did herself well. I hoped she was paying her own rent. It didn’t make any difference to me—I just liked it that way.
I went back towards the living room, stopped in the doorway to take another pleasant look around, and noticed something I ought to have noticed the instant I stepped into the room. I noticed the sharp tang of cordite on the air, almost, but not quite gone. And then I noticed something else.
The bed had been moved over until its head overlapped the edge of a closet door which was not quite closed. The weight of the bed was holding it from opening. I went over there to find out why it wanted to open. I went slowly and about halfway there I noticed that I was holding a gun in my hand.
I leaned against the closet door. It didn’t move. I threw more weight against it. It still didn’t move. Braced against it I pushed the bed away with my foot, gave ground slowly.
A weight pushed against me hard. I had gone back a foot or so before anything else happened. Then it happened suddenly. He came out—sideways, in a sort of roll. I put some more weight back on the door and held him like that a moment, looking at him.
He was still big, still blond, still dressed in rough sporty material, with scarf and open-necked shirt. But his face wasn’t red any more.
I gave ground again and he rolled down the back of the door, turning a little like a swimmer in the surf, thumped the floor and lay there, almost on his back, still looking at me. Light from the bedside lamp glittered on his head. There was a scorched and soggy stain on the rough coat—about where his heart would be. So he wouldn’t get that five million after all. And nobody would get anything and Marty Estel wouldn’t get his fifty grand. Because young Mister Gerald was dead.
I looked back into the closet where he had been. Its door hung wide open now. There were clothes on racks, feminine clothes, nice clothes. He had been backed in among them, probably with his hands in the air and a gun against his chest. And then he had been shot dead, and whoever did it hadn’t been quite quick enough or quite strong enough to get the door shut. Or had been scared and had just yanked the bed over against the door and left it that way.
Something glittered down on the floor. I picked it up. A small automatic, .25 caliber, a woman’s purse gun with a beautifully engraved butt inlaid with silver and ivory. I put the gun in my pocket. That seemed a funny thing to do, too.
I didn’t touch him. He was as dead as John D. Arbogast and looked a whole lot deader. I left the door open and listened, walked quickly back across the room and into the living room and shut the bedroom door, smearing the knob as I did it.
A lock was being tinkled at with a key. Hawkins was back again, to see what delayed me. He was letting himself in with his passkey.
I was pouring a drink when he came in.
He came well into the room, stopped with his feet planted and surveyed me coldly.
“I seen Estel and his boy leave,” he said. “I didn’t see you leave. So I come up. I gotta—”
“You gotta protect the guests,” I said.
“Yeah. I gotta protect the guests. You can’t stay up here, pal. Not without the lady of the house home.”
“But Marty Estel and his hard boy can.”
He came a little closer to me. He had a mean look in his eye. He had always had it, probably, but I noticed it more now.
“You don’t want to make nothing of that, do you?” he asked me.
“No. Every man to his own chisel. Have a drink.”
“That ain’t your liquor.”
“Miss Huntress gave me a bottle. We’re pals. Marty Estel and I are pals. Everybody is pals. Don’t you want to be pals?”
“You ain’t trying to kid me, are you?”
“Have a drink and forget it.”
I found a glass and poured him one. He took it.
“It’s the job if anybody smells it on me,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
He drank slowly, rolling it around on his tongue. “Good Scotch.”
“Won’t be the first time you
I went back towards the living room, stopped in the doorway to take another pleasant look around, and noticed something I ought to have noticed the instant I stepped into the room. I noticed the sharp tang of cordite on the air, almost, but not quite gone. And then I noticed something else.
The bed had been moved over until its head overlapped the edge of a closet door which was not quite closed. The weight of the bed was holding it from opening. I went over there to find out why it wanted to open. I went slowly and about halfway there I noticed that I was holding a gun in my hand.
I leaned against the closet door. It didn’t move. I threw more weight against it. It still didn’t move. Braced against it I pushed the bed away with my foot, gave ground slowly.
A weight pushed against me hard. I had gone back a foot or so before anything else happened. Then it happened suddenly. He came out—sideways, in a sort of roll. I put some more weight back on the door and held him like that a moment, looking at him.
He was still big, still blond, still dressed in rough sporty material, with scarf and open-necked shirt. But his face wasn’t red any more.
I gave ground again and he rolled down the back of the door, turning a little like a swimmer in the surf, thumped the floor and lay there, almost on his back, still looking at me. Light from the bedside lamp glittered on his head. There was a scorched and soggy stain on the rough coat—about where his heart would be. So he wouldn’t get that five million after all. And nobody would get anything and Marty Estel wouldn’t get his fifty grand. Because young Mister Gerald was dead.
I looked back into the closet where he had been. Its door hung wide open now. There were clothes on racks, feminine clothes, nice clothes. He had been backed in among them, probably with his hands in the air and a gun against his chest. And then he had been shot dead, and whoever did it hadn’t been quite quick enough or quite strong enough to get the door shut. Or had been scared and had just yanked the bed over against the door and left it that way.
Something glittered down on the floor. I picked it up. A small automatic, .25 caliber, a woman’s purse gun with a beautifully engraved butt inlaid with silver and ivory. I put the gun in my pocket. That seemed a funny thing to do, too.
I didn’t touch him. He was as dead as John D. Arbogast and looked a whole lot deader. I left the door open and listened, walked quickly back across the room and into the living room and shut the bedroom door, smearing the knob as I did it.
A lock was being tinkled at with a key. Hawkins was back again, to see what delayed me. He was letting himself in with his passkey.
I was pouring a drink when he came in.
He came well into the room, stopped with his feet planted and surveyed me coldly.
“I seen Estel and his boy leave,” he said. “I didn’t see you leave. So I come up. I gotta—”
“You gotta protect the guests,” I said.
“Yeah. I gotta protect the guests. You can’t stay up here, pal. Not without the lady of the house home.”
“But Marty Estel and his hard boy can.”
He came a little closer to me. He had a mean look in his eye. He had always had it, probably, but I noticed it more now.
“You don’t want to make nothing of that, do you?” he asked me.
“No. Every man to his own chisel. Have a drink.”
“That ain’t your liquor.”
“Miss Huntress gave me a bottle. We’re pals. Marty Estel and I are pals. Everybody is pals. Don’t you want to be pals?”
“You ain’t trying to kid me, are you?”
“Have a drink and forget it.”
I found a glass and poured him one. He took it.
“It’s the job if anybody smells it on me,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
He drank slowly, rolling it around on his tongue. “Good Scotch.”
“Won’t be the first time you
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