Free Live Free

Detectives

“Paging Miss Cathy Garth!”

“For me?” Candy looked at Stubb.

“That’s what the man says.”

“Should I answer it?”

He tried—quite successfully, since Candy was in no condition to be minutely observant—to appear not to care. “Up to you.”

“I guess I better.” She waved at the bellman as he passed. “Right here. I’m Cathy Garth.”

“House phone three, Ma’am.” The bellman pointed. “Thank you very much,” Candy said. Stubb walked her over to it, and she asked him, “What’ll I say?” whispering as though the other party could hear her already.

“‘Cathy Garth,”’ he told her.

“Cathy Garth,” she repeated, and picked up the telephone. “Cathy Garth speaking.”

Stubb listened, pretending not to listen.

“Yes? … Oh, hi! Hi, John … . I’m right down here in the lobby … . Could I ever! I’m starved! Anything.”

The bellman who had paged Candy was coming around again. “Jim Stubb! Paging Mr. Jim Stubb!”

Stubb stopped him. “Me too?”

“This is a different party, sir. He gave me a letter for you.”

Stubb took it. “Mysterious, isn’t it?”

“I guess so, sir. We haven’t had the murder yet, but when we do, we’ll call in the Yard.”

“But it will actually be solved by an eccentric peer who hasn’t done any real work since the Second World War,” Stubb finished for him.

The bellman grinned. “How about a poisoning in the Quaint?”

“Happens all the time, only they die outside.” With the feeling that luck was about to change, Stubb gave the bellman a five. “The fat girl didn’t tip you, did she?”

“Ladies seldom do,” the bellman said. “Thank you, sir.”

As he turned away, Candy seized Stubb’s arm. “Jim—” She belched softly. “Jim, you’ve gotta help me. That was a john I met this afternoon. His name’s Sweet.”

Stubb nodded encouragingly.

“He was going to the airport, see? Back home after some convention. I went with him, only it turns out he didn’t go. I guess they had more snow out there than we got here, and some flights got cancelled. Then the lights went out, same as here, and it got screwed up worse. So he said to hell with it like anybody would. He said there weren’t any cabs by then, but he hitched a ride back with a business acquaintance—that’s what he said—that lives here and had his own car.”

“Is this going anywhere?” Stubb asked. “If it isn’t, I’d like to sit down.”

“It’s there already. I mean, he’s here. I’d told him I was staying here, so the guy dropped him here and he got a room and he’s been looking for me ever since, hoping I didn’t get my flight either. He’ll be down in five minutes. Jim, how do I explain this nurse outfit?” The fat girl’s voice rose to an anguished wail. “I didn’t tell him I was a nurse!”

“You could split before he gets here. Come on, and I’ll get us into Madame S.’s room.”

“Jim, it’s dinner and at least a hundred bucks, and I’m starving and I haven’t got a dime. So what do I tell him? Do I say I’m a nurse now? You’re my friend, Jim. What do I say?”

Stubb scratched his chin reflectively. It was too warm in the lobby; he felt hot and tired. Suddenly his eyes went wide, and he nudged Candy. “My God, look!”

She looked. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

“You’re damn right it is, but where’d he get the clothes?”

“Stole ’em, I bet. But where’d he get that fox?”

They watched until Barnes, Robin, and Ozzie disappeared into an elevator. “You’re right,” Stubb said. “He must have got them in the blackout. Hey, that gives me an idea for your nurse’s clothes.”

“I stole them?”

“No. You went to a costume party. This john thought you were catching a plane, right? Why’d you go to the airport anyway?”

“Never mind, I did. What’s your idea?”

“You couldn’t get your plane, so you came back here—only earlier, and you called up a girlfriend and she told you about the party. You didn’t have time to rent a regular costume, but the girlfriend’s a nurse and she loaned you those. You were tired and the party wasn’t much fun, so you had a couple of drinks and came back here. That’ll also explain why you’re a little juiced, which you are.”

“Okay, that’s great.”

“Meaning, ‘Now be a darling and get lost.”’

“Jim, it won’t look good if he sees me talking to you.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not well dressed enough for a pimp,” Stubb said, “or the right color either.” But he was already turning away, losing himself even to himself in the crowd in the lobby. The letter felt thin and dry between his fingers; he wondered vaguely why he had not put it inside his coat. There were no statues in the Consort’s lobby, no palms or ferns, and out of long habit he did not want to open the letter where someone might read it over his shoulder. Neither did he want to remain close enough to see the man who came for Candy. With a surge of others, he entered an elevator.

He got off at the seventh floor. No one answered when he tapped at the door of the witch’s room. He stood for a moment and listened, fearing that Barnes had taken his tall brunette there. No sound came through the thin panels, and there was no answer when he tapped again, positioning himself before the peep-hole.

The room had not been occupied since he had searched it with the witch that morning. The big bed where she had slept was still smoothly covered by its quilted spread. The drapes he had opened then had been drawn again—that was new. A chaise had replaced the other bed.

