"Would you tell me who's in Room Five-twenty-four?"
He frowned slightly. "Well, I don't think—"
I shoved my opened wallet across the desk, the photostat of my license visible. "Look," I said. "It may be nothing, but it may be important. I'm trying to do this as carefully as possible, so that no unnecessary scandal ..." I let it trail off.
"Scandal?"
"Possibly. It may not be the person I want. If you'll just give me the name?"
He bit his lip. "Well ... you'll be discreet, now, won't you?"
"Most discreet."
He hesitated a moment, then pawed through some records. "Smith," he said. "J. A. Smith of San Francisco."
"Oh." Smith. I should have known. The "J" probably stood for John. "Mr. or Mrs. Smith?" I asked.
"That's strange. I don't know. The reservation was made by phone."
"Anybody see this Smith?"
"I really couldn't say, sir. We have more than seven hundred rooms here. It's impossible—"
"Yeah. Thanks. I suppose Smith has checked out?"
He consulted the card. "No. Not yet. Not according to my records."
"Thanks very much."
"You'll be—discreet?"
I nodded at him and walked away from the desk. I sat down in a corner of the lobby and lit a cigarette. I was damned if I was going up to 524 by myself. Maybe it was time I called in the police, but what could I tell them? And I admitted to myself I was afraid they'd find out something about me that even I didn't know, something maybe I didn't want to know. I was so confused I wasn't even acting like myself. But I'd rather have faced a man with a .45 automatic than knock on that door upstairs.
There was a little redheaded guy in uniform watching me, a bellboy. He scratched at a thin red mustache and nodded at me. As far as I knew I'd never seen him before, but he acted as if he knew me.
I grinned halfheartedly and nodded. He walked over to me. "Hi," he said. "Everything work out?"
"Huh?"
"I mean upstairs."
"Look," I said. "How long ago was this? This—upstairs business?"
His face got blank. "You kidding?"
"Tell me!"
"Well ... An hour, maybe less. Don't you remember?"
"No. What happened?"
His eyes narrowed. "You remember giving me the hundred bucks?"
"What hundred?"
He licked his lips. "Well," he said. "I'll—be right back."
I grabbed his arm. "Hold it. If I gave you a hundred, it's yours." I tried to think of something to tell him. "Look, kid, I'm a private detective. Did I tell you that?"
He nodded, staring at me.
"I'm on a job. I—got hit on the head. Just a little while ago a guy sapped me. Look." I turned my head so he could see the patch that was still there.
When I looked back at him his mouth was open and he was nodding his head slowly.
"It jarred hell out of me. I can't remember anything that happened all day. Must have scrambled something."
"Yeah," he said. "Golly."
"Look, kid. You've got to tell me everything I did that you know about. I'll pay you—"
He held up his hand. "Mister, that hundred was the biggest tip I ever got. This is included."
He gave me the whole thing, told me all he knew. It took me upstairs, but not into Room 524.
I said, "I took a recorder up there? Then what?"
"You got me, mister. You chased me out."
"I wish to hell I hadn't, now. Can you get me in that room again?"
"Sure. Come on."
We got out of the elevator on the fifth floor, walked down the hall and stopped next to 524. I kept waiting for somebody to come out and see me, and I was perspiring like a distance runner.
The bellboy got the door of 522 open. The place was empty. We went inside and I shut the door quietly and leaned back against it, breathing heavily.
The bellhop looked at me. "What's the matter, mister?" His voice was loud in the room.
I winced and put a finger to my mouth. He pressed his lips together and nodded, then pointed to the open door of the closet and the tape recorder standing next to it.
It was here, just as the kid had said. I walked over to it. The spool of tape was unwinding slowly, getting near the end of the spool. I got the microphone out of the closet, coiled the wire and put it back into the case, turned the recorder off and closed it. I jerked my head at the bellhop and walked to the door carrying the recorder.
I opened the door and the redhead went outside and looked up and down the hall, then motioned for me to follow him. I stepped through the doorway and walked rapidly to the end of the hall while the kid locked the door.
