me, when I fell asleep.
I wouldn't know it until later in the day, but they'd already found Carter's body.
Chapter Ten
I WOKE UP about two in the afternoon and lay in bed for five minutes, clearing the fog from my brain and remembering the thoughts that had been in my mind when I'd fallen asleep. After that I groaned out of bed and spent five minutes more in a hot shower, soaping my bruises. I was going to be sure I was awake before I started charging around this day.
I opened my bag, got out the shaving tools, and scraped the stubble off my chin, then got dressed in a tan tropic-weight suit, clean white shirt, and dark brown tie. I included the .38 as part of my outfit, then went down to the Cactus Room, just off the lobby, for breakfast.
The hotel was jumping like crazy and I remembered that this was still the four-day Helldorado, and this was only the second day. But by the time I'd forced myself to eat a good breakfast, because I might not get a chance to eat more than my nails for a while, I felt pretty good. The aftereffects of the L.A. working-over I'd received were still with me, but not as much as I'd expected. All that exercise last night must have loosened my muscles.
After two cups of black coffee I went to the desk, used up some more money, and slyly asked the clerk if there were a room available and if I could get a peek into Carter's room for a quick look around. I learned there wasn't any room empty yet, but all wasn't lost because I could look at Carter's stuff. It was a waste of time and money. All I learned was that Carter still hadn't shown up, and that he had a lot of clean white shirts he hadn't used. There was nothing in his room that helped.
I got the eight-by-ten photo of Isabel from my bag, called a taxi from the hotel, had another cup of black coffee while I waited, then climbed into the cab and went directly to Second Street between Carson and Bridger in downtown Vegas, and got out in front of the courthouse. I went up the steps and inside, then down to the sheriff's department on the main floor and identified myself to the man behind the counter. He squinted at me for five seconds, then sent me into an office on the other side of the counter to see one Arthur Hawkins. Hawkins was a big man sitting relaxed behind a pine desk, and he was a lieutenant. He hunched the coat of his dark gray single-breasted suit forward on his thick shoulders and glanced at me when I came in.
I said, "How do you do, Mr. Hawkins? I'm Shell Scott, an investigator from Los Angeles. I figured I'd betterâ"
He swung his head up, and I saw he was about forty, with wrinkles around dark eyes and deep creases at each side of his nose.
He said, "Where the hell have you been?"
"Huh?" Then I got it. "You mean the car?"
"I mean that miserable Cadillac. That yours?"
Naturally the deputies would have found the registration slip or what was left of it in the Cad, and would have checked on it. I said, "Yes, sir. That is, it was."
"Sit down. Right there. What do you know about that?" He clipped the words out fast, in little spurts like bullets. "We've been looking for you. Sarah!"
He had yelled out the door and halfway downtown. A girl flew in from the next room. She sat down in a chair in the corner, with an open steno's pad in her left hand. Hawkins nodded to her and she said, "Yes, sir."
"Hey!" I yelped. "Whoa, slow this up. You're allâ"
"Siddown. Sid down! " The guy wasn't brutal or shoving me around; he was just nine yards of authority. He was overpowering. I stood still for a moment, just so he wouldn't think I overpowered easy, but I sat down.
Hawkins looked at me. "All right."
I deliberated a moment, wondering what the hell I should say, and he said rapidly, "Come on, come on! "
Well, damn him, damn him to hell. I stood up, and he could scream at me to sit down till he was hoarse. "All right, damnit," I said. I took out my wallet and tossed it on the desk. "There's my license; I'm a private detective
I wouldn't know it until later in the day, but they'd already found Carter's body.
Chapter Ten
I WOKE UP about two in the afternoon and lay in bed for five minutes, clearing the fog from my brain and remembering the thoughts that had been in my mind when I'd fallen asleep. After that I groaned out of bed and spent five minutes more in a hot shower, soaping my bruises. I was going to be sure I was awake before I started charging around this day.
I opened my bag, got out the shaving tools, and scraped the stubble off my chin, then got dressed in a tan tropic-weight suit, clean white shirt, and dark brown tie. I included the .38 as part of my outfit, then went down to the Cactus Room, just off the lobby, for breakfast.
The hotel was jumping like crazy and I remembered that this was still the four-day Helldorado, and this was only the second day. But by the time I'd forced myself to eat a good breakfast, because I might not get a chance to eat more than my nails for a while, I felt pretty good. The aftereffects of the L.A. working-over I'd received were still with me, but not as much as I'd expected. All that exercise last night must have loosened my muscles.
After two cups of black coffee I went to the desk, used up some more money, and slyly asked the clerk if there were a room available and if I could get a peek into Carter's room for a quick look around. I learned there wasn't any room empty yet, but all wasn't lost because I could look at Carter's stuff. It was a waste of time and money. All I learned was that Carter still hadn't shown up, and that he had a lot of clean white shirts he hadn't used. There was nothing in his room that helped.
I got the eight-by-ten photo of Isabel from my bag, called a taxi from the hotel, had another cup of black coffee while I waited, then climbed into the cab and went directly to Second Street between Carson and Bridger in downtown Vegas, and got out in front of the courthouse. I went up the steps and inside, then down to the sheriff's department on the main floor and identified myself to the man behind the counter. He squinted at me for five seconds, then sent me into an office on the other side of the counter to see one Arthur Hawkins. Hawkins was a big man sitting relaxed behind a pine desk, and he was a lieutenant. He hunched the coat of his dark gray single-breasted suit forward on his thick shoulders and glanced at me when I came in.
I said, "How do you do, Mr. Hawkins? I'm Shell Scott, an investigator from Los Angeles. I figured I'd betterâ"
He swung his head up, and I saw he was about forty, with wrinkles around dark eyes and deep creases at each side of his nose.
He said, "Where the hell have you been?"
"Huh?" Then I got it. "You mean the car?"
"I mean that miserable Cadillac. That yours?"
Naturally the deputies would have found the registration slip or what was left of it in the Cad, and would have checked on it. I said, "Yes, sir. That is, it was."
"Sit down. Right there. What do you know about that?" He clipped the words out fast, in little spurts like bullets. "We've been looking for you. Sarah!"
He had yelled out the door and halfway downtown. A girl flew in from the next room. She sat down in a chair in the corner, with an open steno's pad in her left hand. Hawkins nodded to her and she said, "Yes, sir."
"Hey!" I yelped. "Whoa, slow this up. You're allâ"
"Siddown. Sid down! " The guy wasn't brutal or shoving me around; he was just nine yards of authority. He was overpowering. I stood still for a moment, just so he wouldn't think I overpowered easy, but I sat down.
Hawkins looked at me. "All right."
I deliberated a moment, wondering what the hell I should say, and he said rapidly, "Come on, come on! "
Well, damn him, damn him to hell. I stood up, and he could scream at me to sit down till he was hoarse. "All right, damnit," I said. I took out my wallet and tossed it on the desk. "There's my license; I'm a private detective
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