“Yeah, but I thought I might be able to get a little more information if I saw ’em both together. It’s a good thing I talked to ’em separately first, or I’d never of got anything. All they could do was hold hands and paw each other and giggle. Like when I said, ‘It was a few minutes after ten when you saw the car park, right?’ she says, ‘Oh, it don’t seem like it could of been as late as that, does it, hon?’ and she giggles, and he giggles, and she nuzzles herself into his neck, and I wished I could slap a pair of bracelets on ’em with a ten-foot pole in between.”
“So you got nothing new out of them?”
“Nah. It’s lucky a political speech happened to come on the radio. Otherwise they wouldn’t of known if it was ten o’clock or Tuesday.”
Conway thought of the importance he had placed on having witnesses to the time the car was parked, and realized how dangerously close he had come to having nothing of the sort. He had, of course, made sure there were witnesses when he parked. He had not expected the time to be established as accurately as it had been, but, if the detective was right, his fate had rested in the laps of two lovesick morons. He gave a silent vote of thanks to Senator Taft.
“I’d better get cleaned up myself,” he said. “Be with you in a minute.” The sergeant was moving toward the refrigerator. “Have another beer,” Conway said as he went through the door.
Chapter nine
Bauer drove into the parking lot behind a National drugstore on Beverly Boulevard. They got out of the car, and Bauer led the way into the store. Conway expected him to head for the cigar counter or the telephones, but the detective led the way to an unoccupied booth, motioned Conway and Betty to be seated, and handed them menus. Becoming aware of Conway’s expression, he laughed.
“Surprised, eh? Bet you didn’t even know about the food here. Well, you’re in for a real surprise when you taste that pot roast. Of course, they got other things too, if you don’t like pot roast. But order pot roast for me.” He started sliding out of the seat. “Got to phone and check in.”
Conway watched the detective disappear into a phone booth. He looked around at the chromium splendor and neon garishness; he heard the orders being called at the counter and smelled the unappetizing blend of food, cosmetics and pharmaceuticals. The place was hot, crowded, noisy, and even more resplendent than its sister emporium in which Helen and he had had coffee before going to the movie; his one desire was to get out as quickly as possible. He motioned to a waitress who passed the booth several times, but she, in common with most of her kind, had more important things to do and stared straight through him. He thought of the steaks reposing in the refrigerator at home and asked himself why he had allowed himself to be inveigled into coming to this pavilion of indigestion. Then his annoyance gave way to concern as another idea struck him: Why had Bauer wanted to inveigle him into coming here? He glanced at Betty, but she was surveying the establishment as though it were a moderately interesting anthill.
A waitress finally came to the table. “Pot roast for you, Betty?” Conway asked.