Read Online You Bet Your Life: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Three) by Stuart M. Kaminsky - Free Book Online

got there, I wasn’t in a bad mood. I wasn’t in any mood at all. I was weak-kneed and aching.
    As soon as I hit the lobby, the desk clerk from the night before recognized me. I had my key in my pocket. I headed for the elevator, but the desk clerk stopped me. I half expected him to wring his hands. He sputtered and stuttered and said Mr. Kotrba, the manager, would like to see me. I said all right and followed him back to the desk. Mr. Kotrba was two hundred pounds of grey, plump pomp and circumstance. He had an extra chin and an angry superiority. He was ready with the wrath of the Lord. I had met dozens of him before. He thought he was Hell on a half shell, but he was a pancake. I started in before he could speak.
    “Ah, Mr. Kotrba, I was planning to speak to you. Glad I caught you. My company, MGM, called me today and asked me what happened here, suggested I get out of a hotel that allowed murders in the rooms. One of our attorneys, Mr. Leib, even suggested that it would be a good idea to pass the word to people in the other studios to stay away from the LaSalle when they came to Chicago. He even suggested the possibility of a lawsuit because of the emotional distress this has caused me.”
    Mr. Kotrba’s mouth dropped open. I had him backing up and looking for a defense when his original idea had probably been to tell me to get my ass out of his hotel and stop dropping bodies and messing his walls. Kotrba had no flexibility. He was a pushover.
    “Don’t worry,” I said with the best smile I could muster, knowing it would look sardonic. “I talked them out of it, told them the LaSalle was normally a quiet, reasonable place to do business.”
    “We appreciate that,” said Kotrba, patting down wisps of white hair. The desk clerk standing behind him looked mildly amused. He shot me a look of conspiracy which I refused. Whatever his problems with Kotrba, I didn’t need a partner.
    Before Kotrba could say “But—” I added, “I’m waiting for a special letter from the studio on how I should handle this. Has it arrived?”
    The desk clerk stepped forward after pulling something white from the room rack behind him. He handed me an envelope clearly marked with an MGM in the corner. It was, I knew, the $300 Hoff had arranged for.
    “Thank you Mr.—”
    “Katz,” said the clerk, preening. His small mustache glistened. “Curtis Katz.”
    I opened the envelope without showing its contents. The bills were there. I turned my back on Kotrba whose face now looked white, cold, and a bit dusty like Chicago snow. My sigh was suitable. I pocketed the envelope and turned again.
    “They suggest I remain, and the matter be forgotten unless something else happens.” I looked straight at Kotrba. This was the moment of truth in which I’d either be in the snow with the beginning of pneumonia or I’d be in a warm room in a few minutes. I could go to another hotel, but that would take time and a bunch of phone calls to tell people what had happened.
    “We’re very pleased to hear that,” Kotrba sighed with relief.
    “Good,” I said. “Send a boy up to my room in five minutes for my suit. I want it cleaned and pressed, fast.”
    “Of course,” said Kotrba, “and if there’s anything we can do, please let Mr. Katz know.”
    I went up the elevator and into my room. With the door open, I checked the bathroom, under the bed and in the closet. There were no bullies or bodies. I locked and double bolted the door, took off my suit, hung it on a hanger, and started running a hot bath while I made a few calls.
    First I called Kleinhans. It was after six, and he was out getting a sandwich. Then I called my office in Los Angeles. It was just after four there, and Shelly Minck should still be in. He was.
    “Toby,” he shouted, ever distrustful of the ability of the phone company to transmit voices outside the circumference of Los Angeles County. “I’m glad you called. Remember Mr. Stange?”
    Mr. Stange was a neighborhood