I knocked several times on the door of Room 17. An elderly couple gave me a skeptical, birdy eye. “I’m trying to break in here,” I said. “But now I’ll have to wait till you’re gone.”
They stared at each other. Their suspicions had been confirmed. I was indeed some kind of Martian. UFOs were in the news again and I was proof that they had landed.
They went over to a dusty green-brown Ford station wagon the color of baby poop and pulled away.
I didn’t break in. Instead I took my penlight and went over to the cars parked near the room. The licenses were mostly from the Midwest, Minnesota and Wisconsin particularly. None from Illinois.
I went back to the registration desk.
“How many nights did Mr. Hastings pay for?”
The worn man with the worn cardigan sweater and the worn blue eyes said, “I’m not sure I should be tellin’ things like that.”
I showed him my license. The Real McCoys was on in the background.
“Oh, you’re the fella that works for that judge. She’s sure an owly one. I got four parking tickets and forgot to pay ’em and the way she treated me you’d’a thought I just killed a couple of nuns.”
I laughed. “That’s the Judge.”
“Way I hear it she’s still mad because the Sykes family bought this town out from under her.”
“That’s the way I hear it, too.”
“’Course I don’t have no time for the Sykes family, neither. At least she’s kinda classy. Way she dresses and all. And that car she drives. What’s it called?”
“A Bentley.”
“That’s some car. The Sykeses, though, they’re just a bunch of hillbillies.” He referenced his small black-and-white TV set with a nod of his narrow, angular head. “Like old Walter Brennan on the TV.”
“I need to know about Hastings.”
“Well, you work for the Judge, too, don’tcha?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I guess it’d be all right. He registered for three nights.”
“When’d he roll in?”
“Two nights ago. About this time.”
“So this would be his last night?”
“Yep. Guess so.”
“How about you call me when he comes in tonight? I probably won’t be there but a woman will answer. You can leave the message with her.”
“All right.” Then: “Ain’t you gonna bribe me? I could use a couple bucks.”
“That’s only in movies.”
“Really? I figured people like you bribed people like me all the time.”
I dug in my pocket. I had a crumpled dollar and a quarter. “This’ll get you a burger and a pack of smokes. And you’ll have some change left over.”
“Hey,” he said, sounding young and vital suddenly. “That’s all right. A buck and a quarter.” He quickly scooped up the money and shoved it in his pants, watching me suspiciously as he did so, as if I might try and take it back.
As I was walking out the door, he said, “You think the Russians are gonna run that blockade ole Kennedy set up?”
“I sure hope not.”
“Scares the hell out of me,” he said. “Scares the hell out of me.”
Jim Gilliam turned out to be a very slick public relations man. The Brooks Brothers suit, the filter cigarettes, black horn-rimmed glasses, the smooth empty patter. Shrewd eyes that approved of very little they saw.
He stood in the doorway of the Murdoch mansion, blocking my entrance.
“I wish I could let you in but Mr. Murdoch is still in the meeting.”
“That’s one long meeting.”
“Well, that’s how political campaigns are, Mr. McCain. Night and day. Day and night.”
“Cole Porter.”
“Pardon me?”
“‘Night and day. Day and night.’ That’s a Cole Porter song.”
“Oh, right,” he said. “The song. Very good, Mr. McCain. You should go on a game show.”
I blurted her name as soon as I saw her crossing from one part of the huge house to the other. “Deirdre!”
She turned, peered into the darkness of the vestibule, and then came walking toward me. “Is that you, Sam?”
“Yep. But Jim here won’t let me in.”
“What’s that supposed to mean—he won’t let you in? He’ll let you in if I tell him to. And I’m telling him to right now.”
She looked irritated and Gilliam looked irritated. Just then a big gray tomcat went walking by. He looked irritated, too, come to think of it.
“He happens to be a friend of mine, Jim.”
“I’m just trying to protect your Dad.”
“Sam’s helping my Dad, Jim.”
“But the meeting—”
“It’s not a political meeting. It’s just his three best friends is all.”
I didn’t know how much Gilliam knew—if anything—about dead girls in bomb shelters or four men who chipped in to support the same mistress but I could see that he knew something. Or knew at the very least that his candidate had some kind of terrible personal problem. Now he didn’t look irritated. He looked nervous. Extremely.
Deirdre seemed unaware of any tension. She said, “C’mon in, Sam. You can meet Mom. We were just drinking some hot cocoa in the family room.”
Gilliam stepped aside. “I’m just trying to do my job, Sam. Nothing personal.”
“I know.” And I did. I’d been put in the same position many times. Screening people is not a way to make friends.
I tapped him on the elbow to show no hard feelings.
“God,” she said, as she led me to the family room. “This campaign is terrible. It’s like we’re all prisoners. We have to watch everything we do and say. Even where we go and who we see. I’m pretty sure Dad’s going to win. And I’m pretty sure things’ll be even worse in the governor’s mansion.”
But the governor’s mansion was getting lost in the midst of scandal. You could barely see it from here. And each hour it grew fainter and fainter.
“Mom, this is Sam McCain.”
The family room was painted white with bold colorful paintings on the wall and blonde Swedish furniture gathered around the twenty-seven inch TV console. A magazine advertisement.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Sam. My husband and Deirdre both say very nice things about you.”
“It’s all that money I pay them.”
Deirdre nudged me in the ribs. “I told you he was a wise-guy, Mom.”
“Would you care for some hot cocoa?” Mom said. “I was just going out to the kitchen to get some more for myself.” She slid a rather short, wide hand at me. “My name’s Irene, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Irene.” In her tan slacks and brown turtleneck sweater and dark silken hair cut short, her body gave the impression of strength and activity. Dressed for action. She was a big woman but it appeared not to be fat, just the shape of her natural body.
“Would you like some cocoa, Sam?” Deirdre said.
“Sure.”
“I’ll go help Mom, then. We’ll be right back.”
“Thanks. Cocoa sounds good.”
As soon as they’d left the room, I hurried through the house, looking for the den where I’d talked earlier in the day with Ross Murdoch.
I kept a lookout for Gilliam. He had every right to ask me why I was walking alone through the house. Especially if he happened to catch me with my ear pressed to the door of the den.
But I didn’t see him. And I found the den with no trouble. A low rumble of male voices pressed against the other side of the door but no intelligible words escaped.
His three best friends, Deirdre had said. The men who had to make a damned quick decision. The men who had reputations and minor fortunes to lose once this thing got out. The men who would be the most likely suspects of all when Cliffie finally came into possession of the body. And Ross Murdoch would be at the head of that suspect list.