side, brushing aside the drapes with a quick movement. Backed up against the wall of the theater were three tiny dressing rooms. Tinsel stars were thumbtacked on the doors.
Walter James lit a match to read the typewritten slip Scotch-taped to the first door. Danny Host. The middle dressing room was apparently unoccupied. The third door had “Miss Lynn” painted in conservative black letters across its plywood surface.
The door was unlocked. He slipped in and shut it behind him. The room was tiny, not more than six by eight, most of its space taken up by a cheap enameled dressing table. The table was backed against the brick wall of the theater; the other three walls were unfinished plywood.
He was kneeling down to examine the contents of the lowest drawer when the door handle in back of him turned. Walter James was on his feet, facing the door, his hand resting lightly on the butt of his .32 when the door opened.
“Well, well,” said Walter James. “How are you today, Mr. Host?”
Danny Host’s startled face looked at him blankly. The comic had shed his trench coat; he was wearing a green slipover sweater and tweed trousers of a rather expensive pattern.
“Say,” he said, “you scared me.”
“Sorry,” said Walter James. He took his hand away from the .32 and fumbled for his cigarettes. “Did you make a mistake about which was your dressing room?”
Host’s eyes shifted. “Yeah. That was it. Yeah.” His mouth moved nervously. “It’s pretty dark, you know. I made a mistake. I guess I was thinking about something else. You know how that happens sometimes.”
Walter James breathed smoke at the roof. “Sure.”
Host said, “Well, I — I guess I’d better get ready for the show.”
“You’re early.”
“Yeah. I — I like to take plenty of time. Well, I’d better be going.” Walter James inclined his head. Host stood indecisively. Walter James looked drowsily at his cigarette.
Host said, “Have they found anything yet? I mean, do they know — ”
Walter James stood up and looked at him steadily. “What are you holding back, Host?”
“Nothing. Nothing. I’m not holding back anything.”
Walter James shrugged. “Have it your way.” He moved toward the door. Host backed out of the dressing room before him. Walter James glanced around at the deserted wings and stage and went down the concrete steps to the iron doors.
The tall comedian followed him as far as the iron railing. His lean face looked ashen in the dim light. “I’m innocent,” he said.
The slender detective grinned up at him sardonically. “Save it for the jury,” he advised.
He pushed open the heavy door and went out into the fresh air. Walter James took his hand out of his trouser pocket and looked at the small square of dirty white there. It read:
EVERETT BON
Neuro-Psyc
Moulton
Building
8
. Sunday, September 24, 10:30 P.M.
T HEY SAT CONTENTEDLY in the Sky Room of the El Cortez Hotel and waited for their drinks. Behind them a huge plate-glass window reflected the pink-lighted oval bar, white-jacketed waiters, naval officers and business men and their women. Conversation was comfortably relaxed, in library voices. Walter James half-turned and put his head close to the glass; the reflections disappeared. Below him the lights of the city stretched in converging broken lines to the harbor where they merged with a puzzle of ship lamps and signal beams. A faint fog was drifting in, obliterating the outlines of destroyers and merchant ships and fishing boats, but the silhouettes of most of the hotels and banks were clearly up-thrust against the night. He turned back to the girl.
“Nice view,” he commented.
“You’ll get used to it,” she said.
He smiled. “You really think I’ll be here that long?”
“I guess it’s not any of my business.”
The waiter silently placed two brimming glasses on the round cork scooters in front of them and murmured “Thank you, sir” to the slender man’s
Walter James lit a match to read the typewritten slip Scotch-taped to the first door. Danny Host. The middle dressing room was apparently unoccupied. The third door had “Miss Lynn” painted in conservative black letters across its plywood surface.
The door was unlocked. He slipped in and shut it behind him. The room was tiny, not more than six by eight, most of its space taken up by a cheap enameled dressing table. The table was backed against the brick wall of the theater; the other three walls were unfinished plywood.
He was kneeling down to examine the contents of the lowest drawer when the door handle in back of him turned. Walter James was on his feet, facing the door, his hand resting lightly on the butt of his .32 when the door opened.
“Well, well,” said Walter James. “How are you today, Mr. Host?”
Danny Host’s startled face looked at him blankly. The comic had shed his trench coat; he was wearing a green slipover sweater and tweed trousers of a rather expensive pattern.
“Say,” he said, “you scared me.”
“Sorry,” said Walter James. He took his hand away from the .32 and fumbled for his cigarettes. “Did you make a mistake about which was your dressing room?”
Host’s eyes shifted. “Yeah. That was it. Yeah.” His mouth moved nervously. “It’s pretty dark, you know. I made a mistake. I guess I was thinking about something else. You know how that happens sometimes.”
Walter James breathed smoke at the roof. “Sure.”
Host said, “Well, I — I guess I’d better get ready for the show.”
“You’re early.”
“Yeah. I — I like to take plenty of time. Well, I’d better be going.” Walter James inclined his head. Host stood indecisively. Walter James looked drowsily at his cigarette.
Host said, “Have they found anything yet? I mean, do they know — ”
Walter James stood up and looked at him steadily. “What are you holding back, Host?”
“Nothing. Nothing. I’m not holding back anything.”
Walter James shrugged. “Have it your way.” He moved toward the door. Host backed out of the dressing room before him. Walter James glanced around at the deserted wings and stage and went down the concrete steps to the iron doors.
The tall comedian followed him as far as the iron railing. His lean face looked ashen in the dim light. “I’m innocent,” he said.
The slender detective grinned up at him sardonically. “Save it for the jury,” he advised.
He pushed open the heavy door and went out into the fresh air. Walter James took his hand out of his trouser pocket and looked at the small square of dirty white there. It read:
EVERETT BON
Neuro-Psyc
Moulton
Building
8
. Sunday, September 24, 10:30 P.M.
T HEY SAT CONTENTEDLY in the Sky Room of the El Cortez Hotel and waited for their drinks. Behind them a huge plate-glass window reflected the pink-lighted oval bar, white-jacketed waiters, naval officers and business men and their women. Conversation was comfortably relaxed, in library voices. Walter James half-turned and put his head close to the glass; the reflections disappeared. Below him the lights of the city stretched in converging broken lines to the harbor where they merged with a puzzle of ship lamps and signal beams. A faint fog was drifting in, obliterating the outlines of destroyers and merchant ships and fishing boats, but the silhouettes of most of the hotels and banks were clearly up-thrust against the night. He turned back to the girl.
“Nice view,” he commented.
“You’ll get used to it,” she said.
He smiled. “You really think I’ll be here that long?”
“I guess it’s not any of my business.”
The waiter silently placed two brimming glasses on the round cork scooters in front of them and murmured “Thank you, sir” to the slender man’s
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