I waited at the head of the stairs till he joined me, then I said, "One more thing—what's your name, anyway?"
"You called me Red before. Good as any."
I got my wallet out. I'd had a few hundred dollars earlier, now there was only a twenty-dollar bill there. I took out the twenty and held it toward him. "Okay, Red. How about doing one more thing?"
He pushed my hand away. "I don't want no more money. What you want me to do?"
"I want you to go down to Five-twenty-four and knock. If somebody comes to the door, make up something, say it's a mistake or ask him if he called for room service. He or she—it might even be a woman, I don't know. I don't know what the hell is in there. But get a good look. Then come back here and tell me what happens."
"Sure."
"And, Red, keep the twenty." I tucked it into his pocket. "If I had more on me I'd give it to you. You've got no idea, no idea at all, how important this is to me. There's just a chance you'll catch all kind of hell when you knock. Whoever's in there might be suspicious of any interruption. Better if you know that. Okay?"
"Sure thing." He walked back to Room 524.
I went down one step of the stairs and watched, peeking around the corner as I pressed close to the wall. Me, Shell Scott, hiding behind a wall while a kid knocked on a door. And I wasn't a bit ashamed of it. I wasn't going near that door till I'd heard what, if anything, was on this tape.
Red knocked softly and waited, then knocked again, louder. Nothing happened and he banged at the door with his fist. I saw him fish in his pocket for a key. He found it, stuck it in the lock and turned the knob. He looked up at me once and grinned, then went inside.
I waited for about a minute, gritting my teeth, getting more nervous, but then the kid came out, locked the door, and walked up to me.
"Nothing," he said. "Nobody there. No clothes, no people, no nothing. Not even butts in the ashtrays, and the towels haven't been used. Doesn't look like anybody's even been there."
I said, "Somebody's been there. Somebody must have been there."
He just grinned and we stepped into the elevator.
In the lobby I said, "Thanks, Red. And not a peep out of you about this to anyone—don't even tell your mother." I thought for a minute. "And, Red. I'll probably be back. If you can get a line on whoever it is that registered in that room I'll appreciate it. Only for God's sake, watch yourself."
"I'll watch it," he said. As I went out he added, "And thank you."
At the office, I reread the note I'd hastily scribbled, stuck it in my pocket, then phoned Bruce Wilson at his home. He answered almost at once.
"Bruce," I said, "this is Shell Scott."
"Hello, Shell. Where you been all day?" His voice sounded funny.
"God knows. Bruce, I've got to see you. Okay if I come out?"
"Sure. What's the trouble?"
"Tell you when I get there. Anything new on Jay Weather since I saw you?"
"No, not that I know of. Not on Weather."
"Anything on Lucian and Potter?"
"No. Uh, Shell, have you seen Borden?"
"Uh-uh. Couldn't get in touch with him. Why?"
"I guess you didn't hear yet, huh?"
"Hear? What do you mean? Hear what?"
"Borden's dead. He was murdered."
Chapter Fourteen
MY MOUTH dropped open. Borden murdered! No wonder I hadn't been able to get in touch with the hypnotist. Something crawled in my brain.
"Where, Bruce? When?"
"I don't know for sure, Shell. I found out about it just a few minutes ago. Hill phoned and told me because I'd been asking about Borden earlier today. Found him somewhere out of town. Strangled."
I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at my fingers curled tight around it, the knuckles white and the tendons in my wrist bulging.
I said into the mouthpiece, "How long had he been dead? Narrow it down for me."
"Can't, much. I won't know till we get the coroner's report."
"I see."
"When are you coming out, Shell?"
"Well, right now if it's all right."
"Sure; see you here. I'll put coffee on."
I hung up and looked at my hands. They were shaking.
Bruce opened the door. "Come on in, Shell. Man, you look like you need more than coffee. What's that?"
He was pointing to the tape recorder. "I'll get to it," I said. "Hope you've got time."
