Ed McBain: Cinderella

Charlie agreed this was not zucchini.

Hollister came down the steps at a run, still wearing the jeans and the red shirt, but with a yellow windbreaker over the shirt, partially zipped up the front, billowing slightly as he came out from the protection of the building and into the wind and the rain.

In one hell of a hurry, Matthew thought, watching him as he ran toward a blue Ford parked in a space some six cars down and diagonally across from where Matthew was parked. He unlocked the door, got in, and started it at once. Matthew debated — but only for the instant it took him to turn the ignition key — whether he should follow him. Suppose the girl was upstairs in the apartment? The Ford moved past on the wet pavement, and Matthew immediately pulled out after it.

Florida license plate.

16D-13346.

Matthew’s dashboard clock read 11:40.

Rain lashed the windows, clattered noisily on the roof of the Karmann Ghia. The windshield was fogging. He wiped at it with the heel of his hand, followed the Ford when it took a sharp left onto the southern bridge to the mainland. Over the bridge, not a boat on the water. Another left onto US 41. Heading north into the rain. Just a shade over the speed limit. Headlights on against the rain. Taillights glowing red in the gloom. Passing the northern bridge to Whisper now, still heading north on 41. Steady at fifty miles an hour, five over the limit on this part of the Trail. Causeway to Flamingo Key and Lucy’s Circle on the left now, the road to Three Points and the Cow Crossing on the right. Still heading north. Up ahead on the left, the Helen Gottlieb Memorial Auditorium and just past that the new Sheraton sitting on the bay.

The Ford made a left turn.

Matthew’s dashboard clock read 11:52.

He watched as the Ford pulled into a parking space.

Hollister got out and walked swiftly toward the entrance to the hotel.

Matthew parked the car some six spaces down from the Ford.

At the Suncrest Motel, further north on the Trail, Domingo looked at his watch and said in Spanish, “It’s five minutes to twelve, where’s the girl?”

“Don’t worry,” Ernesto said. “Sixty-five a key is very good money. I’m sure she’ll be here.”

He had gone to the bank to pick up the money yesterday. When they asked him what they called the blonde girl in Spanish, he was confused at first. Was he supposed to say “ ladrona ,” which meant “thief,” which was what she was? Was he supposed to say “ puta ,” which meant “whore,” which was also what she was? And then he remembered his last conversation with Amaros, where he’d called the girl Cenicienta.

He said to the bank manager, “Cenicienta.”

The bank manager smiled.

“Yes,” he said, pleased. “What does that mean in English?”

“I don’t know how to say it in English,” Ernesto said, and shrugged. “Es un cuento de hadas .”

“Ah, yes, I see,” the bank manager said, still smiling.

He didn’t understand a word of Spanish.

Now, here in the motel, Domingo lying on the bed and looking up at the ceiling, the rain sweeping the windows, Ernesto wondered if the girl would turn out to be Cenicienta after all.

As if reading his mind, Domingo said, “We’ll have to look at the pictures, verdad ?”

“Yes,” Ernesto said.

She came out of the hotel wearing the same short, shiny, fire-engine red rainslicker she’d had on yesterday, this time over a blue skirt, same shiny red boots, nothing on her short red hair, no sunglasses, either, not on a rainy day, blue eyes flashing as she came down the steps and began walking toward where Matthew was parked.

As she approached the car, he quickly turned his head away.

She went right on by, striding into the rain, stopping at a white Toyota parked some four spaces to the left.

Now what? he thought.

Wait for Hollister to come out?

Follow her ?

Yes. She was the one Otto had been tracking.

He started the Ghia.

As soon as she backed out of her space, he backed out of his. When she pulled out of the hotel parking lot, he was right behind her.

The Florida license plate on the Toyota read 201-ZHW.

A yellow-and-black Hertz #1 sticker was on the rear bumper.

She made a left turn at the light and headed north on 41.

Matthew was right behind her.

A moment later, Vincent Hollister came out of the hotel.

He was carrying a valise.

The Suncrest Motel.

Adorable.

A ramshackle office. A swimming pool the size of a thimble. A gravel driveway leading to eight cabins spaced some ten feet apart from each other. Opposite the cabins, an asphalt rectangle with parking for about a dozen cars.

There was a roadside joint some fifty yards up the road from the motel. It was Vincent’s impression — and he’d expressed this to Jenny last night, when they’d booked the room — that the place catered to men and women who wandered over from the bar next door, booked a hot bed, and used it for an hour or two.

Delightful.

He told her he’d be afraid to touch anything here for fear he’d catch whatever dread disease was circulating these days. Remembering the herpes she’d caught from Amaros, he apologized a moment later.

On the way back to his place last night, she explained the plan.

She’d show up at twelve noon. Cabin number three, as specified.

She’d ask to see the money.

She’d count the money.

There was supposed to be $240,500, which was $260,000 for the four keys less Klement’s seven and a half percent.

If the money was all there and it didn’t look like Monopoly money, she’d stay there in cabin number three with one of the buyers — and the money — while the second buyer went over to where Vincent would be waiting in cabin number five with the valise full of dope.

Maybe they wouldn’t want to test the dope at all, but Vincent doubted that. If you’re paying sixty-five a key, you’re going to test what you’re buying.

If the dope was okay, which of course it was, they would call on the phone — cabin five to cabin three — and Jenny would walk out with the money at the same time the buyer walked back with the dope.

Trains that passed in the night.

No opportunity for funny business.

But just in case, Vincent had a .38 Colt Detective Special tucked into the waistband of his jeans, under the windbreaker.

The Suncrest Motel.

That’s what the sign outside the place read. TV, the sign further advised. SWIMMING POOL. UNITS OFF ROAD. AIR-CONDITIONED. LOW RATES.

Another sign advised VACANCY.

The Toyota made a left turn across 41 and disappeared up the motel’s gravel driveway. Matthew waited till the flow of southbound traffic eased, made the turn across the road and entered the driveway just in time to see the girl knocking on the door to cabin number three. A man opened the door. They exchanged a few words and then the girl stepped inside.

Matthew pulled the Ghia up alongside a small amoeba-shaped hole in the ground that he guessed was the motel’s swimming pool, and was looking toward the cabin again when the door to the office opened and a tall, burly man wearing a gray raincoat and rainhat stepped out and walked directly to the car. Matthew rolled down his window.

“Help you?” the man said.

“Uh... yes,” Matthew said. “I’d like a room, please.”

In cabin number three, Ernesto was confused.

The girl didn’t look at all like the pictures they had got from her stepmother. In the pictures, the girl was very blonde and very sexy. Here in person, if this was the girl, she had short red hair that was very wet and sticking to her head from when she’d walked over from her car, no makeup on her face, not sexy at all in a red coat and red boots, looking more like Caperucita Roja than Cenicienta.