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Police cars came and went. Technical men were doing stuff aboard the yachts, searching for fingerprints, dusting with various powders.

Every once in a while some amateur photographer would try to crash the gates and an important-looking guard would ask for his pass. If the fellow didn’t have any, the guard would nod to a police officer who then came up and chased the guy away fast.

I stood around for an hour or two until I felt I was developing falling arches. Finally, when one of the officers relieved the club watchman and he went to get a cup of coffee, I fell into step beside him.

“I’d like some information,” I said, “and I’m a man who doesn’t want something for nothing.”

He flashed me an appraising sidelong glance. “The police told me to give out no information.”

“Oh, this isn’t about the murder,” I said, laughing. “I wouldn’t ask you about that. This is something else.”

“What?”

“I’m trying to find out something about one of the boats.”

“Which one?”

“Now there,” I told him, “you have the reason I’m coming to you. I don’t know which boat it was except that it had the insignia of this yacht club on it, and it was out cruising last Tuesday afternoon, a week ago. Now, my guess is that there aren’t many yachts go out for a cruise in the afternoon in the middle of the week.”

“You’d guess wrong,” he said grinning. “On Wednesday afternoon there are lots of them.”

“How about Monday?”

“Hardly any.”

“Tuesday?”

“Oh, a few.”

I said, “Do you keep any records of the yachts that go out?”

“No, we don’t.”

“You do, however, keep a record of the men who go through the gates?”

“That’s right.”

“Then by checking on the men who went through the gates last Tuesday afternoon, you could probably tell me something about what yachts were out?”

“The police have taken those records. They’ve taken the whole book as evidence. I’ve had to start another book.”

“That’s too bad.”

“It doesn’t make any difference except I don’t have any records I can refer to.”

“Tuesday afternoon,” I said, and took twenty dollars from my pocket.

“I’d like the twenty,” he said, “but I can’t help you.”

“Why?”

“My books are gone — the law took ‘em.”

“What’s your name?”

“Danby.”

“Perhaps you could make some dough anyway.”

“How?”

“What time do you get off today?”

“Six at night.”

“I could meet you and you could take a ride with me, sit in my car, and point out someone to me.”

“Who?”

“A man you know. I don’t know his name. I want to find out who he is. I’d give you twenty now. There’d be more later.”

Danby gave the matter thoughtful consideration.

“In the meantime,” I said, “I’d like to know a few things about your duties.”

“What?”

“You can’t be on duty every minute of the time,” I said. “There are times when you have your back turned. There are times when you’re out of the place, when you—”

“Look,” he interrupted. “You talk just like the cops. There ain’t no one going to get aboard one of those yachts without the man at the gate knowing it. If we leave that little cabin, even for thirty seconds, we throw a barrier gate inside of the first one and pull a switch which makes a bell ring on every float whenever someone steps on the platform. The members absolutely insist that no one except a member in good standing is permitted on the mooring. The club had a lot of trouble in a divorce case. The wife wanted to get some evidence. That was a couple of years ago. Detectives sneaked in and raided a yacht. It was quite a scandal. Since then the members have fixed things so no one who ain’t a member can get into that yacht club, no one, no time.”

“Doesn’t it inconvenience the members sometimes when you’re not there and—”

“I’m pretty nearly always right there. That’s my business to be there. If anything happens and I have to go away, I throw that barrier gate down into place and it’s locked. Whenever a member comes and sees that barrier gate locked he knows I’m out somewhere on the float. He also knows that the minute he pushes a foot down on that platform he rings a bell that’ll tell me he’s there. He knows I’m not going to keep him waiting, so he just steps into my little cabin. I don’t think any of them have ever had to wait more than two minutes. I’m right up there on the job. That’s my business. That’s what I’m paid for.”

I handed him the twenty dollars. “I’ll be waiting at six o’clock tonight, Danby. Just step right into my car.”

He looked at both sides of the twenty-dollar bill as though afraid it might be a counterfeit, then stalked into
the restaurant without a word of thanks.

I went up and saw my broker.

“How you coming with the mining stock?” I asked.

“I’m buying it — scads of it, cheap. Lam, I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Why?”

“The stuff’s no good. It’s a mail-order promotion in the first place. In the second place the mine has been losing money on every carload of ore mined. In the third place it’s indebted to the bank on a big loan. In the fourth place the mainspring of the whole thing was this guy, Bishop, and he’s kicked the bucket.

“If you were trying to find the worst investment on earth you couldn’t have picked a more likely prospect.”

I grinned.

“That tells me all I want to know,” he said. “Would it be all right if I picked up a few shares for my personal account?”

“Don’t put the price up,” I warned.

“Hell’s bells, Lam, you couldn’t put in enough money to jack up the price of that stock if you used a steam shovel.”

“You getting a lot?”

“Lots of it.”

“Keep getting the stuff,” I said, and walked out.

At the appointed time I went to pick up Danby.

He wasn’t too glad to see me.

“The cops may not like this at all,” he said.

“The cops aren’t paying you money.”

“Cops have a way of getting mean when they don’t like things.”

I said, “Here’s fifty dollars. How much unpleasantness would that account for?”

His eyes were greedy and shrewd. “All but ten dollars’ worth,” he said.

I added another ten, and he slowly pocketed the money.

“What do you want to do?”

I said, “We’re going places.”

“What sort of places?”

“Where we can sit in an automobile.”

“And then what do we do?”

“If you see anyone you know you tell me.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

We drove rapidly out Van Ness Avenue, crossed Market Street, took the road to Daly City, and I slowed down as we came to the address of The Green Door.

It was an interesting enough place, pretty well disguised, all things considered.

