by Henry, Kane,
“Barney, you’re a beaut,” said the respectful Gunn.
“How about a snifter, Mr. Gunn? You look a little beat.”
“I am a little beat, old Barn.”
“What’ll it be?”
“Ginger ale, with lots of ice.”
“Ginger ale?”
“I’ve had a few snifters this day, perhaps one too many.”
“Coming at you, Mr. Gunn,” said Barney and brought up ginger ale, a glass and ice, and then the song ended and Edie came to them and smiled, her eyes narrowing, and said, “Ginger ale and Peter Gunn, now there’s a likely combination.”
“Skoal,” said Gunn.
“How goes it?” said Edie.
“Fair,” said Gunn.
“Find your man?”
“Which one?”
“Which one?” said Edie. “Lockwood. Or are there others?”
“I don’t know,” said Gunn.
“Find Lockwood?”
“No.”
“Want to talk?”
“Yes.”
“Come with me, young man,” she said and took up his glass of ginger ale and led him to a corner table and sat him down and sat herself down and set his glass down before him and said, “From the looks of you, you’ve had a busy day.”
“Very,” said Gunn and delivered the facts, omitting, naturally, some of the more intimate details.
“Wow,” said Edie.
“And wow to you,” said Gunn, toasting her with ginger ale.
“Make way,” said Mother, approaching with a huge tray.
Edie helped lay out the savory dishes, Gunn attacked with gusto, Mother attacked more ladylike, and Edie nibbled tidbits from Gunn’s plate. Then Mother said, “Oh. a man named O’Connor called,” and Gunn dropped his fork.
“When?” he said.
“About twenty minutes ago. What’s the matter?”
“Excuse me,” said Gunn and wiped his lips with his napkin, dropped the napkin on the table, went quickly to a telephone, called his Answering Service, said, “Peter Gunn here.”
“Hi, Mr. Gunn,” sang the voice.
“My messages, please.”
“Very formal today, aren’t we, Mr. Gunn?”
“I’m in a hurry, dear.”
“Well, let’s start from the top. At 2:25 a Mr. Mike York called, said for you—”
“Skip that. I’ve attended to it. Anything from an O’Connor?”
“Anything! But everything. He’s been calling most of the day. First call was at 2:45. Thereafter at 3:15. Then every half hour. I told him to try at Mother’s place—”
“A message?”
“He’s waiting for you at the Hotel Duane on Vine. He’s in the cocktail room facing the elevators. He said for you—”
“Thanks.” He hung up, hurried back to the table, chastely kissed Mother’s forehead, kissed Edie’s forehead less chastely, said, “I’ve got to run. Thanks for the banquet. The veal was delicious. The spaghetti heavenly.”
“But you didn’t finish,” said Mother.
“Got to run. Business,” he said. “Also unfinished.”
chapter 13
The Hotel Duane on Vine was high, wide, many-roomed, modern, imposing, well-run, conservative and elegant. Its immense lobby had all the ceiling decorations and all the oil paintings and all the marble pillars and all the soft sofas and all the carved wood tables and all the soft lampshades necessary to all elegant hotels. Its wall-to-wall carpeting ran a devious route, up and down stairways and around bends; and around one bend, opposite the bank of elevators, Gunn found the cocktail room with swinging green glass doors and a soft green interior, with fishes swimming in green tanks, and at the green bar, sitting tight and facing the elevators, he found Fred O’Connor, slightly green.
“Man,” said O’Connor, “like this you can get plastered.”
“Like how?” said Gunn.
“Like sitting here,” said O’Connor.
“Just sitting here?” said Gunn.
“Man,” said O’Connor, “you just can’t sit at a bar. It can get embarrassing.”
“Agreed,” said Gunn.
“Every now and then you’ve got to buy a shot.”
“Agreed,” said Gunn.
“And since I’ve been sitting here from about a quarter to three, lots of shots have come and gone and come again. So, Mr. Gunn, as I said, like that you can get plastered.”
