Steve didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to touch her to look any closer to know there would be heavy bruises on her neck.
“Tough on women, these guys,” he muttered.
The girl’s big black brocade bag lay on the seat beside her, gaping open like her mouth—like Miss Marilyn Delorme’s mouth, and Miss Marilyn Delorme’s purple bag.
“Yeah—tough on women.”
He backed away till he stood under a small palm tree by the entrance to the driveway. The street was as empty and deserted as a closed theater, He crossed silently to his car, got into it and drove away.
Nothing to it. A girl coming home alone late at night, stuck up and strangled a few doors from her own home by some tough guy. Very simple. The first prowl car that cruised that block—if the boys were half awake—would take a look the minute they spotted the FOR RENT sign. Steve tramped hard on the throttle and went away from there.
At Washington and Figueroa he went into an all-night drugstore and pulled shut the door of the phone booth at the back. He dropped his nickel and dialed the number of police headquarters.
He asked for the desk and said: “Write this down, will you, sergeant? Brighton Avenue, thirty-two-hundred block, west side, in driveway of empty house. Got that much?”
“Yeah. So what?”
“Car with dead woman in it,” Steve said, and hung up.
7
Quillan, head day clerk and assistant manager of the Carlton Hotel, was on night duty, because Millar, the night auditor, was off for a week. It was half-past one and things were dead and Quillan was bored. He had done everything there was to do long ago, because he had been a hotel man for twenty years and there was nothing to it.
The night porter had finished cleaning up and was in his room beside the elevator bank. One elevator was lighted and open, as usual. The main lobby had been tidied up and the lights had been properly dimmed. Everything was exactly as usual.
Quillan was a rather short, rather thickset man with clear bright toadlike eyes that seemed to hold a friendly expression without really having any expression at all. He had pale sandy hair and not much of it. His pale hands were clasped in front of him on the marble top of the desk. He was just the right height to put his weight on the desk without looking as if he were sprawling. He was looking at the wall across the entrance lobby, but he wasn’t seeing it, He was half asleep, even though his eyes were wide open, and if the night porter struck a match behind his door, Quillan would know it and bang on his bell.
The brass-trimmed swing doors at the street entrance pushed open and Steve Grayce came in, a summer-weight coat turned up around his neck, his hat yanked low and a cigarette wisping smoke at the corner of his mouth. He looked very casual, very alert, and very much at ease. He strolled over to the desk and rapped on it.
“Wake up!” he snorted.
Quillan moved his eyes an inch and said: “All outside rooms with bath. But positively no parties on the eighth floor. Hiyah, Steve. So you finally got the axe. And for the wrong thing. That’s life.”
Steve said: “O.K. Have you got a new night man here?”
“Don’t need one, Steve. Never did, in my opinion.”
“You’ll need one as long as old hotel men like you register floozies on the same corridor with people like Leopardi.”
Quillan half closed his eyes and then opened them to where they had been before. He said indifferently: “Not me, pal. But anybody can make a mistake. Millar’s really an accountant—not a desk man.”
Steve leaned back and his face became very still. The smoke almost hung at the tip of his cigarette. His eyes were like black glass now. He smiled a little dishonestly.
“And why was Leopardi put in an eight-dollar room on Eight instead of in a tower suite at twenty-eight per?”
Quillan smiled back at him. “I didn’t register Leopardi, old sock. There were reservations in. I supposed they were what he wanted. Some guys don’t spend. Any other questions, Mr. Grayce?”
“Yeah. Was Eight-fourteen empty last night?”
“It was on change, so it was empty. Something about the plumbing. Proceed.”
“Who marked it on change?”
Quillan’s bright fathomless eyes turned and became curiously fixed. He didn’t answer.
Steve said: “Here’s why. Leopardi was in Eight-fifteen and the two girls in Eight-eleven. Just Eight-thirteen between. A lad with a passkey could have gone into Eight-thirteen and turned both the bolt locks on the communicating doors. Then, if the folks in the two other rooms had done the same thing on their side, they’d have a suite set up.”
“So what?” Quillan asked. “We got chiseled out of eight bucks, eh? Well, it happens, in better hotels than this.” His eyes looked sleepy now.
