"Kent? I'm not sure that he's regis-Oh," said the clerk, glancing at the bill in his hand. "Yeah, we got him. Want me to give him a buzz?"
"Not now. Is his key in his box?"
"That don't mean nothing. People here carry their keys mostly. He should be in, though, him and the missus both. I ain't seen 'em go out."
Airedale deliberated. He had a deputy sheriff's commission but he was reluctant to use it. It was always much better, particularly when you were dealing with a friend, to have someone else do the strong-arm work.
"Where's old lardass, the demon house dick?"
"Up with some broad, probably. No, there he is,"-the clerk pointed-"in stuffing his gut."
Airedale glanced toward the coffee shop. "Okay, I'll drag him out. About three minutes after you see us catch the elevator, you ring hell out of Kent's phone."
Airedale got hold of Kennedy, the house detective, and together they went upstairs. They stopped at Toddy's door. Almost immediately the phone began to ring. It rang steadily for what must have been a full two minutes. There was no other sound, either then or after it had stopped.
Airedale raised his fist and pounded. He stood aside, and nodded to Kennedy. The house dick gripped the doorknob with one hand; with the other he poised a peculiarly notched key before the keyhole. He slowly turned the knob and pushed gently. He dropped the key back into his pocket, drew out a shot-weighted blackjack, and abruptly flung the door open.
"Okay," he growled, "come out of it!" Then, after a moment's wait, he went in and Airedale followed him.
They looked in the bathroom, the closet and under the bed. Panting from the unaccustomed activity and his recent meal, Kennedy dropped into a chair and fanned his face with his hat.
"Well," he said, "they ain't here."
"No kidding," said Airedale.
Airedale went to the window and looked out. He looked down at the once-white enameled sill-at the streaked outline of a heel print.
Kennedy said, "She gave ol' Toddy a little more than he would take tonight. Boy, you could hear her yelling a block away!"
"Yeah?"
"I'm tellin' you, Airedale. It sounded like he was killin' her. If I'd had my way he'd of gone ahead and done it."
"So what did you do?"
"Gave him a ring. She'd already shut up by then, though, and there wasn't another peep after that."
Airedale stared in unwinking silence, and the house detective shifted uncomfortably. "Guess they must of gone out," he remarked, averting his eyes from the bondsman's liquid brown gaze. "Must of."
Absently scratching his nose, Airedale started for the window again, and his protruding elbow struck against the stack of the incinerator. He leaped back with a profane yell. Kennedy roared and pounded his knee.
"Oh, J-Jesus," he laughed. "You should of seen yourself, Airedale!"
"What the hell is this?" Airedale demanded. "A hotel or a crematory? What you got a goddam furnace goin' for in weather like this?"
Panting, shaking with laughter, the house detective explained the nature of the stack. Airedale made a closer examination of it. He kicked it. He removed a wisp of hair from the clamp. He measured the stack with his eye, and knew unwillingly that it was quite large enough… to hold a woman's body… Strolling back toward his hotel, he considered the smog through doggish eyes, reflecting, unsentimentally, that Elaine was doubtless part of it by now. That would be like her, to remain a nuisance even in death. Certainly it had been like her to get herself killed at such a completely inopportune time. When she failed to show in the morning, the cops would come after her. They'd do a little investigating, a little talking here and there, and the dragnet would go out for Toddy. There was an all-night drugstore on the next cornet Airedale went in, entered a telephone booth and closed the door firmly behind him. He consulted a small black notebook and creased a number therein with his thumbnail. Fumbling for a coin, he checked over the contemplated project for possible pitfalls.
Fingerprints? No, they'd gotten her prints on her first arrest, and they hadn't bothered with them since. Pictures? No, they already had her mug, too, the newspapers and the police. And as long as she showed up in court-a woman of about the same age and size and coloring- Yeah, it could be done all right. Hundreds of women were in the Los Angeles courts every week. Elaine would draw the interest of papers and police only if she didn't show up.
Airedale dropped a slug into the coin box and dialed a number:
"Billie?"-he stared out through the door glass- "Airedale. How's it goin'?.. – Yeah? Well, it's slow all over, they tell me. – .. How'd you like a cinch for a while?… Oh, a buck-no, I'll make it a buck and a half… – Sure, don't you understand English? A hundred and a half a week… Well, I'll have to talk it over with you personally. I don't like to kick it around on the phone… Expenses? Sure, you get 'em, Billie girl. Board and room… absolutely free."
13
Toddy stared at the girl stonily. That reluctance of hers, the way she'd seemingly made Alvarado drag the story out of her, had been very well done. He'd almost believed for a moment that she was on his side. And now she'd lied. It had to be a lie. Either that or it was about time to wake up. It was time to give himself a pinch, put on his clothes, and go out for coffee.
With the body there in the room, the murder made sense. It put a frame on him like a Mack truck. Without the body, it was just plain damned screwy. It was nuts with a plus sign.
"Well, Mr. Kent?" Alvarado grinned satirically.
Toddy shook his head. "I've said all I've got to say."
"I see. Dolores, you will remain here. You, Mr. Kent, in front of me and through that door. I think you will be interested to see our basement."
"Wait!" The girl's voice was a sharp whisper. "Perrito, Alvarado! The dog!"
Alvarado looked. His gaze moved sufficiently from Toddy to take in the front door. He asked a soft question in Spanish.
"Hombres, Perrito? Si, hombres?"
Eyes shining with excitement, the dog took a few prancing steps toward him. His jaws waggled with the effort to articulate.
"Bueno, perro!" said Alvarado. "Stand!"
The dog became a statue-a waist-high ebony menace pointed motionlessly toward the door. "The lights, Dolores…"
Alvarado moved behind Toddy, jabbed and held the gun against his back. The lights went off. Dead silence settled over the room.
It was like that for minutes. Absolute silence except for the restrained whisper of their breathing. Then, distantly, from outside and overhead, came a soft ping. That, the cutting of the telephone wire, ended the silence. Having removed their sole danger, or so they thought, the prowlers were actually noisy.
There was a scraping of feet against wood, a noisy thud. Footsteps clattered across the porch. A whining, scratching sound marked the slashing of the screen.