“Are you plastered, Freddie?”
O’Connor kept his eyes on the elevators. “Let’s say my Irish blood has begun to tingle, but let us also say I have not neglected my duty one whit. Have a drink. This one ought to be on the house.”
“It’ll all be on me,” said Gunn and ordered.
“Note I am facing the elevators,” said O’Connor. “These are the only elevators. No one can come or go without my seeing them.”
“I note,” said Gunn.
“I should also like you to understand that this is a very fancy bar.”
“Why must I understand that?”
“Because they give you one of them portable phones if you ask for it.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“You can make your calls and still keep your eyes on the elevators. Understand?”
“Not yet,” said Gunn.
“I have kept my eyes on the elevators. The little lady is still up there.”
“Up where?”
“Room 1203.”
“What little lady?”
“The little lady you put me on.”
“Alice Bain?” Gunn could feel his pulse rate quicken.
“That may be her name. You didn’t mention.”
“Freddie, let’s get chronological on this.”
“You’re the boss. You’re paying me. You can have it any way you want it.”
“Chronological,” said Gunn.
“Chronological you shall have it,” said O’Connor, sipping from a tall glass and setting it away. “The little lady was a dear little pigeon, unsuspecting as all hell. You could practically sit on her shoulders and she’d carry you around without her knowing she was being tailed.”
“Maybe I ought to slash your customary fee.”
O’Connor grinned. “You’d be entitled.”
“So?” Gunn said.
“Maybe about two-thirty she comes hightailing out of her joint and what do you know?—off she goes to a bank, just like you said.”
“So?” said Gunn, pulse rate quickening further.
“Beverly Savings Bank. I’m right beside her, doodling on a deposit slip, as she writes out her thing. No deposit. Withdrawal. One thousand smackeroos. She goes to the window and I go back outside to the car and wait. She comes here, and I’m with her, right in the elevator with her. She gets out at the twelfth floor, me too, she goes to 1203 while I walk past, she knocks, somebody says, ‘Who?’ and she says, ‘Me,’ and the door opens and in she goes, and down I go to this here bar opposite the elevators and I ask for a phone and get a phone and call you and that’s what I’ve been doing all day, outside of ordering drinks now and then, just not to be embarrassed.”
“And she hasn’t come out?”
“No, sir, she hasn’t. What in hell do you think they’re doing up there all this time?”
“Not what you’re thinking, Freddie.”
“How would you know? You got extrasensory perception or something?”
“That’s her boy friend up there, I’m certain.”
“So? That makes it, don’t it?”
“What about the thousand bucks?”
“Maybe he’s a gigolo or something.”
“A thousand bucks?”
“Maybe he’s Rubirosa or somebody.”
“He’s Sam Lockwood, a possible murder suspect.”
O’Connor’s grin was very wide. “Well, I dug it out of you, man. I’ve got my own system.”
“Here’s the rest of it, kid. Steve Bain was murdered today.”
“The labor guy?”
/> “The labor guy. The little lady up there is his daughter.”
“Oh, man,” said O’Connor.
“I want to talk to that guy.”
“Easy, if he’s the guy that’s up there.”
“How?” said Gunn.
“Get cops. You said he was a murder suspect.”
“I said possible murder suspect.”
“There’s a difference?”
“There is to me. I’d like to talk to him before cops.”
“Oh. And how do you expect to work it?”
“Do you have your gun with you?”
“Yes.”
“Gimme.”
Quietly, expertly, beneath the bar, a gun was passed.
“Man,” said O’Connor, “you’re not straying out of character, are you? You’re not going to blast your way in? That’s not Peter Gunn.”
“I’m not,” said Gunn.
“So what’s with the firearm?”
“It’s for protection in case the guy really gets rambunctious. If I have to shoot him, I will.”
“Wow, you’re the cold fish, aren’t you?”
“That’s not a common opinion of late, and I’m beginning to feel it.”
“You just lost me. I didn’t follow.”
