Dent Lester - Trouble On Parade

“He did not object to being thrown out?”

“No.”

“Do you,” Doc asked, “have any aversion to my taking a look at Disappointed Smith's empty room?”

Mr. Flinch scowled.

“You can't look in his room,” he said. “We don't want any trouble stirred up around this hotel.”

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Doc Savage looked at Mr. Flinch thoughtfully and reaffirmed his earlier thought that Mr. Flinch looked like a shark. And was probably also dishonest. A man who affirmed his honesty so frequently must have the subject on his mind. And further it was Doc's experience that crooks liked to discuss their own honest qualities. The same probably applied to the man's protestations about the good name of the hotel. It was probably a first-rate rat-hole.

“Excuse me a moment,” Doc Savage said politely.

He moved to the telephone and consulted the directory which was lying beside the instrument, looking up the number of the local headquarters of constabulary. He called the number … asked for the official in charge … and proceeded to identify himself as Doc Savage of New York City, holder of a special courtesy commission of Inspector on the New York metropolitan police force. And likewise holder of a courtesy commission with Scotland Yard. This over with, he got down to the purpose of the call.

He wished — he explained — to know whether the police would exert a little "influence" on Mr. Flinch so Flinch would permit Doc to examine a room in the hostelry.

“Put that yegg Flinch on the wire,” said the Yarmouth police official, “and I'll tell him you can search his whole thief-roost of a hotel if you want to!”

Doc passed the telephone to Mr. Flinch who listened with mingled emotions … then hung up.

“That call will cost you a dime,” said Mr. Flinch bitterly.

“Do I get to look at the room?”

“Whyn't you tell me you was a cop? You wouldn't 'av had to make that call!”

“I'm not a cop. I'm merely a man who has a few cops for friends,” Doc corrected him.

“You want us to go to the room with you?” asked Mr. Flinch sourly.

“You needn't trouble.”

Mr. Flinch tossed a key on the desk. He didn't seem overjoyed.

The hotel had no elevator as Doc Savage moved toward the stairs. But two other thoughts occurred to him, and he retraced his way to Mr. Flinch to whom he put the question:

“Does Disappointed Smith usually travel across the Bay of Fundy by swimming?”

“Huh?” said Mr. Flinch blankly.

“Never mind,” Doc said. “I am going to use your telephone again.”

The telephone call he placed was to the office of the Associated Press — a news gathering agency which had access to all the news which the newspapers got.

“Are any plans being made to pick up that red-whiskered swimmer?” Doc asked.

“That crazy business is creating quite a commotion,” the AP man said. “It's the sort of goofy thing people like to read about these days. So I imagine there'll be quite a bit of copy filed about it, and they may send up special correspondents from Boston. Sure, they're going to rescue him. A cabin cruiser is on its way to the spot and two private airplanes. And another airplane is on its way from Boston carrying a newsreel photographer.”

“If he is picked up, will he be brought here to Yarmouth?” Doc asked.

“That's right.”

Doc Savage thanked him and hung up … passed the scowling Mr. Flinch … noted the pomaded clerk was nervously taking a cigarette out of a package although there was a lighted one already between his lips … climbed the stairs and found '214' (the room Disappointed Smith alias 'Si Hedges' had purportedly rented) … got the key out of his pocket and unlocked the door … entered …

… and was presented with a view of the business-end of a large revolver held by a quarrelsome-looking but lovely girl.

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The gun and the young woman's hair were about the same shade of caliginous blue. Her eyes were an electric shade of blue-green which was also — judging from appearances — about the color of her temper.

Doc Savage managed to refrain from jumping too violently … noted the firearm … and then inspected the girl hastily to see if she was going to shoot.

She shoved out her lower lip at him.

“What do you want here, you big ox?” she asked.

Doc said, “I'm sorry. I must have gotten into the wrong room.”

The girl had a pleasant Alberta peach complexion and wore tan twill slacks and a blue sweater which were effectively filled where they should be. But Doc Savage decided that he had never seen a more quarrelsome-looking girl and added the thought that there were some signs that being quarrelsome was a habit with her.

She demanded, “Whose room did you think you were getting into?”

“The room of a Mr. Si Hedges.”

“You got the right one,” she said, sounding as if she wished he would start something.

The room, Doc discovered, was a mess. There were plenty of signs of a fight in the place. Indications including a broken chair, an upset table, wrinkles in the rug, and a few bloodstains— the latter not entirely dry.

“Someone have a fight?” Doc asked.

“Where'd you get the key to this room, handsome?” the young woman demanded.

“Downstairs. From the manager.”

“Flinch gave it to you, did he? Are you a friend of old brassy-jaws?”

Doc smiled slightly at the reference to Mr. Flinch as "brassy-jaws". It was a good descriptive, he thought. He denied that he was a friend of Mr. Flinch.

“It was not until admonished by the police that he gave me the key,” he explained.

“Oh. A bobby,” the girl said unpleasantly.

“I am not a police officer. My name is Savage. Clark Savage of New York,” Doc explained.

“If you expect your being from New York impresses me, jump again,” the young woman said. “What are you? An actor?”

“Whatever gives you the impression I'm an actor?” Doc asked. He was surprised.

“You look like one. You're a big, handsome lug.”

“On the contrary, most of the very best actors are rather homely. That is something you'll realize as you grow older.”

The young woman decided to take offense at this.

“I'm old enough to know an actor when I see one. You've got the manner like you were walking onto a stage. That's the way you came in here — as if walking on stage.”

“You astonished me,” Doc explained.

“Well, 'astonish' yourself right out of here again,” she directed. “I didn't invite you in here. And I don't want your company.”

He asked curiously, “Is this your customary manner?”

“What manner?”

“Glaring at people and throwing words at them as if you were using rocks.”

“If you don't like my manner, you know what you can do. The door is open,” she said.

- — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Doc Savage moved over to the bloodstain— which was on the worn and not too clean earth-colored rug — and tested the freshness of the stain with his fingertip. At the same time he kept a wary eye on the young woman and her firearm. But she was dangling the weapon idly. She seemed curious.

“It's not red ink,” Doc remarked, examining his fingertip.

She didn't say anything.

“I'm not an actor,” Doc said. “As a matter-of-fact, I received a telephone call from a Mr. Si Hedges — with whom I was unacquainted — offering to sell me several small ships at a nice price and making an appointment to discuss the deal here at the hotel. Coming over from the mainland by plane, we encountered a man swimming in the ocean 20 miles from land. A man who said his name was 'Disappointed Smith'. Mr. Flinch just assured me Si Hedges and Disappointed Smith were one-and-the-same individual. Naturally my curiosity was aroused. Which is why I'm here.”