ever suffered a
robbery? All in machine-gun style, and a very thick accent."
" ¡Vaya por Dios! "
said Mendoza. “I refuse to believe that she came in to, as the pros
say, case the joint! Now what the devil— "
"Good God," said Mr. Shanrahan. "You
don't think— "
"No, I don't, it's ridiculous, I just said so. A
suite at the Beverly-Hilton, her own maid— and those clothes—
Impossible."
"Good God," said Mr. Shanrahan again.
"Burglary. Don't even suggest it. Another one. We average three
a year, and this is really too soon after the last— only three
weeks. My heart won't take this sort of thing much longer— not to
speak of the insurance company. Really, Mendoza!"
"Don't look at me, I'm not the mastermind
plotting it— if there is a plot. Lose much in that one?"
"Oh, well, it could have been worse," said
Mr. Shanrahan discreetly. Mr. Shanrahan would always be discreet,
even with an old customer who was by way of being a friend. He
glanced sidewise at Mendoza, opened his mouth for further speech,
decided against it, and whisked out his handkerchief to clean his
glasses instead. "It's the principle of the thing. And, as I
say, the insurance."
"Yes. Did this woman say anything else?"
"One has to be polite. I was— um—
noncommittal, you know, and then she got onto insurance. We must have
to carry a terrible amount of insurance, all these valuable things,
and also, it was to be supposed, sometimes things which do not belong
to us. Was it not a great financial burden? My God, Mendoza, you
don't suppose— ?"
"No, I don't. I don't know what she was after. Insurance. ¡Media vuelta! —
right about face! I don't know anything, damn it. ¡Mil
rayos! So far as I know, she's simply a rich
visiting foreigner, eminently respectable, and she didn't mean
anything sinister at all— just talking off the top of her mind. And
I am wasting the afternoon. I shall now cease to do so and go back to
legitimate work."
"I hope to God you're right," said Mr.
Shanrahan nervously. "Now— just a moment, Mendoza, as long as
you're here you might as well take a look at this bracelet— no
harm— won't take a minute, just let me fetch it out for you— "
Mendoza looked at it, heard the price, said it was
outrageous, and named another twenty percent below. Shanrahan told
him coldly that this was not a street booth in a village market,
where haggling was expected; there were prices set and that was that,
take it or leave it.
"Don't give me that," said Mendoza. "What
with taxes and inflation, luxury business isn't living so high it can
pick and choose customers. How long have you had this in stock
without a bite on it?" Shanrahan looked offended and after much
persuasion named a price five percent under the original. They
insulted each other for another five minutes and came to a deadlock
on the Federal tax, Mendoza refusing to be responsible for it.
Shanrahan offered to split it with him.
"I'll think about it," said Mendoza,
picking up his hat.
Shanrahan looked at him wistfully. "I live for
the day when you get hooked by some predatory empty-headed blonde."
"And you'll still be
hoping when they nail down your coffin," said Mendoza.
* * *
He went back to his office and ruminated. First
causes, he thought: so, what about Domokous? Look at the facts
available, build it up from there.
Hackett had collected a number of little facts by
now. The Second Street hotel was largely tenanted by residents, not
transients; there was supposed to be a desk clerk on duty most of the
time, but actually it was a desultory job. The clerk remembered
Domokous going out that Monday night about seven o'clock, but
couldn't say whether he'd come in again: didn't recall seeing him go
out on the Tuesday morning, but he might have— the clerk didn't
always see residents in or out. And friends of residents, if they
knew the room number, would walk right up; the clerk couldn't keep
track of everybody.
It looked as if that Monday night might be the
crucial
robbery? All in machine-gun style, and a very thick accent."
" ¡Vaya por Dios! "
said Mendoza. “I refuse to believe that she came in to, as the pros
say, case the joint! Now what the devil— "
"Good God," said Mr. Shanrahan. "You
don't think— "
"No, I don't, it's ridiculous, I just said so. A
suite at the Beverly-Hilton, her own maid— and those clothes—
Impossible."
"Good God," said Mr. Shanrahan again.
"Burglary. Don't even suggest it. Another one. We average three
a year, and this is really too soon after the last— only three
weeks. My heart won't take this sort of thing much longer— not to
speak of the insurance company. Really, Mendoza!"
"Don't look at me, I'm not the mastermind
plotting it— if there is a plot. Lose much in that one?"
"Oh, well, it could have been worse," said
Mr. Shanrahan discreetly. Mr. Shanrahan would always be discreet,
even with an old customer who was by way of being a friend. He
glanced sidewise at Mendoza, opened his mouth for further speech,
decided against it, and whisked out his handkerchief to clean his
glasses instead. "It's the principle of the thing. And, as I
say, the insurance."
"Yes. Did this woman say anything else?"
"One has to be polite. I was— um—
noncommittal, you know, and then she got onto insurance. We must have
to carry a terrible amount of insurance, all these valuable things,
and also, it was to be supposed, sometimes things which do not belong
to us. Was it not a great financial burden? My God, Mendoza, you
don't suppose— ?"
"No, I don't. I don't know what she was after. Insurance. ¡Media vuelta! —
right about face! I don't know anything, damn it. ¡Mil
rayos! So far as I know, she's simply a rich
visiting foreigner, eminently respectable, and she didn't mean
anything sinister at all— just talking off the top of her mind. And
I am wasting the afternoon. I shall now cease to do so and go back to
legitimate work."
"I hope to God you're right," said Mr.
Shanrahan nervously. "Now— just a moment, Mendoza, as long as
you're here you might as well take a look at this bracelet— no
harm— won't take a minute, just let me fetch it out for you— "
Mendoza looked at it, heard the price, said it was
outrageous, and named another twenty percent below. Shanrahan told
him coldly that this was not a street booth in a village market,
where haggling was expected; there were prices set and that was that,
take it or leave it.
"Don't give me that," said Mendoza. "What
with taxes and inflation, luxury business isn't living so high it can
pick and choose customers. How long have you had this in stock
without a bite on it?" Shanrahan looked offended and after much
persuasion named a price five percent under the original. They
insulted each other for another five minutes and came to a deadlock
on the Federal tax, Mendoza refusing to be responsible for it.
Shanrahan offered to split it with him.
"I'll think about it," said Mendoza,
picking up his hat.
Shanrahan looked at him wistfully. "I live for
the day when you get hooked by some predatory empty-headed blonde."
"And you'll still be
hoping when they nail down your coffin," said Mendoza.
* * *
He went back to his office and ruminated. First
causes, he thought: so, what about Domokous? Look at the facts
available, build it up from there.
Hackett had collected a number of little facts by
now. The Second Street hotel was largely tenanted by residents, not
transients; there was supposed to be a desk clerk on duty most of the
time, but actually it was a desultory job. The clerk remembered
Domokous going out that Monday night about seven o'clock, but
couldn't say whether he'd come in again: didn't recall seeing him go
out on the Tuesday morning, but he might have— the clerk didn't
always see residents in or out. And friends of residents, if they
knew the room number, would walk right up; the clerk couldn't keep
track of everybody.
It looked as if that Monday night might be the
crucial
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