Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man

“Yes you do.” Dash glanced at Archer before saying, “Has this room been assigned to anyone here either now or in recent history?”

“Mabel Dawson said the last occupant was a vaudeville performer named Guy Parnell. But he left about a week ago. No one’s been in there since.” Prettyman glanced at Archer. “So you didn’t see or hear anyone while you were poking around up there?”

“Ern, come on, what do you think?” said Dash, drawing a look from Archer, who was careful to avoid Prettyman’s eye. “Now, we need to find the connection between Fraser and Sheen.”

“If there is one,” said Prettyman.

“We’ve both been doing this a long time. Two stiffs coming from the same room? There’s a connection, all right.”

“Any chance of your telling me who your client is now?”

“About the same odds as yesterday. Look, me and Archer have to get going. Things are rolling fast now, and I don’t like playing catch-up.”

“Okay, but remember, Archer doesn’t leave town.”

Dash and Archer made their way quickly down the steps and outside.

“What was the deal back there?” said Archer. “You pretty much lied to the police.”

“This line of work requires balance, Archer. And if you look at what I said, you’ll find that I threaded that needle as well as it could be. Ern is a good guy but he’s by the book, meaning whatever we tell him goes straight to Carl Pickett’s ear. And right now, I don’t want Carl knowing what we know.”

“Right.”

“One thing Wilma Darling said does surprise me,” noted Dash.

“Just one? Then you’re a better man than me.”

“She said she really thought Kemper loved his wife.”

Archer looked intrigued. “Yeah. And I believed her when she said it. And talking to the guy, well...”

“Well what?”

Archer said, “Some guys are genuine lotharios. And some guys want others to think they are. I believe Kemper falls into the latter group. He just tries too hard but then never seals the deal. I talked to the cocktail waitress who served us last night. It was pretty clear to me that he could’ve had her for the price of a Coke. She told me Kemper didn’t even ask her what time she got off when she came back to pick up his empty drink.”

“And I wonder when he actually left. And what he was doing between the time he left you and then left this place.”

“What motive would he have to kill his second lieutenant and campaign manager?” asked Archer.

“I’m not looking purely for motives right now. I’m looking for connections. Nine times out of ten when you do that, the motives become apparent.”

They climbed into the Delahaye and set off back to town.

“Drop me off at my garage. I’m getting my car back today. Then I want you to go and talk to Wilma Darling and see what you can get out of her, namely, who put her up to jumping Sheen’s bones last night. Call the office when you have something.”

“Okay. What will you be doing besides getting your car?”

Dash said, “Putting the pieces together. Gumshoeing sort of requires that.”

After dropping off Dash, Archer drove over to Kemper’s office, but there was a sign on the door that read: “Due to unforeseen events, the office will be closed indefinitely.”

Yeah, I guess a murder qualifies as unforeseen, to everyone except the person who killed him.

Archer ducked into a Rexall drugstore. He got a cup of coffee at the counter and smoked a cigarette while he mulled over things. Then he climbed back into the Delahaye and motored over to Darling’s bungalow. There was a new two-door brown Ford coupe in the carport, something Archer had not noticed the night before, but it might not have been there last night.

He went up to the front door and knocked. It took a minute but he finally heard footsteps.

“Yes,” said Darling in a tortured voice through the wood. “It’s Archer.”

“Go away.”

“I don’t think you mean that.”

“I damn well mean it.”

“I need to talk to you, Wilma.”

“Why?”

“Because Sheen’s being murdered concerns you.”

“I don’t know—”

“I know you slept with him last night, Wilma. And I know he was alive when you left him. But what I need to know is who put you up to it? Because whoever did might want to clean up loose ends. If you get my meaning.”

The door slowly opened and she stood there in a thick white cotton bathrobe that went all the way to her bare feet. Her face was makeup free, her hair was a mess, and Archer thought she was more beautiful now than she had been last night.

“Come in,” she said curtly.

He sat in a chair while she perched across from him. Archer saw an ashtray full of smoked cigarettes and a pitcher of something that was nearly empty.

“You okay?” he said. “You don’t look so good.”

“No, I’m not okay. And what the hell do you mean you knew Sheen and I—”

“I saw you go into the room together. And I listen well at keyholes.”

“You son of a bitch. You rotten little sneak...” She grabbed the pitcher to throw it at him, but he was too quick for the woman and snatched it away from her.

He set it down out of her reach and said, “Calm down, Wilma. It’s my job. Sheen is dead. We need to figure this out. You have a vested interest in doing so. I know you know that.”

She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “What I know is that this is a godawful nightmare for me.”

“It wasn’t so good for Sheen, either.”

She blew her nose into the hanky. “You want a drink?”

“No, I’m good. And it’s a little early for me.”

“Well, mix me a martini minus the olives and then think of a way out of this hell.”

He fixed the drink, handed it to her, and sat back down. “Tell me about last night.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Who told you to sleep with Sheen?”

“How do you know anyone did?”

“Come on, Wilma, I’m trying to help you. I know you didn’t want to be with the guy. Someone put you up to it. Who?”

She looked at him in misery. “I don’t know, Archer. I really don’t know who it was.” In her agitation she finished off the martini, rose, and padded around the room, lighting a Camel she plucked from the bowl.

“How can you not know?”

She pivoted to stare dead at him. “I’m not a whore, Archer.”

“Wilma, no one’s saying that you are, least of all me.”

She sat down on the arm of the chair he was in. She took another puff of her Camel, tilted her head back, and drilled the ceiling with the smoke. “I... I got an unsigned note yesterday. It was in an envelope in my mailbox. It had a thousand bucks in it and a note that told me to sleep with Sheen last night at Midnight Moods. A thousand bucks, Archer! That’s more than I make in a year working for Kemper.”

“I think you’re underpaid, then. But why do it at all? Why not just keep the money?”

“Because the note also said that if I took the money and didn’t do it, well, that I would regret it.”

“So it was a threat, then?”

“Look, I didn’t want to do it, but I also didn’t want any trouble. And I didn’t know who to give the money back to. And if I left it out on the porch or in the mailbox, and somebody else swiped it, where would that leave me? With no money and somebody out there thinking I stiffed them.” She got up and started pacing again. “So... so I did it. I phoned and arranged to meet Wilson at Midnight Moods.”

“I saw you tackle him in the hall. I thought you were going to suffocate him with smooches.”

She put a shaky hand over her face. “God, I can’t believe I did it... It made me sick.”