“His eyes,” he said. “I remember his eyes. Big as golf balls and blue, beautiful blue. Right, Dot?”
“Very nice blue, Jimmy, but not that big. Regular-sized eyes, honey.” She smiled again and descended on the next shirt. Hylkama ignored the correction and pressed on.
The man had taken a room for three days and paid cash in advance, which Hylkama said was a Hotel Sebastian rule.
“What kind of bills?” Shephard asked. “Denomination.”
Two twenties, Hylkama said, old ones. He brought Shephard an old clipboard with one broken corner and a pad of yellow paper attached. The new guest had registered as William Hodges. Shephard noted that the signature was assured and precise. With prompting from Shephard, Hylkama revealed that, come to think of it, Hodges must have come on foot — he could remember no car, no bags. And cars at the Sebastian tend to stand out, he said, because so few of his tenants had them. Hylkama’s hands loved this revelation; they fluttered, then clenched into tight, oh-the-pain-of-poverty fists. At any rate, he went on, two hours later, Hodges’s old friend Michael Stett arrived, but when he took the extra key and went to cottage five, Hodges was gone. Hylkama took a moment to describe the general solitude of his guests, “lost to bottles for the most part,” and how Stett’s arrival had gladdened him. For Hodges’s sake, of course. Because Stett was a snappily dressed fellow who arrived in a shiny dark blue Porsche that “sparkled like a jewel” beside Hylkama’s own battered station wagon. With friends like this, maybe old Hodges has a prayer, Hylkama had figured.
“Why did Stett want the key? If he was a friend, wouldn’t he just knock?”
“Because he wanted it to be a surprise. He didn’t want to knock; he said he wanted to let himself in and give the old guy a real happy welcome home. In fact, he told me to call him quick if Billy came back, but not to let him know he’d been here. And he gave me this to help me remember.” Hylkama’s chubby fingers went into the pocket of his well-pressed shirt and with a flourish brought out a folded hundred-dollar bill and a business card.
The card, standard in all respects, said only Michael Stett, and gave a Newport Beach phone number.
“May I keep this?”
“Yes, you may. Mr. Stett asked that I keep his gift in strict confidence, but I do make it policy to help the police whenever possible. The Hotel Sebastian desires a respected place in the community. But I would like to copy that number.”
The last person on earth I’d want to leave a secret with, Shephard thought. He pocketed the card after dictating the number to Hylkama, who wrote it down on the registry. With regard to the arrival and generous gift of “old friend” Michael Stett, Shephard turned over various possibilities in his mind, none of which seemed worth turning over.
“I’d like to take a look at cottage five,” he said.
“Do you have a warrant, Mr. Shephard?” Hylkama suddenly looked grave.
“No. But if I did, I’d take that hundred of yours as evidence.” Shephard watched Jimmy Hylkama’s face relax, his exercise in sternness over.
“Sure, but don’t forget to bring this back. It’s my extra, because Stett walked off with the other one. Cottage five is opposite side, last one.” Hylkama fetched a key from a desk drawer and handed it to Shephard. “Don’t suppose you want to tell me what’s going on, do you?”
“Routine stuff, Jimmy.”
“I figured you’d say that. And it’s okay with me. One thing you learn around here is don’t ask questions. Most of the answers aren’t very happy.”
Shephard crunched across the gravel courtyard to the opposite row of cottages and knocked firmly on the door of number five. After a moment’s wait, he slipped the key into the lock and pushed open a door so thin and hollow it echoed when he closed it behind him.
His eyes got the facts but his nose caught the mood: old wood, old bedding, old lives. Disinfectant, mildew, dust, a feeble bouquet of detergent hovering just above the heavy smell of rot. The green carpet was worn heavily. The walls were paneled in pine halfway to the ceiling, and above that covered by green and yellow paper, most of which was still on. A gas heater stood in one corner, its vent shaft bent like a dislocated finger. The bed was pressed against the wall, neatly made but with a depression down the middle, body-sized. The pillow was dented likewise.
The other room served as a kitchen. The linoleum floor had cracked with age; the sink had yellowed and chipped. A set of plastic curtains lilted inward, then slapped against the window frame. Shephard spread them and found the window open; no screen.
There were no clothes in the closet, no personal items in the bathroom. A small medicine chest above the sink contained nothing but three rusted shelves and a cockroach that quickly disappeared into a crack. The shower was dry. Only the sink showed signs of recent use: the bowl was spotted with water, and the soap was still damp. Shephard pulled out the drain plug and ran his finger under the head. The bead of water that slid onto his finger was pale pink.
He returned to the main room and sat down. Hodges was neat, he thought. Stett, too. And they’ve likely got nothing to do with Tim Algernon. He rose tiredly from the chair, pulled open the top drawer of a nightstand beside the bed, and felt his heart accelerate.
A wallet sat neatly in the corner, well-worn brown leather, arched from use. And beside it was a can of turpentine. Score one for law and order, he thought, his insides still jumping.
He carefully removed the wallet and placed it on top of the stand, prying it open with his fingertips and shaking out the contents. There were three one-dollar bills, a driver’s license, and a ticket stub. Shephard read the license: Edward Steinhelper, born 1921, gray hair, blue eyes, 5 feet 9 inches tall, 165 pounds. The address was 8798 Fallbrook Street, Sacramento. So our man bullshitted Hylkama, he thought. Who wouldn’t? The man in the picture was square-faced and grim, his hair swept back from a prominent forehead, his beard long and wide. As Shephard stared at the picture, he felt his mind dividing into its two professional paths, one leading him to study the face for what it was and what it might suggest, the other wandering deeper and less logically, trying to connect it to the thousands of faces in his past. They converged emptily. He turned his attention to the stub, dated August 24, Sacramento to Laguna Beach, Greyhound bus line 52, $16. Departing 6:30 A.M.
The bottom drawer of the nightstand was empty. Shephard took the driver’s license, then put the wallet back in place. He shook the drawer, listening to the slosh of turpentine in the can.
Hylkama was at the ironing board this time, while Dorothy reclined on the sofa and smoked. Shephard knocked on the screen door, and Dorothy rose to let him in.
“Any luck?” she asked.
“Maybe. This Hodges?”
Mr. and Mrs. Hylkama studied the driver’s license, Dot looming over little Jimmy’s shoulder. Hylkama hesitated anxiously.
“Not him,” Dorothy said.
“Definitely not,” James agreed.
“How about Stett? Describe him to me, please.”
“Big guy. Sporty type, muscles and all.” Hylkama, of course, made a muscle. “A real good dresser. Dark hair and dark eyes, about forty-five, I’d guess. Like I said, a funny friend for a guy like Hodges, being kind of a lowlifer himself.”