I liked that too.
We took a down elevator and got off on the tenth floor. The Wades’ room was 1017, just down the left-hand hallway—a suite, judging from the jux position of numbered doors on that side. Kerry got out the key her mother had given her, scraped it into the latch, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. She reached inside for the light switch, but when she flipped it nothing happened.
“Damn,” she said. “Now the chandelier doesn’t work.”
“Maybe there’s a short.”
“Well, I’d better put on a lamp for the folks. My coat’s on the sofa.”
She moved inside, feeling her way in the darkness. I took a step through the doorway after her and stepped to one side, so I wouldn’t block the light from the hall. On the left I could make out a pale grayish oblong—part of the window over which the drapes had been half drawn. Enough reflected light from outside filtered in through there to outline the bulky shapes of furniture, to turn Kerry into a fading silhouette like a shadow image moving behind a screen—
But we weren’t alone in the room. I sensed it abruptly; there was no sound, no movement, just the sudden feeling of occupied space and another presence nearby. The realiza tion sent a cold slithering along my spine, bunched the muscles in my arms and across my shoulders and back. I held my breath, listening. Silence except for the slide of Kerry’s shoes on the thick carpet. I took another step forward, acting on reflex to get to where she was before she put on the lamp; there wasn’t anything else I could do. Trying to locate whoever it was in the dark was no good, and neither was calling out a warning to Kerry.
Something made a low thumping sound. Then she said “Damn” again in an exasperated tone. “Now where’s that bloody lamp—”
A stirring off to my left.
And the silhouette of a man loomed up between me and the window, head down and rushing toward me or the open door behind me.
I turned to meet him, trying to set myself, but he was there, an indistinct male shape, before I could get my feet planted; I smelled the sharp sour odor of whiskey just before he hit me with an outthrust shoulder. The force of the blow spun me half around and threw me into something, a table, and I went over it ass-sideways and down in a backward sprawl. My chin cracked against something else and for an explosive instant there were pinwheels of light behind my eyes, a ringing in my ears. Then the light and the ringing faded, and I could hear Kerry shouting my name in a stunned way, the thud of a body hitting the wall beside the door and then skidding through into the hall. I was already rolling over onto my knees; when I rightghted myself I had my head up and my eyes open and half focused through a haze of pain. But by then the doorway was empty and so was the corridor beyond.
The table I had fallen over was on my left; I used it as a fulcrum to shove up onto my feet. Kerry was close by, reaching toward me in the darkness, saying “My God, are you all right?” But I went away from her, struggling with my balance, still fighting off the effects of the blow to my chin, and said, “Stay here, wait inside,” just before I lurched out through the door.
The hallway was empty in both directions, but he hadn’t gone back the short way to the elevators. I could hear the faint echoes of somebody running down where a cross-hall intersected with this one, over in the east wing. I lumbered off that way, making snuffling and snorting sounds like an old Dull until I got my breathing under control. When I got to where I could see eastward along the cross-hall, there was nothing to see: he had disappeared. But I could still hear faint running echoes, hollow-sounding now. And underneath a green exit sign, the door to a set of fire stairs was just closing on its pneumatic tube.
I knew it was no good, I’d never catch him, even before I got down there and hauled the door open. The running steps were louder in the stairwell, magnified by its narrow depth, but still fading. He was two or three floors below me already. And he could duck out on any floor he cared to, or go all the way down to the lobby or the basement parking garage, before I could get anywhere near him. There just wasn’t any point in putting my paunchy fifty-three-year-old body through any more wind sprints, particularly down several flights of stairs.
I slapped the door open again, went back into the hall, and leaned against the wall to mop sweat off my face with my handkerchief. Sweat,- at least, was the only wetness that came off the cloth; no blood from where I had cracked my throbbing chin.
Damn sneak thief, I thought. Sneak thieves were a problem in hotels these days. Hundreds of rooms were broken into each year in San Francisco alone, and small fortunes in cash, jewelry, clothing, and other hockable personal possessions were stolen. And security at the Continental, I had heard from one of my cop friends, was not all it could have been. Sure—a sneak thief.
Except that sneak thieves are a sober lot, at least while they’re working. They need a steady hand to pick door locks and suitcase and jewelry case locks, a clear head to stay alert for returning guests or hotel employees. So how come this one had a breath like the inside of a whiskey keg? And how come he took the time to gimmick the chandelier so the lights wouldn’t come on? Sneak thieves like to get into a room and out of it again with their booty in short order; they don’t linger to take precautions that could backfire on them.
If not a sneak thief, then who? Rapist? Not likely. Somebody after something that belonged to the Wades, that was among their belongings? Possible. And also possible that it was somebody waiting to do harm to either one or both of them, or because he wanted something from either or both of them.
I thought about the blackmail letters and the allegations of plagiarism. I thought about the gun Cybil carried in her purse. I thought about the undercurrent of tensions among the Pulpeteers— especially the tension between Ivan Wade and Russ Dancer. I thought about Kerry saying Dancer had been in love with Cybil for more than thirty years. And I thought about Dancer disappearing from the party, about all the whiskey he had poured into himself tonight, about how the moods of a drunk shift and sometimes become irrational, even violent. Dancer? I thought-Christ—Dancer?
