He stopped moaning and opened his eyes. “Bud!” he exclaimed faintly. “These guys... awful rough... turned out the last light and started to go home... fella backed me back into the joint with a gun... told me to sell out... said the syndicate wanted to take over... made me mad... wouldn’t let me turn on light... I tried to grab him and he shot me... burning hot... legs all numb... don’t leave me.”
I knelt down beside him and said: “Maybe it’s all clear now, Howler. I found Sellers, the guy that runs the Western Inn, visiting our dishwasher. Hey! Did you hear me?” He didn’t answer. His eyes were shut. He was breathing heavily.
Mrs. Browne came back in, her fingers woven together. “I don’t know what to do. I telephoned the doctor. Should I phone the police right away?”
Just then we heard the door buzzer. She hurried to the front door. I heard her say, “Oh!” in a disappointed tone. John C. Winch, bland and tanned, walked into the room.
“Hello, Bud, I just stopped to see—” He saw the Howler on the daybed and saw the blood. His jaw dropped. “What? When did it happen? Was he shot?”
“Yeah. Shot about twenty minutes ago. The doc should he here. What’d you come over for?”
“I guess I was too late. I was sleeping and I got a phone call. The man didn’t tell me his name. Just said that I better convince Browne he ought to sell out or he maybe would be shot. Told me that I better convince him quick. I dressed and hurried right over.”
“Sell out be damned. Winch. That isn’t the way to handle this thing. You got to fight.”
“Sure, and get what Browne got. You look like you got some of it too.”
I took a look in the mirror. I was a mess. My Jips were three times too big and my chin and collar were bloodcaked. Mrs. Browne had been standing by listening.
“I want my husband to get out of this, if he doesn’t die.” She sat in a chair and covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders didn’t shake. She just sat there as still as the picture on the front of a movie house.
“What’s the legal opinion about calling in the gestapo?” I asked.
He rubbed his chin and glanced at the Howler. “I guess we can take a chance on waiting to see what the doc says. Maybe we won’t have to. It might be best all around if we didn’t.”
“Leave the cops out of it if you want to, Winch, but I got a lead and I’m going to chase it up. I’m beginning to get annoyed at this whole thing.”
Before he had a chance to answer, the buzzer whined again and Mrs. Brown let the doctor in. He hurried over and started to push gently at the sides of the wound. I walked out without a word. I was scared, shaken and mad. I climbed into my car and drove back to the parking lot. I didn’t have any idea where to go or what to do.
Just as I reached the lot, a taxi turned in. Jerry got out. I could see her by my headlights. I stopped, walked over and paid the man off. She stood there until he had spun around and headed out.
She grabbed me by the sleeve. “I watched and finally that man came out with Mr. Sellers. They went off in Mr. Sellers’ car. I couldn’t find a taxi to follow them. I don’t know where they went.”
“That’s great. That’s dandy.”
“What’s the matter, Bud?” she said, pouting. “Didn’t I do it right?”
“Sure, you did fine. Only somebody shot the boss and he’s in bad shape. It’s probably too late.”
“Oh!” She hung her head.
“If he’s out, I’m going back and see what I can find in his room. That jerk behind the desk will let me in for a few bucks.”
“Can I come?”
“Not this time, honey. You’ll just be in the way. You go on to bed and I’ll see you in the morning. It’s four o’clock already.” She pouted again and walked off toward the barn. I wondered idly why none of the kids had been awakened by the shot. Then I realized that they probably had. In the club business, it turns out most times to be a good idea to stay away from places where you hear shots.
Thinking of shots reminded me that maybe I had better start running around with a gun like everybody else. I hurried up to my room and dug my .32 automatic out of my bureau drawer. I keep it under a green shirt. I seldom use the shirt and I have never used the gun. I won it in a crap game in San Diego, full clip and all.
I ran back out to the car and headed for Casling for the second time. I made good time getting in.
The clerk gave me a gentle sneer and said: “Back again, I see.”
“No time for talk, sonny. Do I get a key to two-eleven for ten bucks, or do we argue some more?”
He shrugged and turned his back on me. Then he turned around again and slid a key across the counter. I hauled out a ten and gave it to him. He stuck it in his pocket as though it was an old gum wrapper. “Any trouble about this, mister, and I say you snitched it while I was asleep.”
I went on upstairs. Two-eleven was three doors on the right from the head of the stairs. I listened for a minute outside the door. The room seemed to be dark. No light showed under the door. I slipped the key in and it worked quietly. I shut the door gently behind me and found the wall switch.
It was the world’s average cheap hotel room. A scratched walnut bed, one bleary window, pink and white cotton blankets, sagging springs, holes worn in the rug, only one bulb working in the overhead lights, dripping faucets in the tiny bathroom, one cane chair, a bureau with a cracked glass top, an ashtray advertising beer, a glass half-full of water and a liverish color scheme of soiled green and dusty maroon.
I tried the bureau first. Cheap clean clothes. Nothing else. I tried the closet. Cheap dirty clothes. Nothing under the mattress. I stood in the middle of the room and scratched my head. Where do the detectives look? I was wondering what was under the rug when I heard a stealthy clicking noise at the door. I snatched the gun out of my jacket pocket and stepped into the bathroom. I didn’t have time to click the light switch. I felt cold sweat jump out on my forehead. I felt slightly dizzy. I pulled the door shut a little so I could see through the crack.
The door swung open so violently that it banged back against the wall. No one stepped in. I caught a flash of movement and tried to level the gun at it. A hand and arm reached quickly around the door and flicked toward the light switch. The room became abruptly black. A dim light from the hall silhouetted the door.
Then something moved quickly through the shadows and was in the room with me. I wanted to yell but my mouth was too dry.
Then a husky voice said: “O.K., Morse. Toss your gun on the floor.”
The sound of my own name shocked me. I stuffed the gun down into the side of my right shoe and said: “I haven’t got a gun. I haven’t got anything, Thomason.”
There was silence for a few seconds. Then, dryly: “I believe you. That’s just the kind of a sucker play you’d make. Where are you standing?”
“In the bathroom.”
“Stand outside the door of the bathroom.”
I did as I was told. I heard the door shut again and then the lights clicked on. I had been straining my eyes in the dark and the sudden brightness made me blink. John C. Winch stood in front of me, an efficient-looking gun leveled at my middle. He had a smile on his tan face. He stepped forward and slapped my pockets and then stepped back.
“Surprised? Now go on over and sit on the bed.”
I walked over. I had to move carefully to keep from dropping the gun out of my shoe. I hoped the pants cuff covered it enough. I tucked my feet back under the hanging spread when I sat down.
“You don’t have to tell me, Winch. I can tell you. I’ve been a dope. You and Sellers and Thomason are behind this thing. You were in a perfect position to know how much the Howler could stand to pay. Now you’re greedy and you want his place. You’ll buy it through some dummy and start to rake off real profits.”