Dan Marlowe - Killer with a Key

“I just heard you speakin' of him.” Mike's eyes-cat's eyes, curiously flecked with yellow-went aloft. “Yeah. I was up there. Thanks for the testimonial.”

“I'll send you a bill. If you heard it all I can save a little breath.”

“You can save a lot of breath.”

Mike smiled. “Old head-down Johnny.” The smile died. “How come I never heard anything before about you and Ellen?”

“It never seemed to come up.”

“Yeah,” Mike Larsen said drily. “I can see that. Well, where do we go from here?”

“You think it's too early to call Lorraine? Vic would want one of us to go downtown with her. That Cuneo is all wound up to give her a hard time.”

Mike was looking at him curiously. “You think that's a good move? For you to go down there, I mean? You'd be kind of rubbing yourself in Cuneo's nose, wouldn't you? And don't worry about Lorraine; she's no violet. She'll give Cuneo a little better than he's expecting.”

“It's Vic I'm thinking of, Mike. He'd expect us to do it.”

“Okay,” Mike shrugged. “Go ahead and call her; she won't be asleep. I'll pick up a lawyer friend of mine and meet you down there.”

Johnny leaned over the registration desk and pulled the front office phone toward himself. “Sally? Ring Vic's place for me, huh?” He twisted the cord in his hand. “Lorraine? Johnny Killain. I'd like to go downtown with you this morning when you go.”

“I think I'd like that, Johnny.” No hysterics here-a cool, poised voice. “About nine?”

“I'll be ready.”

Mike Larsen nodded as Johnny hung up. “I'll see you down there. And don't you go redheaded on me; I've only got one lawyer friend. And never mind looking at me like the great stone face. Some day I'm going to find something a little thicker than your skull, and when I do the metallurgists are going to beat a path to my door.” He stalked out of the lobby, a big man, moving easily.

Johnny resumed his long interrupted trip out back to the kitchen, which was just beginning to stir in the early morning quiet. Two or three lights were on in the big room, and the odor of coffee was in the air. Johnny stopped off by the giant urn and drew off a steaming mug, then carried it over to the paint-peeled desk in the back corner. A round little man with mild blue eyes looked up at his approach. “Good morning, Yonnee.”

“Mornin', Eric. What do you feed a kitten?” The blue eyes considered the matter; the offhand reply was obviously not a part of this man's nature. “Whose kitten, Yonnee?”

“My kitten.”

Eric smiled. “I would think then a little liver, a little shrimp, a little milk-”

“You sold me.”

Eric rose, his fresh whites rustling. “Drink your coffee. I fix it.”

Johnny sipped at the scalding coffee and watched the little second cook unlock a square refrigerator, rummage in its interior and emerge with a slice of liver and a handful of shrimp.

Eric turned to him. “A small kitten, Yonnee?”

Johnny shaped Sassy's size with his hands, and Eric nodded. A wide-bladed knife chopped firmly, and Johnny finished his coffee as wax paper was applied and a pint of milk set out. “Can I have one of those empties, Eric?” Johnny pointed to a stack of cartons which had contained canned goods.

“Why not?”

“Thanks, Eric. For the works.” Johnny took a carton whose sides were not too deep, gathered up his packages and departed for the lobby. On the mezzanine he confiscated a medium-sized geranium plant; he uprooted it and dumped the loose dirt in his carton, then slid the empty flower pot with the limp geranium in it under the nearest bench.

In his own room he showed this arrangement to the interested Sassy. “This is light housekeeping, baby doll,” he told her, “until Mother Killain gets to do a little shopping.” He had already lost her attention; the small, wrinkled nose was testing his packages. “Okay, tiger. Hold tight.”

From a shelf above the refrigerator he took down three saucers. He filled one with milk and put a little shrimp and a little liver in each of the others. As an afterthought he placed a newspaper beneath them, and Sassy immediately made it look like an excellent idea. Her notion of a quiet meal was to charge up on a plate full tilt and seize a piece in her mouth, then back away growling, defying the world to take it away from her. At the extreme edge of the newspaper she would eat daintily, then crouch and rush back again. She was an extremely leisurely diner.

He watched her for a few moments, then filled another saucer with water and added it to the lineup. He stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes lightly; in the first peaceful interlude he had had since Vic Barnes had opened Ellen Saxon's door Johnny tried to filter through his mind the impossible sequence of events since two o'clock that morning. For a long time the only noises in the room were Sassy's small sounds and the spatter of her paws on the newspaper.

Johnny pushed the little stack of transcript sheets, telephone chits and miscellaneous charges across the registration desk to Marty Seiden, a dapper, thin-faced youngster with a ready smile who worked as one of the day front-desk men. “This is a dirty trick, kid,” Johnny began; he nodded apologetically at the stack of paperwork. “You think you can straighten it out? Vic hadn't made much of a dent in it before they put the snatch on him. Paul posted the telephone charges, but that's about all that's been done.”

“A cinch, big man,” Marty said confidently. His oversized bow tie matched his flaming red hair; he was already rolling back his cuffs. “Don't worry about it. Did you balance his cash?”

“Me? I couldn't balance my pocket change.” Johnny pushed a key over the counter. “I locked it up. And listen, Marty. When a guy works a cash drawer, sometimes he floats a little paper against pay day. You know?”

“I know.” The redhead grinned. “If I need anything to make it right before I send it upstairs I'll let you know.” He lined up three long yellow pencils beside the sharpener before he looked over at Johnny again. “If Vic's going to be under glass on this awhile, you're going to need a pencil man nights. How about me?”

Johnny nodded. “You just graduated to sleepin' days, kid. I'll square it with Rollins right now. See you tonight.” He crossed the lobby and mounted to the executive offices on the mezzanine. Inside the first door was a double row of frosted-glass partitioned cubicles; he knocked upon the door marked auditor, and nodded to the heavy-featured man in the horn-rimmed glasses behind the cluttered desk as he entered. “Mornin', Chet. You got any objections to lettin' Marty Seiden work the night side with me till we spring Vic?”

Bushy brows behind the glasses climbed expressively.

“Marty? Might not be a bad idea. He's a good man with figures; he'll keep you afloat. He's a little flip with his tongue; don't hesitate to sandpaper him down if he gets out of line. Do him good.”

“How's Arthur J. Morrison going to take all this, Chet?”

The auditor leaned back in his chair and light glinted from his glasses. “Officially, he's going to be a little sticky. The night front-desk man up in a guest's room at three in the morning, the guest a woman, and deceased; you understand the manager's attitude has to be a little professional. Unofficially, he's already called me to ask if I thought there was anything he could do.”

“Yeah? Not bad. We'll worry about his official attitude when we get Vic unstuck downtown. You'll transfer Marty over?”

“Right now.”

“Thanks, Chet.” Johnny walked back out to the mezzanine from the office. He stopped on the landing; Mike Larsen was in the middle of the stairs on his way up, and he was coming three steps at a time. He pulled up in front of Johnny, breathing hard, and shoved a newspaper at him.