Steve said: “Millar could have done that. But hell, it doesn’t make sense. Millar’s not that kind of a guy. Risk a job for a buck tip—phooey. Millar’s no dollar pimp.”
Quillan said: “All right, policeman. Tell me what’s really on your mind.”
“One of the girls in Eight-eleven had a gun. Leopardi got a threat letter yesterday—I don’t know where or how. It didn’t faze him, though. He tore it up. That’s how I know. I collected the pieces from his basket. I suppose Leopardi’s boys all checked out of here.”
“Of course. They went to the Normandy.”
“Call the Normandy, and ask to speak to Leopardi. If he’s there, he’ll still be at the bottle. Probably with a gang.”
“Why?” Quillan asked gently.
“Because you’re a nice guy. If Leopardi answers—just hang up.” Steve paused and pinched his chin hard. “If he went out, try to find out where.”
Quillan straightened, gave Steve another long quiet look and went behind the pebbled-glass screen. Steve stood very still, listening, one hand clenched at his side, the other tapping noiselessly on the marble desk.
In about three minutes Quillan came back and leaned on the desk again and said: “Not there. Party going on in his suite—they sold him a big one—and sounds loud. I talked to a guy who was fairly sober. He said Leopardi got a call around ten—some girl. He went out preening himself, as the fellow says. Hinting about a very juicy date. The guy was just lit enough to hand me all this.”
Steve said: “You’re a real pal. I hate not to tell you the rest. Well, I liked working here. Not much work at that.”
He started towards the entrance doors again. Quillan let him get his hand on the brass handle before he called out. Steve turned and came back slowly.
Quillan said: “I heard Leopardi took a shot at you. I don’t think it was noticed. It wasn’t reported down here. And I don’t think Peters fully realized that until he saw the mirror in Eight fifteen. If you care to come back, Steve—”
Steve shook his head. “Thanks for the thought.”
“And hearing about that shot,” Quillan added, “made me remember something. Two years ago a girl shot herself in Eight fifteen.”
Steve straightened his back so sharply that he almost jumped. “What girl?”
Quillan looked surprised. “I don’t know. I don’t remember her real name. Some girl who had been kicked around all she could stand and wanted to die in a clean bed—alone.”
Steve reached across and took hold of Quillan’s arm. “The hotel files,” he rasped. “The clippings, whatever there was in the papers will be in them. I want to see those clippings.”
Quillan stared at him for a long moment. Then he said: “Whatever game you’re playing, kid—you’re playing it damn close to your vest. I will say that for you. And me bored stiff with a night to kill.”
He reached along the desk and thumped the call bell. The door of the night porter’s room opened and the porter came across the entrance lobby. He nodded and smiled at Steve.
Quillan said: “Take the board, Carl. I’ll be in Mr. Peters’ office for a little while.”
He went to the safe and got keys out of it.
8
The cabin was high
up on the side of the mountain, against a thick growth of digger pine, oak and incense cedar. It was solidly built, with a stone chimney, shingled all over and heavily braced against the slope of the hill. By daylight the roof was green and the sides dark reddish brown and the window frames and draw curtains red. In the uncanny brightness of an all-night mid-October moon in the mountains, it stood out sharply in every detail, except color.
It was at the end of a road, a quarter of a mile from any other cabin. Steve rounded the bend towards it without lights, at five in the morning. He stopped his car at once, when he was sure it was the right cabin, got out and walked soundlessly along the side of the gravel road, on a carpet of wild iris.
On the road level there was a rough pine board garage, and from this a path went up to the cabin porch. The garage was unlocked. Steve swung the door open carefully, groped in past the dark bulk of a car and felt the top of the radiator. It was still warmish. He got a small flash out of his pocket and played it over the car. A gray sedan, dusty, the gas gauge low. He snapped the flash off, shut the garage door carefully and slipped into place the piece of wood that served for a hasp. Then he climbed the path to the house.
There was light behind the drawn red curtains. The porch was high and juniper logs were piled on it, with the bark still on them. The front door had a thumb latch and a rustic door handle above.