"All night if you need it." He turned and I followed him into the living room. There was a big painting of a desert scene on the right wall, and underneath it he'd pulled out two man-sized chairs so they faced each other. Between them was a low, glass-topped table with a silver percolator sitting on a heating unit, two cups on the table, a tray of cigarettes and two ashtrays.
I said, "Really got ready for me, didn't you?"
He laughed. "All but the psychiatric couch. You sounded a little chewed up when you called."
"Guess I am, pretty much."
"Sit down and relax. And let go your death grip on that thing."
I was hanging onto the recorder as though I thought it might grow legs and walk away if I put it down. I carried it to one of the chairs and placed it on the floor, then sat down and stretched my legs. Bruce climbed into the other easy chair and poured coffee. It tasted good. Weariness had spread through me and was tugging at all my muscles. The coffee warmed me inside, relaxed me a little.
"Now," Bruce said. "What's it all about?"
I didn't know how to start. Finally I said, "This gadget I've been hanging onto is a tape recorder. I don't even know what's on it, but something's there. I'll play it for you in a minute, Bruce, but first I want to square a couple things away. And tell you how I got this thing. It—it may be important in regard to Jay Weather's murder." He raised his eyebrows and I added, "Important to my—sanity, even. That sound nuts?"
"No." He grinned. "Not yet, anyway. Drink your coffee and unwind a little."
"Yeah." I gulped the coffee and lit a cigarette while he filled my cup again; then I said, "Bruce, tell me something about instantaneous hypnosis. Is it possible that a man could be hypnotized and then given a suggestion that he'd go back into the trance just when a certain word or phrase was spoken? Or a certain sign made? And, bang, he does?"
"Well ... yes, of course. But usually the subject would have to be willing."
"Is it possible that it could happen even if he weren't willing? Surprised, say?"
He picked up his coffee and sipped at it before speaking. "Yes, it's possible. As long as the subject weren't actually fighting against hypnosis, certainly. Perhaps he wouldn't know what was going to happen." He drained his cup and filled it again.
The next question was the one that had been digging into my brain. "How about this, Bruce? I've been thinking of something you said this morning—about drug hypnosis. Could a man be drugged, then hypnotized against his will?"
"Well," he answered slowly, "that's rather an odd question. The drug, say Amytal, sort of takes over the will. Once the subject is drugged, the gates are down, you might say, the inhibitions are stripped away. I suppose if you could get a man to let you use the drug on him, you'd be able to hypnotize him once the drug took effect."
"Even if he were fighting against it?"
"But that's what the drug takes care of. The man might fight against the drug, but once it took effect he'd undoubtedly lose his desire to fight."
"Yeah. Something else. This morning you were talking about the possibility of a man's committing a crime under hypnosis. How—Well, let's make it personal. Me, for example." Bruce looked at me sharply, but I went on, "Do you think I could be made to commit a crime under hypnosis? Kill someone?"
He rubbed a hand along his chin. "It's difficult to answer that accurately, Shell. Not having worked with you previously, I wouldn't know whether you're an excellent hypnotic subject or can't be hypnotized at all."
"Assume I'm a good one."
"I still couldn't say. Everything I told you this morning still goes, but you can't pick out one man and say it would work with him. With some, yes; with others, no." He paused. "All right, Shell," he said slowly. "Let's have it. You're on the edge of your seat."
I was. I was sitting forward, tense, almost rigid. I took a deep breath and sighed. "I'll stop jumping around the point. I guess I was just afraid to bring it out in the open. Bruce, I'm afraid maybe I killed Jay."
He sipped at his coffee. He didn't gasp or jump. Then he shook his head. "Look, Shell, get it out of your mind that you might have killed somebody. You've let all this talk of hypnotism and parrots and what happened to Jay get on your nerves. You didn't kill anybody."
"Do you know? Are you positive, Bruce?"
"Well, not positive, of course, but—"
I got up and took off my coat, rolled up my left sleeve and stepped over to his chair. "What do you think that is?" I pointed at the puncture in the bend of my arm. "I noticed it this morning, but it didn't mean anything. Not then."
