Things were breaking for me: I could stay in 305 without renting it.
There was an ashtray, a box of wooden matches on my dresser, hotel stationery in the drawer. I burnt a couple of matches from end to end, waited inside my door. About ten minutes later I heard the elevator stop, the sound of high heels. Leaving the cat on my bed, I opened the door, started a fast sketch of copper hair's face. She had ordinary features, the slack lines of a lush around her over-painted eyes, the weak mouth.
Carrying a newspaper, she paid no attention to me, but unlocking her door she turned, asked, “What the devil are you doing?” It was a dull voice, without anger.
I put on a startled act. “Oh, excuse me. I was so enchanted with the delicate lines of your nose, simply had to get them down on paper.”
“My nose?” She touched it, as if discovering she had one. “Never thought of that as my best feature.” She took a deep breath to show me her best features. She had a soggy bosom, large for her slim figure, obviously wore a good bra under the thin summer dress.
“You have a marvelous nose line, in a classic face.”
“You an artist?” she asked, coming over to look at the sketch. She used perfume by the quart.
“I've been working abroad for several years, portrait commissions.” I held out the sketch. Even with the crumbling matchstick and glossy paper, I had a rough, photographic likeness of her.
“Say, you're great.”
I examined the sketch—sadly. Hank was so right —in time I might be a fifth-rate commercial artist. “I'd love to do a complete sketch of your exquisite face.”
“Always consider my shape better than my face. Couple years ago on the Cape, a painter guy saw me in a swim suit, wanted me to model. My stuffy old husband didn't go for the deal.”
“You're stacked fore and aft, but your face—the delicate lines of a flower in bloom,” I said, slopping hard, wondering what other hungry artist had pitched her a line. “When you have free time, I'd very much like to add your face to my notebook— for a mural when I return to my studio in San Remo.”
“I'm free now. We went to London once, and didn't even get over to Paris. My business-business hubby.”
“I'd love to sketch you now, but unhappily my room is in the rear and the light...”
“I've a front room. I'm Mrs. Arlene Price.”
“Dandy Collins,” I said, over my charm grin. A crappy name helps a snow job.
“Dandy?” She giggled.
I shrugged. “Been explaining that handle all my life. Dad and his sense of humor. Can we start immediately? Noon light is the very best.”
“Sure, Dandy. I don't have a date until three.” She unlocked her door. “Dandy—really have dandy hair—oh those waves. You're a big guy for an artist, but when I first saw your... clothes, I just knew you were an intellectual.”
“You've a keen mind,” I said, glancing around the room, pressing against her in the doorway. By the mild disorder of things, she was a long time resident.
“Dandy, you are a giant. I don't come to your broad shoulders.”
“Sweetest things come in cute little packages,” I cornballed as she gave me her stupid giggle again. “Need some paper—be right back.”
Taking more paper, burnt matches, the cat, and leaving my door half-open, I returned to 305. Seeing the cat, Arlene gushed, “Oh my, what a big pussy,” followed by a double-meaning giggle.
“A good luck charm from Egypt Always keep it around when I work.”
“Some large charm,” she said, starting to close the door.
“Please leave the door open a little,” I said, carefully placing the cat on her unmade bed.
Giving me an astonished if searching glance, Arlene said, “Thank you. You are a gentleman.”
“Don't be too sure. I'm expecting a phone call—in my room. Let's see... sit by the window, where the sun will highlight your delicate facial planes.”
“You bet. Dandy—oh, I buy that cute name—would a Scotch relax us both?”
Five drinks later I heard her sad story, kissed her several times, she was peeling her dress so I could sketch her breasts... when my phone rang. Taking the cat, I raced across the hall, answered the phone on the second ring. A brittle male voice said, “Mr. Collins, this is the desk. A Mr. Smith is here to see you. Shall I send him up?”
“Yes.”
Hanging up, I moved the false cat on the dresser so it could be seen immediately upon entering the room. Leaving my door cracked, I ran back to 305 with the real statue, closed her door to a slit, and watched the hall.
“Hey, Candy-Dandy, look at this fine stuff.”
I turned to see Arlene in the nude near the window. I'd been wrong about the bra, she really had firm salt and pepper shakers, with the rest of her more meaty than I'd expected. As she started toward me, I told her, “Stay there, honey—strike a pose and relax. I'll be with you in a second.”
“Anything big Dandy-daddy wishes,” she said, reaching for the Scotch bottle on the dresser. “I'll strike a pose and strike a few other things you'll like...”
“Shut up, beautiful. I'm getting into a painting mood,” I said, hearing the elevator stop. Peering through the crack in the door I saw a trim fellow in a seersucker suit, sharp straw hat, white shirt and baby blue tie... head for my room. If his face lacked any special toughness, he looked like a joker who could handle himself. Knocking once—lightly —he gently pushed the door open, calling, “Collins?” Seeing the phony cat, he went directly to the dresser. I felt high with relief, the guy didn't act like a thug... in minutes I'd be richer than...
As I started to leave the room, two younger men appeared in the hallway, near the stairs. One was very tall, the other a runt. The tall, skinny one wore cheap, flashy clothes; long face and lantern jaw, the hard eyes. The short man was absolutely nondescript in looks and clothing. Walking fast and silently, on reaching the open door of my room the tall one calmly pulled out a pistol with a very long barrel—I realized it was a silencer—and fired. There was a 'ping' sound and seersucker fell across the dresser, an ugly red stain blossoming on his back, before he slipped to the floor.
The runt sort of shook his right arm and a horrible knife seemed to spring into his hand. They stepped into the room—the tall guy pointing his gun around quickly, while the little man took the cat from the dresser. The taller man kicked the closet door open, as Shorty bent down and yanked a white envelope from the inside pocket of the dead man.
Then they both walked rapidly out of the room to the stairs, the runty one hugging the cat.
All this took about—five seconds.
I had two reactions. I couldn't believe a man had been killed in so few seconds, without the smallest warning or chance. I almost expected seersucker to jump to his feet, take a bow. The second, and far stronger reaction was—to get the hell out of the hotel before they found it was the wrong cat, returned to ruthlessly murder me with another 'ping' shot.