I handed him the grocery list and twenty dollars. “Expense money,” I said. “When it’s gone, tell me and I’ll give you some more.”
His eyes held that same devotion you see in the eyes of a big dog looking up at his master. “Okay, buddy,” he said, and pushed the money down into his pocket.
I went into one of the hotels, got a list of numbers, closeted myself in the telephone booth, and went to work. I called retail-grocer associations, credit bureaus, the dairies, and even the ice company. I was, I explained, from the Preferential Credit Bureau of San Francisco. I was trying to get some information on a Mrs. Elva Jannix. I knew they wouldn’t have any credit applications, but I’d like very much to have them check their deliveries during the next few days, and if they got any information to save it until I called again.
That’s a peculiar thing. No matter what kind of an alibi you use, you can’t get information out of a business house unless you pose as a credit man, and then they’ll turn everything inside out. They almost never ask to see any credentials. Simply tell them you’re handling a credit matter, and the world is yours.
I made the rounds of the banks, told /hem I was trying to locate a stolen check, asked them if they’d had any business dealings with a Mrs. Jannix, either Mrs. Sidney Jannix, or Mrs. Elva Jannix.
Most of them fell for it. One of them didn’t. The manager wanted to know more about me. Somehow, the way he went at it, I had an idea Mrs. Jannix might be a client of that bank. A man can tell you he hasn’t the information you want without violating any ethics, but if he happens to have the information you’re after, he gets a little cagey about giving it out.
I went back to the car. It had been an hour and ten minutes. There was no sign of Louie Hazen beyond a pasteboard carton filled with canned stuff, and two heavy brown-paper shopping-bags loaded with various staples.
I sat and waited for fifteen minutes. The sun crawled over the roofs of the store buildings, and sent warm rays glancing down into the streets. I felt drowsy. My muscles and nerves were all relaxed. I didn’t give a damn for Bertha Cool or the detective agency or anything that concerned it. I closed my eyes to rest them against the glare of the sunlight — and woke up with a jerk from a sleep so sound that it took me a few seconds to realize where I was and how I had got there.
I looked at my watch.
It had been more than two hours since I’d left Louie.