Alan Cook - Run into Trouble

Drake realized how contorted his face was and tried to smile. “That’s become your standard greeting.”

Melody pushed past him into the room. “It doesn’t look as if you had a spat with anyone. What happened?”

“My own stupidity. I fell and hurt my back and nose.”

“Are you all right?”

“I don’t think I exacerbated anything.”

“I’ll exacerbate you if you did. Did anything get taken from your room?”

“Not that I can tell. I have one more place to look.”

Drake tried to lift the only chair in the room, thought better of that plan, and ended up dragging the chair over to the wall by the window. He carefully stood on it, trying not to let Melody see how much it hurt him to lift his leg. Maybe he had reinjured his back. He pulled a dime out of his pocket and unscrewed the screws that secured the ceiling vent. After he removed the vent, he reached up and pulled down a brown paper bag.

He handed it to Melody and replaced the vent. “Don’t touch them, but are the envelope and letter there?”

Melody looked inside the bag. “Yes, still here. Do you think that’s what whoever it was was looking for?”

“Wouldn’t doubt it. Maybe they suddenly realized that we might be able to trace them.”

“We couldn’t get a typewriter match, so it must be fingerprints. Of course our prints are all over them.”

“We won’t add any more.”

“How can we get them checked for prints without raising all kinds of alarms?”

“I’ll call Blade. There must be a local agent who can help us.” Drake went over to the phone.

“Drake, it’s three in the morning in D.C. Blade isn’t going to be happy to hear from you.”

“So what else is new? At least he’ll probably be home. Unless he’s sleeping over at his girlfriend’s.”

Drake got a long distance operator and called collect so that nobody from the motel could determine what number he had called. Blade was even grouchier than his usual self, if that were possible, but he accepted the call and listened as Drake told him what he needed. He promised to have an agent contact them the next day. Drake hung up.

“Whoever did this was a pro. Or at least a semi-pro. No forced entry. Nothing messed up-at least not very much.”

“If we were normal people, we wouldn’t have known about it-unless the thief had gotten the letter.”

“I don’t think you should sleep alone. Whoever it was may come back.”

“Is this your sneaky way of getting me into bed with you?”

“Melody, I’m serious. I’m also in no condition to do anything. Maybe we can swap our two rooms for one with two beds.”

“No.” Melody thought for a moment. “I’m not afraid. I don’t think anybody is going to risk being identified. It’s interesting that they know our room numbers. It certainly looks like an inside job. Which means that they could have taken the letter when it was on the bus with our luggage.”

“That would prove it’s an inside job. We would go directly to Casey.”

“Maybe we should, anyway.”

“Not yet. We’d have to talk to him in person. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing him soon.”

“Give me one of your razor blades. If somebody comes into my room, I’ll give him something to remember me by.”

Drake went into the bathroom and came back with the requested blade.

“Be careful.”

“I will. I know how to use this.” Melody gave him a quick hug. “There’s another reason why I can’t stay in the same room with you. I might be the one who couldn’t resist; I might jump your bones.”

She opened the door just wide enough to slip through the crack and closed it behind her.

The ringing telephone woke an irritated Drake out of a sound sleep. Why was Melody calling him? They had agreed that this was their morning to sleep in. The light streaming through the partially opened curtain told him that it was broad daylight outside, so it couldn’t be too early. Better answer the phone. His back gave a twinge as he reached for the receiver, but it wasn’t as bad as last night.

“Drake.”

“Blade asked me to contact you.”

The voice was resonant, like that of a radio announcer. Drake uttered something in reply.

“I’ll meet you and Melody this morning at ten at a coffee shop on PCH. It’s about a mile from your motel. Here’s the address.”

Not “Can you meet me?” He’d better write down the address, but he didn’t have pen and paper handy. Drake asked the man to repeat it. He did, his voice showing impatience. Then the line went dead before Drake could find out his name and how they would know him. A typical spy operation. Drake had been out of the business for too long. He had no desire to return to it.

“PCH?”

“Pacific Coast Highway.”

“I thought I was catching on to American English, but you Californians have your own brand.”

“So do other sections of the U.S. Just like your beloved UK. Although I think in the UK it’s more of a class difference.”

Drake began whistling “Why can’t the English teach their children how to speak?” from My Fair Lady.

Melody grabbed Drake’s arm to keep him from crossing a street as the light turned red.

“I could make some comments about class in the U.S. Or ethnic groups. Or what some people call race, although last time I checked we’re all members of the human race.”

Drake was glad they were walking and not running. It allowed him to stretch his muscles without abusing them. The day off would be very helpful to him. He was already planning to take an afternoon nap. It was another cloudless day of California summer, and Melody had insisted they put on sunscreen, just as if they were going to be out running all day. Even with the sunscreen, their faces and limbs had grown several shades darker since the start of the race. In Drake’s case, it helped hide the bruise on his nose. When he looked in the mirror, the image he saw looked almost like he pictured himself.

Drake spotted the coffee shop, which looked a lot like small restaurants everywhere. It was far enough from the motel that they were unlikely to see anybody connected with the race. They walked in at one minute to ten and looked around. Before Drake saw anybody who resembled an agent, Melody nudged him. She directed his gaze to the booth in the corner. A man sat with his back to the junction of the two walls wearing mirror sunglasses. He gave an almost imperceptible nod in their direction.

As they made their way to the booth, Drake spoke under his breath. “Those shades make him look like a California Highway Patrol officer.”

“No remarks. Remember, he’s doing us a favor.”

“At least he knows how to keep his back to the wall-unlike Wild Bill Hickok.”

“Enough.”

They came up to the booth.

Melody extended her hand with a smile. “Melody.”

He shook her hand briefly. “Slick.”

As Drake shook his hand he wanted to say, “I’m sure you’re slick, but what’s your name?”

They sat down opposite him. With his short-sleeved sport shirt he looked like any other tourist except for the bulging muscles in his arms. Even his iron-colored short hair contributed to his look of hardness.

A waitress in an ugly brown uniform immediately bustled up, so Drake ordered coffee and Melody ordered iced tea. Slick was sucking on a tall glass of Coke through a straw. After the waitress filled their cups, there was silence for a minute while Melody put a spoonful of sugar in her glass.

Melody spoke first. “Thanks for helping us.”

“Blade said you were good people and to do whatever you asked.”

It was the same mellifluous voice that Drake had heard on the phone. That was Drake’s cue to open the top of the brown paper bag he was carrying and show Slick the contents.