Four gunshots sounded a few streets away, and Pat jumped. "Lord, that's a recurrent sound these days," she sighed.
"Yeah," Thomas agreed. "And you never find out who was shooting, or being shot at."
Pat stood and stretched. "I've got to go," she said. "Some of us are going out for ice cream this afternoon."
"Ice cream?" Thomas didn't know what that was.
"I'll see you later. Rufus," she said gravely, "I love you. Do you believe that?"
He looked at her. "Yes."
"Good. See you later." She loped to the stairway door and disappeared. Thomas carried his chair into the shadow of a beach umbrella and settled down to sleep.
CHAPTER 9: Deductions in Room Four
The glare of the late afternoon sun woke him, its rays slanting under the rim of the umbrella. He climbed to his feet and rubbed his eyes, feeling disoriented and apprehensive.
When he shambled down the stairs to the greenroom, he found Gladhand, alone, drinking scotch. Thomas dropped into one of the chairs.
"Where is everybody?"
"Spencer and Jeff and Lambert are off on a bit of official business," Gladhand explained. "You're exempt from all that till your hand heals. Most of the girls went off to eat snacks somewhere. I'm sitting here drinking."
Thomas nodded. "If it's alright with you, sir, I think I'll go have a solitary beer or two at the Blind Moon."
"Sounds like a valid course. Here." He reached into a pocket and handed Thomas a ten-soli bill.
"Thank you, sir."
"The girls took that ridiculous car, but I believe you'll find at least one horse out back."
Thomas left the building by the rear entrance and did indeed find a horse in one of the stalls—a sturdy creature of indeterminate breed that winked at him when he patted its nose.
He saddled the beast with only moderate difficulty, mounted and guided it out of the back lot. He rode east on Second for a block and then turned left onto Spring. The horse seemed as lazy as Thomas and clopped along at an easy pace.
A few people sat against buildings or slouched along the old sidewalks. The slightly cooler wind of evening carried smells of fried meat and spicy sauces; and Thomas realized most citizens were inside having dinner. As a matter of fact a bowl of chili at the Blind Moon might be just the thing.
Soon after he had crossed the bridge over the freeway, the city wall loomed ahead; and in its long shadow, dwarfed between two neighboring structures, stood the little building that was the Blind Moon. As Thomas tied his horse to the post out front, the narrow windows were already casting streaks of light across the darkening pavement.
He pushed open the swinging door and crossed directly to the bar. "A pitcher of draft beer, please, and a bowl of chili," he said to the girl who was washing glasses.
"Coming right up, sport," she said, "Where you sitting?"
"Uh, back there." Thomas pointed to a table against the wall, then crossed to it and sat down. On the wall across from him was the photograph of Negri and Jean. They're both dead now, he thought. In less than a week that picture has become very old.
"Cheer up, pal," the barmaid said, walking up to his table. "Your beer and chili have arrived."
"I suppose that's as good an excuse as any for cheering up. Thank you."
Holding his breath, he gulped the beer until his throat stung and then set the glass down with a clunk. The alcohol relaxed him, making him realize how exhausted he really was. When do they call time-out for rest around here?
He refilled his glass—awkwardly, for he used his injured left hand. When he'd topped it up, someone sat down across from him and extended an empty glass. "You owe me one," a hoarse voice said.
Thomas looked up and smiled in recognition. "Jenkins, right? The scholar from Berkeley."
"That's right," the old man whispered with a jerky nod. "Listen, I have to leave town."
"Oh? That's not as easy as it used to be, I hear," Thomas remarked as he filled the man's glass. "Why are you leaving? You finish your research?"
"You could say so." Jenkins grinned mirthlessly and reached into an inner pocket of his coat. "You know Spencer, don't you? Of course. I talked his girlfriend into getting me a copy of the key to the city archives."
Thomas looked at him with more respect. "Let nobody deny you're a true scholar, Jenkins," he said. "Did you find this…" he racked his memory, "… Strogoff letter you wanted?"
The old man appeared close to tears. "I did. Here," he said, pulling an envelope out of his coat. "Hold it for me. It's too big for me to… it's just too big for me. I must get out of the city. Then I'll send you an address you can mail it to. I'll pay you well for helping me, of course."
Thomas turned it over; a new seal held the flap closed. "You've read it," he said.
"Yes. I wish I hadn't. Don't you read it, please. Just hold it for me. Will you give me your word that you'll do as I say? I'll pay you 500 solis for mailing it to me unopened."
Thomas considered it. "Okay," he said finally, "I give you my word." Five hundred solis is 500 solis, he reflected.
"As an actor and friend of Spencer's?"
"As those things, yes."
Jenkins clasped Thomas's shoulder. "God bless you, boy," he said. "I was afraid I'd have to try to leave the city with it on me; and if they'd found it at the gate, well…" he blinked. "God bless you. I'll dedicate the book to you."
"Thanks." Thomas watched, half mystified and half amused, as the old man stood up, wiped his damp eyes with a coattail and scurried toward the front door. Poor old bastard, Thomas thought. All upset over a letter some philosopher wrote ten years ago. And look, he never even touched his beer; Thomas poured it back into the pitcher as the door swung shut behind the old scholar.
"Hold it, Jenkins!" came a cry from the street. Thomas was up out of his chair in a second, suddenly alert. Very loud and close, six gunshots suddenly rattled the windowpanes. As Thomas walked quickly to the kitchen door and pushed through it, he head the front door bang open. "Nobody move!" someone shouted in the dining room he'd just vacated. "This is the police."
Out the back door, lad, Thomas told himself. He hurried past the sinks, quietly opened the screen door at the rear of the place and slipped into the alley. He picked his way quickly and cautiously through the shadows, past the back ends of two dark buildings and saw the city wall a scant stone's throw ahead. Turning left again he followed a short, unpaved strip of dirt between two high walls back to the High Street sidewalk. Barely 20 seconds had elapsed since the six shots had been fired.
Thomas peered back around the wall at the front door of the Blind Moon. Six policemen loitered there, a couple of them crouched over a body that lay motionless in the street. So much for poor old Jenkins and the Collected Letters of J. Heinemann Strogoff, Thomas thought nervously. Noticing that he was still clutching the envelope Jenkins had given him, he shoved it hastily into his back pocket.
After a few minutes three more officers stepped out of the Blind Moon. "Nobody in here's got it," one said.
"It's not on him, either," spoke up one who'd been hunched over the body. "We must have missed it at his place." Lining up in formation, they trotted south on Spring.
I must get back to the theater, so I can see what's in this damned letter. Gladhand will probably be interested, whatever it is.
Thomas was prodding his phlegmatic horse down the southward side of the Spring Street bridge when one of the ubiquitous beggars called out hoarsely to him. "Rufus!"
Thomas looked around at the passersby, thinking that perhaps the beggar knew one of them.