ERLE STANLEY GARDNER
Death Rides a Boxcar
When the leg gave its first warning twinge, I stood still for a while and let the rest of the crowd stream on past, up the sloping passenger exit of the big Los Angeles terminal, up to the place where friends and relatives, wives and sweethearts waited in a roped-off space.
It was going to be a job, remembering to favor that leg, but anything was better than hanging around the insipid routine of the hospital.
“Gabby” Hilman was coming in by bus. He was to meet me at the Palm Court Hotel around ten o’clock. Until then I was just killing time. I could have started a little celebration over my release from the hospital, but I didn’t want to do it without Gabby. He’d been my buddy, and I wanted to start even with him.
. . .