question. Why did I invite him, anyway? I didn’t have to. He didn’t expect me to. So, why? Why?
The answer finally came to him. Aided by weariness, it weeded its way through the many mental blocks he had set up. Burst forth into his consciousness.
And, yes, you know it. It scared hell out of him.
9
I t was three days after Dudley’s death that Bugs received the letter. A blackmail letter demanding the five thousand dollars which he had supposedly murdered Dudley to obtain. The writer left no doubt about the fact that he, or rather she—it just about had to be a she—meant business. She made it clear that she had the goods on him—and she did have in a hideously false but irrefutable way—and that, failing to get the five thousand, she would turn the matter over to Lou Ford.
So Bugs was back again in his natural habitat: that vulgarly named creek which he always seemed to wind up in. And this time he was not only without a paddle but also a boat.
Because, naturally, he didn’t have and couldn’t get the five thousand which he had to have, or else. He couldn’t get five hundred. He couldn’t have scraped up fifty without seriously straining himself.
That left him with only one alternative. To find out who the blackmailer was. To find her and give her something in place of the five thousand. This presented something of a problem, of course. But he had a good strong lead on the dame, a pretty good idea of who she was—he thought. So it boiled down to a matter of leading her on, concealing his suspicions, and then—
But that was then. All that began on the third day after Dudley’s death.
Taking things as they came, the events following his interview with Mike Hanlon:
…Bugs had a hard time getting to sleep. In fact, it was almost three in the afternoon before he finally did doze off. Then, around six, he was awakened by a soft but persistent rapping. And his several who-is-its and what-is-its being ignored, he yanked on his trousers and went to the door.
It was Joyce Hanlon, dressed in her usual uniform of flank-fitting skirt and overstuffed sweater. She smiled at him brightly, and Bugs tried to smile back at her. The best he could manage was a fearsome baring of teeth.
“Hi, Bugs,” she said. “Were you asleep?”
“Asleep? Oh, no, nothing like that,” he laughed hoarsely. “No, I never sleep in the daytime. I do that at night when I’m walking around the hotel.”
“Oh…Well, I hope I didn’t wake you up.”
Bugs let out an angry moan. He tried to control himself, to smirk politely, to say it was all right and that it didn’t matter a bit. But—but—
She hoped she hadn’t waked him up! Goddammit, he’d just got through telling her that he was asleep, and then she hoped she hadn’t waked him up!
How goddamned stupid could you get, anyway? And what did she want, anyway?
The questions growled and snarled through his mind. They rushed out of his mouth before he could stop them.
Her eyes widened, and she took a startled backward step. “Well!” she said. “I can’t say that I appreciate—”
“Who gives a damn? I just got to sleep, for Christ’s sake, and then you—I—all right, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blow my top, but—”
“Now, that’s better,” she said primly. “Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“Hell, I guess so. I mean, certainly, glad to have you. I—Aah, to hell with it. Come in or stay out, whatever you damned please.”
She marched past him, mouth quirked, cheeks flushed. She sat down on the bed gingerly, and Bugs closed the door with a bang, slouched down in a chair in front of her.
She crossed her legs, brushed at a tiny crease in her skirt. Bugs plucked at an imaginary hangnail. They looked up, and their eyes met. They looked quickly down again, and then slowly up again.
And suddenly she exploded into laughter, flung herself backward on the bed, her heels drumming against its sides, her entire body quivering and quaking with
The answer finally came to him. Aided by weariness, it weeded its way through the many mental blocks he had set up. Burst forth into his consciousness.
And, yes, you know it. It scared hell out of him.
9
I t was three days after Dudley’s death that Bugs received the letter. A blackmail letter demanding the five thousand dollars which he had supposedly murdered Dudley to obtain. The writer left no doubt about the fact that he, or rather she—it just about had to be a she—meant business. She made it clear that she had the goods on him—and she did have in a hideously false but irrefutable way—and that, failing to get the five thousand, she would turn the matter over to Lou Ford.
So Bugs was back again in his natural habitat: that vulgarly named creek which he always seemed to wind up in. And this time he was not only without a paddle but also a boat.
Because, naturally, he didn’t have and couldn’t get the five thousand which he had to have, or else. He couldn’t get five hundred. He couldn’t have scraped up fifty without seriously straining himself.
That left him with only one alternative. To find out who the blackmailer was. To find her and give her something in place of the five thousand. This presented something of a problem, of course. But he had a good strong lead on the dame, a pretty good idea of who she was—he thought. So it boiled down to a matter of leading her on, concealing his suspicions, and then—
But that was then. All that began on the third day after Dudley’s death.
Taking things as they came, the events following his interview with Mike Hanlon:
…Bugs had a hard time getting to sleep. In fact, it was almost three in the afternoon before he finally did doze off. Then, around six, he was awakened by a soft but persistent rapping. And his several who-is-its and what-is-its being ignored, he yanked on his trousers and went to the door.
It was Joyce Hanlon, dressed in her usual uniform of flank-fitting skirt and overstuffed sweater. She smiled at him brightly, and Bugs tried to smile back at her. The best he could manage was a fearsome baring of teeth.
“Hi, Bugs,” she said. “Were you asleep?”
“Asleep? Oh, no, nothing like that,” he laughed hoarsely. “No, I never sleep in the daytime. I do that at night when I’m walking around the hotel.”
“Oh…Well, I hope I didn’t wake you up.”
Bugs let out an angry moan. He tried to control himself, to smirk politely, to say it was all right and that it didn’t matter a bit. But—but—
She hoped she hadn’t waked him up! Goddammit, he’d just got through telling her that he was asleep, and then she hoped she hadn’t waked him up!
How goddamned stupid could you get, anyway? And what did she want, anyway?
The questions growled and snarled through his mind. They rushed out of his mouth before he could stop them.
Her eyes widened, and she took a startled backward step. “Well!” she said. “I can’t say that I appreciate—”
“Who gives a damn? I just got to sleep, for Christ’s sake, and then you—I—all right, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blow my top, but—”
“Now, that’s better,” she said primly. “Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“Hell, I guess so. I mean, certainly, glad to have you. I—Aah, to hell with it. Come in or stay out, whatever you damned please.”
She marched past him, mouth quirked, cheeks flushed. She sat down on the bed gingerly, and Bugs closed the door with a bang, slouched down in a chair in front of her.
She crossed her legs, brushed at a tiny crease in her skirt. Bugs plucked at an imaginary hangnail. They looked up, and their eyes met. They looked quickly down again, and then slowly up again.
And suddenly she exploded into laughter, flung herself backward on the bed, her heels drumming against its sides, her entire body quivering and quaking with
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