“Skip it,” said Gunn. “Now you stay right here and keep your eyes on the elevators.”
“You’re telling me!”
Now it was Gunn’s turn to grin. “Easy, lad. I’m going to the manager’s office. If the girl comes out alone, tag her and bring her there. If they both come out, tag him, and tag him good. He’s important. She can get away, but you hold on to him.”
“I got you, man.”
“So far you’ve been a doll, Freddie. And when you send me your bill, don’t pad it, because whatever it is I’m going to pay you double.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Gunn.”
“I’ve already earned a large fee on this matter. Freddie.”
“You’re entitled to it, Mr. Gunn. You’re the best.”
“A diplomat too. Freddie, you’re going to go a long way.”
“Right in your footsteps. Like you’re kind of a hero to me, Mr. Gunn.”
“My turn to thank you, Freddie. Thank you.” Gunn ordered a fresh drink for O’Connor, requested and paid the check, and donated an especially large tip to the bartender.
“Thank you very much,” said the bartender fervently.
“Everybody’s thanking everybody,” said O’Connor. “Polite just like summit statesmen in front of the reporters.”
“Stick with it, kid,” said Gunn and departed.
He trod the lush carpets around many bends to the manager’s office where the frost-glass door stated Dwight Smight, Mgr., but it opened on an anteroom with a far door marked Private and a near minion, young, thin, pinkfaced and effeminate, who rose from a small desk, and declared, “Yes?”
“Are you Mr. Smight?”
“No, sir.”
“I’d like to talk with Mr. Smight.”
“If it is a complaint, sir…”
“No complaint.”
“If it is something you wish to sell…”
“No sale.”
“If I may inquire as to the nature…?”
“What’s with all the protocol?”
“I am Mr. Kushneer.”
“What’s with the protocol, Mr. Kushneer?”
“Not protocol, sir. Mr. Smight is a very busy man. It is my duty to be of any service not requiring his attention. If I may inquire—”
“I’m a detective, Mr. Kushneer.”
“Pardon?”
“There’s a very good chance that you’re harboring a murderer here in your hotel.”
The young man seemed to grow taller and thinner and his pink face suddenly acquired an additional hue of chartreuse which made an appalling blend. “Just one moment, please,” he squeaked and nerves superseded grammar with, “This is not for I, for Mr. Smight, indeed,” and he fairly bounded to the door and rattled it open and leaped through and let it slam.
Gunn waited.
The door opened and remained open as the young man slithered out and gestured with thin trembling hand. “Mr. Smight will be pleased to see you.”
Gunn entered into a large, square, drawing-room-type office, many-couched and faintly smelling of pine-type perfume, and the manager-type gentleman stood feet a-straddle in greeting. The manager-type gentleman was short and thick with a bald head and striped trousers. “I am Dwight Smight,” said the manager-type gentleman. “Mr. Kushneer conveyed a rather remarkable message. Who are you, if you please, sir?”
“I’m Peter Gunn,” said Peter Gunn. “I’m a private detective. These are my credentials.” And he presented them.
“Very well,” said Smight after inspection and return. “Now just what’s the problem, Mr. Gunn?” Dwight Smight had a large face with a double chin, the lower one of which seemed to have a life of its own, quivering like gelatin while the remainder of Mr. Smight seemed in repose.
“A man by the name of Steve Bain was murdered today,” said Gunn.
“There are many murders in this city all the time,” said Smight. “Of what interest is this murder to me?”
“The guy in 1203 may have committed that murder.”
“What… er… guy in 1203, Mr. Gunn?”
“His name is Sam Lockwood.”
“Just a moment, please.” Smight touched the button of his intercom, said, “Get me the full record of 1203.” He snapped the button back, motioned for Gunn to sit down, spread himself in a swivel chair, packed the bowl of a curve-stemmed pipe, put fire to the tobacco, and gazed upon Gunn with pale gray eyes. He remarked about the weather and chatted about the coming baseball season but the pale gray eyes never left Gunn’s face. Then the pink and chartreuse young man hurried in, placed a large filing card upon the desk and scampered out like a gazelle. Dwight Smight placed his pipe into a rack, studied the card, laid it down, said, “Sorry, but you’re mistaken, Mr. Gunn.”
