“You don’t understand,” said Conway, wondering if he looked like the kind of man whose wife would go off to a motel on five minutes’ notice. “She wouldn’t—”
“Look, buddy—” The joke and the patrolman’s patience were beginning to wear thin. “You want to report a stolen car and a missing woman?”
“Oh, no,” said Conway. “I thought we could drive around here and try to find her or the car, or something.”
“We’re not running any passenger service tonight,” the driver said. “If you want to report the car or your wife now, we’ll take it. If you want to do it later, go to the nearest police station. My advice is, don’t do it.”
“Thanks. But — you will be on the look-out, won’t you?”
“Sure. What kind of a car?”
Conway described the car and gave the license number. They did not trouble to write it down; he concluded they did not intend to phone it in to headquarters.
“I’ll look around here a little more and then call home again,” he said. “If I do decide to report it, where should I go?”
“Hollywood Station. Wilcox Avenue, north of Santa Monica.” The patrolman picked up the radio telephone as the car started off. Reporting completion of the call; that meant there would be a record of the time. It was unlikely they would report the license number of the car, but it was a possibility, and not a pleasant one to contemplate.
Waiting to see the direction the police car would take, Conway glanced at the bench next to the trolley stop sign; three rather poorly dressed people were there, which meant that the next car would stop. That was good; not vital, but good. And the car was due in thirteen minutes.