He sat up straight in his chair and peered at the spot. He looked up at me, then back at my arm again. "How'd you get this?"
"I don't know."
He studied it for a moment, then noticed the two little punctures farther down on my arm. "What are those?"
"I don't know that, either. I got them tonight. Somewhere. Some time. I don't know. I just don't know."
"Sit down, Shell. You'd better tell me everything you know about this."
I did. I started with my getting up in the morning. I told him every detail I could think of. When I got to the point where I'd lied my way out of jail, I skipped the involved explanation of how I'd managed that so I wouldn't have to drag in the whole story of my "buying" Jay's business. I wanted to get on with this, get it out. Bruce didn't move or say anything; just listened quietly and smoked a cigarette. I told him about the urge to go to the Phoenix.
When I got to that point I pulled the note out of my pocket. "I wrote this before I left for the hotel, Bruce. At least I know I went to the hotel, though I don't remember it. Then, the next thing, I was back at the office. Half an hour or more, just gone, vanished."
He glanced at the note and nodded. "Go on."
I brought it up to date. Then I said, "And here's the recorder. I don't even know where the hell I got the thing. Maybe I stole it, I don't know. Am I crazy, or what?"
"You're not crazy, Shell. But God, this is a rotten thing."
I turned to the recorder and set it up ready to go. Now all I had to do was flick a small switch and I could listen to something that had happened to me over an hour ago.
Bruce moved the coffee table out from between the chairs and I placed the recorder on the floor between us. He said, "At least you know what's going on now, Shell."
"Yeah? What the hell is going on?"
"Well, I don't know why it's going on, but it appears that you were drugged, all right, as you've guessed, and in a state of lowered resistance you were hypnotized. And from your description, it appears that it was last night. The puncture in the crook of your arm and the rest of it fit in. Perhaps your conditioning took all night; makes no difference how long it took, though. Once you were in deep trance the entire memory could be eliminated. For some reason you were directed to go to the Phoenix Hotel. Ma
ybe to meet someone. Possibly even to report to somebody. After all, you were investigating Jay's death."
"How about that? I must have been drugged before Jay was killed. Couldn't I—couldn't I have murdered him?"
He shook his head. "Get rid of that idea, Shell. I'd say it's virtually impossible in so short a time as a few hours. Not you, anyway, and not so quickly. Besides, we both know your gun was stolen from your office. I know about that and the fingerprints on your desk. So stop torturing yourself."
"Bruce," I said quietly, "my gun wasn't stolen. I had it when I went home last night."
He reached up and stroked his chin again, his head lowered. He didn't say anything.
"Well, here goes," I said finally. I flicked the switch to "Play," turned the volume up full, and settled back in my chair as the tape began to unwind.
Chapter Fifteen
BRUCE CROSSED HIS LEGS and closed his eyes. He appeared relaxed, but all my nerves and muscles felt taut and stretched, like thin lines of ice traced through my body.
Then I heard soft noises from the recorder's built-in speaker. Just little whispers of sound that meant nothing to me. Silence for a few more seconds, then four or five soft, dull sounds. I looked at Bruce. He opened his eyes and raised his fist and wiggled it back and forth like a man knocking on a door. I nodded.
Then from the speaker: "Come in." It was faint, and I strained to distinguish the words.
There was the small, clicking sound of a door opening, then another voice, "Well, hello ..."
Now Bruce uncrossed his legs and leaned forward closer to the machine as if to hear better what was coming next. He probably could guess what the next words would be even better than I could. The volume was as loud as it would go, but even so the sounds and the voices were dim and distorted. I knew that the last voice must have been my own.
I leaned forward, myself.
"Shell," Bruce said suddenly.
"Huh?" I looked up. Dimly, from the speaker, I heard the words, "Sleep! Fast asleep. Fast asleep." I said, "What's the matter, Bruce?"
He shook his head, listening. "I'll explain later," he said.
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