“How come?” said Mr. Gunn.
“The occupant of 1203 is not Sam Lockwood.”
“Who is he?” said Gunn.
“Sidney Last.”
“Don’t be naïve, Mr. Smight.”
“Hotel managers aren’t generally naïve, Mr. Gunn.”
“Then don’t pretend,” said Gunn. “I told you that the guy in 1203 may have committed murder. I told you his name was Sam Lockwood. You don’t think a murderer on the lam would register under his own name, do you?”
The pale gray eyes remained unimpressed. “No, I don’t.” He sighed. Both his chins quivered. “Mr. Gunn,” he said, “you’re a private detective. I believe you want entrance to that room for some reason of your own. You’ve accused me of being naïve but I’m not. I’m sufficiently cynical to know that private detectives sometimes invent awful whoppers for purposes of their own. You state that the occupant is a possible murderer named Sam Lockwood. Even if the occupant were one Sam Lockwood I would not give it too much credence, but you don’t even have that much going for you. You know that this is a responsible hotel, and that an invasion of privacy such as you have in mind might result in a hurry-up lawsuit which wouldn’t do me personally any good at all with my employers. I’ve been in the hotel business for a long time, and I haven’t gotten to the position I hold without—”
“Sidney Last, Sam Lockwood,” said Gunn. “Note the same initials.”
“So?”
“It is almost a rule of thumb that amateur criminals when using an alias retain the same initials.”
Smight smiled. “Perhaps to match the initials on their underwear.”
“Or on their shirts, or handkerchiefs…”
“Sorry, Mr. Gunn, I’m still not impressed.”
“Pick up that card, will you, Mr. Smight?”
“Why?”
“I’m going to impress you.” Smight lifted the card. Gunn lit a cigarette. “The occupant Sidney Last,” he said, “whom I think to be Sam Lock
wood registered in this hotel some time at about one o’clock this afternoon. He took his room and paid for it in advance.”
“How do you know that?” A bit of perspiration was beginning to accumulate on Smight’s upper lip.
“Because he brought no luggage. No luggage, and the clerk usually wants payment in advance. Does it show no luggage, Mr. Smight?”
Pale gray eyes, somewhat worried, flickered over Gunn. “Yes, it shows no luggage.”
“And the time?”
“Twelve fifty-five.”
“All right. Now I happen to know that the guy didn’t leave his room since then. Do you people keep any record of that?”
“We keep a record of each time the key is returned to the desk.”
“Was the key returned to the desk?”
Perspiration had blossomed to the forehead. “The key was not returned to the desk all day.”
Gunn extinguished his cigarette, rose and paced. “He’d have to eat,” he said. “Does that card show a room-service record?”
“It does, but only the amount.”
“Can you get the entire record, the time and all that?”
“Yes, and I’ll get that myself, Mr. Gunn. Please wait right here.” He rose, mopped his face with a handkerchief, cast a long look at Gunn and hurried out. When he returned Gunn was standing at the window, looking out. “Here it is, Mr. Gunn,” he said holding up another record card.
“Food?” said Gunn.
“Yes.”
“Drink?”
“Yes.”
“What time did he call down for it?”
“It was served about a half hour ago.”
“Half hour ago?” Gunn jumped. “Have the dishes been picked up yet?”
“I inquired. No.”
“Get on that phone, Mr. Smight. Tell them not to pick up the dishes until you inform them. Hurry, please!” Smight squinted but reacted to an impatient gesture from Gunn, used the telephone, complied. “Now, Mr. Smight,” said Gunn, “I think I’m really going to impress you. Hang on to that new card, keep looking at it, and I’m going to state some conclusions, all of which, I’m certain, have occurred to you, but remember, I haven’t looked at the card and you have.”
