothes.
She put on a fur coat, snapped the bag shut, picked it up, and paused for a last regretful look around the inviting room. Then she stepped through the open window onto the fire escape.
She dropped lightly from the bottom of the last ladder to the alley pavement, almost beside a shiny low-slung sedan. Opening the door, she shoved the bag in and looked up and down the gloomy canyon between tall apartment buildings like the one she had left.