He switched on all the lights and checked the bottom of the table, the television, and all the lamps again, then slipped out of his trenchcoat and jacket and threw them on the bed. The room seemed warm. He had tossed the envelope onto the table when he came; now he picked it up, peering at it through his thick glasses, fingering it, pushing back his hat.

I should have asked that bellboy questions, he thought. That’s what comes of stopping at the Irishman’s to drink with her—I’m a little bombed myself. He must have had a good laugh out of me. Man’s writing, only one sheet inside.

He tore open the envelope.

Stubb smiled to himself, picked up the telephone and dialed. A moment later he could hear it ringing in the room directly overhead.

“Room eight seventy-seven.”

“It’s Stubb, Cliff.”

“Jim! This is great. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get hola of you.”

“How did you know I was in the hotel?”

“I didn’t, not for sure, but I’ve been asking around for you, and Iran into Bill Kramer. You remember Bill? He’s the security chief here now.”

“Big guy, crooked nose.”

“Hell, Jim, everybody’s big to you. My height, maybe two hundred pounds.”

“So you ran into him. Your wife throw you out of the house or something?”

“Would I stay here? Listen, Jim, you’re getting pretty damned independent. The last time you called me you were begging for work.”

“I’m not begging any more. I’ve got something.”

“You called me just for old times’ sake?”

“Right.”

“Jim, you’re not licensed.”

“I didn’t say I had a client. Just a little job for an old friend. I told you. How about finishing the story? You ran into Bill Kramer.”

“I said, have you seen Jim, and he said, yeah in the coffee shop this morning with another guy and two gals—”

“He said ‘gals’?”

“All right, so Bill’s not a very bright guy. If he was he’d be working for me. Yep, he said gals. You and two women and another guy in the coffee shop. He said after that he checked to see if you were registered and you weren’t, but he figured maybe you were shacking it with one of the women.”

“He’s running a riding academy now, huh?”

“Jim, every place’s a riding academy now. Nobody gives a shit unless you rip the sheets or wake up the couple in the next room. Where are you?”

“In the hotel.”

“Hell, I know you’re in the God-damned hotel, you just told me. What’s your room number?”

“That’s confidential, Cliff. You know how it is.”

“By God, you’re getting cocky. This afternoon you were begging me for a job.”

“Yeah, and you wouldn’t give me one.”

Stubb hung up. Leaving the spindly chair beside the telephone stand, he kicked off his shoes, threw himself into a larger, more comfortable chair, and put his feet on the bed. Smoothing the note, he reread it and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. A smile crossed his waxy face. He stretched, went into the bathroom and relieved himself, washed his hands, then sat down at the telephone again and dialed.

“Front desk? My name’s Jim Stubb. Am I being paged?”

“Yes, sir.” The clerk paused. “We’ve been having a little disturbance here, but I believe you are.”

“What’s the message?”

“I don’t know, sir. You can find out by calling the bell captain, sir. One nine.”

“I can find out from you too—” Stubb began, but the clerk had hung up. Fuming, Stubb banged down the handset, picked it up again, pressed one nine, and identified himself.

“The message is call eight, seven, seven, sir.”

“I thought it was. I don’t know why I’m wasting my time with this Mickey Mouse.” Stubb cradled the handset a second time and grinned, then pressed the number.

“Hello? Eight seventy-seven.”

“It’s me again, Cliff. You’ve got the kid hollering for me, and I’m getting sick of tipping him.”

“Jim, you didn’t have to hang up on me.”

“Only if I wanted to look at myself when I shave. You want to say I’m not tall enough to look in the mirror? Go ahead, say it. It isn’t true, but say it.”

“Jim, you’re trying to put words in my mouth. I never said anything like that to you.”

“Like hell.”

“Okay, maybe I kidded you a couple of times. But Jim, it was only kidding. Now I need you. What the hell did I say in that note? A hundred and fifty a day? I’ll make it two hundred.”

“You said two C’s. Make it three.”

“Now you’re kidding. Two fifty.”

“Goodbye, Cliff.”

“Jim, don’t hang up. Three hundred. Okay.”

“Plus expenses.”

“Plus expenses, right.”

“It’s a deal. What’s the job?”

“Come up to the room, Jim. Hell, you know I can’t talk about it on the phone.”

“You’ve got a big, big client, and they’ve told you, you own the mint. You’ve got every man you’ve got on it already. What is it, Cliff? CIA? Saudi Arabia?”

“You’re working for me now, so knock it off. For three hundred a day you can get your ass up to this room.”

“I don’t start till tomorrow, right? Any rough stuff?”

“You start right now, Jim—I’m paying you three hundred for the rest of tonight. No rough stuff at all, I swear to God. A pussycat, so get your ass up here.”

“Like you say, boss.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Stubb hung up, nodding to himself. “It sure is,” he whispered.

He found his shoes, jammed his feet in them, and put on his jacket and trenchcoat. Lifting the mattress, he thrust his arm under it and pulled out Proudy’s gun. In the bathroom, he stood on the toilet to retrieve the cartridges from the top of the medicine cabinet.