He went up, neither too softly nor too noisily, lifted his hand, sighed deep in his throat, and knocked, His hand touched the butt of the gun in the inside pocket of his coat, once, then came away empty.
A chair creaked and steps padded across the floor and a voice called out softly: “What is it?” Millar’s voice.
Steve put his lips close to the wood and said: “This is Steve, George. You up already?”
The key turned, and the door opened. George Millar, the dapper night auditor of the Carlton House, didn’t look dapper now. He was dressed in old trousers and a thick blue sweater with a roll collar. His feet were in ribbed wool socks and fleece-lined slippers. His clipped black mustache was a curved smudge across his pale face. Two electric bulbs burned in their sockets in a low beam across the room, below the slope of the high roof. A table lamp was lit and its shade was tilted to throw light on a big Morris chair with a leather seat and back-cushion. A fire burned lazily in a heap of soft ash on the big open hearth.
Millar said in his low, husky voice: “Hell’s sake, Steve. Glad to see you. How’d you find us anyway? Come on in, guy.”
Steve stepped through the door and Millar locked it. “City habit,” he said grinning. “Nobody locks anything in the mountains. Have a chair. Warm your toes. Cold out at this tune of night.”
Steve said: “Yeah, Plenty cold.”
He sat down in the Morris chair and put his hat and coat on the end of the solid wood table behind it. He leaned forward and held his hands out to the fire.
Millar said: “How the hell did you find us, Steve?”
Steve didn’t look at him. He said quietly: “Not so easy at that. You told me last night your brother had a cabin up here—remember? So I had nothing to do, so I thought I’d drive up and bum some breakfast. The guy in the inn at Crestline didn’t know who had cabins where. His trade is with people passing through. I rang up a garage man and he didn’t know any Millar cabin. Then I saw a light come on down the street in a coal-and-wood yard and a little guy who is forest ranger and deputy sheriff and wood-and-gas dealer and half a dozen other things was getting his car out to go down to San Bernardino for some tank gas. A very smart little guy. The minute I said your brother had been a fighter he wised up. So here I am.”
Millar pawed at his mustache. Bedsprings creaked at the back of the cabin somewhere. “Sure, he still goes under his fighting name—Gaff Talley. I’ll get him up and we’ll have some coffee. I guess you and me are both in the same boat. Used to working at night and can’t sleep. I haven’t been to bed at all.”
Steve looked at him slowly and looked away. A burly voice behind them said: “Gaff is up. Who’s your pal, George?”
Steve stood up casually and turned. He looked at the man’s hands first. He couldn’t help himself. They were large hands, well kept as to cleanliness, but coarse and ugly. One knuckle had been broken badly. He was a big man with reddish hair. He wore a sloppy bathrobe over outing-flannel pajamas. He had a leathery expressionless face, scarred over the cheekbones. There were fine white scars over his eyebrows and at the corners of his mouth. His nose was spread and thick. His whole face looked as if it had caught a lot of gloves. His eyes alone looked vaguely like Millar’s eyes.
Millar said: “Steve Grayce. Night man at the hotel—until last night.” His grin was a little vague.
Gaff Talley came over and shook hands. “Glad to meet you,” he said. “I’ll get some duds on and we’ll scrape a breakfast off the shelves. I slept enough. George ain’t slept any, the poor sap.”
He went back across the room towards the door through which he’d come. He stopped there and leaned on an old phonograph, put his big hand down behind a pile of records in paper envelopes. He stayed just like that, without moving.
Millar said: “Any luck on a job, Steve? Or did you try yet?”
“Yeah. In a way. I guess I’m a sap, but I’m going to have a shot at the private-agency racket. Not much in it unless I can land some publicity.” He shrugged. Then he said very quietly: “King Leopardi’s been bumped off.”
Millar’s mouth snapped wide open. He stayed like that for almost a minute—perfectly still, with his mouth open. Gaff Tailey leaned against the wall and stared without showing anything in his face. Millar finally said: “Bumped off? Where? Don’t tell me—”
“Not in the hotel, George. Too bad, wasn’t it? In a girl’s apartment. Nice girl too. She didn’t entice him there. The old suicide gag—only it won’t work. And the girl is my client.”
