I was startled out of it by a cry of pain. I thought at first it was George, but it was a man on the other side of the wall. He cried loudly again.
George stirred and groaned and sat up, raising both hands to his half-mummified face. He swayed and threatened to fall out of bed. I held him by the shoulders.
“Take it easy, boy.”
“Let me go. Who are you?”
“Archer,” I said. “The indigent’s Florence Nightingale.”
“What happened to me? Why can’t I see?”
“You’ve pulled the bandages down over your eyes. Also, it’s dark in here.”
“Where is here? Jail? Am I in jail?”
“You’re in the hospital. Don’t you remember asking Dr. Reeves to phone me long-distance?”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember. What time is it?”
“It’s Saturday morning, getting along towards noon.”
The information hit him hard. He lay back quietly for a while, then said in a puzzled tone: “I seem to have lost a day.”
“Relax. You wouldn’t want it back.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“I don’t know what you did. You ask too many questions, George.”
“You’re just letting me down easy, aren’t you?” Embarrassment thickened in his throat like phlegm. “I suppose I made a complete ass of myself.”
“Most of us do from time to time. But hold the thought.”
He groped for the light-switch at the head of the bed, found the cord, and pulled it. Fingering the bandages on his face, he peered at me through narrow slits in them. Below the bandages, his puffed lips were dry and cracking. He said with a kind of awe in his voice: “That little pug in the pajamas – did he do this to me?”
“Part of it. When did you see him last, George?”
“You ought to know, you were with me. What do you mean, part of it?”
“He had some help.”
“Whose help?”
“Don’t you remember?”
“I remember something.” He sounded childishly uncertain. Physical and moral shock had cut his ego down small. “It must have been just a nightmare. It was like a jumble of old movies running through my head. Only I was in it. A man with a gun was after me. The scene kept changing – it couldn’t have been real.”
“It was real. You got into a hassle with the company guards at Simon Graff’s studio. Does the name Simon Graff mean anything to you?”
“Yes, it does. I was in bed in some wretched little house in Los Angeles, and someone talking on the telephone said that name. I got up and called a taxicab and asked the driver to take me to see Simon Graff.”
“It was me on the telephone, George. In my house.”
“Have I ever been in your house?”
“Yesterday.” His memory seemed to be functioning very conveniently. I didn’t doubt his sincerity, but I was irritated. “You also lifted a wretched little old charcoal-gray suit of mine which cost me one-two-five.”
“Did I? I’m sorry.”
“You’ll be sorrier when you get the bill. But skip it. How did you get from the Graff studio to Vegas? And what have you been doing between then and now?”
The mind behind his blood-suffused eyes groped dully in limbo. “I think I came on a plane. Does that make any sense?” -
“As much as anything does. Public or private plane?”
After a long pause, he said: “It must have been private. There were just the two of us, me and another fellow. I think it was the same one who chased me with the gun. He told me that Hester was in danger and needed my help. I blacked out, or something. Then I was walking down a street with a lot of signs flashing in my eyes. I went into this hotel where she was supposed to be, but she had gone, and the desk clerk wouldn’t tell me where.”
“Which hotel?”
“I’m not sure. The sign was in the shape of a wineglass. Or a martini glass. The Dry Martini? Does that sound possible?”
“There is one in town. When were you there?”
“Some time in the course of the night. I’d lost all track of time. I must have spent the rest of the night looking for her. I saw a number of girls who resembled her, but they always turned out to be someone different. I kept blacking out and coming to in another place. It was awful, with those lights in my eyes and the people milling about. They thought I was drunk. Even the policeman thought I was drunk.”
“Forget it, George. It’s over now.”
“I won’t forget it. Hester is in danger. Isn’t that so?”
“She may be, I don’t know. Forget about her, too, why don’t you? Fall in love with the nurse or something. With your win-and-loss record, you ought to marry a nurse anyway. And, incidentally, you better lie down or the nurse will be reaming both of us.”
Instead of lying down, he sat up straighter, his shoulders arching under the hospital shirt. Between the bandages, his red eyes were fixed on my face. “Something has happened to Hester. You’re trying to keep me from knowing.”
“Don’t be crazy, kid. Relax. You’ve sparked enough trouble.”
He said: “If you won’t help me, I’m getting up and walking out of here now. Somebody has to do something.”
“You wouldn’t get far.”
For answer, he threw off the covers, swung his legs over the edge of the high bed, reached for the floor with his bare feet, and stood up tottering. Then he fell forward onto his knees, his head swinging loose, slack as a killed buck. I hoisted him back onto the bed. He lay inert, breathing rapidly and lightly. I pressed the nurse’s signal, and passed her on my way out.
Chapter 26
THE DRY MARTINI was a small hotel on the edge of the older downtown gambling district. Two old ladies were playing Canasta for money in the boxlike knotty-pine lobby. The desk clerk was a fat man in a rayon jacket. His red face was set in the permanently jovial expression which people expect of fat men.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“I have an appointment with Miss Campbell.”
“I’m very much afraid Miss Campbell hasn’t come in yet.”
“What time did she go out?”
He clasped his hands across his belly and twiddled his thumbs. “Let’s see, I came on at midnight, she checked in about an hour after that, stayed long enough to change her dress, and away she went again. Couldn’t’ve been much later than one.”
“You notice things.”
“A sexburger like her I notice.” The tip of his tongue protruded between his teeth, which were a good grade of plastic.
“Was anybody with her, going or coming?”
“Hope. She cue and went by herself. You’re a friend of hers, eh?”
“Yeah.”
“Know her husband? Big guy with light-reddish hair?”
“I know him.”
“What goes with him? He came in here in the middle of the night looking like the wrath of God. Big welts on his face, blood in his hair, yackety-yacking like a psycho. He had some idea in his head that his wife was in trouble and I was mixed up in it. Claimed I knew where she was. I had a hell of a time getting rid of him.”
I looked at my watch. “She could be in trouble, at that. She’s been gone eleven hours.”
“Think nothing of it. They stay on the town for twenty-four, thirty-six hours at a time, some of them. Maybe she hit a winning streak and’s riding it out. Or maybe she had a date. Somebody must’ve clobbered the husband. He is her husband, isn’t he?”
“He is, and several people clobbered him. He has a way of leading with his chin. Right now he’s in the hospital, and I’m trying to find her for him.”
“Private dick?”
I nodded. “Do you have any idea where she went?”
“I can find out, maybe, if it’s important.” He looked me over, estimating the value of my clothes and the contents of my wallet. “It’s going to cost me something.”