He looked slyly at me.
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Why did she want to leave town?’
He blew out his cheeks.
‘Well, there wasn’t anything more here for her. She wanted to have a look at Mexico.’
‘She was anxious to get out. There was more to it than that. What was it?’
He sloshed more whisky into his glass.
‘Did you give her the dough?’
‘I gave it to her but whoever killed her took it,’ I said.
He rubbed his hand over his sweating face, his eyes still trying to focus.
‘I guess I’m getting drunk. Let me think about this.’ He again rubbed his hand over his face. After a moment he said: ‘If you know what’s happened to her, you must have seen her before I did. That means you knew she was dead before I did. She had a hook into you for five hundred bucks and you’ve just told me you gave the dough to her.’ He belched softly, putting his hand over his mouth. ‘I may be half cut, but I’m not stupid. Maybe it was you who killed her.’ He sat back, staring at me. ‘Yeah… could be. Maybe it mightn’t be such a lousy idea I talk to the cops. They might be more interested in you than in me. I haven’t a motive for killing her, but you damn well have.’
I kept my face expressionless although my heart began to thump.
‘I didn’t kill her,’ I said, looking straight at him, ‘and I don’t think you killed her either, but if you’re so set about it, we’ll go down to headquarters and let them decide.’
He gave a weak grin.
‘Okay, pal, I believe you,’ he said. ‘I don’t want any trouble. She’s dead. Nothing I can do can bring her back to life. Between you and me, I don’t care who killed her.’ He sat forward, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. ‘I’ve been in trouble with the cops in the past. If they don’t hang this on you, they’ll try to hang it on me. It’s safer to keep clear of it. Suppose you get out of here and let me go to bed? I have an early train to catch and I feel like hell.’
I decided to jump a fast one on him.
‘You know this fellow Ross?’ I asked.
His reaction was disappointing. He just stared.
‘I don’t know anyone,’ he said, picking his words carefully. ‘Take my tip: if you want to stay alive, you won’t know anyone either in this lousy town. Now suppose you let me some sleep?’
‘Do you think he killed her?’
His loose mouth curved into a grin.
‘Ross? You kidding? He wouldn’t have the nerve to kill a fly.’
So I tried another fast one.
‘Then you think Art Galgano killed her?’
That scored a bull.
He stiffened, his hands turned into fists and he went white. For a long moment he just sat there, staring at me, then he said in a husky voice: ‘I don’t know who killed her. Now get out of here!’
I had a feeling I wasn’t going to get anything more out of him. I was too tired now to care. I told myself I’d waylay him in the morning and have another crack at him. Right now I just had to get some sleep.
I got to my feet.
‘I’ll see you before you leave here,’ I said as I plodded over to the door. ‘I’m not through with you, so don’t imagine I am.’
‘Aw, forget it,’ he mumbled and let the glass of whisky slip out of his hand. It propped to the floor, making a little dark puddle on the carpet. ‘I’ve had enough of this lousy town. I’ll be glad to get out.’
I looked at him as he sat there, sweat glistening on his face, dark rings of fatigue around his eyes, the whisky bottle clutched in his hand. He didn’t make a pretty picture.
I went out into the dimly lit corridor and shut the door. Although I didn’t want to spend the rest of the night in this sordid, smelly hotel, I just couldn’t face the long drive back to my bungalow.
I went into room 29, turned on the light and moved over to the bed. I took off my jacket and shoes, then I flopped on the bed, my bones aching for some comfort.
I tried to think of the events of the day. I tried to analyse what I had learned from Nutley, but I was too tired to care.
In a minute or so I was in a heavy, dreamless sleep.
The crash of gunfire brought me awake with a start that nearly threw me off the bed.
I sat upright, my heart slamming against my ribs, staring into the darkness, knowing that someone had fired a gun.
Then I heard quick, soft footfalls going along the passage. I slid off the bed, crossed the room without turning on the light, gently unlocked the door and opened it.
I peered out into the empty passage.
There was a strong smell of cordite fumes drifting out of Nutley’s room. His door stood half open and the light was on.
I moved to the door and looked into the room.
Nutley sat on the floor, huddled in a corner. He was wearing a pair of soiled pyjamas and his feet were bare. Just below the pocket of his pyjama jacket was a splash of blood.
As I stood staring at him, the red stain slowly began to expand.
There was nothing I could do for him: there was nothing anyone could do for him. He was on his own now.
Somewhere down the passage a woman began to scream. I felt like screaming myself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I
I SEEMED to have moved into a nightmare world where I was spending my time running away from dead bodies.
As I stood there in the open doorway, staring at Nutley, I realized I must not be found in this hotel, and I must get away before the police arrived.
The woman was still screaming somewhere along the passage, and another woman on the next floor now added to the din.
The grey, vacant, lost look on Nutley’s face told me he was dead. I was so tired it was an effort to force myself to turn and plod down the passage and to start down the stairs.
The screaming woman began to yelclass="underline" ‘Police! Murder! Police!’ out of a window. Panic forced me into a run, and I arrived in the reception hall, my nerves crawling, my breath coming in laboured gasps, and there, another shock awaited me.
Lying by the desk, face down, his head resting in a pool of blood, was the night clerk. Someone had hit him viciously on his right temple, killing him as Dolores Lane had been killed.
By now I was getting used to the sight of violent death, and I paused to look at the body, my senses too numbed to care. As I looked at it, I heard the sound of a distant police siren and I stiffened, listening. The sound grew louder and menacing.
With my heart thumping, I started towards the double glass doors that led on to the street, then stopped as I realized that if I went that way I would walk right into the approaching police car.
Behind the reception desk was a door marked Service.
I ran around the counter, opened the door and stepped into a dimly lit passage. Ahead of me were stairs leading down into a basement. I didn’t hesitate. I went down them quickly, arrived in another passage that led to the kitchens. I paused to look into the vast underground cellar with its clutter of pots and pans and plates and dishes. There was no sign of life in there and, moving quickly, I went over to a door marked Fire Exit.
I had some trouble in pulling back the bolts at the head and foot of the door, but finally got them back. I eased open the door and looked out into a dark alley.
I pulled the door shut behind and then walked quickly down the alley to the main street. At the end of the alley, I paused to I look cautiously up and down the street.
A police car stood outside the hotel entrance, but there was I no sign of any policeman.
Keeping to the shadows, I started off in the opposite direction, running with dragging feet, but at least running.