Millar didn’t move. Neither did the big man. Steve leaned his shoulders against the stone mantel. He said softly: “I went out to the Club Shalotte this afternoon to apologize to Leopardi. Silly idea, because I didn’t owe him an apology. There was a girl there in the bar lounge with him. He took three socks at me and left. The girl didn’t like that. We got rather clubby. Had a drink together. Then late tonight—last night—she called me up and said Leopardi was over at her place and—he was drunk and she couldn’t get rid of him. I went there. Only he wasn’t drunk. He was dead, in her bed, in yellow pajamas.”
The big man lifted his left hand and roughed back his hair. Millar leaned slowly against the edge of the table, as if he were afraid the edge might be sharp enough to cut him. His mouth twitched under the clipped black mustache.
He said huskily: “That’s lousy.”
The big man said: “Well, for cryin’ into a milk bottle.”
Steve said: “Only they weren’t Leopardi’s pajamas. His had initials on them—big black initials. And his were satin, not silk. And although he had a gun in his hand—this girl’s gun by the way—he didn’t shoot himself in the heart. The cops will determine that. Maybe you birds never heard of the Lund test, with paraffin wax, to find out who did or didn’t fire a gun recently. The kill ought to have been pulled in the hotel last night, in Room Eight-fifteen. I spoiled that by heaving him out on his neck before that black-haired girl in Eight-eleven could get to him. Didn’t I, George?”
Millar said: “I guess you did—if I know what you’re talking about.”
Steve said slowly: “I think you know what I’m talking about, George. It would have been a kind of poetic justice if King Leopardi had been knocked off in Room Eight-fifteen. Because that was the room where a girl shot herself two years ago. A girl who registered as Mary Smith—but whose usual name was Eve Talley. And whose real name was Eve Millar.”
The big man leaned heavily on the victrola and said thickly: “Maybe I ain’t woke up yet. That sounds like it might grow up to be a dirty crack, We had a sister named Eve that shot herself in the Carlton. So what?”
St
eve smiled a little crookedly. He said: “Listen, George. You told me Quillan registered those girls in Eight-eleven. You did. You told me Leopardi registered on Eight, instead of in a good suite, because he was tight. He wasn’t tight. He just didn’t care where he was put, as long as female company was handy. And you saw to that. You planned the whole thing, George. You even got Peters to write Leopardi at the Raleigh in Frisco and ask him to use the Carlton when he came down—because the same man owned it who owned the Club Shalotte. As if a guy like Jumbo Walters would care where a bandleader registered.”
Millar’s face was dead white, expressionless. His voice cracked. “Steve—for God’s sake, Steve, what are you talking about? How the hell could I—”
“Sorry, kid. I liked working with you. I liked you a lot. I guess I still like you. But I don’t like people who strangle women—or people who smear women in order to cover up a revenge murder.”
His hand shot up—and stopped. The big man said: “Take it easy—and look at this one.”
Gaff’s hand had come up from behind the pile of records. A Colt .45 was in it. He said between his teeth: “I always thought house dicks were just a bunch of cheap grafters. I guess I missed out on you. You got a few brains. Hell, I bet you even run out to One-eighteen Court Street. Right?”
Steve let his hand fall empty and looked straight at the big Colt. “Right. I saw the girl—dead—with your fingers marked into her neck. They can measure those, fella. Killing Dolores Chiozza’s maid the same way was a mistake. They’ll match up the two sets of marks, find out that your black-haired gun girl was at the Carlton last night, and piece the whole story together. With the information they get at the hotel they can’t miss. I give you two weeks, if you beat it quick. And I mean quick.”
Millar licked his dry lips and said softly: “There’s no hurry, Steve. No hurry at all. Our job is done. Maybe not the best way, maybe not the nicest way, but it wasn’t a nice job. And Leopardi was the worst kind of a louse. We loved our sister, and he made a tramp out of her. She was a wide-eyed kid that fell for a flashy greaseball, and the greaseball went up in the world and threw her out on her ear for a red-headed torcher who was more his kind. He threw her out and broke her heart and she killed herself.”
Collected Stories (Everyman's Library) Page 76