When I reached the fourth-floor level I experienced the luxury of a long, deep breath. A feeble corridor light glowed beyond the window, which was open against the warmth. A sluggish breeze stirred, billowing the edges of grayish curtains through the window.
I let the curtain edge catch on my finger and took a look inside. The corridor was short, an emergency exit connecting to the main hallway.
I put my rump on the window sill, swung my legs across, and ducked in. When the hotel had basked proudly in its shine of newness, the carpeting had been superb, wall to wall, padded thickly. Now it was threadbare, composed in part of dust that had accumulated over the years. It still deadened the sound of footfalls.
I endured a tight moment as I stepped into the main hallway, which was at right angles to the service hall. Overhead a small red light marked the emergency exit.
I turned to the left, making a random choice. Glancing at the numbers on the first two doors I passed, I saw that they got higher.
I turned and started in the other direction, toward 404. A door opened just in front of me. A woman came out of her room, gave me hardly a glance, went to the elevator, and punched a button. I heard the faint reverberations as the ancient self-service elevator rattled upward.
I reached 404 but didn’t stop. I walked to the far end of the corridor, came to a halt, and went through the motions of a man searching for keys.
The stinking elevator was bumbling toward its destination by inches. The woman was beginning to be aware of me, looking away quickly when I glanced at her.
I made as if I was fitting a key in the door and the elevator finally reached the end of its journey. Hesitant creaks marked the opening of the elevator door. The woman got aboard, and the cage started down.
Alone in the corridor, I spun and moved to McJunkin’s room. A thin sweat spread a cold touch across my forehead. I slid my hand to the waistband of my pants and curled my fingers around the butt of the .38.
Sixteen
I knocked on the door matter-of-factly.
I listened for the rustle of a bed spring, the pad of a foot. I waited for him to say, “Who’s there?”
If he was in the room, I was set to snap the lock and kick the door open, using my heel as a pile driver. I was ready to show him the business end of the .38 before he had a chance to do a thing about it.
Nothing happened. I tried again, laying my knuckles a little harder against the door, just in case he was in the John and hadn’t heard the first knock.
The room and hallway remained silent. The sweat on my face felt as if a brief ray of sunlight had touched it. He’d had everything his own way so far, been able to call the shots. I was past due for a break.
While I still enjoyed solitude in the hallway, I slipped the key ring from my pocket and separated the thin steel from the keys. I worked the steel carefully into a hairline crack where the door molding was attached. I watched the steel disappear, felt it make contact with the beveled metal latch of the spring lock.
Applying pressure, I sensed the spring beginning to yield. The steel was sliding across the sloping end of the latch, forcing it back. It clicked softly.
Leaving the steel where it was to keep the latch from jumping back into its hasp, I turned the doorknob. The door opened quietly. I removed the steel and returned it to my pocket.
I slid inside the room, closed the door, letting the lock function.
I stood a moment while my eyes got used to the dim illumination that came from outside neon and streetlight glow.
Probing with a miniature pocket flashlight, I started a circuit of the layout. Physically, the surroundings were what I’d expected, typical drab room in a drab hotel. The furnishings were heavy, solid, but old and scarred and scorched in spots from careless cigarettes. The counterpane and curtains were limp and dingy. Water gathered lazily and dripped from worn faucets in the bathroom.
I let the thin finger of light linger in the bathroom washbasin. There were stains in the bottom of the pitted porcelain bowl. Not rust stains. Someone had built a small fire in the basin and later washed away whatever had been burned. I wondered if it had been Jean Putnam’s diary.
Coming from the bath, I crossed the bedroom to the closet and swung the door open. Like the rest of the abode, the closet reflected the habits of a man reasonably neat and orderly in his personal habits. Suits and slacks were carefully hung. On the floor were two pairs of shoes, clean and modestly shined.
As I swung the suits aside, the light beam jerked up short. In the back of the closet was a woman’s silk print dress. Next to it was a very sheer black negligee with filmy lace across the bosom, a garment designed to enhance erotic play.
I found the remainder of her things at the chest of drawers, a few of her cosmetics tidily arranged on top, changes of panties, bras, hose, and shoes in the uppermost drawer. The remainder of the chest was given over to McJunkin’s apparel — shirts, underwear, socks. The two bottom drawers were empty.
Whoever she was, I decided, she didn’t live here full time, not unless she had a very skimpy wardrobe. I pegged her as a regular visitor who’d left here the bare necessities to freshen up.
From the chest, the flashlight ray swung to the bedside table. Next to the lamp was a stack of folded newspapers, the accumulation of several days. The top one was creased to expose an account of Jean Putnam’s murder. I lifted the first paper. The one beneath told the tale of the death by violence of Lura Thackery. McJunkin’s bedtime reading when he didn’t have a visitor to entertain him...
A shrill bell chattered suddenly in the silence. As I turned, the flash beam pinwheeled to come to rest on the bureau where the phone reposed. The old man on the switchboard at the desk downstairs gave it a long try, paused, and let the phone blast a second time.
Then he must have told the caller that McJunkin wasn’t in his room. The phone didn’t ring again.
I resumed movement, flicking the light into the waste-basket, which was snugged against the wall beside the bureau.
With the barrel of the .38, I pushed aside laundry shirt wrappers, discarded magazines. Near the bottom of the container I saw red leatherette.
Bending a little lower, I dipped my hand all the way and pulled out the covers of a small book. I slapped the dust of old cigarette ashes from it, laid it face down on the bureau, and played the light over it. The entire contents had been ripped out. On the broken and bent leatherette cover were two initials in gold: J. P.
While I was standing there looking at the remains of Jean Putnam’s diary, I heard a key rattle in the lock. I peeled around from the bureau and put the dingy wallpaper against my back. I turned off the miniature flash and dropped it in my pocket as he twisted his key in the lock.
The door swung open, covering me. He entered the room with heavy, solid footsteps.
The muscles across my belly pulled flat and hard. A faint singing sensation flowed along my nerves as McJunkin’s bulk came into view.
He’d heeled the door closed, reached for the light switch, the movement turning him squarely away from me. The door latch and light switch clicked simultaneously.
While his hand was still on the switch, I put the barrel of the .38 against the nape of his neck.
“Friend,” I said, “if the wheel keeps turning, a new number is bound to come up.”
He held it right there, his half-twisted, arm-extended position having some of the aspects of a Rodin statue.
“Rivers,” he said.
“Check.”
I patted his armpits and kidneys. He wore a revolver in a shoulder holster on his left side. I reached around him, lifted the gun, and jammed it in my hip pocket.