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the private garage and climbed a flight of private stairs to the unit located above the garage. It was a great place for privacy, I thought. Perfect for a guy with another man’s wife. Or for someone wanting a hideout.
    I had the feeling that someone might be me by morning.
    I carried both suitcases into the room. I locked the door and picked up the phone book. My watch read six-forty. Toby Jessup should be back at the plant by now according to the schedule she had given me. I turned to the
J’s
in the book.
    I closed the book. I had thought of something better than telephoning. I took the West Coast Industrial Advisors’ pamphlet out of my pocket. I gave it fifteen minutes of my time.
    I put the pamphlet away. I used a piece of motel stationery and scribbled a note for the redhead. I put the note on the outside of the door. I went out to the street and signaled a taxi.
    I climbed in. I told the driver to take me to Jessup Trucking. I used the five minute ride to review myself on what I had learned from the pamphlet. I decided I could pass as an efficiency expert—at least for as long as I needed to.
    And that wouldn’t be very long at all. It was fine for Toby Jessup to plan for me to start my snooping tomorrow. But I wasn’t in the mood for waiting.
    Not when Art Ditmer was missing. And not when Turk Thorne was dead with my fist mark on his jaw.

5
    T HE J ESSUP PLANT wasn’t easy to miss. It was on the main highway east, about a mile from town. It occupied a full block, with a big, sprawling warehouse and a wide turnaround area taking up most of the space. The low, white stucco building that held the office was at the near end of the warehouse. A line of cars was parked alongside the office building.
    Every part of the plant was lit up. Three big semirigs were backed up to the loading platforms. Men moved briskly under the glare of floodlights. I wondered how they could generate so much energy in the heavy heat.
    The taxi driver swung to a stop at the curb. I read the meter and paid him off. I said, “The joint looks like it’s jumping.”
    The driver put the fare in his pocket. “It always is at this season,” he said. “Especially since there isn’t any other trucking outfit around.”
    I climbed out. He whipped his cab in a wide turn that carried him to the far side of the street. He drove into a gravel lot in front of a new-looking building with a sign
Bar and Grill
flashing in red and blue neon. I watched him go inside the building. I envied him. I could use some food and a long cold beer myself.
    But that could wait. I walked through an open gate in a high wire fence and across a wide concrete apron to the Jessup office. The windows were covered with venetian blinds slanted so that bits and pieces of people working could be seen.
    A glass door said
,
Jessup Trucking and Industrial. Office. Walk In
.
    I walked in. The building was air conditioned. I shut the door and stood a moment, looking around and letting the cool air draw some of the heat out of me.
    I was in the front end of a room that ran the length of the building. A few feet away a counter blocked me from three rows of desks that ran lengthwise to the rear. Girls sat at the desks, working over typewriters, billing machines, calculators, and other assorted office equipment. To the right of the counter a doorway led into a hallway with one wall of glass. I could see cubbyhole offices opening onto the hallway. The door to the first office was open. Toby Jessup was standing by a desk, talking to a short plump man with curly black hair.
    I started for the hallway door. Some of the girls lifted their eyes from their work long enough to look me over. They didn’t spend much time at it. I thought they would be more interested in finishing their work and getting out of here than in looking over a strange male.
    I opened the hallway door and walked to Toby Jessup’s office. Her title,
Office Manager
, was on the door in black paint. I could see a closed