where the Seaboard Air-Line Railway was, but I had to get the suitcase tonight. I wouldn't sleep or rest until I had if.
I reached for the telephone.
"Send Maddux up here," I said to the reception clerk. "I want a packet of cigarettes. Tell him to hurry."
As he began to grumble, I hung up.
A couple of minutes later Maddux came in, panting, as if he had run up the two flights of stairs, his ratty face bright with expectation.
"Changed your mind?" he asked, closing the door and leaning against it. "What do you fancy . . .?"
I held out my hand.
"Cigarettes?"
He gave me a packet.
"There's a little blonde ..."
"Forget it," I said, lit a cigarette, then took out two ten-dollar bills. I rustled them between my fingers.
"How would you like to earn these?"
His eyes bugged out and his mouth fell open.
"Try me," he said.
I handed him the left-luggage receipt.
"Get that case and bring it back here."
"What - now?"
"If you want to make twenty bucks."
He looked at the receipt.
"I thought your name was Crosby," he said, and gave me a quick, suspicious look.
I didn't say anything. I folded the two bills and slid them into my pocket.
"I didn't say anything," he said hurriedly. "That wasn't me talking."
"Get that case and make it snappy."
He went off as if fired from a gun.
While I waited I went over my meagre stock of information.
On the night of September 6th I had been driving a Buick convertible, registered in the name of John Ricca, along a road seventy-five miles from Miami. With me was a girl: whether it had been Della or not I couldn't say, Ricca knew who she was, but Riskin didn't. There had been a smash. Apparently I had lost control of the car, for there was no other car involved. The girl had been killed, and I had been found unconscious five minutes later by a speed-cop. There was some talk about a gun. It had her fingerprints on it, and for some reason or other Riskin seemed to think the smash had been deliberate, making it murder.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand. I had to find out who the girl was and why she had a gun. I had to find out why I had lost control of the car.
Riskin had said I had an apartment on Franklin Boulevard, Lincoln Beach. I remembered Della had said she and her husband were going to Lincoln Beach, and did I want to go with them. It seemed in those forty-five missing days I had not only lived in Lincoln Beach, but I had even set up a home there.
To judge by the suit I was wearing, and the fact I had owned a Buick, I must have got hold of a lot of money. How had I done that in so short a time?
I switched my mind to the fat man, Ricca. He had given me a lot of obscure information. According to him I was engaged to a girl called Ginny. Where had I met her and where was she now?
I recalled what he had said. Y ou're the guy who killed Wertham and Reisner. W ho were they? Where have you hidden the money? he had asked. What m oney? Y ou can walk out of here and do what you damn well like. Why should I care? She was the one who cared. W ho was she? Why did she care?
I stretched out on the bed and smoked, staring up at the ceiling. There seemed no end to the questions, but how was I to find the answers? I realized I wasn't going to get far unless I had money to help me. At the moment I had only a little over a hundred dollars. I couldn't hope to make a thorough investigation without a substantial sum of money. I was suddenly up against a blank wall. Without money I was sunk. There could be no investigation. All I could do was to sneak out of Miami as soon as my hundred dollars ran out and get somewhere where I could lose myself.
I was still battering my brains out, trying to find a solution, when I heard Maddux coming pounding down the passage. I just had time to slap on my hat to cover my shaven head when he came in and dumped a big black pigskin suitcase on the bed.
"There you are, mister," he said. "Jeepers! That weighs a ton."
I was
I reached for the telephone.
"Send Maddux up here," I said to the reception clerk. "I want a packet of cigarettes. Tell him to hurry."
As he began to grumble, I hung up.
A couple of minutes later Maddux came in, panting, as if he had run up the two flights of stairs, his ratty face bright with expectation.
"Changed your mind?" he asked, closing the door and leaning against it. "What do you fancy . . .?"
I held out my hand.
"Cigarettes?"
He gave me a packet.
"There's a little blonde ..."
"Forget it," I said, lit a cigarette, then took out two ten-dollar bills. I rustled them between my fingers.
"How would you like to earn these?"
His eyes bugged out and his mouth fell open.
"Try me," he said.
I handed him the left-luggage receipt.
"Get that case and bring it back here."
"What - now?"
"If you want to make twenty bucks."
He looked at the receipt.
"I thought your name was Crosby," he said, and gave me a quick, suspicious look.
I didn't say anything. I folded the two bills and slid them into my pocket.
"I didn't say anything," he said hurriedly. "That wasn't me talking."
"Get that case and make it snappy."
He went off as if fired from a gun.
While I waited I went over my meagre stock of information.
On the night of September 6th I had been driving a Buick convertible, registered in the name of John Ricca, along a road seventy-five miles from Miami. With me was a girl: whether it had been Della or not I couldn't say, Ricca knew who she was, but Riskin didn't. There had been a smash. Apparently I had lost control of the car, for there was no other car involved. The girl had been killed, and I had been found unconscious five minutes later by a speed-cop. There was some talk about a gun. It had her fingerprints on it, and for some reason or other Riskin seemed to think the smash had been deliberate, making it murder.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand. I had to find out who the girl was and why she had a gun. I had to find out why I had lost control of the car.
Riskin had said I had an apartment on Franklin Boulevard, Lincoln Beach. I remembered Della had said she and her husband were going to Lincoln Beach, and did I want to go with them. It seemed in those forty-five missing days I had not only lived in Lincoln Beach, but I had even set up a home there.
To judge by the suit I was wearing, and the fact I had owned a Buick, I must have got hold of a lot of money. How had I done that in so short a time?
I switched my mind to the fat man, Ricca. He had given me a lot of obscure information. According to him I was engaged to a girl called Ginny. Where had I met her and where was she now?
I recalled what he had said. Y ou're the guy who killed Wertham and Reisner. W ho were they? Where have you hidden the money? he had asked. What m oney? Y ou can walk out of here and do what you damn well like. Why should I care? She was the one who cared. W ho was she? Why did she care?
I stretched out on the bed and smoked, staring up at the ceiling. There seemed no end to the questions, but how was I to find the answers? I realized I wasn't going to get far unless I had money to help me. At the moment I had only a little over a hundred dollars. I couldn't hope to make a thorough investigation without a substantial sum of money. I was suddenly up against a blank wall. Without money I was sunk. There could be no investigation. All I could do was to sneak out of Miami as soon as my hundred dollars ran out and get somewhere where I could lose myself.
I was still battering my brains out, trying to find a solution, when I heard Maddux coming pounding down the passage. I just had time to slap on my hat to cover my shaven head when he came in and dumped a big black pigskin suitcase on the bed.
"There you are, mister," he said. "Jeepers! That weighs a ton."
I was
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