funny, mac, or what?” I was now addressing the house detective.
“Come up to 805, the laugh’s on me.” I hung up, walked over to the door, and removed the Do Not Disturb. The cleaning lady was backing out of 804 across the hall, pulling a wagon loaded with gray sheets and cleansers. She turned and saw me.
“Morning,” she said in an accent that surprised me: Cockney. “You with the party in 805?”
“No, and you’d better stay out of 805 for a while. There’s been a little accident.”
She peered in. With the door open, there was a cross breeze that had the curtains floating almost horizontally across the little room. She saw the black shoes sticking out of the bathroom.
“Oh, dear,” she said, with no more emotion than if she had just dropped a can of Dutch Cleanser. Probably less. “Is he dead, then?” I nodded and she just shook her head. “I’d better go into 806 and clean up there, don’t you think, until this gets cleared up?” I agreed and she pulled her wagon to 806.
“He didn’t look too nice,” the cleaning lady said, opening 806. “That one in 805. Looked like a bad sort.”
“Did you notice any visitors here?” She just looked at me. Something in her brain had flashed COP and I had lost my chance to have a little chat.
“No, no. Nobody,” and she was inside 806.
I heard the elevator doors open down the hall, so I went back into 805, sat down on the room’s only chair and lit up a Lucky. The shark-faced clerk and a large moon-faced man in dark, billowing slacks, a white shirt, red vest and a black, clip-on bow tie came into the room. Without knocking.
“You’re under arrest,” said the shark.
The house dick laughed and I felt a lot better. At least somebody was sane in this hotel. The dick had a brown crew-cut and a nose the size of a pear. His eyes were friendly and cynical.
“Don’t get your shit in an uproar, Mel.” He looked at me and past me, to the Florsheims resting at their forty-five-degree angles. “Call the cops, Mel.”
“There isn’t anything? …”
“Call ’em, for Crissakes!” Mel, the shark, left in a huff.
The house dick shook his head. “Don’t mind Mel. He’s just an asshole.” It was a final-sounding statement. All the credits and debits had been counted up and the verdict was in: Mel was an asshole. The house dick went into the bathroom and looked over the body, while I let the cigarette smoke skate through my lungs and out my nose. I heard the water running, and the dick came out of the john, with the bored and sardonic look of a man who had worked in cheap hotels much too long.
“A professional piece of work,” he said. “No fuss, no muss.”
“Maybe he was doped up. Doesn’t look like any struggle at all.”
He gave me a long, humorous look. His eyes were very blue and surprisingly clear, but the pallor and crow’s feet were of a man who had spent his life being baked by fluorescent lights. “You a shamus?”
“I’m Jack LeVine,” I said, like it meant something, and handed him my card. He read it over and stuck out his hand: “Toots Fellman,” and I shook that hand. He was the first decent guy I’d met that day, maybe the first one in a couple of days. You can go a long time without …
“You had business with this creep?” he asked.
“I never got the chance to find out. I knocked on the door a couple of minutes ago and there he was, smiling at me.”
“You get to know a little in this racket. When that son of a bitch registered, I knew he wasn’t in town to sell cole slaw. I told Mel I’d keep an eye on him.” He sat heavily on the bed and looked toward the bathroom. “Guess you’d say I did a helluva job.” Toots laughed and unclipped his bow tie.
I just shrugged. “You notice anything about the mug while he was in one piece? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“Not a thing. He played it close to the chest. Maybe people were up here, maybe they weren’t. I couldn’t sit outside his room and he
“Come up to 805, the laugh’s on me.” I hung up, walked over to the door, and removed the Do Not Disturb. The cleaning lady was backing out of 804 across the hall, pulling a wagon loaded with gray sheets and cleansers. She turned and saw me.
“Morning,” she said in an accent that surprised me: Cockney. “You with the party in 805?”
“No, and you’d better stay out of 805 for a while. There’s been a little accident.”
She peered in. With the door open, there was a cross breeze that had the curtains floating almost horizontally across the little room. She saw the black shoes sticking out of the bathroom.
“Oh, dear,” she said, with no more emotion than if she had just dropped a can of Dutch Cleanser. Probably less. “Is he dead, then?” I nodded and she just shook her head. “I’d better go into 806 and clean up there, don’t you think, until this gets cleared up?” I agreed and she pulled her wagon to 806.
“He didn’t look too nice,” the cleaning lady said, opening 806. “That one in 805. Looked like a bad sort.”
“Did you notice any visitors here?” She just looked at me. Something in her brain had flashed COP and I had lost my chance to have a little chat.
“No, no. Nobody,” and she was inside 806.
I heard the elevator doors open down the hall, so I went back into 805, sat down on the room’s only chair and lit up a Lucky. The shark-faced clerk and a large moon-faced man in dark, billowing slacks, a white shirt, red vest and a black, clip-on bow tie came into the room. Without knocking.
“You’re under arrest,” said the shark.
The house dick laughed and I felt a lot better. At least somebody was sane in this hotel. The dick had a brown crew-cut and a nose the size of a pear. His eyes were friendly and cynical.
“Don’t get your shit in an uproar, Mel.” He looked at me and past me, to the Florsheims resting at their forty-five-degree angles. “Call the cops, Mel.”
“There isn’t anything? …”
“Call ’em, for Crissakes!” Mel, the shark, left in a huff.
The house dick shook his head. “Don’t mind Mel. He’s just an asshole.” It was a final-sounding statement. All the credits and debits had been counted up and the verdict was in: Mel was an asshole. The house dick went into the bathroom and looked over the body, while I let the cigarette smoke skate through my lungs and out my nose. I heard the water running, and the dick came out of the john, with the bored and sardonic look of a man who had worked in cheap hotels much too long.
“A professional piece of work,” he said. “No fuss, no muss.”
“Maybe he was doped up. Doesn’t look like any struggle at all.”
He gave me a long, humorous look. His eyes were very blue and surprisingly clear, but the pallor and crow’s feet were of a man who had spent his life being baked by fluorescent lights. “You a shamus?”
“I’m Jack LeVine,” I said, like it meant something, and handed him my card. He read it over and stuck out his hand: “Toots Fellman,” and I shook that hand. He was the first decent guy I’d met that day, maybe the first one in a couple of days. You can go a long time without …
“You had business with this creep?” he asked.
“I never got the chance to find out. I knocked on the door a couple of minutes ago and there he was, smiling at me.”
“You get to know a little in this racket. When that son of a bitch registered, I knew he wasn’t in town to sell cole slaw. I told Mel I’d keep an eye on him.” He sat heavily on the bed and looked toward the bathroom. “Guess you’d say I did a helluva job.” Toots laughed and unclipped his bow tie.
I just shrugged. “You notice anything about the mug while he was in one piece? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“Not a thing. He played it close to the chest. Maybe people were up here, maybe they weren’t. I couldn’t sit outside his room and he
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