In the hall he hesitated. The second floor creaked as various guests moved around in their rooms. He slid the key in the lock of 24, turned it, and pushed gently.
The brown grip sat in the middle of a patched carpet. The bed hadn’t been slept in. The air was stale. He slipped inside, closing the door. Sick with the certainty that his man had flown, he leaned down and unsnapped the grip. Shirts, socks, handkerchiefs — that was all. The black gloves were missing.
Lark squatted back on his heels, forehead wrinkled. Gloves — in the heart of a blistering, June heat wave. Why would Varden lug them around with him?
Then steps sounded in the hall. He jerked off his glasses, pushing them down in his inside coat pocket, threw things back in the grip, closed the lid and straightened, tip-toeing to the door. A floorboard creaked protestingly. He winced, holding his breath.
The knob was turning. He remembered, then, that he had left the key sticking conspicuously in the lock on the outside. He brought his doubled fist up to his lips, kissed it expectantly, tensing his back muscles.
The door opened an inch, kept moving wider in short, cautious jerks. A hoarse, stage whisper floated in. “Hey, mister—?”
He reached around, grabbed a handful of brass buttons and yanked the tiny bell-hop inside. “What the hell are you up to?”
The little fellow threw up a protecting arm. “I don’t think yer no crook, mister. Honest! I seen you sneak that key. But you ain’t got no right by-passin’ me. If yer playin’ a trick on that other salesman I’m yer boy.” He managed a wink. “You been pretty generous with yer tips. You don’t need to go by-passin’ me.”
“Uh huh, I get you.” Lark released him. “Smart boy, huh? Student of human nature. What’s your name?” He pushed the door closed.
“Jimmy. You musta scared Simpson bad. He ain’t never come back to his room. I don’t like that guy.”
Lark took off his new hat and dragged a handkerchief around inside the band. “Why not?”
Jimmy shrugged. “He’s oily. Don’t like his looks.”
“Uh huh. I’ve got a better reason. He married the swellest girl in this world — for her dough. You see, I’m trusting you, Jimmy.”
“Your girl?”
“That’s right. I tailed Simpson here, and now I’ve lost him. Got any ideas?”
Jimmy scratched his head. Flies buzzed vainly against the closed windows. He slid a cigarette from beneath his monkey-coat, stuck it over his ear, eyes screwed shut in thought.
“Mailmen get around all over town. Start checkin’ with ’em. Then there’s garages. We got three or four. Iver’s rented a ’41 Hudson yesterday to some guy. Heard one of their mechanics talkin’ about it down at the cafe. They don’t rent a car very often in this burg.”
“Ivers? Where is it?”
“C’mon. I’ll show you.” He opened the door, looked out into the hall, and beckoned importantly. “It’s clear.”
Lark put on his hat and his glasses and stepped out.
Jimmy twisted the key out of the clock, grinning derisively. “Mr. Anderson, yer an amateur.”
“How’d you know my name?”
The other snorted. “Any time you hand a hop ten bucks you got him practically in the family. I got connections across the street.”
Lark shook his head, following this little wise-guy down the stairs.
In front of the hotel, Jimmy paused, pointing out a garage sign in the distance. “You want I should get on the ball at the post office? I know most of the guys.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
At the garage he clicked. Yes, they had let out a ’41 Hudson yesterday about noon to a Mr. Simpson. The time of the rental was marked on a card. 12:40.
“I may be in town a few days myself,” he told the man in the office. “What have you got that’s fast?”
They settled on a late model Buick, and he made the necessary arrangements, identifying himself, and writing a check for the amount of the deposit required. It would be at least two hours before they proved up on him. A tire had to be changed, gas and oil checked. He grabbed the opportunity to get a bite of breakfast. Time was racing away. He fumed because he had neglected to bring enough cash to cover the amount of that deposit. He kept an eye out for Jimmy, but the other didn’t appear.
It was 11 o’clock before he got the Buick and drove to the post office.
“No luck yet,” Jimmy told him. “I’ve asked a dozen guys. But the rural route boys are showin’ up now. Wait out front. If I get something hot I’ll let you know.”
In twenty minutes he came out, eyes alight, a pleasant-faced chap in tow. “Here’s yer man, Mr. Anderson. Hey, Jack, tell him what you told me!”
Lark slid out from beneath the wheel eagerly.
“Sure,” the other nodded. “I saw a ’41 Hudson this morning. Blue, you say? It was coming out of the road that leads to Jason’s Sanitarium. Man and woman in it.”
“You’re sure?” Lark said tensely.
“Of course. That was about 10 o’clock. I’m on the tag end of my route by then. It’s only six miles to Jason’s from here. That’s a private home for the mentally unbalanced.”
“I see. Thanks very much.”
Jimmy was tugging at his sleeve. “Want me to come along?”
“Uh-uh. You’ve done plenty as it is.” He started to reach for his wallet, but the look in those blue eyes stopped him.
“It’s for the swellest girl in the world,” Jimmy said soberly. “Let me know how it comes out.”
Lark pressed his shoulder. “Sure I will. I’ll run you back to the hotel.”
“Naw. Get goin’! Jason’s is out on the Potter Road. Head out this street and turn left at the bridge. After that keep on straight. You can’t miss it.”
Lark jumped in and slammed the door, kicked the starter. The car ran like a breeze. Jimmy’s figure dwindled in the rear view mirror...
The sign said simply: Jason’s Sanitarium. A circling driveway, newly tarred, led past a square stucco building on a wooded hillside, with several small out-buildings grouped nearby among the trees.
Lark parked in front and walked up a flagstone path. The bell beside the wrought-iron grill peeled loudly.
A large, unsmiling woman in a starched white uniform opened the door.
“Good morning.” Lark smiled, removing his hat.
She nodded stiffly.
He cleared his throat. “I wonder if I’m too late to catch Mr. Simpson?”
She lifted her brows questioningly. “Mr. Simpson?” Her voice was slightly nasal. “We have only women patients.”
“The gentleman who was here this morning.”
“Oh. Mr. Simpson did call for his wife. They left.”
Lark managed to restrain a quiver of excitement. He was thinking fast. “I didn’t realize,” he said, “that Mrs. Simpson was in a condition to be — what’s the word — released?”
“Mrs. Simpson is completely cured.”
“Well,” he drawled, fanning himself with his hat. “That’s fine. Glad to hear it.”
“Are you a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Simpson?”
“Sure. I’ve known them for years. I was to meet them here. Have you any idea where they—”
“Step in,” she said. “I’ll ask Doctor Creighton. She was his patient.”
He walked through the shadowy doorway and paused. It was fairly cool in here. Her heavy tread departed down the hall. Unconsciously he found himself listening for something. In a joint like this you might expect to hear anything.