Johnny resumed his long interrupted trip out back to the kitchen, which was just beginning to stir in the early morning quiet. Two or three lights were on in the big room, and the odor of coffee was in the air. Johnny stopped off by the giant urn and drew off a steaming mug, then carried it over to the paint-peeled desk in the back corner. A round little man with mild blue eyes looked up at his approach. “Good morning, Yonnee.”
“Mornin', Eric. What do you feed a kitten?” The blue eyes considered the matter; the offhand reply was obviously not a part of this man's nature. “Whose kitten, Yonnee?”
“My kitten.”
Eric smiled. “I would think then a little liver, a little shrimp, a little milk-”
“You sold me.”
Eric rose, his fresh whites rustling. “Drink your coffee. I fix it.”
Johnny sipped at the scalding coffee and watched the little second cook unlock a square refrigerator, rummage in its interior and emerge with a slice of liver and a handful of shrimp.
Eric turned to him. “A small kitten, Yonnee?”
Johnny shaped Sassy's size with his hands, and Eric nodded. A wide-bladed knife chopped firmly, and Johnny finished his coffee as wax paper was applied and a pint of milk set out. “Can I have one of those empties, Eric?” Johnny pointed to a stack of cartons which had contained canned goods.
“Why not?”
“Thanks, Eric. For the works.” Johnny took a carton whose sides were not too deep, gathered up his packages and departed for the lobby. On the mezzanine he confiscated a medium-sized geranium plant; he uprooted it and dumped the loose dirt in his carton, then slid the empty flower pot with the limp geranium in it under the nearest bench.
In his own room he showed this arrangement to the interested Sassy. “This is light housekeeping, baby doll,” he told her, “until Mother Killain gets to do a little shopping.” He had already lost her attention; the small, wrinkled nose was testing his packages. “Okay, tiger. Hold tight.”
From a shelf above the refrigerator he took down three saucers. He filled one with milk and put a little shrimp and a little liver in each of the others. As an afterthought he placed a newspaper beneath them, and Sassy immediately made it look like an excellent idea. Her notion of a quiet meal was to charge up on a plate full tilt and seize a piece in her mouth, then back away growling, defying the world to take it away from her. At the extreme edge of the newspaper she would eat daintily, then crouch and rush back again. She was an extremely leisurely diner.
He watched her for a few moments, then filled another saucer with water and added it to the lineup. He stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes lightly; in the first peaceful interlude he had had since Vic Barnes had opened Ellen Saxon's door Johnny tried to filter through his mind the impossible sequence of events since two o'clock that morning. For a long time the only noises in the room were Sassy's small sounds and the spatter of her paws on the newspaper.
CHAPTER 5
Johnny pushed the little stack of transcript sheets, telephone chits and miscellaneous charges across the registration desk to Marty Seiden, a dapper, thin-faced youngster with a ready smile who worked as one of the day front-desk men. “This is a dirty trick, kid,” Johnny began; he nodded apologetically at the stack of paperwork. “You think you can straighten it out? Vic hadn't made much of a dent in it before they put the snatch on him. Paul posted the telephone charges, but that's about all that's been done.”
“A cinch, big man,” Marty said confidently. His oversized bow tie matched his flaming red hair; he was already rolling back his cuffs. “Don't worry about it. Did you balance his cash?”
“Me? I couldn't balance my pocket change.” Johnny pushed a key over the counter. “I locked it up. And listen, Marty. When a guy works a cash drawer, sometimes he floats a little paper against pay day. You know?”
“I know.” The redhead grinned. “If I need anything to make it right before I send it upstairs I'll let you know.” He lined up three long yellow pencils beside the sharpener before he looked over at Johnny again. “If Vic's going to be under glass on this awhile, you're going to need a pencil man nights. How about me?”
Johnny nodded. “You just graduated to sleepin' days, kid. I'll square it with Rollins right now. See you tonight.” He crossed the lobby and mounted to the executive offices on the mezzanine. Inside the first door was a double row of frosted-glass partitioned cubicles; he knocked upon the door marked auditor, and nodded to the heavy-featured man in the horn-rimmed glasses behind the cluttered desk as he entered. “Mornin', Chet. You got any objections to lettin' Marty Seiden work the night side with me till we spring Vic?”
Bushy brows behind the glasses climbed expressively.
“Marty? Might not be a bad idea. He's a good man with figures; he'll keep you afloat. He's a little flip with his tongue; don't hesitate to sandpaper him down if he gets out of line. Do him good.”
“How's Arthur J. Morrison going to take all this, Chet?”
The auditor leaned back in his chair and light glinted from his glasses. “Officially, he's going to be a little sticky. The night front-desk man up in a guest's room at three in the morning, the guest a woman, and deceased; you understand the manager's attitude has to be a little professional. Unofficially, he's already called me to ask if I thought there was anything he could do.”
“Yeah? Not bad. We'll worry about his official attitude when we get Vic unstuck downtown. You'll transfer Marty over?”
“Right now.”
“Thanks, Chet.” Johnny walked back out to the mezzanine from the office. He stopped on the landing; Mike Larsen was in the middle of the stairs on his way up, and he was coming three steps at a time. He pulled up in front of Johnny, breathing hard, and shoved a newspaper at him.
“Look at this!”
Johnny caught the blare of a headline in the paper pushed at him. “You mean we made the front page?”
“No, no.” Mike pointed. “Not here. Read it.”
Johnny looked at the black, block print. Robert sanders killed at apartment door. And in the subheading in smaller print, Prominent Public Relations Expert and Clubman Shot Four Times. The story started, “Robert Sanders, 54, 219 Cypress Lane, was shot and killed by as yet unknown assailants in the driveway of the co-operative apartment where he made his home. The body was discovered-”
Mike Larsen's voice was tense as Johnny lowered the paper and looked at him inquiringly. “Robert Sanders owned the business where Ellen and Lorraine worked.”
Johnny flattened the paper for another look. “When-”
“Sometime after midnight, it says. Body found at three-forty-five a.m. by a neighbor.”
Johnny stared at the subheading. “Four times-”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Here was a guy in a groove-four shots for Sanders, and four shots from the dark sedan. “This kind of starches things, Mike. Looks like we only had the semi-windup here; the main event was across town. You can bet me it was under the same auspices.”
“How do you figure that?”
“The batting order's got to be Sanders first, then Ellen. Ellen was over there, and if she didn't actually see it she saw or sensed enough to scare her green. Trouble was the pistol-packin' type saw Ellen, too, and followed her over here. Followed her right inside after I slowed him up on the street. A strong move. No Pollyanna, this citizen.”
“What's this about a slow-up on the street?”
Johnny explained. “The police should tie this into a pretty tight knot, Mike; the guy dug a furrow all the way across town.”
Mike looked doubtful; the yellow-flecked eyes returned to the paper. “Even supposing the time element is right, Johnny, it would still be a pretty good trick-”
“Even better than you know.” Johnny thought of the unregistered room, and shook his head. “The thing I want to know is how a guy like that could get upstairs in the place here without being seen by Vic or Paul or me. Strangers get asked questions, but nobody blew a whistle.” He looked at Mike. “What kind of a guy was this Sanders?”