He deliberated briefly and then reached for an envelope, extracting a key which he tossed across the desk. “Here. Got it from the manager. It’s a duplicate. Couldn’t find Lang’s key in his pocket.” He paused and leveled a finger. “Report in full, understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
I could feel his eyes following me through the door. The name stamped on the key was Hotel Buxton. I hailed a cab and sat back. I had a feeling that something was going to happen and as it turned out I was right.
When I crossed the Buxton’s antique lobby I thought of Gladys sitting alone in her room. I controlled an impulse to visit her again and went on up to the seventh floor. I found Eddie Lang’s room and used the key. I took one step and froze in the doorway, whistling.
It seemed, from the room’s appearance, that the Police Academy had omitted a course in neatness from its curriculum. The place was a mess. Drawers had been emptied out on the floor and Eddie’s suits lay askew across the bed.
I started with the suits, turning all the pockets inside out. Nothing. Then I got down on my hands and knees and went poking through the piles of stuff on the floor. My fingers encountered something and pulled it clear. One of those correspondence portfolios in imitation leather, with compartments for stamps, paper, and envelopes. It contained several old letters, one from an agent offering a San Francisco booking, one from a high school girl who’d caught his act on TV and thought he was the best thing since Fred Astaire, and one postmarked Switzerland about a year ago and signed Uncle Victor.
I read the salutation and that’s when I got it. His footsteps were silent coming up behind me. I never heard him. But I felt him all right. The blow landed with a shattering impact and what probably saved my life was the hat on my head. A streak of lightning seemed to explode through my brain. I grabbed for my head and the next blow almost broke my thumb. The sap was poised for its final benediction when I rolled over and it caught me on the shoulder, paralyzing my arm.
I was dimly conscious of harsh breathing and a flurry of activity. Then the door slammed. I tried to rise and was engulfed by a wave of nauseating dizziness. I lay still until it passed. Then I struggled upright and steadied myself against a chair. The closet door stood open. Three short steps had brought him close enough to strike. The letter I had started to read was gone.
I reached for the phone and called Nola. When he heard my voice he knew something was wrong and demanded sharply, “What’s up, Scott?”
“Somebody conked me,” I said shakily. “Damn near fractured my skull.”
“Where are you?”
“In Eddie Lang’s room.”
“Did you see him?”
“No. He was hiding in the closet and came up behind me.”
Nola muffled an oath. “Are you all right?”
“I think so. Listen, John, didn’t your boys find a portfolio of letters belonging to Lang?”
“Found it myself. I was there.”
“Why didn’t you keep it?”
“Because it was old stuff. Innocuous. What’s needling you, boy?”
“A letter from his uncle,” I said, hollow-voiced. “It’s gone. There was a clue in it somewhere.”
“Don’t guess, Scott. Be specific.”
“I can’t. I didn’t read the letter. You did. Dig in, Lieutenant, please, and try to recall. What did it say?”
We had a bad connection. Static crackled softly over the wire. Finally his voice came: “Listen, Scott, that letter was written a year ago. The guy was a windbag, full of fury, griping about his job and knocking European customs, their lack of efficiency. You know the type. A tongue-waver.”
“Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “I know the type. Talk to you, later, John. My head’s splitting.” I hung up.
Sure, I reflected grimly. The type is well known to me. Sometimes it’s only talk and sometimes it’s more than talk. They thought Hitler was nothing but a windbag too, until he gave the world twenty-four hours to get out.
People reveal themselves by what they say. A man’s true stripe rides close to the tip of his tongue. And clues in a murder case can be found in character.
I turned towards the door and winced with pain. I removed my hat, gingerly exploring the wound. It was open and moist and needed attention. So I descended to the fifth floor and knocked on Gladys Monroe’s door. She asked who it was. She opened at once when I identified myself, her face pleased and bright. One look was all she needed.
“Mr. Jordan!” she said in quickly rising alarm. “Are you ill?”
“Something fell on my head. Have you got any iodine and a band-aid?”
She ran to the bathroom cabinet and came back. “Let me see.” I turned and heard her gasp. “Something fell on your head? What was it, Rhode Island? You need a doctor, somebody with needle and thread. Look, Mr. Jordan—”
“Scott.”
“Look Scott, I’m going to call—”
“Later,” I said. “Emergency repairs will do for a while. I’ve got to see a man. It’s urgent.”
She said no more and went to work. Antiseptic was an applied flame. She pinched the wound together and covered it with a band-aid. “How do you feel?”
“Slightly used, but ready for action.”
The phone rang and she reached for it. “Yes,” she said, “this is Miss Monroe.” Her eyes widened. “You’re in the lobby now, Mr. Parish, and you’d like to see me?”
I caught her attention by chipping at the air. Tell him you’re alone, I signalled, and willing to receive him. She took the cue without faltering and told him to come ahead. Then she turned to me in puzzlement.
“What’s this all about, Scott?”
“No time for explanations now,” I told her swiftly. “Just listen. Listen carefully. I want you to stretch the truth. Tell him Eddie often spoke about his Uncle Victor. Tell him you have a snapshot somewhere.” I bent down and brushed her cheek lightly with my lips.
She blinked. “Who was that for?”
“Me.”
“Then it’s my turn now.”
I swallowed an impulse to give her the chance and ducked toward the closet.
“What are you going to do?” she called nervously.
“Hide. I want to observe his reactions. Slow down, Gladys, and look natural.” I left the closet door slightly ajar for visibility and ventilation.
Just in time. Almost at once there was a knock on the door. I was proud of Gladys. She handled the situation with bland innocence. “Mr. Parish, I’m delighted to meet you. Eddie mentioned your name only yesterday. Come in, please, won’t you?”
He accepted the invitation, courtly and urbane, lips smiling over the red-tinted imperial. His clothes were fashionable, a shade too meticulous, and he carried a silver-knobbed walking stick with quite a bit of dash. He tucked it under his elbow and bowed from the waist. “A pleasure, Miss Monroe; a pleasure indeed.”
The amenities over, he sat in the proffered chair and appraised her with a wandering and faintly lecherous eye. “Why, you’re quite lovely,” he remarked benignly.
“You sound surprised, Mr. Parish.”
“Not surprised. Pleased. In fact, overwhelmed. I consider myself something of a connoisseur. Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Please do.”
He lit one of his fragrant cigars, savored it for a moment, and then inquired idly, “In what connection did Eddie mention my name, may I ask?”
“He read about your arrival in New York and he was very anxious to see you about his uncle.”
“Ah, yes.” The bearded face went long and solemn. “I feel badly about that. Can’t forgive myself. Should have broken the news to him more gently. Didn’t realize Victor was the only family Eddie had. The boy was badly shaken. I take it he’s in the morgue?”
“Yes.”