Years ago San Francisco went in for a certain type of flat — a series of storerooms for little businesses on the ground floor, then two stories of flats above it, all with conventional bow windows and a type of architecture which is so typically San Franciscan that it can be recognized anywhere.

The Green Door was in one of these buildings.

On one side was a neighborhood grocery, a place with a small stock, that had a few neighborhood clients and carried charge accounts. The credit feature was the only way such a one-man business could compete with the big cashand- carry markets where buying is on a mass basis, selling is for spot cash, and there is no trouble with bookkeeping, deadbeats, or failures.

On the other side was a dry-cleaning establishment. In between the two was The Green Door, a plain, unpretentious place which had its door painted a distinctive shade of green.

I cruised around and looked the place over.

Apparently patrons had been requested to park their cars half a block away. Taxicabs could pull up in front of the door, but three big, high-powered automobile jobs I
saw scattered around the neighborhood were parked in unostentatious places. The street in front of The Green Door and on the other side had a few broken-down automobiles quite evidently belonging to the tenants who lived in the district.

The two stories of flats above The Green Door were just like any other flats in the neighborhood. One of them had a
For Rent
sign in the window, but the name of the real estate agency on that sign had been defunct for ten years. The others had various types of lace curtains, window shades, some of them with flowers in the window, but all giving the general outward impression of flats that were tenanted by people with different individualities and temperaments, having in common a low income and a desire for cheap rents.

This appearance, of course, was only a stage setting, a false front which was presented to the street. It was an artistic job.

Usually places running with police protection don’t have to bother about an elaborate camouflage, just something that will be a sop to the public, a camouflage for the payoff which permits it to operate — just enough to keep the amateur detective from being able to spot the place in case he happens to live in the neighborhood.

In the case of The Green Door it looked as though a pretty clever attempt had been made at covering up, which might or might not indicate an absence of police protection.

The stores on each side of The Green Door were, of course, places that enjoyed a remarkably low rental. It therefore stood to reason that the managers had been given to understand that the one great virtue which a small businessman could hope to attain was to learn to mind his own damn business.

We parked the car where we could see The Green
Door and settled down to wait.

It was a long wait.

Danby asked questions at first. I let him think that the person I wanted to case would be coming to the grocery store.

Fog came drifting in over the hills. The white streamers were pushed along by a smart sea breeze. I felt the peculiar tang of fresh stimulation which is so characteristic of San Francisco air, particularly when the fog comes rolling in.

A taxicab pulled up in front of The Green Door; two men got out, pushed the door open, and went in.

There seemed to be no guard of any sort and the door apparently was kept unlocked.

“Know either one of them?” I asked Danby.

“Never saw them before, neither one of them. They didn’t go to the grocery store. They went up in the apartments.”

“So they did,” I agreed.

We waited.

An expensive car containing a man and a woman swung around the corner, found a parking-place, and the man and woman came strolling back.

I left Danby sitting there, walked down to a hot-dog stand at the corner, and got a couple of sandwiches.

Danby was getting impatient.

“How long is this apt to last?” he inquired.

“Until midnight.”

“Now wait a minute! I hadn’t bargained for anything like that.”

I said, “You did plenty of bargaining.”

“I know, but I hadn’t thought it was going to be like this.”

“What
did
you think you’d be doing?”

“Well, I thought I’d have a chance to walk around and—”

“Get out and walk,” I invited.

He didn’t like the idea of that, either.

“You mean keep walking up and down the street until midnight?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“I’ll sit right here.”

We didn’t say anything more for a while. Another taxi drove up; then a group of four men, who had evidently left their car parked on another street, came walking casually along, one of them looked rather sharply inside the car at the two of us sitting there; then they crossed over the street to The Green Door.

I didn’t like that. Whoever was operating The Green Door had probably spotted us by this time and sent a delegation to look us over.

I looked over at Danby and wondered what he’d say if he realized that his fee might also include compensation for a damned good working-over.

He was a grouchy guy who had taken my money and then wished he hadn’t assumed any obligation.

“This is going to be bad,” he said. “If the club finds out, I’ll have a hard time explaining—”

“So what?” I asked. “Where is the club going to find someone else who has your experience, someone else who knows all of the people and all of the ropes? And what if it does? When it finds out what he wants in the line of wages it’ll get a terrific jolt. I’ll bet it doesn’t know how wages have gone up. It’s probably keeping you on at the same old wages.”

“No, the club has given me a couple of raises.”

“How much?”

“One fifteen percent and one ten percent.”

“Over how long a time?”

“Five years.”

I made my laugh mirthless and sarcastic. Danby began
to meditate on whether he was underpaid and abused. I saw he liked the thought. I liked it, too. It kept his mind occupied.

I looked at my wrist watch. It was nine-fifteen.

A car drove up and parked. It was a club coupe, about three years old, but a good make and it looked well cared for. The man, who didn’t seem to give a damn whether he left the car parked right in front of The Green Door or not, jumped out and looked up and down the street, then entered through the green door.

Danby said, “That’s Horace B. Catlin. If he sees me here he—”

“You drive a car?” I interrupted.

“Sure.”

“This fellow is a member of the yacht club?”

“That’s right.”

I said, “Wait here for an hour. If I’m not back inside of an hour, drive the car to this address, ask for the man in charge, and tell him the entire story of what we’ve been doing this evening.”

He took the card which had the address and looked at it curiously.

“Let’s see,” he said, “that’s down there. Let me see—

I’m trying to get the cross street.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I told him. “Put the card in your pocket. Be sure to ask for the man who’s in charge and then tell him the story. It’s a quarter past nine. If I’m not out of here by ten-fifteen go tell your story.”

I slid out of the car, tossed my hat over on the seat, walked bareheaded across the street, and, just before I got to the entrance to The Green Door, looked over my shoulder.