“Not so you’d notice,” Hannibal said. “But grab that blade. Then I think we should have no problem getting him to the police. They can hold him on suspicion of murder based on what I know now. Then we’ll swing across town. Somebody I know is in town and I think I ought to drop in and say hi.”
21
Standing in front of the wall of dancing lights holding a bunch of cheap flowers, Hannibal thought he might choose to stay at The Orleans Hotel and Casino if he ever decided to stay in Las Vegas for pleasure rather than business. The Orleans was no less garish than all the other adult penny arcades in town, but it did stand at the southern end of the city on Tropicana Avenue. One face of the flashing Christmas tree of a building did offer a breathtaking view of the lively and festive Las Vegas strip. But he could see that by choosing the right room, a visitor could instead have a window full of the sweeping mountain panorama that surrounded the valley Las Vegas was snuggled down into.
At his elbow, Virgil murmured, “Just like the French Quarter,” in his trembling bass. Hannibal wasn’t sure about the architecture, but he did recognize the magnolia trees, looking so out of place, standing in front of the urban desert inn.
“I think I better do this one alone.” Hannibal said. “Cover the exits best you can while I go inside and try to find out which of these eight hundred rooms our girl is vacationing in.”
Actually, there were eight hundred and forty rooms, as Hannibal learned from a brochure while he waited for a desk clerk to notice him. He would need help to locate his quarry. The flowers were just camouflage.
“I just got to town, and I want to surprise a certain little lady,” Hannibal said. “I know she’s staying here, but I’m not sure of the room.” He leaned forward and smiled like a drunk, hoping that the twenty-dollar bill under his hand on the desk was the appropriate tip for such a favor. The desk clerk’s nod reassured him that it was.
Dixieland jazz pulsed in the lobby, lifting his spirits for a moment before a rocket-powered elevator thrust him onto the seventh floor. Then he was tapping on a gilt-edged door before he realized how late it was. If Joan was a typical Vegas visitor, she would not be behind that door, but rather downstairs enjoying the casino, or perhaps at a table in the showroom where he had read that Al Martino was performing tonight.
Hannibal heard the rustle of what might have been a silk robe, but could just as easily have been silk sheets, he supposed. Cat-like footsteps followed, and whoever had padded to the door hesitated a moment before pulling it open a crack. Joan’s face peeked through the space and Hannibal saw it was indeed a silk robe. He found her face lovelier this way, fresh scrubbed and makeup free, than any of his past views of her. Joan’s hair was tossed a bit, as if she had just been roused from a nap.
“Are you decent?” Hannibal smiled like a schoolyard conspirator. “I’d like to chat for a minute if you don’t mind.”
Joan’s eyes flashed at the flowers, then roamed the hallway, looking for an acceptable way out of this situation. Finally they settled on his lens-shielded eyes, her face showing new respect for him. “Is there any point in my asking how you found me here?”
“You may want to know,” Hannibal said. “And I would gladly tell you. But not out here in the hall.”
Joan drew in a deep breath, released a heavy sigh and pushed a handful of perfectly manicured fingers through her wavy auburn tresses. Then her face regained its customary degree of intimidating confidence and she pulled the door open, almost sucking Hannibal into the room.
Actually, it was a suite Hannibal stepped into, beautifully appointed and fitting his notion of luxury. Light coming through the windows he faced cast a sensual yellow highlight on everything in the room. Joan had chosen the view of the strip. He hurried to follow her into the sitting area. His eyes lingered long enough to note that he had heard both silk robe and silk sheets, and that Mark Norton was sitting beneath those sheets looking like a kid caught during a game of hide and seek.
“Do you like rum?” Joan asked as Hannibal entered the sitting room. “It’s Bacardi light.”
Hannibal nodded and Joan filled two glasses on the little table. Then she carried her own drink across the room and took command of the love seat. She drew a gold lighter from a pocket of her robe, and a cigarette from the other. She lit the cigarette with all of Lauren Bacall’s body language. Hannibal stood beside the table and poured a few drops of the liquid fire down his throat. Less than two hours ago Fancy had threatened him with a knife, but this was the first time he had felt in danger since he landed in Las Vegas. While he considered how this conversation should go his eyes flicked toward the other room.
“Something on your mind Mister Jones?” Joan asked, her long legs crossed under the white silk.
“Actually, I was just thinking what they told me on my first job, you know, about what you don’t do where you eat.”
Joan smiled, and he had to admit to himself that she was alluring. What man could say no to this woman? She was not just a lovely package, she was a force of nature. She filled her lungs with smoke, then sipped from her glass and almost shivered as the liquor slid down into her.
“Why Mister Jones, I believe you are a prude.” Smoke carried her words out into the room. “How sweet. But you needn’t worry. Mark is my husband.”
One reason Hannibal wore his sunglasses almost all the time was that no one could see his eyes widen in surprise. “I see. And the reason you haven’t made this public knowledge is…”
“Is really none of your business,” she said, leaning to one side and stretching her legs out farther. “But in fact I do have a good reason, and I would really appreciate it if you would keep my confidence.”
Hannibal thought he had some small advantage in this game and with such an opponent he needed to push that edge as far as he could. He swallowed half his drink before speaking. “Speaking of secrets, how long have you known Fancy?”
Joan slowly sat up straight, and Hannibal could almost see her conniving mind working. He watched her consider lying about knowing Fancy, then reject the idea. She must know he would not make such a statement unless he was sure. She ordered her thoughts without losing eye contact with him, something most men could not do in a poker game. But this businesswoman was a master game player.
“I see,” she said, then licked her lips. “Fancy is a close friend of Oscar’s, Mister Jones. Or was, I guess. I met him when I was out here in August. You can check that I was here easily enough.”
“And when you saw him leaving Oscar’s house?”
Joan leaned forward, solemn and sincere. “Well I wasn’t going to give him away to the police if that’s what you’re thinking. I knew they were friends. I didn’t think he was the killer for God’s sake.”
“So you hurried out here to ask him about it,” Hannibal said. Her eyes never wavered.
“Actually this trip has been on my calendar for months,” Joan said. “But yes, I did want to know what he was doing there that night. He satisfied me that he was innocent and hadn’t seen anything important.”
Hannibal saw no point in quizzing Joan at length. If she and Fancy were involved in a conspiracy together they would have their stories lined up very carefully. Besides he had a lever, the marital secret, to apply whenever he needed more from her.
“Is that it?” Joan asked. “You just wanted to know my connection to this Fancy?”
“Just like to have all the details straight,” Hannibal said. “Thank you for your time.”
As he turned to leave, Joan called, “And just how did you find me here?”
He turned to watch her breathe out a gray stream, adding to the translucent cloud now hanging above her head. “I’m a detective.”
Outside, a hot dusty wind was blowing in out of the desert from the south. Hannibal’s three friends met him across the street from The Orleans. They stood between a juggler entertaining for fun and a folk singer working the street for handouts.