‘You’ll sleep even less if some tough cop takes you down to Headquarters and gets to work on you. Keep out of it.’
‘Aren’t you going to tell them?’
I shook my head.
‘I haven’t the time to waste on a suicide case. You’ll be surprised how quickly someone will miss her. They always do.’ I took out my bill-fold and another ten-dollar bill. ‘If they ask questions, keep me out of it. Tell them about this guy in the fawn suit, but not until they ask you.’
She took the bill and stowed it away in her brassiere.
‘I’ll keep you out of it.’
I left her sitting on the settee, biting her under-lip and frowning. She looked a lot less happy and a lot more worried than when I had first seen her.
Out in the corridor again, I peeped to right and left, satisfied myself no one was watching me, then stepped across the corridor into Room 23. I closed the door and began a quick but systematic search of the room.
I was looking for some proof that would tell me the lean man had spent the night here. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I looked just the same.
First I examined the bed and found a couple of black hairs on the pillow. Gracie was blonde. If he had rested his head on the pillow, it didn’t mean he had stayed in the room all night. But it certainly hinted he had.
It wasn’t until I had covered practically every inch of the apartment and was giving up that I found what I wanted. There were two cupboards in the kitchenette: one contained cups and saucers and plates; the other, jugs and dishes and cooking utensils. There was a cup and saucer amongst the jugs. They shouldn’t have been in that cupboard. They should have been in the adjacent cupboard. That gave me an idea. I turned my attention to the trash basket. Dumped on top of the usual refuse was a small pile of coffee grounds; and they were luke-warm. There was no mistake about that. They had been emptied out of a percolator some time this morning.
Gracie hadn’t made coffee this morning. That was certain. If the lean man had returned because he had forgotten something he wouldn’t have made himself coffee. That I wouldn’t believe. But if he had slept there the night, he might have made himself coffee before leaving. It would be a cold-blooded thing to have done, as he must have known Gracie was hanging dead in the bathroom. Come to think of it, he probably knew she was dead before he went to bed; and that was even more cold-blooded.
Then suddenly it was as obvious as a neon light on a dark night. This wasn’t suicide: it was murder.
II
There was a call-box in the darker part of the lobby. I opened the door and stepped inside. It smelt as if someone had kept a goat in there at one time, and not a particularly nice goat at that.
Holding my breath, I hung my handkerchief over the ancient mouthpiece, lifted off the receiver and dialled.
After a while a voice bellowed: ‘Police Headquarters. Sergeant Harker talking.’
‘Connect me with Lieutenant Mifflin,’ I said, speaking away from the mouthpiece. I probably sounded at the other end like Hamlet’s father’s ghost.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Harry Truman,’ I said. ‘Make it snappy. You may not think it but time’s money to me.’
‘Hold on,’ the sergeant said. I heard him call across the room, ‘Is the Lieutenant in? There’s a guy wanting him. Says his name is Harry Truman. That’s familiar, ain’t it? I’ve heard it before somewhere.’
Someone called the sergeant a very rude name.
Then Mifflin came on the line.
‘Lieutenant of the Police talking,’ he said sternly. ‘Who’s that?’
I’m reporting a hanging in Room 23, second floor, 274 Fel-man Street. If you get over there fast you’ll find a clue in the refuse bin. Don’t be too sure it’s suicide, and take a little trouble checking on the woman. It’ll pay dividends.’
‘Who’s that talking?’ Mifflin demanded.
I could hear the scratch of his pen as he wrote down the address.
I haven’t the faintest idea,’ I said, and hung up.
I pushed my handkerchief into my pocket and took quick, silent steps to the front door. I had about three minutes, not more, to get clear. The city police might not be over-bright, but in emergencies they were fast.
As I slammed the Buick door, a boy in a ragged wind-breaker and a pair of dirty flannel trousers jumped on the running board. He pushed his grimy little face through the open window.
‘Hey, mister, you’re to go to 2 Coral Row; right away: its urgent.’
I started the engine, my eye on the driving mirror, expecting to see a police car come pounding up behind me.
‘Who says so?’
‘Some guy gave me a dollar to tell you. Says it’s urgent, and you’d know.’
He dropped off the running board and bolted off down the street. I hadn’t time to go after him. I wanted to, but the need to get away from 274 was more pressing. Already I could hear the distant sound of a police siren. I sent the car shooting towards Beach Road.
I had never heard of Coral Row, but it would be somewhere in Coral Gables. I headed that way because I was curious. Right at this moment I had a lot on my mind. I was wondering if the old waiter would remember me, and if he had noticed the number of my car. I was particularly anxious not to get tied up with Mifflin at this time. He could work out the problem of Gracie’s murder without my help. I had other more pressing things to do. But if he began asking questions and got around to the waiter, he might get a description of me. I knew he wouldn’t be pleased I had left before he arrived.
At the bottom of Beach Road I turned left on to the waterfront, and parked in a vacant space hedged in on either side by coils of rope and oil drums.
Coral Gables is no place to wander around in unless you have an escort or carry a gun. Even the cops go around in pairs and scarcely a month passes without someone is found up an alley with a knife in his back.
As I got out of the Buick and looked up and down the long harbour, crammed with small boats and fishing trawlers, I was aware that I was being stared at by groups of men who lounged in the sun, picturesque enough in their soiled canvas trousers and various coloured sweat-shirts, their shifty, dark eyes weighing me up.
I picked on one who was on his own, aimlessly whittling a piece of wood into the shape of a boat.
‘Can you put me on to Coral Row?’
He eyed me over, leaned away from me to spit into the oily water of the harbour and jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the coffee-shops, the sea-food stalls and the like that faced the waterfront.
‘Behind Yate’s Bar,’ he said curtly.
Yate’s Bar is a two-storey wooden building where, if you aren’t fussy who you eat with, you can get a good clam-chowder and a ten-year-old ale that sneaks up on you if you don’t watch out. I had been in there once or twice with Kerman. It’s the kind of place where anything can happen, and very often does.
‘Thanks,’ I said, and crossed the broad water-front road to the bar.
Alongside the wooden building was an alley. High up on the wall was a notice that read: Leading to Coral Row.
I paused to light a cigarette while I regarded the alley with a certain amount of caution and no enthusiasm. The high walls blocked out the sunlight. The far end of the alley was a black patch of smelly air and suspicious silence.
I slid my hand inside my coat to reassure myself I could get the .38 out fast in case of an emergency, then I walked quietly towards the darkness.
At the end of the alley, and at a sharp right-angle to it, was Coral Row: a dismal, dark courtyard flanked on three sides by derelict-looking buildings that had at one time or another served as marine storehouses. By the look of them now they were nothing better than ratinfested ruins.