He dialed the number of his home, and waited while the phone rang several times. Then he came out of the booth, looked in the telephone directory on the nearby rack, went back and dialed the police.
“Police Department.”
“Will you send a squad car right away to Santa Monica Boulevard and Nichols Street?” His voice had taken on a tone of nervous, suppressed excitement.
“What’s the name and address?”
“Arthur Conway. I’m at the drugstore on the corner. I—”
“What’s the nature of the complaint?”
“It’s an emergency. Please hurry. I’ll be waiting on the sidewalk.” He hung up.
It might sound like a robbery or as if violence threatened. It might be someone reporting a neighbor’s mayhem, or the recognition of a criminal. It might also, of course, be a man reporting a missing car and wife, though Conway doubted that that would occur to the voice on the other end of the line. But it wasn’t important. What was important was that his report was on record, and that they would have to send a cruising patrol car. They wouldn’t dare not send it.
He went outside and stood on the sidewalk, pacing a little, and scanning the passing cars. A streetcar went past. He noted the time: exactly on schedule. In less than three minutes the squad car appeared. He was at its side before the patrolman had time to open the door.
“I’m Arthur Conway — the one who called for you,” he said. “I left my wife in the car in the parking lot down there, went back to the theatre to get a glove she lost — I was only gone a few minutes — and when I came back she wasn’t there. The car’s gone, and she isn’t anywhere around.”