Three doors down, that was what the bellboy had said. The latch was taped back. The room might be rented by now, but if it were, it would be locked. If anyone came to the door, he could pretend he had come to the wrong one. Or try to sell them something—they would get rid of him fast enough. He pushed gently against the door, and it swung back.
Stakeout
The room was quiet and dark. Barnes stepped inside and closed the door silently behind him, then stood listening. Over the sighing of the vent in the wall came the heavy breathing of sleep.
Most of the bed was concealed by the jutting enclosure of closet and bathroom, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness he saw a foot—black shoe, white sock, dark trousers cuff above—that extended beyond it. He walked forward softly.
Sergeant Proudy lay on the bed fully dressed, his head still swathed in bandages. A notebook and a pencil, a small camera, and a revolver were neatly arranged on the bedside table by the telephone. For a moment, Barnes wondered if he should not empty the revolver—it seemed to be the sort of thing they did on TV—then decided not to. It was probably against the law, and he did not know how to open the mechanism anyway.
A black attache case stood open on the desk, and an electric razor nestled there among a clutter of other objects. Barnes reached for it, drew back his hand, then imagined himself making calls with a day’s growth of beard. The temptation was too great; he carried the razor into the bathroom and locked the door.
Proudy’s knuckles slammed against it as he was finishing up his right cheek. “Just a minute,” Barnes called. “I’m almost through.” A fusillade of violent rapping startled him. “Please, Sergeant, it’s early. You’ll wake up the guests, and they’ll complain. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“You better be. Who are you? What the hell is that noise?”
“Just a minute.”
“I’ll shoot through the door!”
There had been no hint of humor in the policeman’s voice. Barnes said, “It’s only your electric razor. I thought I’d shave while you were sleeping. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“You got a gun?”
“I’m not armed,” Barnes said. “You can’t even trim your corns with an electric razor.”
“You’d better not be. I’m going to frisk you when you come out. You can forget about wrapping it in plastic and dropping it in the toilet tank, too. I’m on to that.”
Barnes looked. “This toilet doesn’t have one.”
“Don’t get smart with me.”
There was a silicone-impregnated strip of paper for shining shoes. Barnes put one foot on the basin, then the other.
“Come out!”
Something in the policeman’s tone gave Barnes the impression that the revolver he had seen was pointed at the bathroom door. Under his breath he said, “Everything is bathroom doors lately,” and opened the door, still muttering. It was a shock to see he had been correct.
“What’d you say?”
“‘Well, blow me down.’ It’s just an expression.”
“I’ll blow you away if you stay cute. You know who I am?”
“Of course,” Barnes said. “I let you in yesterday.”
“That’s right. That’s exactly right. You know who I am and where I am, and why I’m here. Ain’t that right?”
Barnes shook his head. “How about putting away the gun, Sergeant? I’m not going to do anything.”
“I’ll say you’re not. Turn around and put your hands against that wall. Lean on’em. I’m going to shake you down, and if you so much as wiggle your ass I’ll blow you in two.”
Barnes did as he was told and felt the rapid patting of the policeman’s hands—inside thighs, outside thighs, under arms. His order book was deftly extracted from the breast pocket of his suit coat. He heard the pages riffled, then the slap as the book was tossed on the bed.
“Okay, turn around.”
He turned as instructed. “I just wanted to talk to you for a minute. Put away your gun and let’s sit down.”
“You said you had an electric razor. Where is it?”
“I left it in the bathroom.”
“Switch those lights on again and point to it. All right, go over to it slow.” Sergeant Proudy followed him into the bathroom, the muzzle of his revolver jammed against Barnes’s spine. “Unplug it and drop it in the crapper.” Barnes started to protest, and the revolver made an ominous click. “You do what I tell you. Do it now.”
The razor sank with a soft splash, trailing a column of tiny bubbles. Barnes left the wire hanging out of the bowl. “Is that all right? If it is, how about putting your gun away? You’ve seen I haven’t got one. I’d like to sit down and talk.”
The revolver no longer jabbed his spine, and he heard the shuffle of the policeman’s feet as he backed out of the bathroom. “You’d like to jump me. That’s what you’d like to do.”
“I could have jumped you while you were asleep,” Barnes protested.
“Yeah, but you didn’t. Lost your nerve. You sit down; sit on the bed.”
Barnes seated himself gingerly, wondering what the maid would say, how she would report it to the management when she found the bed of an unoccupied room so rumpled and creased.
“I’m putting my gun back in this shoulder rig,” Proudy announced. “You see it? I can get it a hell of a lot quicker than you can get your hanky, and I’m hoping, yeah, hoping you’ll try something. Because you’re going to be dead before you ever get your ass off that mattress.”
“I won’t try anything,” Barnes said.
“God damn you, you’d better not.”
“I just came here to talk to you. You’re watching Madame Serpentina and Stubb and—ah—the rest of us? Isn’t that true?”
“You’ve got this all wrong, bud. I don’t answer questions. I ask them.”
“All I want,” Barnes said carefully, “is a little advice. You see, Sergeant, I’ve been offered a business proposition—by Stubb and Madame Serpentina specincally—and it occurred to me that if they were suspected of something, maybe I ought to find out about it before I give them my decision.”
“What you’re telling me is you’re not working with them already.”
“I’m not. We’re friends, that’s all.”
Sergeant Proudy had begun to pace the room. Barnes watched him, trying to recall him as he had been the day before, when he knocked at the door. A harsh band of daylight had penetrated the drapes; when Proudy entered it, he seemed haggard, as though he were a creature of the night who lost all life and color there, as sea creatures do, taken from the water.
“I know about you,” Proudy said after he had paced the room a dozen times. “You don’t think I do, but I do. You don’t think anyone knows, do you. Well, I do. I’m the only son of a bitch that does, but I know more about you than you do about yourselves.”
“Then maybe you’ll give me your advice.”
“Me give you advice? Oh, no, not me.” Proudy turned a humorless smile toward him. “What could I say? Quit? Your boss won’t allow you to quit. I know that, and you know it too. Confess and bargain with the Prosecutor’s Office for police protection? They wouldn’t believe you any more than they would me. Kill yourself? That wouldn’t work either, now would it?”
“I guess not,” Barnes said.
“So you see, there’s nothing I can tell you to do.” Proudy drew his revolver again, spun the cylinder so that it made a sharp clicking, then thrust it back into his holster. “We’ll fight it out, you people and me. I got a hand tied behind me: I got to work inside the law, or pretty much. You can do as you damn please. There’s four of you with God knows how many millions or billions behind you, and only one of me.” He thumped his chest. “That’s okay too.”