A flash-light exploded in our faces. I shoved Clair into the car, turned.
A little guy was standing near me, a press camera in his hand.
“You’re the guy who grabbed the gun?” he asked. “Jack Cain, ain’t it?”
“Not me,” I said, edging towards him. “Cain’s still in there.” I grabbed his camera before he could guess what I was at, whipped out the plate, dropped it on the sidewalk, trod on it.
I handed him back the camera.
“You punk!” he exclaimed. “You can’t do this to me.” He set himself for a swing, but I gave him a quick push, sent him staggering, got into the Buick.
I shot out of the alley.
Clair wanted to know why I had said I was Jack Cain; why
I had smashed the photographer’s plate. She sounded very scared.
There was no point in keeping it from her any longer. I told her about Lois Spence telephoning me on the night before we left Paradise Palms. I gave her an idea what Lois had said.