Bill Pronzini: Hoodwink

Kerry finished what was left of her brandy, and I asked her if she’d like another. She said, “I don’t think so. Two drinks are my limit on an empty stomach.”

“No dinner tonight?”

“Nope. I had to work late.”

“You must be pretty hungry, then.”

“Getting that way. Want to buy me a sandwich?”

“Sure.”

“Is that a serious offer?”

“Italians are always serious when it comes to food,” I said, which was the first semiwitty line I had managed in her presence so far. “There’s a coffee shop down in the lobby. Or we could go over to Rosebud’s on Geary.”

“Rosebud’s sounds good,” she said. “We’ll have to stop by my folks’ room first, though; I left my coat there. Just let me get the key.”

I watched her move away to where Cybil and Ivan were talking to another couple, and I thought: So maybe she really is coming on to me-how about that? I felt pretty chipper. My somewhat bruised male ego had taken a much-needed stroking in the past few minutes-and never mind what it was she saw or thought she saw in me. Never mind the erotic fantasies, either that were starting to simmer in the back of m) dirty old brain. It was just nice to find an attractive woman who found me attractive in turn, even if it never led to anything more than a late-night supper at Rosebud’s English pub. She made me feel awkward and comfortable at the same time, which is a stimulating way to feel, and I liked her frankness and her sense of humor and the way her coppery hair seemed to ripple with reflections of light. In fact I liked everything about her so far.

She came back after a couple of minutes, and I finished the last of my beer and we went out. On the way to the elevators I asked her, “What would you say if I told you I became a private detective because I wanted to be like the private eyes I read about in the pulps?”

“You mean tough and hard-boiled?”

“No. Just a private eye-doing a job, helping people in trouble.”

“In other words, being a hero.”

“Well… in a way, yes.”

“Then I’d say you made a good choice. I’m partial to heroes myself, all kinds, even if it’s not fashionable any more. The world would be a much better place if there were more heroes and fewer antiheroes. Not to mention fewer politicians.”

I liked that too.

We took a down elevator and got off on the tenth floor. The Wades’ room was 1017, just down the left-hand hallway-a suite, judging from the jux position of numbered doors on that side. Kerry got out the key her mother had given her, scraped it into the latch, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. She reached inside for the light switch, but when she flipped it nothing happened.

“Damn,” she said. “Now the chandelier doesn’t work.”

“Maybe there’s a short.”

“Well, I’d better put on a lamp for the folks. My coat’s on the sofa.”

She moved inside, feeling her way in the darkness. I took a step through the doorway after her and stepped to one side, so I wouldn’t block the light from the hall. On the left I could make out a pale grayish oblong-part of the window over which the drapes had been half drawn. Enough reflected light from outside filtered in through there to outline the bulky shapes of furniture, to turn Kerry into a fading silhouette like a shadow image moving behind a screen-

But we weren’t alone in the room.I sensed it abruptly; there was no sound, no movement, just the sudden feeling of occupied space and another presence nearby. The realiza tion sent a cold slithering along my spine, bunched the muscles in my arms and across my shoulders and back. I held my breath, listening. Silence except for the slide of Kerry’s shoes on the thick carpet. I took another step forward, acting on reflex to get to where she was before she put on the lamp; there wasn’t anything else I could do. Trying to locate whoever it was in the dark was no good, and neither was calling out a warning to Kerry.

Something made a low thumping sound. Then she said “Damn” again in an exasperated tone. “Now where’s that bloody lamp-”

A stirring off to my left.

And the silhouette of a man loomed up between me and the window, head down and rushing toward me or the open door behind me.

I turned to meet him, trying to set myself, but he was there, an indistinct male shape, before I could get my feet planted; I smelled the sharp sour odor of whiskey just before he hit me with an outthrust shoulder. The force of the blow spun me half around and threw me into something, a table, and I went over it ass-sideways and down in a backward sprawl. My chin cracked against something else and for an explosive instant there were pinwheels of light behind my eyes, a ringing in my ears. Then the light and the ringing faded, and I could hear Kerry shouting my name in a stunned way, the thud of a body hitting the wall beside the door and then skidding through into the hall. I was already rolling over onto my knees; when I rightghted myself I had my head up and my eyes open and half focused through a haze of pain. But by then the doorway was empty and so was the corridor beyond.

The table I had fallen over was on my left; I used it as a fulcrum to shove up onto my feet. Kerry was close by, reaching toward me in the darkness, saying “My God, are you all right?” But I went away from her, struggling with my balance, still fighting off the effects of the blow to my chin, and said, “Stay here, wait inside,” just before I lurched out through the door.

The hallway was empty in both directions, but he hadn’t gone back the short way to the elevators. I could hear the faint echoes of somebody running down where a cross-hall intersected with this one, over in the east wing. I lumbered off that way, making snuffling and snorting sounds like an old Dull until I got my breathing under control. When I got to where I could see eastward along the cross-hall, there was nothing to see: he had disappeared. But I could still hear faint running echoes, hollow-sounding now. And underneath a green exit sign, the door to a set of fire stairs was just closing on its pneumatic tube.

I knew it was no good, I’d never catch him, even before I got down there and hauled the door open. The running steps were louder in the stairwell, magnified by its narrow depth, but still fading. He was two or three floors below me already. And he could duck out on any floor he cared to, or go all the way down to the lobby or the basement parking garage, before I could get anywhere near him. There just wasn’t any point in putting my paunchy fifty-three-year-old body through any more wind sprints, particularly down several flights of stairs.

I slapped the door open again, went back into the hall, and leaned against the wall to mop sweat off my face with my handkerchief. Sweat, — at least, was the only wetness that came off the cloth; no blood from where I had cracked my throbbing chin.

Damn sneak thief, I thought. Sneak thieves were a problem in hotels these days. Hundreds of rooms were broken into each year in San Francisco alone, and small fortunes in cash, jewelry, clothing, and other hockable personal possessions were stolen. And security at the Continental, I had heard from one of my cop friends, was not all it could have been. Sure-a sneak thief.

Except that sneak thieves are a sober lot, at least while they’re working. They need a steady hand to pick door locks and suitcase and jewelry case locks, a clear head to stay alert for returning guests or hotel employees. So how come this one had a breath like the inside of a whiskey keg? And how come he took the time to gimmick the chandelier so the lights wouldn’t come on? Sneak thieves like to get into a room and out of it again with their booty in short order; they don’t linger to take precautions that could backfire on them.