It’s shorter that way. I’ll turn on the light at the side door. You want me to take your luggage?”
“Thanks, I can carry it myself.” Not having any.
The parking lot was a dark quadrangle hemmed in by the lightless walls of business buildings empty for the night. Carrying my brief case for appearance’s sake, I walked along the alley to the side door where the old bellhop was waiting. The naked yellow insect-repellant bulb over the door splashed jaundice on his face. He accepted my brief case as if he didn’t really expect a tip.
A woman with thyroid eyes and chins sat behind the desk in the deserted lobby. She offered me a room with bath for two-fifty, two dollars without. I didn’t really want to stay there. The migrant years had flown through the place and left their droppings.
The Captain had made a mistake, I thought, perhaps a deliberate one. It didn’t seem likely that Mrs. Wycherly had ever lived in the Champion. I decided to find out, before I contracted for a night-long date with depression.
The thyroid eyes were going over me, trying to decide if I was too choosy or too broke. “Well? You want the two-fifty with the bath, or the two-dollar one? I’ll have to ask you to pay in advance,” she added, with a glance at the worn brief case which the old bellhop was holding.
“I’ll be glad to. But it just occurred to me, my wife may have taken a double room.”
“Your wife a guest here?”
“She’s supposed to be.”
“What’s her—what’s your name?”
“Wycherly,” I said.
The fat woman and the old man exchanged a look whosemeaning I didn’t catch. She said with something in her voice that was patronizing, almost pitying:
“Your wife
was
here for quite a bit. But she moved out tonight, less than an hour ago.”
“Where did she move to?”
“I’m sorry, she left no forwarding address.”
“Was she leaving town?”
“We have no way of knowing. I’m very sorry, sir.” She sounded as if she meant it. “Do you still want a room? Or not?”
“I’ll take the one with the bath. I haven’t had a bath for a long time.”
“Yessir,” she said imperturbably. “I’ll put you in 516. Would you sign the register please?”
I signed myself H. Wycherly. After all, he was paying for the room. I gave the woman a fifty-dollar bill, which she had a hard time making change for. The bellhop watched the transaction with great interest.
When he and I were alone in my room on the fifth floor, in the delicate interval between the window-raising and the tipping if any, he said:
“I might be able to help you put your hands on your lady.”
“You know where she is?”
“I didn’t say that. I said maybe. I hear things. I see things.” He touched the corner of his bleared eye with the tip of his forefinger, and winked.
“What did you see and hear?”
“I wouldn’t want to say it right out, you being her husband and all. I don’t want to make more trouble for her. She’s a troubled lady already. But you know that, you’re married to her.”
“I’m not working at it.”
“That’s good. Because if you was working at it you’d be getting pretty poor returns on your labor. I guess you know that, too, eh?”
“What I know doesn’t matter. What do you know?”
“I don’t like to make trouble for anybody.” His old and slightly tangled gaze shifted from me to my brief case, which he had placed on a wicker luggage stand against the wall. “You wouldn’t have a gun in that little case? I felt something in there that sure felt like a gun to me. And I don’t want to be party to no shooting.”
“There won’t be any shooting. All I want to do is find Mrs. Wycherly and talk to her.”
I was beginning to regret my impersonation of Wycherly. It had seemed like the quick way to get the facts, but it was involving me in too many facts.
“You don’t need a gun for that,” the old man said, edging towards the door. “Jerry Dingman’s no troublemaker.”
“Look
“Thanks, I can carry it myself.” Not having any.
The parking lot was a dark quadrangle hemmed in by the lightless walls of business buildings empty for the night. Carrying my brief case for appearance’s sake, I walked along the alley to the side door where the old bellhop was waiting. The naked yellow insect-repellant bulb over the door splashed jaundice on his face. He accepted my brief case as if he didn’t really expect a tip.
A woman with thyroid eyes and chins sat behind the desk in the deserted lobby. She offered me a room with bath for two-fifty, two dollars without. I didn’t really want to stay there. The migrant years had flown through the place and left their droppings.
The Captain had made a mistake, I thought, perhaps a deliberate one. It didn’t seem likely that Mrs. Wycherly had ever lived in the Champion. I decided to find out, before I contracted for a night-long date with depression.
The thyroid eyes were going over me, trying to decide if I was too choosy or too broke. “Well? You want the two-fifty with the bath, or the two-dollar one? I’ll have to ask you to pay in advance,” she added, with a glance at the worn brief case which the old bellhop was holding.
“I’ll be glad to. But it just occurred to me, my wife may have taken a double room.”
“Your wife a guest here?”
“She’s supposed to be.”
“What’s her—what’s your name?”
“Wycherly,” I said.
The fat woman and the old man exchanged a look whosemeaning I didn’t catch. She said with something in her voice that was patronizing, almost pitying:
“Your wife
was
here for quite a bit. But she moved out tonight, less than an hour ago.”
“Where did she move to?”
“I’m sorry, she left no forwarding address.”
“Was she leaving town?”
“We have no way of knowing. I’m very sorry, sir.” She sounded as if she meant it. “Do you still want a room? Or not?”
“I’ll take the one with the bath. I haven’t had a bath for a long time.”
“Yessir,” she said imperturbably. “I’ll put you in 516. Would you sign the register please?”
I signed myself H. Wycherly. After all, he was paying for the room. I gave the woman a fifty-dollar bill, which she had a hard time making change for. The bellhop watched the transaction with great interest.
When he and I were alone in my room on the fifth floor, in the delicate interval between the window-raising and the tipping if any, he said:
“I might be able to help you put your hands on your lady.”
“You know where she is?”
“I didn’t say that. I said maybe. I hear things. I see things.” He touched the corner of his bleared eye with the tip of his forefinger, and winked.
“What did you see and hear?”
“I wouldn’t want to say it right out, you being her husband and all. I don’t want to make more trouble for her. She’s a troubled lady already. But you know that, you’re married to her.”
“I’m not working at it.”
“That’s good. Because if you was working at it you’d be getting pretty poor returns on your labor. I guess you know that, too, eh?”
“What I know doesn’t matter. What do you know?”
“I don’t like to make trouble for anybody.” His old and slightly tangled gaze shifted from me to my brief case, which he had placed on a wicker luggage stand against the wall. “You wouldn’t have a gun in that little case? I felt something in there that sure felt like a gun to me. And I don’t want to be party to no shooting.”
“There won’t be any shooting. All I want to do is find Mrs. Wycherly and talk to her.”
I was beginning to regret my impersonation of Wycherly. It had seemed like the quick way to get the facts, but it was involving me in too many facts.
“You don’t need a gun for that,” the old man said, edging towards the door. “Jerry Dingman’s no troublemaker.”
“Look
Similar Books