SIX
When I got back to Room 1017, the door was still standing wide open, but there were lamps burning now on a pair of end tables. I did not see Kerry at first and I rapped on the panel and called out her name. She came hurrying out of the bedroom as I entered.
“You didn’t catch him,” she said in disappointed tones. Her eyes were round and dark, angry, but they softened a little as she looked at me. Which made her disappointed in the fact that the intruder had got away, not in me.
“No. Listen, you shouldn’t have left the door open.”
“The door? Why not? You don’t think he’d come back?”
I bent over and peered at the latch. There were fresh scratch marks on its lip and on the metal plate around the opening, the kind amateurs make when they set out to pick a lock. Professionals—sneak thieves, for example—know how to use tools and seldom leave marks of any kind. I straightened again and shut the door, making sure that the lock still held.
Kerry said, “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t know what to think. Probably not, though.”
She came up closer to me and touched my chin gently with the tips of her fingers; her eyes seemed to soften even more, to change shades—
dark green to a light emerald green—in the lamp light. “Did this happen when you fell?”
“What is it? A bruise?”
“Just a little one. Did you get a look at him?”
“No. Did you?”
“No, it was too dark, and it all happened so fast. Who do you think he was? A burglar?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” I glanced around the room. The coffee table was kicked around at an off-angle near the sofa, but nothing else looked to be disturbed. Nor did anything look out of place in what I could see of the bedroom. There was a connecting door in one wall between this suite and the one on the south side; most of the larger rooms in the Continental had them—an old-fashioned custo
m for the easy creation of “apartments” for the wealthier clientele. But this one was locked on this side and on the other side too, and it did not look to have been tampered with. “Can you tell if anything’s missing?”
Kerry shook her head. “Cybil’s suitcase is open, but she might have left it that way herself; it doesn’t look rummaged through.”
“You’d better call Suite M and tell her and your father what happened. Have them come back here and check things over before they notify the management.”
“What are you going to do?”
“There’s something I want to check on myself. I’ll be back pretty soon.” I retreated to the door. “Lock it after me this time, okay?”
“Okay,” she said. “But you’re making me nervous. Do you know something I don’t?”
“No,” I said, truthfully enough. “I’d tell you if I did.”
I went out, waited until I heard the click of the latch, and then hustled to the elevators and took one up to the sixth floor. Dancer had told me his room was 617; I found the door to it tucked inside one of those little cul-de-sacs you find in older hotels—a blind corridor maybe fifteen feet long, with two doors facing each other across it and a third door, probably to some kind of storage or maid’s closet, at the end.
There were no lights showing through the bottom louvers and no sounds from within when I put my ear against the panel. I knocked, waited for fifteen seconds, and knocked again with more emphasis. Nothing. If he was inside he was either passed out or just not opening up for anybody.
For no good reason I went from there back up to the fifteenth floor and poked my head into Suite M. The party was just about over; there were only eight or nine people left, none of them Russ Dancer. I went inside and asked Lloyd Underwood and Bert Praxas if they’d seen him in the past half-hour or knew where he’d gone. They said no.
So what? I asked myself as I hiked back to the elevators. Not being around doesn’t make him guilty of anything; he doesn’t have to be the one. Hell, it could be anybody. How many people in this city are running around tonight with whiskey fumes on their breath?
But I still wished I knew where Dancer was and where he’d been twenty minutes ago.
I could hear voices inside 1017 when I got back down to there, and it was Ivan Wade who opened up in answer to my knock. If he was upset or worried over what had happened, you could not tell it by looking at him. He wore the same aloof expression he had earlier.
He said, “Come inside. How’s your chin?”
“Sore.”
“I’m sorry it had to happen.”
“Me too. Did you find anything missing?”
“I don’t think so. My wife’s still checking.”
Kerry was standing behind him, near the couch, and when I was all the way inside she said, “Find out much on your errand?”
“No. Nothing.”
Wade said, “It was a sneak thief, I suppose.”
“Well, that’s a possibility.”
“Why a possibility? Who else could it have been?”
“Maybe it was your would-be extortionist, Dad,“Kerry said. “The one behind those letters and ‘Hoodwink’ manuscripts.”
Wade’s eyes narrowed. “That whole business is a hoax,” he said.
“Is it?”
“Of course it is. Besides, why would an extortionist break into our room?”
I said, “Did you or your wife bring anything valuable with you from home? I don’t just mean money and jewelry; I mean literary material—rare pulps, manuscripts, anything like that.”
“No,” he said. “Nothing of any special value.”
Cybil came out of the bedroom just then with her arms folded, hands against forearms, under her breasts. Her husband may have been taking this thing pretty calmly, but she wasn’t; there was anxiety in the way she moved and in the set of her face. Her lipstick was flaked and spotty where she’d worried it off with her teeth.
