The Surfside Caper by Louis Trimble

expecting to see a flashlight, to hear Colton’s voice. But there was nothing. The night was still, without any breeze. I had only my own gusty breath for company.
    I made better and quieter time now. I needed a flashlight. I lost my way twice and wandered onto the golf course. But eventually I reached the end. I stood in shadow and stared thoughtfully at Annette’s doorway.
    Tibbetts or Annette first? Annette, I decided. She was the crux of this affair. Tibbetts might know everything that was going on or he might know a little and be guessing a lot.
    I walked to Annette’s door and tried the knob. It was hoping for a lot to expect Tibbetts to have left the door unlocked. He hadn’t. I unlimbered my ring of pass keys. The first one slid into the grooves but turned nothing. I was on number six before I had a positive response. I opened the door and walked into the dark living room.
    The bedroom door stood open, a patch of light against blackness. I walked toward it, listening for her breathing. A slice of moonlight slid through a crack in the drawn draperies over the window. It revealed a mound on the bed.
    I could smell perfume and powder. I could hear nothing, not even Annette breathing. I stepped into the room. The moonlight showed me more now; a bare shoulder and an arm trailing toward the floor.
    I took two fast steps. I put my hand out, touching the shoulder. The skin was cold and clammy. I wondered if she was dead drunk again or all the way dead?
    I reached for the bedside lamp.
    She wasn’t dead, but from her appearance she didn’t have far to go. Her skin had that peculiar quality of bled fowl. Her breathing was so light that I had to put my ear an inch from her mouth to hear it.
    I sniffed her breath. An odor, half cloying sweetness, half medicinal, registered on my nose. I saw a glass on the bedside table. I sniffed it too. It had the same odor. The glass had drying white powder around the rim.
    I felt Annette’s pulse. It was barely ticking over. I made a fast trip into the bathroom medicine chest. I found what I expected, a box of sleeping powders. There were nine in small envelopes. The label on the box read: “No more than
one
envelope every twenty-four hours.” The prescription had come from a San Francisco drugstore.
    I looked into the bathroom wastebasket. It contained a few wadded facial tissues, a hank of hair like a woman pulls loose when she combs out a snarl, and three of the small envelopes.
    I picked up the telephone. I had the operator ring Ingrid’s room. On the eighth buzz, Ingrid said sleepily, “Hello?”
    I said, “This is hotel security. We’re checking on a Lawrence Flynn. You made a reservation for him here. He’s skipped without paying his bill. Mrs. Lofgren wants to talk to you about it right away.”
    She couldn’t miss recognizing my voice. She said, “Larry! What is this all about?”
    I said, “That’s what it’s all about—Larry Flynn. Come to Mrs. Lofgren’s office at once, please.” I hung up.
    I wasn’t playing games. I wasn’t being coy. I was protecting my flank. Hotel switchboard operators, especially those on the eleven to seven dead shift, like to tune in on late phone calls. And some of them like to talk about what they hear. I wanted Lieutenant Colton to get the information I had just passed on. I wanted him to think I had skipped out.
    And at the same time I wanted Ingrid here to help me with Annette.
    I went back to the bed and listened for Annette’s breathing. I had to bend closer to her to hear anything at all now.
    • • •
    Ingrid hadn’t wasted any time dressing. She came in wearing only a thin summerweight dress. She hadn’t bothered to comb her hair or put on make-up. Her face was still puffy from sleep, but her eyes were bright and alert.
    She said, “You’re in trouble, aren’t you, Larry? I saw two police cars parked outside.”
    I didn’t feel like pussyfooting at this time of the morning. I said, “One of those cars brought a