unfolded it gingerly, like it might be a letter bomb. But it was only a badly printed religious tract, one of those things handed out on street corners by itinerant preachers. This one was headed: WHERE WILL YOU SPEND ETERNITY ?
Not, I hoped, at the Coburn Inn.
The Third Day
C ONSTABLE RONNIE GOODFELLOW STOOD with arms akimbo, surveying the wreckage of my hotel room.
“Shit,” he said.
“My sentiments exactly,” I said. “But look, it’s no big deal. Nothing was stolen. The only reason I wanted you to know was if it fits a pattern of hotel room break-ins. You’ve had them before?”
Sleek head turned slowly, dark eyes observed me thoughtfully. Finally …
“You a cop?” he said.
“No, but I’ve had some training. Army CID.”
“Well, there’s no pattern. Some petty pilferage in the kitchen maybe, but there hasn’t been a break-in here since I’ve been on the force. Why should there be? What is there to steal in this bag of bones? The regulars who live here are all on Social Security. Most of the time they haven’t got two nickels to rub together.”
He took slow steps into the room, looking about.
“The bed tossed?” he asked.
“That’s right. I put it straight so I could get some sleep last night.”
He nodded, still looking around with squinty eyes. Suddenly he swooped, picked up one of those vomit-tinted prints that had hung on the tenement-green wall. He inspected the torn paper backing.
“Looking for something special,” he said. “Something small and flat that could be slid between the backing and the picture. Like a photo, a sheet of paper, a document, a letter. Something like that.”
I looked at him with new respect. He was no stupe.
“Got any idea what it could be?” he asked casually.
“Not a clue,” I said, just as off-handedly. “I haven’t got a thing like that worth hiding.”
He nodded again, and there was nothing in that smooth, saturnine face to show if he believed me or not.
“Well …” he said, “maybe I’ll go down and have a few words with Sam Livingston.”
“You don’t think—” I began.
“Of course not,” he said sharply. “Sam’s as honest as the day is long. But maybe he saw someone prowling around late at night. He’s up all hours. You say you got in late?”
I hadn’t said. I hoped he didn’t catch the brief pause before I answered.
“A little after midnight,” I lied. “I had dinner with the Thorndeckers.”
“Oh?” he said. “Have a good time?”
“Sure did. Great food. Good company.” Then I added, somewhat maliciously: “Mrs. Thorndecker is a beauty.”
“Yes,” he said, almost absently, “a very attractive woman. Well, I’ll see what I can do about this, Mr. Todd. Sorry it had to happen to a visitor to our town.”
“Happens everywhere,” I shrugged. “No real harm done.”
I closed and locked the door behind him. He hadn’t inspected that lock, but I had. No sign of forced entry. That was one for me. But he had seen that the object of the search had been something small and flat, something that could be concealed in a picture frame. That was one for him.
I knew what it was, of course. My visitor had been trying to recover that anonymous note. The one that read: “Thorndecker kills.”
With only a half-dozen regulars and me staying at the Coburn Inn, the management didn’t think it necessary to employ a chambermaid. Old Sam Livingston did the chores: changing linen, emptying wastebaskets, throwing out “dead soldiers,” vacuuming when the dust got ankle-deep.
I was still trying to set my room to rights when he knocked. I let him in.
“I’ll straighten up here,” he told me.
“You go get your morning coffee.”
“Thanks, Sam,” I said gratefully.
I handed him a five-dollar bill. He stared at it.
“Abraham Lincoln,” he said. “Fine-looking man. Good beard.” He held the bill out to me. “Take it back, Mr. Todd. I’d clean up anyways. You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I
Not, I hoped, at the Coburn Inn.
The Third Day
C ONSTABLE RONNIE GOODFELLOW STOOD with arms akimbo, surveying the wreckage of my hotel room.
“Shit,” he said.
“My sentiments exactly,” I said. “But look, it’s no big deal. Nothing was stolen. The only reason I wanted you to know was if it fits a pattern of hotel room break-ins. You’ve had them before?”
Sleek head turned slowly, dark eyes observed me thoughtfully. Finally …
“You a cop?” he said.
“No, but I’ve had some training. Army CID.”
“Well, there’s no pattern. Some petty pilferage in the kitchen maybe, but there hasn’t been a break-in here since I’ve been on the force. Why should there be? What is there to steal in this bag of bones? The regulars who live here are all on Social Security. Most of the time they haven’t got two nickels to rub together.”
He took slow steps into the room, looking about.
“The bed tossed?” he asked.
“That’s right. I put it straight so I could get some sleep last night.”
He nodded, still looking around with squinty eyes. Suddenly he swooped, picked up one of those vomit-tinted prints that had hung on the tenement-green wall. He inspected the torn paper backing.
“Looking for something special,” he said. “Something small and flat that could be slid between the backing and the picture. Like a photo, a sheet of paper, a document, a letter. Something like that.”
I looked at him with new respect. He was no stupe.
“Got any idea what it could be?” he asked casually.
“Not a clue,” I said, just as off-handedly. “I haven’t got a thing like that worth hiding.”
He nodded again, and there was nothing in that smooth, saturnine face to show if he believed me or not.
“Well …” he said, “maybe I’ll go down and have a few words with Sam Livingston.”
“You don’t think—” I began.
“Of course not,” he said sharply. “Sam’s as honest as the day is long. But maybe he saw someone prowling around late at night. He’s up all hours. You say you got in late?”
I hadn’t said. I hoped he didn’t catch the brief pause before I answered.
“A little after midnight,” I lied. “I had dinner with the Thorndeckers.”
“Oh?” he said. “Have a good time?”
“Sure did. Great food. Good company.” Then I added, somewhat maliciously: “Mrs. Thorndecker is a beauty.”
“Yes,” he said, almost absently, “a very attractive woman. Well, I’ll see what I can do about this, Mr. Todd. Sorry it had to happen to a visitor to our town.”
“Happens everywhere,” I shrugged. “No real harm done.”
I closed and locked the door behind him. He hadn’t inspected that lock, but I had. No sign of forced entry. That was one for me. But he had seen that the object of the search had been something small and flat, something that could be concealed in a picture frame. That was one for him.
I knew what it was, of course. My visitor had been trying to recover that anonymous note. The one that read: “Thorndecker kills.”
With only a half-dozen regulars and me staying at the Coburn Inn, the management didn’t think it necessary to employ a chambermaid. Old Sam Livingston did the chores: changing linen, emptying wastebaskets, throwing out “dead soldiers,” vacuuming when the dust got ankle-deep.
I was still trying to set my room to rights when he knocked. I let him in.
“I’ll straighten up here,” he told me.
“You go get your morning coffee.”
“Thanks, Sam,” I said gratefully.
I handed him a five-dollar bill. He stared at it.
“Abraham Lincoln,” he said. “Fine-looking man. Good beard.” He held the bill out to me. “Take it back, Mr. Todd. I’d clean up anyways. You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I
Similar Books