“Everything still there?” Wade asked her.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m sure I closed my suitcase before we left for the party and the lid is raised now, but nothing inside seems to have been touched. I suppose whoever it was didn’t have time.”
Kerry said, “What could he have been after in your suitcase?”
“God knows.” But there was hesitation before she said it.
“Well, no damage done then,” Wade said. “Or at least not much damage. The best thing to do is notify the hotel manager and then forget it all happened.1’
Cybil gave him a sharp bright look. “Why do we have to notify the hotel manager?”
“It’s standard procedure, Mrs. Wade,” I told her.
She gnawed off a little more paint from her lower lip. She had things preying on her mind, you could see that—and it was not just the breaking-and-entering. Kerry had said she was a tough lady, as tough as Max Ruffe, and I believed it; and tough ladies don’t get themselves all worked up over a minor burglary attempt, not unless they suspect it isn’t so minor after all.
“Well, I’d rather not make a fuss about it,” she said finally.
“There won’t be a fuss,” Wade said. “We’ll ask the manager to be discreet.”
“Can’t we at least wait until morning?”
Wade glanced at me and I shrugged. He said to Cybil, “All right, in the morning. It’s getting late and we’re all tired.”
Kerry took that as a cue for us to leave. And a couple of minutes later, after the goodnights, we were alone together in the hallway. She said, “I seem to have lost my appetite. Raincheck on Rosebud’s, okay?”
“Sure. But how about a cup of coffee downstairs? It’s still early yet.”
“Well… just one, maybe.”
The lobby coffee shop was still open, and we took one of several fancy white wrought-iron tables surrounded by potted plants; the place was called, rather snootily for a hotel coffee shop, the Garden Bistro. Kerry sat studying me as I gave our order to the waitress, and she kept on studying me for some seconds afterward.
“What aren’t you telling me?” she said.
“Why do you think I’m not telling you something.”
“Intuition. You don’t exactly have a poker face, you know.”
“I always thought I did.”
“Well, you don’t. What did you do on that errand of yours?”
I hesitated. I could be frank with her, but that would mean mentioning the .38 revolver in her mother’s purse. If she didn’t already know about it, and the odds were she didn’t, it might upset her. Still, if Cybil was courting some kind of trouble, she had a right to know about it. And maybe she could help me find out just what it was that was going on here.
“Well?” she said.
“Okay. I went to see if I could find Russ Dancer.”
“Why? You don’t suspect him, do you?”
“Not actively. But the intruder had alcohol on his breath, and not just the kind from one or two social drinks. That made me think of Dancer.”
“You mean because of the way he feels about Cybil? My God, you weren’t thinking rape or anything like that?”
- 71 “The thought did cross my mind.”
“Well, you -can forget it, believe me. Dancer would never hurt Cybil; never. He worships her.”
“Worship can turn into hatred sometimes.”
“Yes, but not in Dancer’s case. I can see it in his eyes—how he feels about her.”
“Did you know Dancer before you met him here?”
“No. But Cybil told me enough about him to give me a good idea of what to expect. Men like Russ Dancer are easy to read.”
Not for me, they weren’t. But I said, “Does Cybil do a lot of reminiscing about the old days?”
“Oh, sure. At least she used to when I was living at home. I don’t think she’s ever been as happy as she was in the forties.”
“Why is that?”
The waitress brought our coffee. Kerry stirred cream into hers before she said, “I guess she was happies
t back then for several reasons. She was young. She’d just made it through a war and dozens of short separations—my dad was an army liaison officer and did a lot of shuttling back and forth between New York and Washington. And she was writing for the pulps, doing what she’d always wanted to do. She even wrote some pulp stories with Ivan, did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Under a pseudonym. Gruesome stuff about ax murderers and people being buried alive. I loved it when I was a kid.”
“They let you read horror fiction as a kid?”
“They didn’t know about it. I used to get into their magazine file copies.”
“Did Cybil like being one of the Pulpeteers?”
“Sure. Apparently they were a pretty wild group.”
“Wild in what way?”
“The forties kind of way,” Kerry said. “All-night parties, crazy practical jokes, a fistfight or two once in a while.”
“Fistfight? You mean among themselves?”
“Cybil never went into detail. Neither did my dad.”
“She never mentioned who was involved?”
“If she did, I don’t remember. Maybe Frank Colodny, though.”
“Why Colodny?”
“Some of the writers accused him of cheating on what he paid for their stories. He’d promise them one amount, pay them another when they delivered, and claim economic pressures as the reason for the cutback. But the writers suspected he was putting through vouchers for the full amount and then pocketing the difference himself.”
I remembered Dancer alluding to the same thing at the party. “Why was Colodny allowed in the Pulpeteers,” I asked, “if he was suspected of crooked dealings?”
“Well, the cheating only started at the end of the decade, when Action House was losing money like all the other pulp publishers, because of television and paperbacks. Colodny owned a piece of the company, and Cybil says that he liked money. When he couldn’t find anybody else to screw he started doing it to his friends.”
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